I, Roger Bannister
By Bill Kirk
May 6, 1954. “Will this be the day?”
Is the singular question for the 3.000 present
At the Iffley Road track today—
A question for which only I will have the anwer.
Three runners to the line:
Chris Brasher, Chris Chataway and I, Roger Bannister.
It is a day like no other has been or will be again.
In the minds of men, long anticipated expectations
Were held in check by the history of a feat often tried
But never accomplished.
With tension in the air and muscles on the brink of exploding,
The gun goes off—then heartbreak
As we are called back to the line.
“How to put the lions back in the cage,” they wonder?
Might our legs recover sufficiently for another go?
We would learn soon enough they would and they did.
Then, in an instant, the world turns on four words,
“Runners take your mark!”
Another shot and the eternity of that first quarter mile
Flashes by in just 57.5 seconds.
Hearts pounding and lungs near bursting,
I hear myself yell, “Faster”
As I run impatiently from behind.
An arm's length ahead of me,
Brasher’s cooler head prevails, controlling the race.
Were he not leading with patience,
The price I would pay in three scant minutes would be dear.
The next two quarter miles each exceed a minute—
“Not by much,” some would say.
But will "not much" be "too much" at the end of the day?
Then Chataway takes the lead in the third circuit around the track.
Stride for stride three champions drive on—
Into the last revolution.
Now is when “faster” is needed.
At last it is my turn—my time.
I surge ahead down the back stretch.
“59, 59, 59 seconds,” is my singular thought.
Can it be done? Is this the day?
Rounding the last turn, with 50 yards left,
I race toward my date with destiny.
Nothing left now but raw will,
I stare at the tape stretched across my path.
It beckons from a mere 15 feet before me.
Less than three more foot strikes to leave on the track.
In a duel with the clock: What razor-thin portion
Of a single second might I gain or lose?
Tick-tick-tick.
The snap of the tape—time frozen with the
Click, click, click of stop-watches,
And the pop, pop, pop of flashing bulbs.
Then unbearable pain and
Total collapse into waiting arms.
Gasping for breath. I strain to hear
The three long-anticipated words: “… three minutes and…”
Everything after is swallowed by the rising din.
I, Roger Bannister, have done it—
With a time of 3:59.4,
The unassailable 4-minute barrier has at last been broken—
The first sub-four mile is mine.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Life Is Good--One Step At A Time
Life Is Good
By Bill Kirk
She wakes early,
Before first light
And slowly makes her way to the kitchen
To start the coffee ritual.
Her footsteps are muffled by thick, woolen socks
Pulled on out of habit—
Even in summer.
The house is quiet
And will be for another hour,
Except for the occasional creak or pop
In floors, ceilings and walls,
Just as old bones are also sometimes wont to do.
It’s odd that those noises always seem to be
Upstairs or in the next room—
Present but never proximate,
As if the house wants the attention—
Letting you know
It should not be taken for granted.
What makes those noises anyway—
In bones and boards?
Are people like houses when they get old?
Come to think of it,
Old ships are like that, too,
What with their snaps and cracks
From movement on the water,
Even when safely sheltered.
She feels that way sometimes—
Just an old girl with ancient ribs and joints
Making noises as all the pieces and parts
Settle and resettle into place.
But not today.
Today the noises don’t matter.
She has no time for feeling old.
For this day, she has fifty miles ahead of her—
On foot; uphill and down,
Over rocky, narrow trails
Carved out through the heavy underbrush
Of ancient forests by pack mules, horses and pioneers.
Today, she will join the company
Of thousands of her comrades,
Both past and present,
Once again, experiencing a level of
Anticipation, pain and exhilaration
Shared by few.
But now in this quiet moment,
Like no other in its simplicity,
She savors the first steamy sips
Of rich, dark coffee laden with
Fresh cream and sugar—
The steady warmth radiating from her core.
Cradling a comfortable old mug in her hands,
She closes her eyes, thankful for this day.
Then, as if in prayer,
She imagines the start of her long day’s journey—
The steady cadence during twelve hours
Of her 80,000 foot strikes,
As she leaves her own transitory yet enduring
Marks on the trail—
The next first steps of the rest of her life.
