I’ll never be Mo Farah, Brendan Foster, or Steve Cram,
A flabby, wheezy grandad,
I know that’s all I am.
But at nine on Sat’day mornings,
I line up with the rest,
And run three laps of South Park,
To chase a personal best.
We gather by the bowling green – come wind, or rain, or sun,
We’re off! Up past the aviary,
Then to the lake we run,
Til we loop around the bandstand,
And it’s pretty flat…until,
We turn sharp left and curse the sight,
Of Bloody Squirrel Hill.
Volunteers urge us on: “Keep going, you can do it!”
In their high-vis yellow jackets,
Somehow, they get us through it.
“Thank you marshal, thank you,”
That’s what I want to shout,
But I’m lathered, shattered, knackered,
The words just won’t come out.
It’s not a race, they tell us: it’s not about who wins,
Though it’s hard being overtaken,
By a mum who’s pushing twins,
Or that gadgie in his eighties,
Says he’s yet to reach his peak,
No matter how I grit my teeth,
The bugger beats me every week.
And there’s that fella with a spaniel, straining at the lead,
He’s pulling hard, he wants to go,
At twice his owner’s speed.
They surge past me – I can’t catch them,
Not with my dodgy knee,
But I get revenge around the bend,
When the dog stops for a pee.
It’s not about gold medals, it’s about the taking part,
Fitness, fresh air, friendship,
Taking care of mind and heart.
Having stopped to tie my shoelace,
I know my record won’t be broken,
Still, I’m in the queue to post my time,
Got my barcode, got my token.
No, I can’t be Roger Bannister, Chipchoge, or Seb Coe,
I’m in the bottom hundred,
Yet in my dreams I know,
The national anthem’s playing,
With British flags unfurled.
I’ve run it, done it, won it,
I’m the champion of the world.
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(I love the fact that the Parkrun has swept the country from the grassroots and done so much for public health. This is a tribute to those who run, and the volunteers who make it possible.)