We glide, we climb,
Our pedals turn,
We grunt and groan,
To creaking cranks,
And sighing pants,
Until we reach,
The top and fly.
After too long a break, I got on my bike again today and did the next leg of the London-Walsingham Camino doing a ~40 mile figure of eight around Ware, Hunsdon, the Hadhams, and Bishops Stortford. Really enjoyable spin and company.
(22.12.25)
I hear they’re calling it Slottage Time,
That moment in the dying breath,
When time stands still and waits and waits,
Until the ball flies in the net.
Perhaps we’re riding on a wave
Of luck that surely must run out,
But until then we wait and wait,
And wait for it without a doubt.
It might be nice for once to win
Before the extra time is shown
Not needing to wait on and on
Until the final kick flies home.
‘But where’s the fun in that?’ I say
There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush
From tension building up and up
Exploding with the final touch.
For the fifth time in fife games, Liverpool somehow managed to win tonight in the final moments of the match. It’s now no longer a surprise but expected.
(17.09.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Chris Knight on Unsplash
Two numb patches on my bum,
This saddle has to change,
My undercarriage is just fine but
No sitting on that again!
It turns out the saddle on my new bike is not so comfortable after a proper ride…
(16.09.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Florencia Potter on Unsplash
Back at the very start,
The rain no longer matters.
I smile because the miles
Are done, the hills are past,
The churches all ticked off.
Somehow, the heavens opening
Seems appropriate.
I jump for joy in puddles
Thinking, there should be
A lamppost standing by,
For me to dance around.
I took part in the Bike ‘n’ Hike today, raising funds to maintain local historic churches. 24 churches visited over 34 miles, over 2.5 hours on the move. I’m out of practice, the legs turned to jelly after a bit, but thoroughly enjoyed myself.
(13.09.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A modern pilgrimage
by pedal not by foot.
Progressing on the path
we paused to pray in churches
long permeated with worship.
Our penance? Uphill slopes,
battling punishing winds.
But piousness brings reward:
the company of friends
along with cake and coffee.
Today I enjoyed a ride along a section of the London Walsingham Camino, catching churches between Waltham Abbey and Ware/Hertford.
(20.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
A nighttime ride, 1.30, and it’s dark,
the perfect time to perch upon the saddle
and race against the waking of the lark.
No doubt there’s many who would think I’m mad,
but, peddling at this solitary hour, I find
the space to think and ponder makes me glad.
All other voices banished from my mind,
a purity of focus can be found,
as thoughts and legs in perfect rhythm combine.
Last night I joined friends in Enfield for an evening of boardgames. As usual we finished in the wee hours. Having been a hot day, I treated myself to cycling there and back. Decided today to try a poem in a terza Rima form, three three line stanzas with an ABA BCB CDC rhyming format, and my ride came to mind.
(16.08.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Samantha Gilmore on Unsplash
Der Teufel prances at the roadside,
His pitchfork pricking passing cyclists,
Urging them ever onwards with
His insane eyes and inane chanting.
This Devil isn’t that of legend,
Instead an ever present fan,
Accompanied by his wild inventions
In every stage of every Tour.
And as the race comes to its end
On free TV here in the UK,
I find myself in the strange position
Of realising I’ll miss Ol’ Nick.
The Tour is so much more than just a race, for example there are many characters that make its backdrop. Didi Senft is one of them, a German who stands at the roadside each stage dressed as the Devil. Only on the Tour…
(26.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I, Kuebi, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons
Ventoux, on whom legends are made,
Your mythical mountain slopes loom high.
Reaching beyond the trees, your lunar
Landscape, stark and steep, melds sky
And space, a place where heroes race:
Poulidour, Merckx, Pantani, Virenque,
You gifted glory to their wins.
Pogačar battled, Chris Froome ran,
Forever Simpson cycles on,
But you, Ventoux, remain the true
Pinnacle, the hero of le Tour.
I only caught up with yesterday’s stage in the Tour de France this morning, a stunning stage of full blooded racing, but as always, the lingering image will always be not the riders but the mount itself.
(23.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Lucas Gallone on Unsplash
Last minute,
final breath,
time
stands
still
until…
the roar!!!!!
Bonus poem today after the footie.
What. A. Turnaround.
(22.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Chaos Soccer Gear on Unsplash
At school, ball games were never my thing.
I could score goals … but only in my own net
(that childhood tournament haunts me still).
I’d knock my own bails off in cricket matches
and never keep a tennis ball in court.
My humble stature left me overwhelmed
in rugby’s crush and overlooked in basketball.
Today the fear returned. Invited back
onto the field to join the staff in battle,
I grasped the rounders bat and tried to banish
the rising sense of shame; ‘Oh no, it’s Ben’
I heard again. But then, another childhood
chant emerged unbidden from the past.
I heard at last the call, ‘Just keep yer eye
upon the ball!’ and with these words in mind
I faced the bowler and swiftly swung my bat.
And with that swing I banished both the ball
and school-hood shame, as with astonishment
I watched it fly through crowd and air and ran,
and ran, around base one and two and three,
and reached the final post before the fall.
What bliss! What cheers! Redemption’s mine!
Salvation found within that skyward ball!
This afternoon I arrived at school prepared for the annual humiliation of the Year 6 Vs Staff and clergy rounders match.
(16.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 