We’re headed for Oregon
on the aptly named Transam
to dip our toes in the pacific
more than three thousand miles
from our start
The turkey vultures
lurking in the trees
scouting for fresh prey
will have to wait
hold off boys we tell them
haven’t you heard
ninety is the new eighty
and dead the new ninety.
 
And so we cycle on
through undulating fields
of towering corn
past barns with American flags
the rusting iron ruins of industrial towns
lining the abandoned  railroad tracks
the tumbledown backwoods shacks
where the only sign of life
is a Christmas wreath
nailed to the front door
places in the mountains
so remote
they consist of a post office
and one lone gas pump.

Given our advanced age
you might ask what happens
if one of us perishes on route.
We’ll simply dig a deep hole
by the side of the road
say a brief prayer helmet in hand
send an e-mail to their kin
and carry on.
 
We’ll still be cycling
in the sweet hereafter
our Treks chained to the pearly gates
lest an angel or a saint
be tempted to swipe one
and pedal away

the cat awakened us at three
instead of the customary six
with a cry so human
we thought a teething baby
had crept into our bed
she led us to the sliding door
pacing back and forth
as if to warn us
of some vicious creature
lurking in the damp leaves
beyond the compass of the floodlight
an opossum or the bloated white cat
who patrolled the neighborhood
like an overweight thug
in search of fresh prey
 
hush we said it’s nothing but the wind
go back to sleep
and rubbed the warm soft spot
beneath her chin
until she purred and dozed off
on her velour pillow
 
but we who shuffled back to bed
lay awake until dawn
tossing and turning in the tangled sheets
with visions of impending doom
dancing in our groggy heads.