wheels of nostalgia

These things start early they say.
You get addicted to the tears of speed
Wet with a sense of abandon.
Awaiting the sunset milkman
For a spin around the neighbourhood lane.
Ever more than that glass of milk.
Or half- pedaling from between
The frame of borrowed Hero cycles
In a desperate hurry to grow up.
An affinity for freedom starts early they say.
And it never leaves you.