Pen-y-ghent

The tannoy crackles with the names, contenders for the day
Can Jebb notch up another win? Or this time Holmes or Gray?
I check the number on my vest, this year it's eighty-one
I join the throng and wait too long to hear the starting gun
We set off running from the field, all buoyed by glories past
There's cheers and roars and loud applause which make me run too fast!
"Three thirty" is the goal again, if just to cut it fine
A five year itch, a focal point, an arbitrary line
I know that pacing is the key to running a good race
I've started quick, but feeling wick I vow to hold my place
But soon we reach the open track, the climb beyond the wall
I feel my will begin to wilt, my pace is now a crawl
Don't be weak, I urge myself and show some Yorkshire grit
For in this race that quality is most appropriate
I clench my teeth and tell myself to dig a little deep
As soon as I get past that bend the way is not as steep
I turn off left and leave the path the summit now in sight
While Jebb and Holmes come crashing down, a flash of blue and white
My dibber bleeps to signify the climb of Pen-y-ghent
A quick "thanks" to the marshal then I'm off on my descent
The ground is soft and true, affords a quick check of the time
Then on the track and heading back, past runners who still climb
I reach the gate where club mates wait, with Lucozade I'm plied
Then off I tread, with hope and dread, to battle with Whernside