Spokelore - a tale of modern folklore on 2 wheels in heroic pentameter

Long had we sought that fabled downhill trail
That arrows through the trees on Maulin's sides
Straight down the mountain's fall-line to the Vale
Of Glencree on a harum-scarum ride.
But signposts on the mountain are there none
Distinctive landmarks few and far between
The quest to find this famed descent begun
Six weeks before and ne'er a sight we'd seen.

We doggedly persisted with our quest
Hiked high through weeds and briars to cut the trail
The Mountain laughing at our very best
Endeavours, whispered we were doomed to fail.
But just as we were calling it a day
Two riders happened by who knew the way

These riders, unlike us, looked quite the part
With matching kit and bikes as dear as cars
Said they could find their way up to the start
Of 'Hell's Descent' like drunkards can find bars.
Yet even though we told them we had looked
Where they were headed time and time again
Disdainfully our warning they rebuked
Pressed on and came to just the same dead-end

"Oh, something must have changed - let's turn around
We've been up here a hundred times or more."
And shortly afterwards our heroes found
An upward trail we hadn't found before
A tiny single-track that climbed and bent
Towards the hallowed trail called Hell's Descent

It turned and twisted, climbing like a snake
So steep and rough the wheels would hardly turn
We thought our legs would sieze, our backs might break
Our heads were swimming as our insides burned.
Our guides let it be known they thought us slow
They were impatient to be at the top
If we didn't hurry up they'd have to go
In cycle-speak that's known as 'getting dropped'

So, losing patience they prepared to leave
The four of us to once more find our way
Through No-man's-land, unlikely to achieve
Our goal or much of anything that day
Despairingly we watched them start to go
We urged our legs 'go faster!' - they said 'No.'

But one among us, Rory was his name,
An urchin on a bike if looks told all
Was not for letting this show of disdain
Pass by and grasped the gauntlet for us all
He matched the pace of our reluctant hosts
Accelerating like a mountain goat
And leaving us like pale and gasping ghosts
He warmly took their challenge by the throat

We'd later hear these two were lumin'ries
of cycle sport, road racing champions
Who little thought four hapless Freds as we
Would see the end of what they had begun
But giving it their best they couldn't drop
Our Rory more than matched them to the top.

A bit behind but not too far at all
(for one of our two guides had fallen back,
unable to obey his comrade's call
to join his inhospitable attack)
The rest of us arrived atop the climb
To skirt along a nerve-end-shredding run
Across the ridge that finally arrived
At Hell's Descent - and so it had begun

We stood atop a plunging precipice
That disappeared beneath us like a cliff
I spoke my mind for all the rest of us
When I demanded of our trail-guides if
They'd really ridden bikes down here or not -
An antelope would have had second thoughts!

"Of course!' they sneered, 'of course, yeah, many times!
A piece of cake that any fool could do!"
"Well, show us how!" I pleaded - they declined
Saying "You go first - we want to laugh at you!"
I couldn't quite believe what I had heard
I tried to speak my voice came faint and shrill
But Rory, like a horse stung by the spur
Fair lept away and headed down that hill.

"Oh boy! He'll soon regret that." laughed the couple
So loud they could be heard across the vale
As Rory's speed redoubled and redoubled
His ride a roller-coaster without rails
They watched him hurtle madly down the hill
Like two fat vultures waiting for the kill.

But half-way down already he held tight
His bike a bucking bronco underneath
His tight clenched butt-cheeks as, with all his might
And skill he fought to hang on to his steed
Those vultures' laughtet faded fast away
It turned to admiration as they watched
Young Rory live to ride another day
Their hopes of his undoing duly scotched

"Who is this guy? Let's sign him up!" they breathed
As Rory made the safety of the flat
And we three friends above looked on, relieved
But most unsure we wanted some of that
The laughing vultures now had to display
'Cojones' or we'd have something to say

But gingerly thet crept onto the slope
At half the speed or less their victim left
They would have used one if they'd had a rope
Their own performance far from swift or deft
And so, embarrassed, they arrived beside
Our hero, Rory, and, no doubt, they blushed
To have him witness their most feeble ride
Down Hell's Descent when shove had come to push

There some more excitement to come still
The lower slopes were faster and less steep
Our brave hosts would again attack the hill
And hope this time that one of them could keep
Young Jordan from administ'ring to them
What they had so desired to hand to us
When they remounted suddenly again
and sped off, Rory teased them 'What's the rush?'

At break-neck speed they rode the jumps and berms
But Rory was so quickly on their wheel
The track was soon not big enough for them
And him as well for they could surely feel
our hero's breath blow hotly on their backs
They'd paid the piper - now they'd pay the tax.

One thing a mountain biker doesn't do
Is 'get it sideways' downhill in the dust
It's bound to to be a wash-out and all who
would keep things upright know thay shouldn't flirt
With trying to steer and brake at the same time
But desperation had our friends upset
Things moved from the amusing to sublime
When one of them wiped out - and better yet

So close was he to Rory when he spilled
Young Jordan had no earthly chance to miss
His bike or him, pure luck he wasn't killed
If he had been we'd still have took the piss
To rub it in he had to recognize
The fault was his and then apologize

I don't go mountain biking too much now
Not having the reactions or the need
To test myself against each rock and bough
And trying to avoid them at great speed
But when I visit Maulin as I do
Just now and then, and look on Hell's Descent
My thoughts go back to one of very few
Real stars in the heroic firmament

There's nothing quite like arrogance to bring
The fire out in a true-born Irish soul
And once upon a tale the poets would sing
Such tales as these to all who would be told.
In all my days I never can recall
Great pride, so dented, going before a fall.


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