Sport

Poem 387 – Wet Trousers

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The alarm went off this morning.
Outside it was dark, so dark,
I didn’t want to rise,
but had before I knew it.

I left the car at the garage.
Cycling was cold, so cold,
the tide mark rising up
dull chromatography.

The phone rang in the rain.
The call was hard, so hard.
May God’s peace match the puddles
permeating my pockets.

Once home I peeled the layers.
They’re dripping wet, so wet.
The garage rings, it’s ready –
I put them on again…

I had to take our car to the garage first things for it’s annual service. The snow and ice may have gone, but the weather was miserable. I still feel wet. The good news, however, was that there were no issues with the car at all.
(06.01.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Nicola Anderson on Unsplash

Poem 366 – Currently 2-0

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I should be writing a poem,
But it’s been a busy day,
Dealing with toddlers,
Shifting food,
Discussing the Bible,
Talking to church members,
Now the day’s done, and
Liverpool are beating Madrid,
So this will have to do.

Hopefully that’s game, set and match (to mix sports!)
(27.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Jannes Glas on Unsplash

Poem 361 – Tomorrow…

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I will fly with the freedom of a soaring bird,
sweeping through the air with grace and speed,

Do somersaults down the high road,
leaping over fences and running along walls.

Jump up and down like an excited child
unable to contain their glee.

Touch my toes with my nose and
curl my torso impossibly tight.

Stand up and sit down because I can
and then do it all over again.

Pick my clothes up from where I dropped them
and hang them in their proper place.

Pretend I’m Usain Bolt and, with cocky confidence,
sprint down corridors and pull his pose.

Lift twenty crates of food with just one hand,
and juggle with them as if they were balls.

Tomorrow, I will do all these things and more,
but today I’m sitting still.

Unfortunately, the back is not so comfortable today, ah well, tomorrow….
(22.11.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Chris on Unsplash

Poem 302 – I Will Never

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I shall never scale the heights of Everest,
explore the alien ocean depths beneath,
or skydive from the breathless edge of space.

I’ll never run the fastest 100 metres,
hop, step and jump into the record books,
or climb the podium of the Tour de France.

I will never win the Nobel Prize,
for scientific discoveries as yet undreamt,
or finally nailing down the theory of everything.

My paintings will not hang next to Van Gogh’s,
my verse be ranked with sonnets by the Bard,
or songs be played upon the radio.

My name will quickly fade from recollection,
there will not be biographies of me,
nor obituaries typed up in The Times.

But I will strive to love and that’s enough.
For love is all that’s truly asked of us,
and Love will be my harvest and reward.

Today I’ve been thinking about what it means to be fruitful as I’ve been planning various Harvest celebrations I shall be involved in. Paul’s words in Galatians 5:22 came to mind, ‘But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control’.
(24.09.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 246 – Project Thirty-Five

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The camera slows.
Time passes frame
by frame. Our eyes
are fixed, breath held.
Momentarily
the journey’s forgotten
and all is now.
The missile fires
and threads its path
through raging blood
and wheels to close
upon the mark.
Released,
the crowd explodes.

History was made today as Mark Cavendish won his 35th stage on the Tour de France, the most anyone had achieved. Astonishing.
(03.07.24)

© Ben Quant 2024

Poem 191 – The London 100

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The Day Before:
I gather in myself,
my words, my thoughts, perception,
a quiet preparation.

The Morning – 4:15am:
This is no time to rise!
I hope adrenaline
will see me through. I dress.

The Wait:
We merge. A lycra clad
invasion forms a swarm,
then pauses, shivers, tense.

The Ride:
Released, a whirring horde, we fly unstoppable.
A churning, hungry tide, we flow through streets as one
– today, for once, they’re ours. Devouring tarmac miles
we weave through concrete towers and flyovers
until
            it’s gone, replaced by green relief.
We smile. The peloton is calmed, discovers peace.
We find our rhythm, settle in and settle down,
a steady cadence. Miles countdown through Epping’s trees,
and Essex fields. Pass picturesque hamlets that predate
the bicycle. Cheers accompany our carefree conversation.
Traverse Great Dunmow, Felsted, Writtle, Ongar, Chigwell
before
            aggressive city walls rear over us once more.
The sun’s fierce rays pummel us, bouncing off the road.
Remorseless, it bullies us, no shade to calm it’s edge.
My head begins to throb, it’s rhythm dissonant,
conflicting with the cycle of my weary legs.

The Last Leg:
After the drag, we spin.
Momentum carries us
to Tower Bridge. It’s over.

The Finish Line:
Grin for the camera. Stop.
Disturbing halt. Dismount,
with giddy limbs confused.

The Release:
Uncleated shoes create
a new cadence. I shuffle.
Am medalled. Disconnect.

It’s taken a few weeks to put this together to try and capture the experience of riding the Ride London-Essex 100 last month. It was a hypnotic day, long but strangely timeless. I’m definitely up for doing something like it again, as long as I can find a way to stop my head overheating!
(16.06.23)

© Ben Quant 2023