Michael Garnett
Michael's page
Fundraising for Save the Children
Story
POEMS FOR £££s... PLEASE SCROLL DOWN TO READ THEM
After many years of telling myself that I would sign up and do a triathlon, and an equal number of years of not quite getting round to it... I have finally committed. I am brilliant at neither swimming, cycling or running, but I am quite good all three. With the 'Law of Averages' on my side I am holding out great hopes for my career as a... well,... average triathlete!
I am raising money for Save The Children, which (as the name suggests) is a very worthy cause. You can read more about the charity in the bottom left hand corner of this page.
If you feel generous, please dig into your pockets and donate. It is easy to do online and you can also add Gift Aid... please do, as it costs you nothing but means that the Save The Children get more money.
Below you will find my triathlon poems. Please keep checking as I will keep on writing them and adding them on a regular basis:
London Triathlon - Poem 1
On a cold winter's night I bumped into F Cooper
He's a blast from my past, a real good trooper.
We caught up at length (for the years they had flown)
"I need to get fit" I exclaimed, with a groan!
Triathlon, it seems, has become now his 'thing'
He's always been pretty damn good at cycling.
From that moment forward he'd planted the seed;
The desire to compete is becoming a 'need'.
The triathlon we're in's on the first week of August.
Three months of hard training now lie before us.
The target is is under two hours and a half,
Should I nervously cry? (Better nervously laugh).
I'm alright at swimming and I've cycled for years
And of course (as you'll know) I never drink beers.
With luck on my side I'm sure I'll do fine;
Just me and the clock...man versus time.
My training programme will be pretty tough,
(Not sure it is possible to do enough?)
A run a day, a swim or a spin...
Who am I kidding!? I'm not going to win!
But it's less about winning and more about goals...
The personal ones that fire you (like coals)
And I must not forget that it's for a good cause,
Helping kids whose lives are disrupted by wars.
And Ed, if you're out there, this poem's for you.
You laid the foundations, you gave me the cue.
These fundraising rhymes will help me to wile,
Away thoughts as I cycle on... mile after mile.
London Triathlon - Poem 2
I love my early morning swimming in my local Lido,(For the sake of poetry the 'lido' rhymes with Speedo),
And that is what I'm wearing as I'm clocking up the 'K's,
To and fro and back and forth almost every day.
They're not the classic short-cut ones that old men like to wear,
A shrink-wrapped crotch for all to see - a glimpse of pubic hair.
No, these are more discrete in that they cover my whole bum,
And the fit is not so very tight they make my privates numb.
I often like to sit back and observe the goings on,
The sizzling flesh, a wrinkly man, a girl in a sarong -
The different styles, from flailing limbs to shark-like poise and grace,
And of course some are competitive and can't resist a race.
A secluded urban hollow with a village atmosphere,
I'm greeted every morning with a smile and waters clear,
A regular talks politics whilst soaping balls and arse -
A wonderful example of North London middle class!
London Triathlon - Poem 3
I sit upon my lightweight steed,
A thoroughbred that's built for speed,
It's technologically in debt
To F1 cars and fighter jets.
She's elegant and understated
Finely tuned, perfectly weighted
Titanium and carbon fibre...
(I'm sure that there's a soul inside her).
I turn the cranks - she springs to life,
Obliging as a pre-war wife,
When told that she must "press my suit,
Wash dishes, sew and 'play my flute' "
Head down now, I start to ride,
I join the flow, the gentle tide,
Of other cyclists cycling home
Round central London's velodrome.
Armed guards watch, the guard dogs bark,
Around the edge of Regent's Park -
The stately homes are just a blur,
As wheels scythe and gears whir.
Two point seven five miles each circuit,
I feel the burn - I start to work it,
Gritted teeth and beading sweat,
I've barely even started yet!
What's that ahead, all lycra clad?
A divorced mid-life crisis Dad?
He rides, of course, a Condor bike,
The kind my friend Tom Ebdon* likes.
I overtake and scratch my hair,
A casual gesture to declare;
"This is easy - I'm not trying"
(Whilst really my whole body's crying);
I also make sure not to gasp
For air as I go racing past,
Lest it be known as I slip by
That really I just want to die!
The moral of this story's this;
Remain in race-free painless bliss.
It's now a fact with which I live,
That I'm just... well,... competitive!
*Please note that Mr. Ebdon is neither divorced nor father to any child, legitimate or otherwise, and is not, as far as I am aware, in the midst of a mid-life crisis as there is no sign of a Porsche.