Ingleborough

I'm standing by the duckboards and I'm feeling rather fraught
I've run this race in recent years, but this time to support
Some novices can start too quick, by now they show the strain
There's seven miles left to run, their faces etched in pain
Of course the lead, a different breed, are moving free and fast
And Morgan Donelly still smiles as he goes running past
I'm waiting for my husband who is in a Calder vest
I think I see him from afar with "eight-one" on his chest
He's set himself a target of a sub three-thirty mark
And if he fails to break that then his mood will be quite dark
He lifts his feet across the boards, there's not much in the tank
He's moving like the guilty man condemned to walk the plank
I offer drink and sustenance that seem to hit the spot
He takes a bite, and says it's tight, while glancing at his watch
He starts the steep ascent and hauls his body up the rocks
His calves are stiff and cramping up despite the knee length socks
It's nip and tuck, I wish him luck: "you're still on track" I say
And wait for other Calder vests, to cheer them on their way
If he's going to make it back in time he'd better summit quick
And keep it ticking over on the run through Sulber Nick
He rings me from the finish field and says he's crossed the line
He's going to have to try next year, his time three thirty one.