Centurion USA 2005

Centurion - USA Version

by Bob Chapin / 1988



On the outer fringe of the racewalk scene,

Dwells an ultra distance walking machine.

An enigma even in his own game.

An obscure breed with a special name Centurion.



In lonely workouts day by day,

He prepares himself in his chosen way,

To excel in a most demanding sport,

Where few succeed and most fall short.



He's hooked, it seems, on walking races,

Seeing old friends and meeting new faces,

Competing at times along the way

In events from a mile to the fifty k.



But ultra distance suits his style,

And his specialty is the hundred mile.

It towers in toughness above the rest,

And this is the one he does the best.



Four hundred laps on a quarter mile track.

Nearly four Marathons back to back.

One hundred grueling miles, and yet,

Twenty four hours is all you get.



Few can average the kind of pace

It takes to complete this awesome race.

And though it demands your physical best,

It's even more of a mental test.



When confidence wanes and you give up hope,

You're near the proverbial end of your rope.

For a pivotal factor in this grind

Is the battle waged within the mind.



Rationalizing "Perhaps it's best

To stop and take just a little rest.

Surely I've earned some kind of a break.

And really, what difference can it make?"



But the cost of resting is losing ground,

While the others continue around and around,

And that unforgiving official clock

Keeps ticking on as if to mock.



Then with aching muscles so stiff and sore

That standing up is a major chore,

They'll feel compelled to struggle back

To the misery of that wretched track.



But if you survive and finish the course,

The bad stuff dims, and there's no remorse.

Forget the pain and the blistered feet.

You've won the battle, and victory's sweet.



Then the track is cleared, leaving little trace

Of the drama that has taken place,

And a strange perspective makes it seem

That maybe the nightmare was just a dream.



But nevertheless you'll vow, my friend,

"This is absolutely, I swear, the end.

And never again will I do this thing."

But the words have an old familiar ring.



Just forty three walkers, for what it's worth,

In the Western Hemisphere of the Earth,

Have achieved this feat to the present date,

Since back in Eighteen-seventy eight.



A prestigious group to be ranked among.

There's Olympic medallist, Larry Young,

O'Neil, the legend from Kalispell,

And Shaul Ladany of Israel.



The amazing perennial Price from D. C.

Chuck Hunter with his "bionic" knee.

Since J. B. Gillie when it began,

This has been a unique and exclusive clan.



What drives a person with stride so quick

To seek this goal? What makes him tick?

Well, he can't expect to attain great fame.

And he won't get rich in this crazy game.



But he tackles the challenge because it's there,

Knowing some will scoff and most won't care,

For they'll never comprehend his mode

'Til they've worn those shoes and walked that road.



Through heat and cold and driving rain,

Learning to live with fatigue and pain.

Pushing themselves to the verge of collapse

From too many hours and too many laps.



Toiling on through the endless night,

Yearning for dawn's first ray of light,

Plagued with depression, burdened with doubt,

Fighting to keep from dropping out.



Others have tried to chuck it all,

And hang their track shoes on the wall,

To stress categorically "This is it!"

But something inside wouldn't let them quit.



And whether or not you try it again,

You're different because of where you've been .

And now and then you'll reminisce

About those days and the friends you miss.



You'll take those trophies from the shelf.

And dust them off and ask yourself,

"Was it worth the price for this recompense?"

But the value's in what it represents.



You've paid your dues, so take your place.

The mark you've made, they won't erase

From that list your name's enshrined upon,

With those who remain and those who've gone.



And all of us will fade a last,

But our wish will be, as the torch is passed,

Long live the spirit of the game.

Keep the tradition. Honor the name... Centurion