Author Topic: All the world's a stage


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All the world's a stage
« on: November 06, 2007 »
They that ride so, and ride not warily, fall into bogs. Henry V, 3.vii

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women domestiques.
They have their sprinting and their mountain cols,
And one man in his time rides many bikes,
His bikes being seven ages. At first the infant,
Scooting and wobbling on his Like-A-Bike.
Then the careless student with his books
And unoiled squeaking chain, sailing through reds
Unwilling e'er to brake. And then the sportsman,
Panting like furnace, with a straining ballad
Of gears and HRM. Then, the crew's coach,
Full of strange oaths, and muddy from the path,
Battered in frame, sudden, and quick to dismount,
Riding and looking different ways
With megaphone to mouth. Then, commuting,
On trusty leather with good Proofide rubbed
With eyes severe and peeled for bendibus,
Full of wise saws and modern Cyclecraft;
And so he stays alive. The sixth age shifts
(Unless on lean and slippery singlespeed)
With cryptic sheet for route and saddlebag,
His tea and cake well earned; no world too wide
For his stout crank, and you may hear his voice
Pour scorn on childish treble century,
An audaxer year-round. Last frame of all
That ends the history of this strange event
Is Paris-Brest-to-Paris ancien
On trike, on Brompton or on bent, on anything.