by Keith Power
There's a little stretch of gravel road,
From Gold River to Tahsis,
That meanders over the hill and dale,
And winds through mountain passes.
Past barefaced cliffs and rugged bluffs,
And little babbling brooks,
That run with musical refrain,
Through quiet shady nooks.
Where stout hearted people gather,
In June of every year,
To try and test their metal,
And see what pain that they can bear.
They assemble there at early dawn,
Bold men of every creed,
Likewise women, boys and girls,
An awesome sight indeed.
Some walk with shoulders straight and square,
Some with heads bent and low,
Some jog, some sweat and stagger,
As on and on they go.
Full 62 km from starting point ot end,
With painful joints and blistered feet,
And aching backs that bend.
From checkpoint on to checkpoint,
Like mules that never stop,
Till across the finish line at last,
They stagger there and drop.
And who knows whey they might do it,
Just ask and you may hear,
"We cannot tell you why, for sure,
But we'll come again next year.
So let's all drink to those brave souls,
As we part and go our way,
Wishing deep down in our hearts,
We had such courage as they.
Last Updated on January 30, 2007 by The
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