A poem

Ssh! Don't tell The Runner but I'm feeling crap today. Sore throat, cough, runny nose and headache. Also had a rotten sleep last night. I thought it was only the runners who worried about feeling good for the race! I'll follow my own advice and take 2 paracetmol and have an early night. It'll be fine by Friday! Anyway, here is a poem I wrote last year as part of a writing course.

The Race

They gather near Midsummer’s night,
Their spirits high, their faces bright,
To run the ancient highland route,
So bold, so brave, we must salute
Their guts, their nerve, their mental strength,
To run The Way the entire length,
Of near enough a hundred mile,
They laugh and joke and crack a smile,
As if it were a simple stroll,
And not a lifetime’s aim or goal.

The starter sends them on their way,
As night begins to fade to day,
The sleeping town is left behind,
The well trod path they seek and find.
Our convoy follows through the night,
As tiredness we try to fight,
We wait as they climb over hills,
Attacked by cramp and other ills,
Scenery they scarcely notice,
Running is the only focus.

We wait and ponder on their progress,
Are they free from pain and anguish?
Muscles aching, stomachs heaving,
Taking food on board, then leaving,
Forging onwards, ever anxious,
Fighting tiredness, feeling nauseous,
By Lomond’s famous rocky banks,
We quietly offer up our thanks,
For safe arrival to each place,
Our runners in this awesome race.

O’er hills and glens and moors they pass,
A story in each blade of grass,
Where deer and feral creatures roam,
Where drovers walked their kyloes home,
Where clansmen died by fire and sword,
They run and run for small reward,
As day and race both come to end,
The runners and their new found friends,
All pledge to meet again next year,
Despite the blood, the sweat, the tears.