Sometimes you feel like going for a run
And yet, somehow, the moment is not ripe:
Just as (say) Sherlock Holmes would light his pipe
And puff a bit before he'd proceed to stun
Watson and then le tout Londres with his flash
Of inspired guesswork, so I sit and read
The Times, examine every daft misdeed
Committed by politicians and such trash
(Well, that's unfair, most are just honest folk
Caught up in a thick bureaucratic swamp
Where movement, where wet or dry or damp,
Is hardly possible, to crack a joke
About the government if you're a member
Of that same party's a capital offence,
Against it there's no appeal and no defence
As merciless as once the Black September
Terrorists who held hostage in the flats
Of terraced concrete in the Olympic village
Israeli athletes, together with their coach,
Now alas half-forgotten, with the stats
About performances. That's no reproach
To anyone, it's just that time moves on.)
And so I sit, put my Times away,
Take in the dishes from the patio, and say
To myself: I must just sweep the floor,
Pay in a cheque in town, try to explore
The pile of bills and statements on my desk,
Hang up that print by Klimt, an arabesque
Of human beings embracing in dumb show;
Or maybe not: so many people know
That picture, maybe I should scout
For something different. Ach, I must get out
And get that run in (look at all these 'gets',
They're very useful, I should buy ten sets
And shove them in wherever a word's short -
Or a short word is missing ): running 's a sport
Where you can do as much, as little as you choose;
It's only if you do nothing that you lose
That zest for living, chemical release
That makes you feel inside yourself at peace.
Although I know this, I procrastinate
By doing other things, and contemplate
How necessary these are, too: of course
They are. Earning cash is the source
Of our home comforts, tidying things away
Is an essential part of everyday
Existence - it's hard to prioritise
In a long list of jobs. I empathise
With people whose tasks are infinitely dull:
To collect road bridge tolls, annul
Marriages in a stifling court, collect
Several hundred dustbins, or inspect
Pavements for cracks, clerk a committee
Some of whose members think they're being witty
When they make sexist jokes. It's quite
Easy to see how I wait so long for the right
Moment to leave the house, go down the path:
'He wasted time' could be my epitaph
'But now time wasteth him' - the old
Saying : as students we were often told
To keep revising, get stuff in on time
(The word so very difficult to rhyme).
I could be out there, passing through Ladeddie
Or up past Craigtoun, half an hour already
Under my running shoes; altogether
I might do ninety minutes in good weather
Or fifty-five, or thirty - it depends
If I go out myself or with my friends
As happens on Sundays, when at 8:15
A group of us is usually to be seen
Gathering on Dempster Bridge. You could
Take a whole set of photographs which would
Form a catalogue of what runners wear
(Or wore - my stuff is ancient) through the year,
From baseball caps and hooded anoraks,
Mittens and gloves, Tracksters (even plastic sacks
Are often used at races to warm up)
And muddy shoes: adidas, Nike, Puma,
Reebok or Asics: even Montezuma
Wore sandals on his feet, equivalent
To these light padded things on which we've spent
Anything between a fortune and ten quid
(East German 'Victory', red and white, my bid
To have a different shoe from all the rest)
Some hoping that one day across their chest
They'll feel the snapping tape (really a strand
Of wool : in the days when times were clocked by hand
It helped to have a visual sign
Of when the young Corinthians crossed the line).
Others are past all that, and lack ambition
To be any more than just the ammunition
Launching some lean champion on his way
Towards a headline in the P & J
Or Courier, or even in the Sun
If his reputation needs to be undone.
We're in the latter group - we run, not jog
But at an easy pace: rain, sunshine, fog
Some of us go out - not always here,
We used to go to Tentsmuir when the year
Turned to its autumn segment, ran right through
Christmas and Easter, until in due
Course the flies came out. It was as easy
To run along the West Sands, always breezy
As to take shelter from the west wind's blast
In the deep forest. The routes of the past,
'The Scenic', helter-skelter down the sand-
Dunes, and up the other side to stand
High among marram grass and look across
To Dundee Law, the Sidlaws, at a loss
To take it all in, understand just why
Life is so universal, from the sky
Concealing solar systems that we can't
More than begin to count, down to an ant,
Waving its mandibles to spread the news
To its companions on the formic cruise
That meat and drink are somewhere in the offing
So that they can stop marching and start scoffing.
