Hot Pink Bootie Shorts and The Final Neon Poem!

We're just about to leave for Windsor and the 2014 MS Bike Tour. The bike tour starts tomorrow morning, we're super excited, and everyone's on their way here!

One last fundraising challenge. I'm at $675 dollars raised as of 3:30pm Friday afternoon. Here's the deal:

If I raise $1,000 by 8am tomorrow morning, Saturday, July 26th, 2014, I will wear these hot-pink bootie shorts:

(Me, looking nervous.)

overtop of my bike shorts (let's keep this PG-13) with promises (threats?) of photo evidence to come. If you want to help the MS Society and/or make a man ride in ridiculous shorts, click here to sponsor me.

Update: Holy Smokes! I'm already at $800 as of 3:34pm. The threat of bootie-shorts must be some sort of fundraising secret weapon? Also, someone left the comment: "Pink undies gogogo!" Indeed.

And now, for the final poem of the Neon Poetry Project:

With apologies to Christmas ...

Twas the night before the bike tour

'Twas the night before the bike tour, when all through the Super 8

All the creatures were merry and expectation great;

Neon stockings were all laid out with care,

In hopes that St. Neon-olus soon would be there;

The cyclists were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of Wolfville danced in their heads;

And Beth in her 'kerchief, and I in my helmet,

Had just settled our brains, because sleep is our element,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature bike rack and eight tiny cycling-deer,

"Now, Troy! now, James! now Jill and Jill again!

On, Helen! on, Andy! on, Greg and Chrystiane!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Neon Riders away! bike away! cycle away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

They meet with an obstacle, Mount Gaspereau to the sky;

So up to Acadia the coursers they flew

With the bottle full of Gatorade, and St. Neon-olus too—

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the mountain we rose;

We sprang to our cycles, we heard the whistle,

And away we all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere we rode to the side—

“Happy Bike Tour to all, and to all, a good ride!”

A Poem as Lovely as My Bike: Neon Poetry, the Penultimate Day!

Tomorrow we leave for Windsor, NS, and the MS Bike Tour, which means there's only one day left to sponsor me, and one poem left in the Neon Poetry series.

(A Kilmer on a bike.)

With apologies to Joyce Kilmer:

Bikes

I think that I shall never like

A poem as lovely as my bike.

A bike whose hungry tires are prest

Against the asphalt’s flowing breast;

A bike that looks at God all day,

And lifts her handlebars to pray;

A bike that may in summer wear

Trailing streamers, just like hair;

Upon whose saddle snow has lain;

Whose chain will rust if left in rain.

Poems are made by fools and losers,

But only God can make a cruiser.

Brake With a Snipped Wire: Neon Poetry Day 10

With only three days left until the MS Bike Tour, I have raised $500. Thanks, generous donors! If you want to join them in supporting the MS Society with a donation, you can do so here. We ride on Saturday!

It’s also time to reveal our costumes for 2014. Mama Button put in hours of meticulous sewing, and the results are amazing. Behold, Josh Kent and Neon Man.

(It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a weirdo in neon! It's Neon Rider Man!)

As for picking out the bottom half of my superhero ensemble, let me just say this: Sometimes being super means that your significant other will lift a pair of hot-pink bootie shorts from a Wal-Mart rack, hold them up to your hips, and loudly exclaim, "Do you think these will fit you?"

And now for today’s poem, with apologies to Leonard Cohen.

Brake With a Snipped Wire

Like a brake with a snipped wire, 

like a skunk in a racoon choir 

I have tried in my way to ride free. 

Like a bike stolen by a crook, 

like a penny-farthing from some old fashioned book,

I have saved all my bib numbers for thee. 

If I, if I ride too close behind, 

I hope that you can just let me go by. 

If my, if my wheel has been untrue, 

Then I, I wish it never spoked to you. 

Like a brake pad, overworn, 

like a bike messenger gripping his bullhorns, 

When my lycra’s torn, everyone averts their eyes from me. 

But I swear by this song 

and by all that I have cycled wrong 

I will make it all up to thee. 

Oh like a brake with a snipped wire, 

like a skunk in a racoon choir

I have tried in my way to ride free.

Rime of the Ancient Bike Mechanic-er: Neon Poetry Day 9

Don’t get too excited, but I feel that today’s poem might just be the apex, the magnum opus, if you will, of the Neon Poetry Project. I'm quite proud of this one, and it might all be downhill from here.

Warning: Reading the following poem might cause dizziness, dry mouth, heart palpitations, and an overwhelming desire to make a donation toward Josh’s ride in the MS Bike Tour, which is coming up this weekend, July 26-27^th.

Many thanks to all the fantastic donors who have put my total at nearly $500 so far!

