Reminiscent of Bicyling

Annette, I jotted down a few of these lines when camping on Madeline Island. I finally composed them into a poem. Let me know what you think. I am not sure about the title or the beginning lines.

It took us two days to remember what we used to know.
Bike clips were c-shaped metal that clasped around our younger ankles
to prevent the jaw of sprocket, greasy shred,
drag of bell-bottomed jeans.
Our legs reiterated the rhythm of pumping.
Our parents forgot about us when we were gone.
We could be miles away by noon.
Whole continents by twilight.
Pedaling was sacred work.
The providence of ten speeds,
divination of gearing up and down,
the spinning of spokes.
Where could we go next?
Grass merry-go-round—
bark of dogs,
cheer of potted geraniums—
anthem to our vanishing.

Our thighs, shins, and ankles collected miles.
The field behind the neighborhood
discount store created ruts after rain,
a blue-light special of grasslands and trail.
We rode to the water tower, designed for the echo
of looking up, and portaged our bikes
across the stream of our consciousness—
fast and farther. Wind tendrilled our hair,
whirling along our freckled skin.
Sundown would harken us home.
The dimming of sky, scourge of bugs
hitting our teeth, pelting our arms.
We raced the slow walk to the front door lights.
Only then would our parents think of us.
When June bugs incinerated in the street lamps,
garage doors stayed open,
and adulting grew tiresome.
Where were the children?