It’s almost time to lace up.
Life is good.
By Bill Kirk
She wakes early,
Before first light
And slowly makes her way to the kitchen
To start the coffee ritual.
Her footsteps are muffled by thick, woolen socks
Pulled on out of habit—
Even in summer.
The house is quiet
And will be for another hour,
Except for the occasional creak or pop
In floors, ceilings and walls,
Just as old bones are also sometimes wont to do.
It’s odd that those noises always seem to be
Upstairs or in the next room—
Present but never proximate,
As if the house wants the attention—
Letting you know
It should not be taken for granted.
What makes those noises anyway—
In bones and boards?
Are people like houses when they get old?
Come to think of it,
Old ships are like that, too,
What with their snaps and cracks
From movement on the water,
Even when safely sheltered.
She feels that way sometimes—
Just an old girl with ancient ribs and joints
Making noises as all the pieces and parts
Settle and resettle into place.
But not today.
Today the noises don’t matter.
She has no time for feeling old.
For this day, she has fifty miles ahead of her—
On foot; uphill and down,
Over rocky, narrow trails
Carved out through the heavy underbrush
Of ancient forests by pack mules, horses and pioneers.
Today, she will join the company
Of thousands of her comrades,
Both past and present,
Once again, experiencing a level of
Anticipation, pain and exhilaration
Shared by few.
But now in this quiet moment,
Like no other in its simplicity,
She savors the first steamy sips
Of rich, dark coffee laden with
Fresh cream and sugar—
The steady warmth radiating from her core.
Cradling a comfortable old mug in her hands,
She closes her eyes, thankful for this day.
Then, as if in prayer,
She imagines the start of her long day’s journey—
The steady cadence during twelve hours
Of her 80,000 foot strikes,
As she leaves her own transitory yet enduring
Marks on the trail—
The next first steps of the rest of her life.
It’s almost time to lace up.
Life is good.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Does Anyone Know Who 'stacie.1cams' Is?
Let's face it. There are very few sure things in life. But computer pop-up messages have got to be among the surest.
Those insidious little message boxes are perennial, perpetual and filled with promises as they entreat us not to click on "OK" until after we have carefully copied down the web site name for later reference. Most of the time my finely tuned "delete" reflex kicks in as a matter of cyber self-defense. But one of my greatest fears is that, in my haste, I will inadvertently delete my only chance at wealth and fame.
Who knows? I might get lucky and find a real deal on celebrity sunglasses, penis enlargement cream or a year's supply of "performance enhancement" drugs. With just a little up-front money, I could set up any number of home-based businesses and make my fortune in only a few hours each week. Hey! It could happen! After all, I've got all that time in my golden years ahead of me.
On the other hand, with all those choices, I don't want to rush into anything. So, until the ultimate money making proposition appears, I suppose wading through a sea of pop-ups from the likes of "Tormelocka1234", "partygirlxxx" or "wnxbombiggie2ee.com" (not their real names, to protect their privacy) is a small price to pay. In the meantime, it's comforting to know that I'll always have plenty of party poker pop-ups to fall back on to generate immediate income.
But don't you wonder how all those irritating pop-up message boxes work? Some are small; some tall and skinny. Some even fill the entire screen, with the "[X]" (close) button outside the viewing area, forcing a complete computer shutdown to get rid of them.
Where do they come from anyway? And how do they know when to pop up on my computer screen? I'm convinced there must be artificially intelligent random pop-up generators out there in cyberspace, activating only when I'm on line. They can't fool me! I know how the light inside a refrigerator works!
In the face of such an incessant and withering technological onslaught, I've been sorely tempted to take things into my own hands and buy some of that anti-ad computer software. But, alas, I'm reluctant to risk it. The software that promises to end pop-ups forever is advertised well, you know, in a pop-up....
By the way, does anyone know who "Stacie.1cams" is? I'm sure she and the friends on her web site are very nice people. But I must admit to wondering why the names in those pop-up ads are always something like Stacy or April or Bambi? Among the hundreds of pop-up web site names I've seen, I don't recall a single Gertrude, Agnes or Prudence. What's up with that?