Down from the ant, of course, there are untold
Miniature organisms, warm- and cold-
Blooded, no-blooded, microscopic specks
Of living structure ignorant of sex
Right down to undiscovered sub-nuclear particles -
As life-forms can they be considered genuine articles?
Needless to say, we never ruminate
To that extent, but only contemplate
Nature a moment, then it's time to go
Back down the red track, still keeping it slow
Until we are a half-mile from the place
We left the car, then some decide to race
Or at least to pretend that they can gain
Ten yards from El Guerrouj despite the pain
Their ageing muscles feel and their stiff joints;
Or that Fife in a league match needs the points
So someone has to run the bloody steeple-
Chase just to satisfy the busy people
Who check the scores, make sure we're represented
In each event. That's not resented
If you know your own programme on arrival -
An extra race is testing the survival
Of weaker athletes. But we grin and bear it:
'Here's a club vest, lad, lass - get on and wear it!'
But none of that is relevant on Sunday:
Provided that we're not too stiff for Monday
From doing an hour or so. Soon we relax
With breakfast and the papers. The ice-packs
Are in the freezer if there's a muscle strain -
R I C E - the usual refrain -
Rest Ice Compression Elevation,
The remedy for any pain sensation,
The mantra that they chant in training books
Written by gurus, bought in scores by kooks
And put aside - one only gets it out
If there's an injury to scream about.
You can avoid most things that come to pass
Of that sort by just sticking to the grass
And running slowly until you're feeling good
Before you high-tail it into Reres Wood
And head across the open dunes, where stand
Some concrete blocks still, bedded in the sand,
Erected sixty years ago to make
It quite impossible for Germans to take
A landing craft with soldiers in on shore.
They stand there now, like Daleks rendered square
Serving no purpose in the salty air
Except perhaps to be coastal protection
Against the encroaching sea. Each section
Of coastline suffers from marauding raids
By wind and tide, successive cavalcades
Of battering rams which strike and then suck out
Grit, sand, and vegetation round about.
The cost of stopping that is so immense,
For you would need a permanent defence
If such a thing exists. I can't believe
That any council ever could conceive
Of planning budgets that would cover that,
And governments tend simply to say 'So what?
You are the council - we hold you responsible
But keep your financial planning sensible'.
How did I get to this ? I'm in the dark -
Oh yes, I'm heading now for the car park
Out at Kinshaldy, where they make you pay
For toilets and in summer a cafe
Which we could do without. The forest was
A better place without these daft bye-laws
And signs that point you here and tell you this;
When I first came, we used to take the piss
Out of the forest warden by pretending
That we'd no money with us, watch him rending
His hair in fury (it's only figurative)
Before producing with a speculative
Gesture ('Oh, here's some!') a two-bob bit:
I'd have to say, he really was a shit
Because he sometimes went out of his way
If possible to bugger up our day
Like when the club had organised a race,
Obtained permission, checked out time and place,
Got all the stewards out, everything prepared -
When this guy sent a letter: 'I have heard
That army manoeuvres have been planned
And so your race, I am afraid, is banned.'
Guess what we said ? I don't think I'll repeat
Reactions to the letter: pretty neat,
I'd have to agree, how he got his revenge.
Some of us would have taken him to Stonehenge,
Tied him to a slab, and left him there all night
With bats and creepy-crawlies - serve him right!
Anyway: we've no car to park today
So keep a low profile and run thisaway,
See, over there, that slope across the pines
(Ouf, we've got out quick from enemy lines)
And jog along in shadow under trees
On pine needles. We are sheltered from the breeze
Until we turn half right on to the dunes
And see the first tower, deserted as the moon's
Surface around it, save some shrubs and grass
We brush aside with our feet as we pass.
The two towers there remind me of the three
Volumes of Tolkien; every time I see
Them I think of Minas Ithil and
Of Minas Tirith, the two towers that stand
Not far from Mordor; Tolkien's grandson raced
For our cross country team - how are you, Mike? -
When I was still a student. So - we strike
Out for the Tayport end along the crest
Of the long dune whose undulations test
Wind and endurance. On the latter part
The undulations cease, and birch trees start
To bar our progress - that's when they grow tall,
Till then then they form no barrier at all.
