Although we may have bolted from that sad cliff
of our imminent decline, we are not Paula Radcliffe.

And though we may have startled
at the starting pistol,

with its jolt
of explosive (fired by Sting), Usain Bolt

we are not,
by a long shot.

And even though we purchased the slim new book he
called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, we are not Haruki

Murakami,
most definitely
not. Wired to our iPods,
we are your average, middle-aged bipeds:

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half-trained, stiff-hinged, pegging up the course,
as likely overtaken by a pantomime horse

as a Lady Gaga . . . In the name of God!
In the name of a small but worthy charity, we plod

on, to the finish and vitality,
fleeing those intimations of mortality.