Steve Plymale, my old running friend from the eighties called from Valdosta and wanted to meet up with some of the old runners. The few we could muster on short notice met at the Firehouse Subs for lunch and some good memories. Steve, Rick Bringger and Forest Wright.
Where went the fleet of foot?
The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never looking back.
We inhaled the rare air of the sub five
The last gasp spent to touch the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
As landed fish our gills aflame cried.
On dusty shelves the tarnished trophies remind
When feet were fleet and fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests so grand.
And to the track the old harriers forever meet
They hear the final call for the measured mile
Upon the staggered lines they edge their way
Then step back and let the youth win the day.
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