Those insidious little message boxes are perennial, perpetual and filled with promises as they entreat us not to click on "OK" until after we have carefully copied down the web site name for later reference. Most of the time my finely tuned "delete" reflex kicks in as a matter of cyber self-defense. But one of my greatest fears is that, in my haste, I will inadvertently delete my only chance at wealth and fame.
Who knows? I might get lucky and find a real deal on celebrity sunglasses, penis enlargement cream or a year's supply of "performance enhancement" drugs. With just a little up-front money, I could set up any number of home-based businesses and make my fortune in only a few hours each week. Hey! It could happen! After all, I've got all that time in my golden years ahead of me.
On the other hand, with all those choices, I don't want to rush into anything. So, until the ultimate money making proposition appears, I suppose wading through a sea of pop-ups from the likes of "Tormelocka1234", "partygirlxxx" or "wnxbombiggie2ee.com" (not their real names, to protect their privacy) is a small price to pay. In the meantime, it's comforting to know that I'll always have plenty of party poker pop-ups to fall back on to generate immediate income.
But don't you wonder how all those irritating pop-up message boxes work? Some are small; some tall and skinny. Some even fill the entire screen, with the "[X]" (close) button outside the viewing area, forcing a complete computer shutdown to get rid of them.
Where do they come from anyway? And how do they know when to pop up on my computer screen? I'm convinced there must be artificially intelligent random pop-up generators out there in cyberspace, activating only when I'm on line. They can't fool me! I know how the light inside a refrigerator works!
In the face of such an incessant and withering technological onslaught, I've been sorely tempted to take things into my own hands and buy some of that anti-ad computer software. But, alas, I'm reluctant to risk it. The software that promises to end pop-ups forever is advertised well, you know, in a pop-up....
By the way, does anyone know who "Stacie.1cams" is? I'm sure she and the friends on her web site are very nice people. But I must admit to wondering why the names in those pop-up ads are always something like Stacy or April or Bambi? Among the hundreds of pop-up web site names I've seen, I don't recall a single Gertrude, Agnes or Prudence. What's up with that?
Friday, January 1, 2010
They Just Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To
In the sad news department, my wife just announced that our toaster of over 34 years is being retired from the front lines on our kitchen counter. Philosophically, it could take me a while to get over it. Although after somehow managing to deal with the initial shock, I'm trying my best to push past the denial, anger and depression and move into acceptance as quickly as possible.
Experiencing all the stages of grief is important when it comes to toasters. But at times like these, the faster you can do it, the better. After all, it's breakfast time and there's a new toaster to break in. With any luck, the new one could take me to my 90th birthday….
Mind you, it's not that the old model-a Sunbeam-is broken. That is, unless using the plug dangling on the end of its slightly cracked electrical cord as an "On-Off" switch, translates as being broken. And then there is the mandatory recalibration of the darkness/lightness dial for each piece of toast. But, hey. Isn't that how all toasters operate?
My wife and I received our little toaster unit back in 1970 as a slightly delayed wedding gift from my wife's aunt and uncle. It was our first major appliance. Anyone in the middle class who got married back then will know just what I mean. If it cost more than $25.00 and had an electric cord, it was major. And this one was a beauty. I had never seen chrome like that. You could shave using the shiny side of that little Sunbeam. And, given the size of our first apartment, me shaving at the kitchen sink was not an infrequent occurrence.
Actually, I think the toaster and I have reached an understanding over the years. The toaster works great-it's just that any new operators unfamiliar with the nuances of its quirky behavior must first receive the standard operations briefing if they are to have any chance of success with bread products. Heed the advice and you get toast worthy of breakfast at The Ritz. "Dis" the toaster and risk electric shock, toxic smoke and a deeply penetrating burnt toast smell that will linger for days. I don't want to brag but, based on the toxic toaster smoke alone, our kitchen has been designated an official Hazardous Materials training facility by the federal government.
Our married life began uneventfully, just like every other average couple right out of college. I mean, didn't everyone back then leave home in a VW bug packed to the roof line with all their earthly possessions? Just because we only had the afore-mentioned toaster, a blender and a black and white TV, were we so very different? For good measure, we squeezed in a 9'X12' braid rug before we hit the road in Fargo, ND bound for Miami. The rug, TV and blender passed away long ago but for some reason the toaster remained a timeless treasure over the years. And together our family adventures haven't stopped-well, except for that one time in 1985 when I brought home a Dodge Merry Miler camper van.
