Great North During The Run Poem*

I see a man carrying a fridge,

humpbacked as the Tyne Bridge.

Like water, emergency loo roll, bananas,

it represents the inner burdens that we bear

and could just one more run

have helped us properly prepare?

We’re off with a slap of Mo Farah’s hand,

laces untied we fall, silver blanket wrapped we stand.

Our chippings bipping us over the start line

as if we’re on a conveyor belt;

Indiana Jones! A Sunflower! A Cuddly Toy!

We run like water through the tunnels

with an "Oggy Oggy Oggy, Oy, Oy, Oy!”.

Shovers and shufflers,

hoofers and hustlers.

And my calves are already weak

when we reach the Tyne Bridge

but I think again of the man with the fridge,

and I think I’m going to have to fake it,

but someone bellowing my name

as if I’m a runner,

makes me think that I could make it.

Then the Red Arrows zoom on by,

coloured trails of smoke hang like spectres in the sky.

Missing man formation.

Shadow army of ghosts running with all of us,

giving a what and a why.

Then the band strikes up the Blaydon Races,

a spectrum of puce, shading our faces.

Crowds give whistles, cheers, bam bam clacks,

they are an outstretched hand,

and the way they wait

makes me think it’s as witnesses they stand.

And that speed camera can’t be for us,

I fantasise a ride on that charity bus.

Either I feel really ill,

or this is yet another bloomin hill.

Jelly babies, I’m Dr Who,

can I time travel to the end?

and every stranger shouting your name

becomes a friend.

Sun then rain then sun

in the blinking of an eye bridge,

light on and off

with the opening and shutting of that fridge.

Arrows pierce blue with white through a heart

and you can only get to finish

if you’re prepared to start.

The miles are longer and longer,

and there’s muttering around me

saying the worst to run

is the final strait, that final one point one.

Thigh to thigh, knee to knee,

clacking down along the sea.

the cacophony gets louder,

the crowd still on our side,

and is that a busted knee or a burst of pride?

Everything hurts,

I’m out of words.

The race has been ours

but the end is mine,

I need something from that fridge

to write this finishing line.  

 

* I made notes while at the start line, then was going to run with notebook and pencil out but soon discovered that wouldn’t work so wrote the rest in my head and kept muttering it to myself like a madwoman as I added lines, until after I did some of it on live telly to lovely Denise Lewis.