Blitzkrieg
by Joe Eldridge
One week after Lincoln's birthday,
on a dirty snowmelt in the gutter day,
I polkaed past my Mainz hotel's excavated
strip of a Roman wall, danced down
salted steps towards the Domplatz,
segued into a vigorous waltz
three-quartering to the golden Rhein,
but shy of the Guttenberg statue,
forty steps from the horror struck
face of Pope Boniface II, sixty paces
from the grudgingly touching
memorial to the Jews of WWII,
I was completely flabbergasted
by what I first thought to be
a group of locals pondering
a vendor's lackadaisically penned menu
but on blinking it transmogrified
into an anti-war activist's Mercedes door
peppered with exclamation point slogans
prominently featuring a blown-up
poster of Bush, the secondary one…
wickedly smiling…eyes slightly off-kilter…
and while I know not a word of Deutsch,
a boyhood of Col. Klink bellowing
Mountain Biking
by Ronit Bezalel
The gun fires and a hundred bikers leap off the starting line. Their wheels spin dangerously close as we fight for a good position.
There is the smell; there is always the smell. The earthy fragrance of the forest, tangy sweat, melted chocolate, ripe bananas and warm, sticky Gatorade. Vomit, chain grease, WD-40 and oil, but there's mostly the sweet smell, the scented green hues of the trees. Alluring, tangy, inviting. I've waited all winter in hibernation, dreaming of this moment. Green hues abound and abound and abound.
_____
I ride down the impossibly narrow single track lined with shifting sand and steep embankments. Pumping my feet on the pedals, I soar as fast as possible over the grains. I gain momentum and fly around another sharp curve, where I have to shift my weight to maintain balance.
Sand gives way to rocks. Rocks of different sizes, shapes, temperaments. Rocks jarring teeth and bone. My back complains. I bite my tongue to mask the pain.
Ten miles into the race, and the air is thick and soupy, moist and heavy. Humidity drips off my sweaty skin. It pools under my arms, down my stomach, collects in the small of my back. My lungs rebel, clamping up, swelling; the cilia work overtime.
I pull my water bottle free from its cage. The Gatorade-water mix is warm and putrid. I need it anyway. The salty-sweet mixture goes down my parched throat, and I feel less woozy as the electrolytes do their job.
I take a downhill curve too sharply, almost spilling off the edge of the trail. My bike wobbles. I know I'm racing to the point of sheer exhaustion. Gasping for air, I witness black spots dancing in front of my eyes. I ride erratically, berating myself for my failures.
_____
Twenty miles in, I see clumps of grass, different lengths and breeds randomly sprouting over the rocky terrain like a haphazard haircut. The uphill trail leads to the awe-inspiring six-foot jump off the cliff and into the sand below.
I ride straight for the cliff, increasing my momentum as I near the precipice. I wipe my sweaty face with the back of my hand. My back is aching. My chest is tight and my lungs are seizing up.
Fear races through each and every fiber as I soar over the cliff. There is nothing beneath me except air, and then the ground far, far below. I'm carried by the wind, reliving the immortality of my youth.
I am overcome by euphoria as I land. I pedal like mad, nearing the finish line. Sweat-stained weary bikers are calling me home. I grip my handlebars, my worn gloves against sticky black grips.
I push forward with all of my last energy. Running on fumes, I soar across finish line, and collapse on ground. I'm engulfed in endorphins and sweetness, more pure than any nectar I could ever consume.
I exhale and remember what it's like to fall in love again.
Ronit Bezalel, a.k.a. 'The Diva,' runs Chicago's lesbian Web site Dykediva.com . She is also a sports journalist for femmefan.com and an avid mountain biker.
Out of Indiana
by Tara F. Cobb
A faded gray ribbon, parting the golden sea,
Punctuated by white-washed farmhouses,
Sketetal Fords displayed proudly on cinder blocks on the front lawn,
Their rusty armor camouflaged in the dying grass,
Sunlight dancing on silvery silos draws the eye and breaks the monotony.
Small towns spring up amid the firs,
Like young plants thrusting themselves desperately into the light,
The highway widens from two lanes to four and then six,
The towns grow into suburbs,
The barns become strip malls,
The forests, fields, and hills shrink away,
As we advance on the city, the faint tint of smog becomes apparent in the cloudless sky.
Tara F. Cobb is a student of anthropology at the College of DuPage and is secretary of the Pride Alliance, an organization for LGBT students and residents of DuPage County.
