Maybe it was a late October night When cold shadows crisply outlined Beneath the full, white moon Set his steps ever quickening in flight One more closely on the next — Quickly, quickly — On the toes Past the harvest fields Where big pumpkins waited in uneasy rows Past the woods deserted But only for his goblin thoughts Rushed — Up the final hill around the bend and down To the first lamppost And the smell of town.

Or perhaps the still, silent vision Blown coldly across his eyes Of black, bare branches Framing white against gray skies That afternoon the snow first fell As he steamed slowly up the long, park hill Seeing and hearing The force of his own breathing On the inside, In his being, And the subtle sounds of snow settling on dry leaves On the outside, In his ears.

Or quite back further yet To long white stretches Tracing a stolid sapphire sea Its surface complacent in the heat — To basking sand shimmering before his vision A simmering vision pressed into Farther, farther till he ached

From the effort and the pace And the sweat and salt Crusted on his face Pressed on further . . . THE PLUNGE! He shook his hair and ran back in Over his own footsteps Running out at him. Time for one more vision to float, to drift back waiting —

The time is getting closer — Endless laps, how his steps would spring — Arms almost wings — Each burst fiercer than the rest Spikes biting deeply in the track Each lap a test Another wall of pain pushed through

Each time around; Imagined rivals brushed aside, Run down like rabbits by a hound Then stopping . . . and the deep heaving of the chest Blood pounding in the ears . . . anoxia Anoxia knifing across the forehead. What price glory? Where’s the beer? *

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A sharp report! And the thing began to flow along the street Pouring like water down a sluice But shining in so many colors Rinsing loose his reveries Bringing him back to his hot feet On hard, unyielding pavement

And waves upon waves of shimmering heat Piled up to Boston. Then he found an open patch and struggled free Sailing now, running clear Enjoying bazaar flavors of the pilgrimage In its early stages For a moment just . . .

Then turning inward to the complex nexus Of dials and gauges in his senses Running alone amid a sea of lone runners All pushing over the winding roads And through the hoses, cups of water Girls in halters Wellesley Yelling

Down to Boston. Time is ductile, And a little can be stretched in agony To a long, fine thread. But then in retrospection The whole midsection gets compressed — A mat of recollections — And suddenly somehow

You’re gliding down the last hills 4 3/4 Warming to the crowd 2 1/8 Tired, blistered feet Getting a bit nimble now 0.6 A final burst you got from nowhere brings you in . . . And sitting vacantly aboard the plane

Looking out the window at the wing, at nothing Detached from aching limbs You realize it’s done, it’s through The cheers, the pain, the stew Satisfactions, memories Fading into nostalgia. Others sit around you

In the same reverie The same analgesia. *

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We’ll be back — Over endless trails and streets Through the snow, the rain The temporary setbacks The plans, the pain We’ll be back — A different pair of shoes? A slower start, a faster start? More miles or fewer?

A better way to train We’ll be back — Or else our soul grows stale — And the images of glory fade When we admit to getting old And give in to the pain We’ll be back — Back for many reasons: To see old friends, old rivals

To test again the things inside us The blood, the lungs, the brain We’ll be back — Back to Boston once again. * Epilogue: Paul Revere did not complete his ride: Encountered by police, he faded; While I finished my race, though at a pace A bit slower than anticipated.