It gets quite soggy, then we reach the moss
Where once while running fast I took a toss
And lost my glasses, couldn't see a thing,
Fumbling around and all the time thinking
What I could do if I searched on in vain
And had to get to Leuchars - what a pain!
But then they turned up, and on I ran
Past the big ditch that pine-tree branches span,
About two miles from Tayport; in my will
I've asked my executor or a friend to spill
My ashes on this spot - unconsecrated ground
But just as dear to me as any that I've found.
A bit sepulchral that - but who knows when
I'll snuff it ? Maybe not so long, and then
Someone who's run with me will have to find
The sandy, grassy ditch I had in mind.
If I die really old, there is a chance
That no-one will be left:what arrogance
To stipulate that crowds of people go
To some wet forest to say cheerio
To an old chap who drove them round the bend,
Then made them come away out there: some friend!
Two hundred and fifty lines to get this far ?
You'd do better to procrastinate by car.
But on we go - Coleridge had me in mind
When he wrote his Rime about a kind
Of ancient Mariner, a bore, in short
Whose story grips you but is far from short.
In my Gedicht there is no albatross
Except a moral one, no seas to cross
Without fresh water - every time, I think
When I flew out to marathons, the drink
Never ran out. Some athletes had too much
So that they ran appallingly; it was such
A waste of time and money sending out
People we'd have been much better off without.
The stately pleasure dome is more my scene -
With Bioflow I stay happy and serene,
Like Kublai Khan I sit out by the Alph
Or the Kinness Burn, sometimes by myself
Feeding the ducks, or sometimes watch with friends
From on the terrace - it all depends
On what comes up, what the weather's like,
Whether I havethe time. If my son Mike
Wants a lift to the other end of town
I have to put my glass and paper down
And take him: different then for Kublai Khan
Down in his caverns measureless to man:
I think of them as crystalline - lucky feller!
Our house has some foundations, but no cellar
So that it isn't measureless at all -
If the floor collapsed I don't suppose you'd fall
More than six feet or so into the dust -
Ah well ! If I can't be a king, I must
Put up with it. N.B. I don't take drugs,
People like Coleridge wrote well, but were mugs -
Although my verse is nowhere near as good,
That 'person from Porlock' stopped him when he could
Have gone on quite a while. There is no chance
Of stopping me with any happenstance
Because the spirit moves me to compose
In verse by preference, but also prose -
A history of my life in Madras
Since 1963 - in it will pass
Generations of staff and pupils in review -
Let's hope that none of them decides to sue.
They wouldn't win; I only tell the truth -
Although it may embarrass some, forsooth
I don't believe their name and reputation
Will suffer from any imputation
Of naughty conduct (but a few are dead
And they can't sue, so let it all be said
Out in the open) - silly little stories
Of dubious behaviour by Liberals and Tories
And Labour chaps as well - I won't be bought
But you can try me if you think you ought
To wager half a million on my silence.
Another way, of course, is to try violence,
Creep up on me at night as I walk down
Queen's Gardens in the dark on leaving town
And stuff me in a car boot, down to the harbour,
Park your Lada in the lee of some quiet arbour,
Pull my unconscious body out and tip me over
The pier, and hope that in a year in Dover
My body will be washed up on the shingle
Where Matthew Arnold watched the breakers mingle
In the moonlight sparkle; but I tell you now
That corpses will be taken by the undertow
Not down south to England but towards the north
And end up on the Broughty beach or near Arbroath
Where I will get a second chance to come and haunt
The environs of St Andrews, so avaunt!
Ye scoundrels who would silence me: I won't be quiet
So you'll just have to listen and endure the diet
Of pontificating cliches and repeated rhymes
That you'll come to think I've used a million times.
