where are my pins?

Racing is nigh. 
Nerves are high. 
Excitement is coursing through my thighs. 

It’s the racing that counts, 
the most honest truth, 
to discover what I’m about.

Where are my pins?
When packing my bags, 
checking the list is sorted, 
all but one thing. My safety pins.

An innocuous piece of equipment, 16 in total. 
Without them I cannot race, 
and must resort to calling on my mates. 

There is an aura about pinning, a certain rhythm 
to fastening my numbers à la maillot. 
A particular superstition, but definitely more of a rythme.
 
I know where my pins are, at least in the vicinity.
But crucially, not precisely. 
Only when the racing arrives, 
and I go in search of their position, exactly
do I find out the reality 
of where I put them.

Like Schrodinger's cat—not whether they are dead or alive, 
don’t be stupid—cause I know they’re used,
but in what state are they? I can’t quite remember. 
Are they as sharp, sturdy as I recollect? 
Or are they more blunt than I suspect. 
I hope to stand corrected. 

I sure can guess at the answer, 
but I won't know until I puncture the number. 
How do I do this? The first pin is always the most uncertain. 
Are my skills up to scratch, 
will they stay, or won’t they? 

It all depends on the quality, 
the integrity of the combination. 
The work I put into sewing mon dossard à la combinaison. 
The pins are all important, 
but take the deep dive into my drawer, 
and come out surprised, elated or defeated. 

I hope the work put in 
to keep my house in order, 
will pay its due dividends 
when the gun shoots 
and I tuck in 
and let loose for the ride.