Djamolidine Abdoujaparov,
LeMond and Bernard Hinault,
Sean Kelly, Yates and Robert Miller,
Pantani, Eddy Merckx, Jens Voight
Mark Cavendish, Boardman, Stephen Roach,
Geriant Thomas, Thomas Voeckler,
Cipollini, Induráin,
These names are framed within my mind
True heroes of the peleton
Some of the cyclists on the Tour de France whose wonderful names and heroics will always remain with me.
(09.07.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Stefan Scheepmaker on Unsplash
Le Tour has started
With its spills and its thrills,
Broom wagons, bunch sprints,
Great rivalries, myths.
The peleton charges
For mile upon mile,
Up impossible climbs,
Down crazy descents.
And as a result
I’m somewhat distracted
When watching the highlights
This poem must stop.
My daily rhymes might become a little more perfunctory over the next few weeks…
(07.07.25)
Seven years on
A return to the mountain
Back on the slopes with
A shot at redemption
A facing down demons
Of sapping defeat
The pedals are turned
The cycle’s complete.
After losing the Giro d’Italia on the slopes of the Colle delle Finestre in 2018, it was wonderful to see Simon Yates return victoriously today.
(31.05.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Munbaik Cycling Clothing on Unsplash
Back on the bike once more,
the sun warming my limbs.
Forgotten rhythms found,
the miles tick by. I live.
I breathe. Back in the zone.
The need to make a delivery gave the perfect excuse to go out for a spin in the sun.
(19.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
I didn’t mean to visit the shop
I didn’t mean to go inside
I didn’t mean to check the prices
I didn’t mean to try for size
I didn’t mean to chat to the attendant
I didn’t mean to ask for advice
I didn’t mean to search reviews
I didn’t mean to buy a bike…
Our local bike shop is closing down, and it would have been rude not to. I shall miss them, they’ve been very helpful over the last few years.
(10.03.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Wayne Bishop on Unsplash
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
I patched, I pumped, I pedalled.
Like Caesar’s veni , vidi , vici, today I triumphed.
(03.12.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by paolo candelo on Unsplash
I always fall into the trap
of thinking that this time it will be
an easy fix. It never is.
Two of them. One on each wheel. One after the other.
(02.12.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Vlad Smolyakov on Unsplash
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
It’s dark, and as I mount my saddle to
ride out, my limbs are stiff and unresponsive.
The dawning sun perches upon the valley
hill-line and casts its weary eye abroad.
Below it, ripples catch alight and burn
in contrast to their frost-drained surroundings.
The cold inveigles itself uninvited,
kicks off its shoes, and squats amongst my bones.
My muscles clench like bailiffs, but they fail
in their eviction efforts. It persists.
As fingers burn there is no choice but to
stoically press on in imitation.
At home, the heat violently awakes me.
It has been a bitterly cold week, in which I have been out a number of times on my bike. Although the surroundings are beautiful, it hurts.
(18.01.24)
© Ben Quant 2024
Ode for the Day 