A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

Bicycle Riding
by Heather Candels
February 21, 2007

I am the queen of Coon Rapids
Riding my blue Schwinn
Red and white streamers flying
from the handlebars
The king and the jack clipped
onto the spokes with clothespins
Announcing my coolness to the lazy bones
Sitting on their steps drinking Kool-Aid

My bicycle tires scribble invisible trails
Up and down the long tar ribbon of Magnolia Street
I imagine grander boulevards and hold a transistor to my ear
Petula Clark sings from a faraway place
"You wander around on your own little cloud"

I fiddle with the dial
Vietnam, the word I heard but never understood
Bores me back to the music

My other hand on my waist
Look Ma No Hands!
I can take a corner by leaning into it
My balance near perfect
The handlebars obeying my sways until the screen door opens
And I'm called for dinner

Watch this, I say outloud as I
Attempt to take the driveway in a hands-free flourish
But the steep hill
Dethrones me and the plastic banana seat
Tears open to foam and hard metal

Transistor smashed into plastic bits,
Scraped elbows, bloody knees,
Broken tooth,
A battery lost in the gravel

My brother on the front porch laughs and yells,
"You are such an idiot."

About the author:
My name is Heather Candels. I am a native of Coon Rapids, but I have lived in Connecticut for 25 years. Some of my poems have appeared in various journals. I teach middle school English in Wilton, CT, and am currently writing a novel about a little girl in Minnesota.