"The Twenty and The Six" - The Rhyme of an Incomplete Marathoner

that your "splits" can be maintained,
As you pass the ten you think again
but nothing's really pained.

At the fifteen mark you've still some spark
but the legs are feeling tired,
And the salty lips and thechafing bits
show how freely you've perspired.

The eighteen brings some unwelcome things
such as aching back and knees,
Your "splits" have slowly torn to bits
and you wish that time would freeze,
Your big toe burns and you find more turns
than you noticed when outward bound,
And you feel the load as you pound the road
till your ears seems blocked to sound.

The twentieth mile! - you can raise a smile
but it does not last for long
Though you know there are only six to go
almost anything can go wrong,
You can lose your way 'cause your mind will stray
you can trip and have a fall,
Cramps in calf or thigh may well be nigh,
to reduce you to a crawl.
The watch hands race at a furious pace as is said
of "Time and Tide".
"Good grief" you say, "I can do ten "K"in an
hour with a six inch stride!".

The twenty-first is the very worst that you're called on to endure,
Not a soul in view to share with you those feelings insecure,
As you fall behind you force your mind to dwell on things ahead,
So it thinks of cooling drinks while below your waist it is "dead",
Make a grateful lunge for that ice-cold sponge,
OH! the blessed refresh it gives!
It's streaming cool acts like racing fuel
and you know that your will still lives.

At twenty-two a different view confronts your weary eye,
You catch a line of eight or nine who stare as you go by,
They stop and stumble while you mumble through your salk-caked lips,
They sit 'neath trees, massage their knees,
and one poor fellow trips
The most that men can do for them is give a friendly call,
"Bad luck old mate, it's not too late!"
(He has really hit "THE WALL").

You pass some more at twenty-four,
these crazy, valiant people,
Some feet have bled, all feel like lead and each
kerb seems like a steeple.
Two miles remain, forget the pain,
you can make the rest a race,
Your last reserve gives a boost of verve so you dare to up your pace.
But alas for pride, 'cause your lengthened stride
brings the cramps you long have dreaded.
And you're forced to slow till the spasms go,
just reward for one big-headed!!

Twenty-six are gone, you're pressing on
when you sight the FINISH banner,
But your final sprint gives a grotesque squint,
not a smiling, winning manner,
"If I'd only known" you sadly moan,
"That I was being snapped,
I'd have raised both a grin as I struggled in,
and my fists, - though my strength is sapped".
You note the time as you cross the line,
Not too bad, but no P.B.,
Kind people say in the nicest way
that they're sure your next will be.

What'ere our pace, whether jogh or race,
twenty-six is never short,
but the MARATHON BUG, you MARATHON MUG,
is something you're glad you caught.
How many miles brought fun and smiles?
How many grief and pain?
The answer : "The first and the twenty-sixth
made it worth a try again!"

Derek White, 1984