They all assemble at the park, just like the hordes of Genghis Khan.
They’re all on a mission to complete, because they know they can.
The day has arrived. The one day they’ve all been training for.
To make a gain, they take the pain. Their muscles tired and sore.
The elite runners gather at the front, all be chaffing on their bit,
all so keen to run their fastest time, and make a real show of it.
And then, they’re off, to dance to the tune of the starter’s gun.
All stopwatches have been set. The Potter’s ‘arf has just begun.
After the jockeying for position, all the athletes settle down.
Serious athlete and fun runner make haste around their town.
So, it’s best foot forward then, and into their patterned stride.
Just thirteen miles to run, where there is no place to hide.
Some boast their club colours, others wear any old tatty vest.
The club boys show their colours splashed across their chest.
Women clad in tight lycra vests, sweating all around the way.
Will running conditions be suitable, or a hot and humid day?
And then it’ all over, as their hot feet cross the finishing line.
They stop to aid recovery, where they’ll all be dandy and fine.
All sport a well-earned medallion, around each sweaty neck.
Stopwatches checked. Two minutes faster. What the heck?