Today’s poem is dedicated to all the men and women who work at bike shops and gladly suffer dorky customers who show up 12 times a week to drool over shiny bike frames and ask millions of pointless questions about tread wear the best brand of chamois butter.

With apologies to Coleridge, on to today's poem!

The Rime of the Ancient Bike Mechanic-er

Argument 

How a bike shop mechanic, having been harassed by the eager fixie-tross, was driven by annoyance to commit a crime, and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancient Bike Mechanic-er came to love all bikes equally.

Part I

It is an Ancient Bike Mechanic-er,

And he stoppeth one of three.

'By thine hipster beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The bike shop’s doors are opened wide,

And I am next of cycl’kin;

The guests are met, the growlers set:

May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,

'There was a bike,’ quoth he.

'Hold off! unhand me, hipster-beard loon!'

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—

The bike-shop guest stood still,

And listens like a three years' child:

The Mechanic-er hath his will.

The bike-shop guest sat on a Park Tool stool:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mechanic-er.

'The shop was cheered, inventory cleared,

Merrily we did sell

Bikes off the rack, with a full till,

No longer in the red.

At length did cross a fixie-tross,

Through the fog he came;

As if he were there to spend a roll,

We hailed him in Trek’s name.

But he ate the lunch we had to eat,

And round the shop he flew.

Questions he spit with a thunder-fit;

“I prefer this wheel size, do you?”

Throughout the shop, before, behind;

The fixie-tross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

He came to the shop to holler hollo!

'God save thee, Bike Mechanic-er!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow

I shot the fixie-tross.

Part II

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work me woe:

For all averred, I had killed the bird

Who made his back wheel skid.

Growlers, growlers, every where,

And all the beards did shrink;

Growlers, growlers, every where,

Nor any drop to drink.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the fixie-tross

About my neck was hung.

Part III

A hermit good lives in the wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with mechanic-ers

That come from a far countree.

He cycles at morn, at noon, at eve—

He hath an accurate floor pump:

And in sumptuous lycra he wholly hides

His shapely, old-oak rump.

‘A roadie, fred, a mountain man?’

The hermit crossed his brow.

'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say—

What manner of cyclist art thou?'

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

O sweeter than a poutine-feast,

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To pedal together on a trail

With a goodly company!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou bikeshop-guest!

He rideth well, who loveth well

Both niner and 650b.

He cycleth best, who loveth best

All bikes both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth bikes,

He made and loveth all.

The Mechanic-er, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone: and now the bike-shop guest

Turned from the bike shop door.

Do Not Pedal Gently Into That Good Peloton: Neon Poetry Day 8

A neon poem for your Monday, offered without much preamble. With apologies to Dylan Thomas.

Remember, if you're going to sponsor my ride in the MS Bike Tour, this is the week do to it! On Saturday, we ride.

(Remember to stretch before engaging in physical exercise. Consult your doctor before growing a moustache.)

And now, today's poem.

Do Not Pedal Gently into That Good Peloton

Do not pedal gently into that good peloton,

Old thighs should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the neon.

Good cyclists, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail neon has danced on this dull day,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Neon Riders, near the finish, you see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,   

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

You who spend much cash on your bikes, with no pot left to pee on,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not slink to Las Vegas like Celine Dion.

Rage, rage against the dying of the neon.

A Limerick: Neon Poetry Day 7

It’s doggerel day at the Neon Poetry Project, and the featured poem is a limerick.

(A man from Nantucket.)

This project is all about celebrating all forms of bicycle-themed poetry, low and high, but it's especially about earning your donation to the MS Society in preparation for the MS Bike Tour, which is only six days away! So far, I've raised $320. Consider going to my fundraising page soon if you want to help out.

(Androids don't understand limericks either.)

So here's today's poem. Enjoy!

The Cyclist From Minto

There once was a cyclist from Minto

whose calves were the size of Ford Pintos.

When he strikes a pose

in neon lederhose

all propriety's thrown out the window.

Neon Poetry Day 6: A Shakespearean Sonnet

Remember, the bike tour is next Saturday, July 26^th, less than a week away! Please consider donating at my fundraising page.

(Thumbs up for Shakespeare!)

Maybe today’s poem will get you in the donating mood. Today’s apology, for what it’s worth, is offered to William Shakespeare.

Sonnet 18

Shall I ride with thee on summer's day? 

Thou art lovely, and the weather’s temperate:

Rough winds do slow our darling bikes, I say,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And burns the necks of our complexions dimm’d; 

And every hill from its summit sometime declines,

By chance, or the road’s changing course, untrimm'd;

But thy eternal neon shall not fade!

Thou shall not skip a gear, nor injure thyself and say “ow'st”

Nor shall flat tires cause us to sit depressed in shade,

When along eternal roads to time thou ride’st; 

So long as we can breathe or eyes can neon see,

So long live neon! We ride for the MS Socie’ty.