In point of fact I haven't, once once or twice,
But it's like the great excitement up in Paradise
When you get tired of watching angels flying round and round
In that great celestial stadium, you leave the ground
Hoping anything will happen, any bloody thing at all
Because playing harps and singing drives you up the wall -
Then if you found my verses lying at your feet
You might pick them up and read them; that would be a treat
Because I've used a few wee swear-words on a page or two
Which will be worth their weight in gold dust to immortal you
Since they'll bring you down to earth again, so much more fun
Than being stuck up for eternity where everyone
Is as holy and as pious as dear Mrs Ross
Who distributes leaflets daily and never gets cross
When you pass her at the corner and walk straight by -
Of course she knows she has a place reserved up on high
Whereas we - well, maybe you do, but I know damn well
That she may be in Heaven, but my friends will be in Hell
Which is not the awful place it's made out to be
But a sort of new St Andrews without history,
A chance to start all over. All the cranks are gone
And the wheelie-bins are all with God, every one.
We recycle all our rubbish in the modern Hell
And we've got rid of all parties - just as well
Since the ones up here on earth just don't seem to stand
For anything in particular, except 'Scotland'
Which would become independent with the SNP
And that would be quite acceptable to folk like me
As long as it's done peacefully - we want no fuss
And blood-letting or bombings. Not for us
All the hate of Northern Ireland that I find so sad
Because people, when you know them, usually aren't bad
But there seem to be exceptions: but what can you do
To persuade them to behave themselves and start anew?
Maybe if they went out running they would lose the urge
To kill and maim and burn, instead feel the surge
Of energy to change things in a positive way
Instead of going on shouting every bloody day.
I've strayed a bit from running, but you have to see
That runners think of other things. If you ask me
The Frequently Asked Question that all runners get:
'What is it that you think about?', then don't forget
The answer that I give you know: about anything
That anybody thinks about. We also sing
And quote wee bits of poetry and tell daft jokes
And gossip like old sweetie-wives about all kinds of folks
And on Sunday runs we have a rule that everything's OK,
There aren't any areas where somebody will say
'I'd maybe better not discuss the details'. If they do
Then one of us will turn round and answer:'Who the hell are you?'
Of course there are some areas where nobody would ask
Where your private life's concerned, or where your professional task
Is to keep things confidential. I mean, public things of note
Like decisions of the council, what was in the note
That X passed to his adjutant, what W said to T
And why Mrs X went missing for an hour just after tea
At the Tourist Board reception (all this is invented)
Or how contractors discovered when the floor had been cemented
That the keys to County Buildings had been left six inches under -
Now the SNP will charge the Council with a blunder
That has cost us all a fortune; they would do it better,
They would have got the keys straight out, their cement would be wetter.
So you see how I get side-tracked, just like running in a wood
When each little track looks promising, and ten per cent are good,
So you keep on going up cul-de-sacs, but get there in the end
Just like running or employment, or like life itself, dear friend -
If I still have any friends left after reading every line
Noting all the points of detail that you wish I would refine
And after giving me some money to keep me and mine in food
You discover upon reading it that it's no bloody good -
But still I want to write this stuff, I simply have to write
As long as I have energy to sit here every night
And pour out on to paper (or at least computer screen)
All the things that jump into my head, the places that I've seen,
The people that I've worked with, run with, loved and hated too,
All inmates, as I've said before of the great human zoo:
So if you too procrastinate, please try to think of me
Who wasted fifty seven years - what an eternity -
Before I started writing; it was always: 'I'll start soon';
I might as well have been discussing flying solo to the Moon.
But now, thank God! I'm under way, there is no end in sight
Except the unavoidable extinction of the light
But if I keep my fingers crossed, and Fortune favours me
I might even have a footnote in some detailed history
Of very minor poets, athletes, lots things like that,
Jack of all trades is no compliment; but like Yasser Arafat
I somehow keep on keeping on, and always seem to stay
In the pages of the newspaper, perhaps not every day
But a constant living presence who the people recognise
As someone who has principles and tries not to tell lies.
Now I've procrastinated far too long, tomorrow's really here
(But of course it's not tomorrow now, just as 'next year' 's this year)
So I've worked away past midnight, and I haven't run a step
Though I drove down into Edinburgh and sold things like a rep;
But today I'm going to get out running, you just wait and see
And I'll run - end with some Latin - quam celerrime.
