Ride (poem)
Ride His lungs were on fire. Sweat was beading on his brow, and dripping from his nose. The drops flew sideways away from him, from the striking force of the wind. As the gusts came, they buffeted his frame, causing him to brace against it. He adjusted his grip on his board, without it he was 'without his paddle.' Thank God for the bootpack, he had no energy for post-holing. With a rhythmic gait he plods onward and upward. Not looking back. As he turns his gaze upward he sees another thousand vertical feet standing stoically before him. Neither the man, nor the terrain will waver. He plods on. Small steps make seemingly little progress, but the steps kicked by others before him are more easily used than to kick his own. He speeds up his pace, pushing his cardiovascular system a little further. It's not for lack of conditioning that his lungs hurt, but the thin dry air at this altitude. He recalls that it's been some time since he's hiked up here. The thick ...