Poetry in motion.

I just knew it would happen. Miss the Sunday run and the whole weeks schedule goes out the window. It appeared straight forward enough; four runs of six and a half miles would more than cover the twenty five mile target. Not running on Monday was a mistake; this left us to completing the miles in four consecutive days. Tuesdays five mile run added to the pressure which was compounded when we did the same on Wednesday. Fifteen miles in the remaining two days is just too many (we don’t run Saturdays). Revise the target down to twenty and we have something that is achievable. We set out today feeling more optimistic and enthusiastic. The first mile was a bit slow but there was a hill in it so that was acceptable. After half a mile of downhill we turned left up a track that goes on for a mile. We put our backs into it and climbed at a steady even pace. Most of the excess water had drained away from the track and the wind had dried the mud so it didn’t stick to our shoes quite so much. At the top we crossed over a main road and ran down the track on the other side of it for a mile. This was easier going as the surface is not so broken up. At the far end of the lane we turned left and ran alongside a main road home. This was a run of just over five miles which means another five tomorrow will reach the revised target. Revising a target to something that is more achievable makes better sense than struggling to hit one which is just beyond my capabilities.

This is a poem from the book I wrote. If you have competed in races you will understand the feeling. Please leave a comment and let me know.

The Race Runner

Raindrops fall on a balding pate,

Merged with sweat flow at a rate,

Across his brow and down his vest,

He runs and runs no pause for rest.

Fire in his lungs cannot be quenched,

As from his chest they’re almost wrenched,

In out in out they heave and sigh,

Praying the finishing line is nigh.

Thighs scream out enough enough,

His calves rebel, the going’s tough,

Blisters form on cramped up toes,

The pain it comes but rarely goes.

Over the line he’s tired and weak,

His head is pounding he cannot speak,

A week’s recovery is all he needs,

Then off again at breakneck speed.