Running Poetry: The Day After the Marathon

 The Day After the Marathon

Yesterday, the road stretched infinite,
26.2 miles— 42 kilometers—etched into memory.
Today, the ache is like a multi-tiered symphony's finale,
Each stanza echoes of the journey, a water stop downbeat or meaningful crowd call-out upbeat.

We honed our skillful instruments in rehearsal. Do you recall?

Not just the race, but the many months that allowed us to show up and play.

The training score began as a season of hope, 
A winter’s resolve into summer’s fire.
Each mile carved into the calendar overture,
A rhythm of pavement and trail,
Cadence hypnotic, meditative—a heartbeat outside the body.

Some days, the world aligned to our composition. 
Remember how Nature whispered encouragement—
The rustle of leaves, the kiss of sunlight,
Feet gliding weightless over earth’s embrace.
Other days were battles:
Rain-soaked humid mornings and winds that howled defiantly,
Tiresome, monotonous miles companions on endless roads.

But Friendships also rhapsody in shared struggle—
Strangers turned comrades through sweat and (s)miles.
Stories exchanged between intervals,
Dreams and fears confessed at mile markers.
Together we built a mosaic of resilience,
Each shard a testament to strength found in unity.

Injury strummed at some of these movements—
A sharp or lingering protest from an achilles or hamstring.
Recovery became its own opus within the training score:
Physical therapy meant strength discovered in weakness,
Learning to listen to a body's subtle tones once ignored.

The rhythm of training pulled us back each time—
Addictive as it drained us dry.

Invigorating as it pulled time into tempo.
Miles became mantras; footsteps prayers.

And then came race day, the finale!
The start line buzzed with anticipation,
The air electric with possibility, as we pitch our bodies and minds in corals.
The at-once-celebration-and-trial begins with a bang!

Every mile thereafter a chapter in an epic opera:
Hills conquered as dragons slain, crowds cheering as bards singing praise.

"The Wall" pushed past by sheer resolve.

Crossing the finish was not just an end; it was lyrical self-transcendence,
Where pain met triumph, where exhaustion birthed joy!

Today, we rest — but only for now.

For the orchestral road calls again in whispers:

Another season awaits, its heroic story yet unsung.

                                                                                        by Mark Lane-Holbert