Transatlantic Conversation

"Hi," he says, his voice faint and clear as ice.
"I'm a bit trembly today," he says. It's the altitude
my platinum-flyer friend assures me later.
It hadn't crossed my mind
    Or his.
We rode 10 hours today, he says.
Started in driving snow, (it didn't settle) and ended
    in tar-melting heat.
Enough to make anyone trembly, I think.

Super-heated hotels, gourmet food and
    Too much of it.
The Canadians are big feeders, he adds.
Everything larger than life. Even more than California.
So different from the privations of motorcycling in India.
    Beep-Beep.
There you watched out for sacred cattle
And tigers' eyes in the dark from your Indian-built
    Royal Enfield.
Yesterday the truckers gave you wide-berth and
Claxon horns threatened to start
An avalanche in mountains as distant as
    your hand.

Thirty-odd degrees at home but the Rocky
Mountain monsoon keeps you challenged
"Thank heaven for Gortex and drying rooms," he says.
Saddle-sore and weary sporting the bikers'
    walk. You heave into Gatwick
Ready to start work Monday morning driving a desk at
    the Treasury.