Hard to say why. But maybe it was my casual declaration that our new land boat would be our transportation and temporary housing during the two-week cross-country trip to our new home in California from Washington, DC. Imagine my shock when my wife announced without a moment's hesitation that I would be traveling in my new rolling stock aquisition alone. Correction: It would be me and the cat in the Merry Miler, left to enjoy my library of Eagles 8-track tapes for 3,000 miles. She said it was a difficult decision but it was a concession the rest of the family was willing to make. Reluctantly, she and the kids would ride in the "other car."
Sad but true.
Needless to say, I was touched by their generosity. After all, they had to know there would be untold van adventures and memories they would miss. OK. So, the cat trying to escape at a rest stop near Denver was a surprise for me, too. How could anyone have predicted a single dose of sleep meds and Dramamine at 5:00 a.m. wouldn't be enough to keep kitty sedated all day?
After that episode, the cat was relocated to the safe haven of the "other car"--along with the toaster....
Experiencing all the stages of grief is important when it comes to toasters. But at times like these, the faster you can do it, the better. After all, it's breakfast time and there's a new toaster to break in. With any luck, the new one could take me to my 90th birthday….
Mind you, it's not that the old model-a Sunbeam-is broken. That is, unless using the plug dangling on the end of its slightly cracked electrical cord as an "On-Off" switch, translates as being broken. And then there is the mandatory recalibration of the darkness/lightness dial for each piece of toast. But, hey. Isn't that how all toasters operate?
My wife and I received our little toaster unit back in 1970 as a slightly delayed wedding gift from my wife's aunt and uncle. It was our first major appliance. Anyone in the middle class who got married back then will know just what I mean. If it cost more than $25.00 and had an electric cord, it was major. And this one was a beauty. I had never seen chrome like that. You could shave using the shiny side of that little Sunbeam. And, given the size of our first apartment, me shaving at the kitchen sink was not an infrequent occurrence.
Actually, I think the toaster and I have reached an understanding over the years. The toaster works great-it's just that any new operators unfamiliar with the nuances of its quirky behavior must first receive the standard operations briefing if they are to have any chance of success with bread products. Heed the advice and you get toast worthy of breakfast at The Ritz. "Dis" the toaster and risk electric shock, toxic smoke and a deeply penetrating burnt toast smell that will linger for days. I don't want to brag but, based on the toxic toaster smoke alone, our kitchen has been designated an official Hazardous Materials training facility by the federal government.
Our married life began uneventfully, just like every other average couple right out of college. I mean, didn't everyone back then leave home in a VW bug packed to the roof line with all their earthly possessions? Just because we only had the afore-mentioned toaster, a blender and a black and white TV, were we so very different? For good measure, we squeezed in a 9'X12' braid rug before we hit the road in Fargo, ND bound for Miami. The rug, TV and blender passed away long ago but for some reason the toaster remained a timeless treasure over the years. And together our family adventures haven't stopped-well, except for that one time in 1985 when I brought home a Dodge Merry Miler camper van.
Hard to say why. But maybe it was my casual declaration that our new land boat would be our transportation and temporary housing during the two-week cross-country trip to our new home in California from Washington, DC. Imagine my shock when my wife announced without a moment's hesitation that I would be traveling in my new rolling stock aquisition alone. Correction: It would be me and the cat in the Merry Miler, left to enjoy my library of Eagles 8-track tapes for 3,000 miles. She said it was a difficult decision but it was a concession the rest of the family was willing to make. Reluctantly, she and the kids would ride in the "other car."
Sad but true.
Needless to say, I was touched by their generosity. After all, they had to know there would be untold van adventures and memories they would miss. OK. So, the cat trying to escape at a rest stop near Denver was a surprise for me, too. How could anyone have predicted a single dose of sleep meds and Dramamine at 5:00 a.m. wouldn't be enough to keep kitty sedated all day?
After that episode, the cat was relocated to the safe haven of the "other car"--along with the toaster....
