It was dusk and I stood like a blue heron watching them,
the runners,
gather,
nod,
laugh,
and mill about in anticipation – 
except for the early arrivals, that is,
who were already in mid-flight on the backstretch – 

the whole thing which I observed at a distance
reminded me of a scene from Chariot’s of Fire 
but not the one you’re thinking of – 
not the beach scene at the end 
during which the title song plays
but of one of the in-between scenes 
where they’re at school or boarding a train or whatever
on their way to a beach scene

because in place of music 
there were only
car doors 
thudding
and bike chains 
chattering
as athletes in Oakleys 
descended upon
the eight lane runway
to join the mass 
of short-shorted
Tshirt-wearing
sport-bra-bearing
soldiers 
awaiting orders on springy legs 
and congregating on a track they were now being made to clear
for the herd 
no longer on the backstretch 
but emerged already 
from the final bend
and into the straight
and packed in so tight
they crossed the line
less a herd than 
a poly cephalous 
centipede – 

a centipede that,
sets later, 
would trip 
segment by segment
over the finish line
on its broken way to the garbage can 
to wretch 
at just the moment 
when the earth would be pulling evening over its shoulder
and turning from the sun
to read a short piece of fiction
in the New Yorker 
by Murakami.

But for now, 
the centipede
with thirty seconds to go before the next rep
was very much intact
and recovered
and speaking confidently to itself
while coaches barked orders
at the next wave of arthropods
under a horizon bound sun 
which glinted off watches on wrists 
of hands on hips 
connected to torsos with 
capacious chests 
designed from birth 
to accommodate hearts that 
thudded
like car doors.

I pirouetted 
back to the curb
that had just bent my ankle in two,
sat down on it
and pulled my wet shirt to my face
to push a whole career’s worth of sweat around.
I took a long drink of heat 
and looked down at my ankle 
bulging over the walls of my shoe – 
then set my hands on
the hips (of the road)
and thought  
this is an odd version of the Giving Tree

at which point, the endorphins 
blew the whistle:
Bring it in, bring it in – 
the adrenal medulla has rigor mortis
and you-know-who has just realized
that in addition to the heel spur
and the plantar fasciitis 
that the ligaments are torn now too
and
well
the car is four kilometres away…

But I can only stand like a blue heron, I objected,
but the endorphins were already
head down
and back to work
so I rose 
and set out to complete my 
very 
last 
set
during which
I thought of the Vancouver marathon 
I ran a few years ago without training
stupid 
and which hurt so bad 
that I could barely walk afterwards
and I thought too
of all the road races
and of the cross country seasons 
and of the track meets
so that before I knew it
I’d stumbled four kilometres to my car – 

We did it, I said. 
But the endorphins had already cleared the track 
so I addressed myself to 
the sport:

I’m not upset about the curb – 
the curb finds everyone – 
I just wish I didn’t feel 
like a guest in dreams 
that I’m pretty sure 
are my own memories – 
on the other hand
I get it  – 

in actual life 
on an actual backstretch 
under the actual sun 
in an actual pack,
Chariots of Fire 
only cheapens the awe
of spikes ripping off the track
clipped heels
violent elbows
the bell
a gruff voice
saying good stay there
and
but
especially 
the feel of leaning into the curve
and finding more
and more 
and still more
until suddenly 
there’s nothing more to find
even as
one by one
they push by you – 
so that afterwards 
sometimes years later
one is left marvelling
at how
on such rare occasions 
when one manages to give everything 
and still lose spectacularly 
that it can be possible 
to have so much fun. 

JM