I participate in the Mud Run. |
I ran until my legs were like linguine; I scrambled until my kneecaps cried and my arms convulsed like night crawlers pierced. So breathless, along the way, lungs in rebellion, pink innards lanced with scythe, pleading for air. I pounded heels and metatarsals like ocean waves against tall rocks, and slipped in squish on Mud Run route among the many others there. My will like strong coffee in the race, my lumbar spine a gnawing burn like liquid jalapeno dripped on thin skin. I felt the wet, runny earth ooze into my shoes, all New Balance eyelets pores enabling brown glop entry to tongue and to Power Step orthotic. White laces and aglets so powerless against scandalous slop, abundant rain-laced soil, ground saturated and rank with earthworm aroma. No pore was spared from big pit mud, no crevice was immune. I wore thick gunk like river banks, and running shoes could not survive from muck as thick as spackling. Taxed in mud-stucco, I let the sun caress my face not far beyond the tape. Lying flat, I listened to the clamor of the others who had finished. And I felt one with the Earth. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp Winner 3-20-16 |