The Tenby waves and waters parted
to iron and steel determination,
with plunging arms and thrashing legs,
No time for consternation:
more than a hundred miles awaited
route high and low to drag the wheels,
recycled muscles iron-willed –
rain scuds some safety steals:
then turns the streets to marathon,
feet pounding on the tarmac iron:
for some, each blister, hurting joint,
proclaim an aching siren.
Three thousand bodies iron driven
continued on their throbbing way,
but many more who lined the streets,
or chose in pubs to stray,
they breathed their admiration for
the athletes’ striding energy,
glad fame with pain held no vocation,
so lacked all synergy.
Along the roads noised megaphones,
sharp tooting horns and bonging bells,
loud shouts to give encouragement,
each one their mates impels.
The rain continued, dusk descended:
still cyclists seen, were runners watched,
though winners had been long decided,
but none their efforts scotched:
when came the final tired contestant,
who’d swum, who biked, who endless ran,
in pain, though spent, they wore their medals,
each one an Iron Man.
————
