Red paint, fresh air and full tires

I take a deep breath and hop on.
August breeds the best bikes.
The ace of spades provides my ride with the horses it needs.
Floating on two black clouds, you coast faster.

The whistling of wind rushes past my face,
warm summer air wraps my body.
Sunlight chars my skin
leaving me drained and exhausted.

The sun fades as I take my last ride.
Pedals turn to cinder blocks
at the base of a hill.
Legs after a long day feel waterlogged and heavy,
like a pair of wet pants you never took off.

The temperature drops,
with it the bike goes away.
Not to be brought out,
Until the next Summer Ride.