The Race

Written by: Aleh Barysau

The gust of wind, the twist of pedals,
the race till sunset, with no medals.
My way will be on even roads
or in a coppice on potholes.

The Sun`s zenith, there is no grief,
the wheels, embracing the relief,
will bear me uphill and downhill.  
They break my sp`rit to be revealed.

The day for long, the night not soon,
each mile is dear on the route.
Press on my pedals in a distance
to be delayed death by resistance.