Under the dawn I wake my two-wheel friend.
Shouting in bed my mother says to me,
'Mind you don't clatter it going downstairs!'
I walk him down, he springing step to step:
Those tyres he has, If you pat him flat-handed 
he'll bounce your hand.

I mount with an air
and as light a pair of legs as you'll encounter,
slow into Sunday ride out of the gates, 
roll along asphalt, press down on the pedals,
speeding, fearless,
          ring,
               ring,
                    ring.

Flinging along my happiness my fever,
incapable of breaking out of it,
overtaking the lorries on the road
taking each of them in a single swoop
flying behind them through cut open space
hanging on them uphill. Yes I know.
It's dangerous. I enjoy it. They hoot 
And lean out and yell out.

'We'll give you a hand on the hills;
give you some speed; after that
you tear along on your own.'
Careering full tilt, pelting along 
in a flurry of jokes. Turn a blind eye
to my crazy career;it's the fashion.
You can't tell me how terribly I ride.
One day I'll learn how to ride.

−Yevgeny Yevtushenko