Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,
Engines pumping and thumping in time.
The green light flashes, the flags goes up,
Churning and burning, they yearn for the cup.
They deftly manoeuver and muscle for rank,
Fuel burning fast on an empty tank,
Wreckless and wild they pour through the turns,
Their prowess is potent and secretly stern.
Focussed, concentrating, trying to stay relaxed, trying to keep an even pace. The steady thumping of feet, rhythmic, alive, unhurried. Breathing hard, quiet in, loud out, matching the stride, arms swishing back and forth, sweat beading on brow. Around him others share the same focus, the same want, the same need. Water drips from his cap, pitter patters on the brow as it falls from the sky. They run onwards, the steady drizzle failing to dampen the spirit, douse the energy. Feet slip-slap down on wet tarmac, evacuating puddles, scattering droplets.
Run to the finish and never stop.