It was the morning of all mornings. Richard had waited so long for this momentous day. All the past year’s hard work would be realised as long as he kept his cool and didn’t falter from his prepared routine. His hands shook slightly as he packed his bag, his fingers running briefly over the familiar outline of the gun. Bags packed, he checked his reflection in the mirror, not bad for a forty something. Years of training had given him a good physique, but he was never going to be a Thorpe or Phelps. That wasn’t the reason he had given up racing; when he met the love of his life he realised that something had to give. She was gone now, which was why the lines at the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down, making him appear miserable. Taking a deep breath he picked up his bag and headed out. Having the pass meant that he only stopped briefly at security and he continued walking briskly into the Olympic complex. Looking at the familiar outline of the aquatic centre reminded him of his life’s ambition – to have a moment of fame, and that moment was not far away.

As he entered the centre he was met by the familiar humid smell of treated water and excited chatter of competitors. Huge bags carried an assortment of tiny costumes, assorted favourite racing goggles and hats, bright towels, bottles of carefully mixed drinks, energy bars and the odd banana going slightly brown. Some also held various types of earplugs and nose clips, spare shorts and t shirts, and of course the essential mobile phone and mp3 player, ready to be plugged into the holder's ears in an effort to eliminate any distractions or even listen to carefully worded motivational text.

They passed by him never realising the important part he was about to play in their lives, never looked at him or wondered who he was. Soon they would realise, when the adrenaline was pumping through their bodies, hands sweating, hearts thudding in their chests, then they would realise just how important he was.

No one looked twice at his bag as he placed it carefully on a table not far from the competitor’s starting blocks. Officials were chatting with each other, they had all attended the briefing a few minutes earlier. Security had been discussed and what they should to do if something went wrong. They all knew plain clothed security were scattered about the centre but what if some crazy person were to pull a gun suddenly and start shooting? How soon could they stop him? Richard looked around trying to spot security men but there were too many spectators already. Banners and flags were waving excitedly and someone was trying to start a Mexican wave. Soon they would be screaming. What if something goes wrong, what if the gun fails, what if……Richard pictured all eyes on him. TV cameras would turn to point at him unwaveringly, expectantly, waiting to see what would happen next. “I mustn’t think like that,” he thought, but even now a slight bead of sweat formed above his right eyebrow.

With all the officials in place the first race was announced and competitors started to file up to their blocks. The announcer told viewers and spectators who each swimmer was and where they were from. Cheers went up from each batch of fans supporting either their fellow team member or that particular country. Subtle psyching was being played out at the blocks, finger snapping, thigh slapping, sidelong glances or out and out glaring. Yes, testosterone was pumping heavily in this men’s race, and not just at the blocks.

Richard had already reached into his bag for his gun which he now held in his hand. A whistle blew calling the swimmers onto their blocks. Two more sharp blasts signalled them to ‘take their marks’. Richard’s hand gripped the gun, he must act quickly or it would be too late. At the sound of the gun the screaming started, the swimmers under the water heard it as they broke the surface. The race was on and Richard had done his job. He had started his first Olympic race, the gun had worked, there were no false starts and he knew that the rest of the competition would be easier now. Oh yes, this was his moment.

Olympic Hundred Metres Poetry Dash by Simon Bowden


I’m the ground-thumper, daydream-dumper
Record gazumper of the USA
Dwayne “Jaguar” Hughes got nothin to lose
You cannot choose but get outa my way

The gun just fired and I ain’t even tired
My giant thigh’s reared more ‘n gut high
Ankles arched back I’m the beast of the track
And my bone neck furrows the sky

Baring my teeth I rip the first breath,
Air jet of death in the machine
No one can know where my claw-spikes will go
And you’re way too slow to get what I mean

You’re way too slow and I’m far too mean

~~~~~~~~

Those other fellows grunt and hiss and puff,
Revealing muscles one would surely wish
Not to have bulked what was already enough
And smeared with sweat. I found a hypnotist
Who taught me how to think myself ahead
Without a daily passport to the gym
And use less force to run by being thin -
Pa Larkin, limp familiar of the dead

Those others hoik their wallets to the shops
And purchase track suits, running shoes and brands
Of athlete gear that no one understands
And spikes and watches with a hand that stops
When the race ends. They strut before their girls.
With shoes unlaced they scratch their calves and swear,
Take off their shirts and wander everywhere
And let loose fingers comb the pretty curls

But though my girl waits for me at the line
Beyond the crowd I see a greying sky
Dissolving like soiled rags in turpentine
Who cares who wins when at the end we die?

~~~~~~~~

Because I do not hope to win again
Because I do
Because I really don’t
Desiring this man’s calves or that man’s chest
No longer being young, I think it best
To treat myself and others with disdain

A rat crept slowly round the running track
And slid his curved proboscis down a drain

Mr Mohammed pocket full of fivers
Still crumpled from the family grocery till
(Those curries made me ill)
His son’s a brilliant runner so they say
Lady I pray
Whose blue robes glisten in the Cathedral coign,
As I approach the 60 metre line
May he not run as fast as me today.

~~~~~~~~~~~

My sprinting tortoise whispers to his hare
Those hounds behind us run as fast as you
But O my girl I would not have you rue
The judge’s stare

When from the seabed corpses rise and swim
And cast their net of eyeballs on the tides
And worms inform the fractured crab’s insides
He cannot win

My Celtic speech unwraps the bundled tongue
Till in the atom’s drunken heart is heard
Bombardment of the word against the word
In quantum song
The rich-filled gibbet hangs a howling cat
And no one can surpass the sound of that

~~~~~~~~~~~

We’d not gone far if I would speak the truth
Scarce ninety paces passed beneath the hoof
My pony turned and fixed me with a look
And there were many paths we still could take
One through the sunlight-dappled wood where flowers
And streams invited man and beast to pause
And rest awhile, one on the hard-faced road
Where promises to wife and coach are kept.
The woman watched me from an upstairs window
And flicked the curtain as I drove away,
Turning the cart awkwardly but with care,
Where five months past the frost and snow lay piled
Above a grave that might have held a child

I find myself next to the finish line’s
Unbroken beam. “How did you do it?” they say.
I shake my head and light my pipe and then
Reveal my trick – I started yesterday