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Tree Hunting—Not For the Faint Of Heart
For men, Christmas tree shopping has got to be at the top of the list of life’s all-time stress producers—right up there with purchasing a new mattress, remodeling the kitchen or babysitting six-month old triplets… alone… on Black Friday.
Tree acquisition is usually irreversibly triggered by “someone” remembering the holidays. That is, once your wife decides it’s time to get the tree, any chance for escape is lost. So, it’s best to get on board early by showing your beloved that you already have a trip to the tree lot in your Planner, immediately after Thanksgiving.
Yes, you could volunteer to get a tree earlier, although that would likely be viewed as sucking up. Pushing the date out a bit might work—let’s say until the Thanksgiving left-overs are gone. But I would eat fast.
Let’s assume for a moment that you make the right timing decision. On the day of the big purchase you will be richly rewarded if you take someone with you to share the experience. Trust me, tree selection is a decision you do not want to make alone. If no other option is available, call in a marker and take another male with you to help deflect the blame when you totally screw things up. Your buying guide should be someone highly regarded by your wife—-you know, like Josh Groban, Bon Jovi or the Iron Chef.
In the event you don’t know someone rich and famous who can cook or sing, take children—preferably related to you. And remember to lavish praise on them when they make their selection. You’ll want them beaming when your wife first sees them marching through the front door, proudly toting their Charlie Brown tree.
It goes without saying, the gold standard is convincing your wife to come with you. Surely, if you put your heart into the invitation, she will willingly leave the warmth of hearth and home for a trip to the cold, poorly lit and newly sprouted urban forest—AKA Jack’s Tree Lot.
Once there, she will no doubt relish hearing your carefully studied views of height versus girth, spruce versus pine, relative trunk curvature, growth patterns, limb distribution and, of course, moisture content. By next summer you’ll both remember this as a bonding experience.
With any luck, you’ll be in and out of the lot in less than ten minutes after picking the first tree you come to. Hey! It could happen. However, as a precaution, it might be prudent to bring along a thermos and some snacks. Better yet, if you have room in your trunk, consider tossing in a stocked cooler and a portable grill—you could be there for a while.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Drop by my web site any time for updates on my children's books or just to browse around ( http://www.billkirkwrites.com ).
Tree acquisition is usually irreversibly triggered by “someone” remembering the holidays. That is, once your wife decides it’s time to get the tree, any chance for escape is lost. So, it’s best to get on board early by showing your beloved that you already have a trip to the tree lot in your Planner, immediately after Thanksgiving.
Yes, you could volunteer to get a tree earlier, although that would likely be viewed as sucking up. Pushing the date out a bit might work—let’s say until the Thanksgiving left-overs are gone. But I would eat fast.
Let’s assume for a moment that you make the right timing decision. On the day of the big purchase you will be richly rewarded if you take someone with you to share the experience. Trust me, tree selection is a decision you do not want to make alone. If no other option is available, call in a marker and take another male with you to help deflect the blame when you totally screw things up. Your buying guide should be someone highly regarded by your wife—-you know, like Josh Groban, Bon Jovi or the Iron Chef.
In the event you don’t know someone rich and famous who can cook or sing, take children—preferably related to you. And remember to lavish praise on them when they make their selection. You’ll want them beaming when your wife first sees them marching through the front door, proudly toting their Charlie Brown tree.
It goes without saying, the gold standard is convincing your wife to come with you. Surely, if you put your heart into the invitation, she will willingly leave the warmth of hearth and home for a trip to the cold, poorly lit and newly sprouted urban forest—AKA Jack’s Tree Lot.
Once there, she will no doubt relish hearing your carefully studied views of height versus girth, spruce versus pine, relative trunk curvature, growth patterns, limb distribution and, of course, moisture content. By next summer you’ll both remember this as a bonding experience.
With any luck, you’ll be in and out of the lot in less than ten minutes after picking the first tree you come to. Hey! It could happen. However, as a precaution, it might be prudent to bring along a thermos and some snacks. Better yet, if you have room in your trunk, consider tossing in a stocked cooler and a portable grill—you could be there for a while.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Drop by my web site any time for updates on my children's books or just to browse around ( http://www.billkirkwrites.com ).
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