The Cyclist

Just off the highway at the trailhead
parking lot where you exchange your
hiking boots for sneakers post-clamber
uphill on a mountain trail distinguished
by a deep tangle of tree roots and
tumbled rocks and where a roaring
mountain stream was host to the 
larvae of pestilential black flies and
giant Yellow Admirals descending
onto misty pools gathering on the
forest floor under a blue sky and sun
filtering through the forest canopy
where tree masts swayed and clacked
under the urgent influence of the wind
you suddenly notice the appearance
of a cyclist studying the posted trail
map and you ask whether he means
to cycle the circuit. It would be a
boastful feat even for a skilled cyclist
and the fellow beside the bicycle was
more grey and paunch than most of
his breed. Thus begins a conversation
so you swiftly learn where he is from
his pledged yearly pilgrimage on two
wheels and his face-beaming pride of
having reached the venerable age of 77.