Nikki Pebbles wants me to dig in.
She reckons the pain in my quads is temporary
and I need to think about tomorrow’s grit.
The sweat sliding into my eyes stings
as much as my backside aches
to the stabs of my static bike’s saddle.
Nikki Pebbles’ red ponytail is barely even moving
on the screen attached to my handle bars;
her calves are rocks built to trample
on any thought in my mind to press the off button.
Nikki Pebbles wants me to dig in, again.
She tells me to spend the next minute
pretending to run away from danger
or issues I’ve never addressed
with loved ones or colleagues
or any thought in my mind to press the off button.
Nikki Pebbles wants me to dig in.

Carl Burkitt 2024