To shirt or not to shirt:
That is the question I have faced all weekend.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind
To suffer the jeers and finger-pointing from the running community,
Or to take arms
and don the shirt and wear it.
The shirt, ah, the Around the Bay shirt,
with long sleeves, technical fabric,
and Boston colours: blue, yellow and white.
Royal blue, the intimidating blue of Beantown
and, now, Hamilton;
yellow, the sun, the light, the power that takes us there;
and white, to make them look good.
Yay, in that race of death ’round Hamilton Bay,
the 30K that I dreamed of running,
But what dreams may come of running a Spring marathon
when I envisioned shuffling to the finish here,
or pausing along the hill to nurse an injured limb?
There’s respect of the shirt for those who ran,
for those who prepped and trained and finished.
But I did grunt and sweat as runners there,
‘ere I made the choice to stay away
through fear of tearing muscle or ligament,
rather than dealing with just a strain.
Conscience doth make cowards of us all;
Thus the power of reflection
overwrought with the pale cast of thought.
The shirt is mine
and I shall wear it.
with apologies to Shakespeare