Sport

Poem 768 – European Nights

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The team sheet’s on the radio,
It’s time to start, the whistle blows,
As one the crowd stand up to roar,
The ball is kicked and off they go!

Like eager dogs fly from the doors,
Their fleeting feet pounding the floor,
To chase the mark, a spinning ball,
And swift to shoot, a goal to score.

It’s time for heroes to stand tall,
And answer adultion’s call,
In shooting straight the winning shot,
And with their nimble feet enthrall.

A goal tonight, the perfect plot.
The winner’s prize? Take home the lot.
So go on boys, give it all you’ve got!
So go on boys, give it all you’ve got!

I had no idea what to write tonight, so took another look at different poetry forms, and opted to try an interlocking rubaiyat. Liverpool were playing in Europe at the same time, so the two inevitably came together.
(21.01.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Daniel Norin on Unsplash

Poem 738 – Hertfordshire Hills

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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)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Fat Lads on Unsplash

Poem 642 – Belief

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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

Poem 638 – Cycling in the Rain

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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

Poem 614 – Pilgrims in Lycra

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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

Poem 610 – Riding in the Dark

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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

Poem 589 – Der Teufel

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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

Poem 586 – An Ode to Mount Ventoux

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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