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.