We’re off in this race for the Masters –

‘Masters’ sounds dignified, read old;

Which of these codgers will run fastest?

There’s some ‘gun’ in the field I’m told.

 

We’ve lined up at the start with head bands,

Dicky knees, arthritis and that condition;

We’ve done our stretches and flexed hands,

Like a Richard Simmons’ video rendition.

 

Now loping along at no fast rate,

Like slow mo in that Chariots flick;

We’re building up a sideways gait –

The winner is so hard to pick.

 

Over there, that guy is the Prancer:

Lifts his legs like a hackney horse;

He should become a ballet dancer –

I wonder if he’ll finish the course.

 

And right next to me is the Shuffler –

Thought he was that old Cliffy Young;

Sounds like he needs a new muffler –

If he wins I’ll be biting my tongue.

 

And just up in front is the Treadmill:

So adept at running on the spot;

Heard he’s been taking a blue pill

To have a long stay in the cot.

 

Oh, I’ve lapsed into a runner’s daze;

Dream of getting physical with Olivia!

Her head band and lycra still amaze –

Why is that look so destined for trivia?

 

Now a flashback to my running start:

My mother felt I was taking it too far;

Thought running would enlarge my heart –

But Phar Lap with a big heart was a star?

 

Awake; ‘the gun’ fires away from the field –

Wonder how he’s got into great shape?

He’s shown the rest a clean pair of heels

As he sprints through the finishing tape.

 

And the rest of us amble to the line,

Puffing, wheezing, finding our breath;

Good news: no one keeled over this time,

As we’re running away from our death.