It is not always the winning that wins the race,
More the finding, understanding ones pace.
Lungs will burn, legs will seize,
Ankles will twist, knuckles will freeze,
Eyes will stream and flow.
Not everybody’s race is there to be won,
It is there to be run, it is there to be done,
Along the winding upwards track,
The rain in your face,
The sun at your back.
Even on the hardest course,
You must find your strength, your driving force.
The sun can sit a pin prick upon a dream,
No warming glow, no guiding beam,
Rising only, to taunt and dazzle the way.
When you find your pace,
With iron lungs and windswept face,
Pounding, the track will become your own.
No curb side jump, nor side wind thump,
Will knock you out of line.
Welcome the hills, the hardest track,
The dying sun sinking against your back.
Welcome the cutting of sleet and ice cold rain,
The weeping sores, the blinding pain.
Broken, is only to stop, to allow the fall, allow the drop.
Winning, is to simply carry on.
Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.