The occasion was the 19th Mt Kinabalu Climbathon 2005,
The last event in the annual Sky Runner World Series mountain race,
Prestigious, publicized, offering prize money,
Attracting top names of the world athletic fraternity.
So what right had a crotchety pensioner,
Sea level aspirant, pushing sixty,
To have his name mixed up,
In the international cast of altitude runners?
Even if only in the above forty?
Why, they even required him to have a medical,
Before his name was put on the entry decal.
Well, as much right as the other recreational participants,
Who were runners in need, walkers in deed,
Who not only had no hope of winning a dime,
But might not even make it to the peak,
In the allotted time.
The route is 21.4 km long,
Climbing from 1.8 km to 4 km high;
Touristy trekkers only cover 17 km of the trail,
Done over a two-day round trip;
But for the race you are to complete,
The longer stretch in less than half a day,
With the cut-off time as six hours and a half,
And the record a little under three.
The pensioner, at the back of the straggling line,
Picked his way up,
Step, pause, step;
Step, pause, step.
He saw in awe,
The lead runner,
On his way down,
Bounding from boulder to boulder,
Bridging the intervening space,
As though helped by a bulldozer.
What diferent breed of animal is this?
What separates a runner of under three hours
From one who lurches home in seven?
What lungs, what heart,
What single-mindedness,
What knee ligaments,
What oxygen uptake?
Is it more a gift? Extra gills, Sir?
Or just the training factor?
A race is to the swift won,
And a rescue, rapidly deployed,
Is often successful;
Fortunately, no runner needed rescuing,
The pensioner to the finish line trudging,
One and a quarter past noon,
In a straggling line from the veteran unit
Who failed to reach the summit.
But my hat went to the senior ladies,
Elizabeth, Katie and one more,
Who traipsed behind the runners,
Sometime holding hands,
Often with hands in pockets,
Who made it to the finish line,
Ahead of the pensioner.
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