Vamos, Mexico!!

That was the hardest course conditions I have ever experienced at Ironman. Had it been my first, I don't know if I would have made it. Full race report to come when I get back to The States and dry out, but can I just say one thing?

Mexicans cheer WAY better than Anglo spectators.

WAY.

Not even close. We’re talking Mexicans are to Michael Phelps as Anglos are to me.

If you’re doing an event in the U.S., you’ll get the occasional “way to go, guys,” or maybe “good job” or the dreaded “you’re almost there” along with the ubiquitous “WOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

This would be sorry fare indeed, judged by the prevailing norms south of The Border. The people of Cozumel lined their streets and made them into the equivalent of a rowdy soccer match. Men, women and children were out all day long, cheering pros and age groupers alike.

They were beating on drums.

They were beating on buckets and pails.

They were beating on pots and pans.

They were singing and chanting.

They cheered audibly and rhythmically for every sad sack that was limping by, well into the night. We heard:

Bravo!! Bravo!!

Bravo, Muchachos!

Vamos!

A-r-r-r-r-riba A-r-r-r-r-r-riba!

We heard much that I did not understand (which might be best later in the day), But every competitor decked out in the Mexican flag was regaled with a rhythmic:

VA-MOS, MEY-HEE-COH!

VA-MOS, MEY-HEE-COH!

The little kids in their soprano voices were the best. They cheered every Mexican competitor as if he or she was an Olympian in the home stretch on the way to certain gold for the Mother Country.

Late in the evening, a little boy about 8 or 9 years old was sitting on a wall by an aid station as the walking wounded and left-over carnage from the bike course were limping through their marathon. In his little, heavily-accented voice he singled out an older, Anglo participant, and broke out his elementary school English training:

“GO! You-cahn-doo-eeet! You-cahn-bee EYE-RON MANG!”

The participant, to his great credit, acknowledged the encouragement. He looked straight at the boy and said:

“You can too. Some day, you can be an Ironman.”

Pay it forward people. Currency exchange is not necessary.

HTFU Greyhound

Enough of this taper-induced wussification.



Game Faces!!!!

It's Time

We interrupt this blog to bring you a very special news bulletin. It is time:

More Greyhound To Love (Or Not)

This post contains some news and an explanation.

The news is that I am starting a new blog. But don’t worry. It’s not going to take the place of this blog. Hopefully, it will just be an addition to it.

But why start a new blog? Especially in the age of the creeping Facebook, the lazy man’s, one sentence solution to blogging.

I enjoy the act of writing for writing's sake, when I have something worth writing about. These little blurbs I throw out once or twice or three times a week nourish the creative writer that lives inside me, especially when I do so much analytical writing for my job. The blog allows me to hone my craft, and the feedback I get from the comments is a motivation to write more—a motivation that writers from the past did not have.

But, again, why a new blog?

Well, primarily because it will have a different type of tone and content, and potentially a different audience that will only partially overlap with Trigreyhound.

Those of you who regularly read and enjoy this blog know that I sometimes write about the internal aspects of training and its impact on life, love and faith. Lately, I have been feeling the need to be truer to my spiritual lineage and calling.

(Speak plainly, dude—that’s way too pompous.)

OK, OK. Here it is. I need to find my moral compass. I need to write some stuff that is way more Jesussy than you have ever read here.

Sure, I could just wax Jesussy here in this blog; but, I know that some who enjoy stopping by here are not the Jesussy type. In fact, some of you that I enjoy most and for whom I care most are not Jeussy types. And you know what?

That’s.Fine.

Requiring you to be all Jesussy here in this space would be the same as saying you have to go to my particular church with me on Sunday if you want to be my friend. THAT, alone, would be very un-Jesus-like.

On the other hand, having an additional blog that is focused explicitly on spiritual matters allows me to have a sacred space into which everyone here is invited, but no one is compelled, sort of like meeting you for Sunday brunch with the invitation to attend church with the family if you'd like to. You can stop by occasionally, often, or not at all. Meanwhile, we all remain friends in the common triathlon experience that we share.

For that is what I consider you, my friends. And friendship, for me, is serious business. To quote Saint Thomas Aquinas, “There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.”

You’re invited to share as much of my spiritual journey as you want (or as much as you can stand), and you’re invited to come and see what I have found to be true. At the same time, I will not prize you any less if you decide that’s not your cup of tea.

For a description and explanation of the new blog, visit The Confessing Runner.

Break Your Rusty Cage And Run

You wired me awake
And hit me with a hand of broken nails
You tied my lead and pulled my chain
To watch my blood begin to boil

But I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Too cold to start a fire
I'm burning diesel, burning dinosaur bones
I'll take the river down to still water
And ride a pack of dogs

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Hits like a Phillips head Into my brain
It's gonna be too dark
To sleep again Cutting my teeth on bars
And rusty chains,
I'm gonna break my Rusty cage and run

When the forest burns
Along the road Like God's eyes In my headlights
When the dogs are looking
For their bones
And it's raining icepicks
On your steel shore

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Keep Moving Forward

Bigun said my "No Gravity" post was too sensitive for shortly before Ironman. So, Bigun, this one's for you:



That's how winnin' is done.

One More Solid Week Of . . . .

up before the butt crack of dawn,

cliff bar breakfasts in the car,

going hard before Joe Average is going at all,

and wondering at the end of the day, if it was all long and hard enough.

Vision

NASA DIRECTOR:

. . . This could be the
worst disaster NASA's ever experienced.

GENE KRANTZ (FLIGHT DIRECTOR - WHITE):
- With all due respect, sir. I believe this is gonna be our
finest hour.

I've been seeing things all wrong. As I look back over my posts and my thoughts for the last several weeks, I know I have been worrying about potential difficulties and obstacles that the weather or the course or happenstance might throw in my path to make this Ironman unsuccessful. I've been worried about doing worse at this one than in the first one. I've even been worried about not finishing this one because conditions turn out to be more difficult than the first one. Some might call that type of vision realistic. I call it cloudy, cowardly even.

The people I admire--that we all admire--in history and literature don't ignore the difficulties and obstacles; but, they always seem to see beyond them to the outcome they desire. In seeing life like that, all the obstacles and difficulties simply become stair steps or ascents--the more difficult or steeper they are, the greater the victory or success when they are overcome.

We see that kind of vision in Gene Krantz, flight operations director for the Apollo space program who doggedly worked to bring his astronauts home. Contrast Krantz with the NASA engineer in the movie who seeks only to cover his butt by refusing to take responsibility for procedures and equipment that had not been tested under these conditions. He was the bureaucratic realist. Krantz was the opposite. Breakdown after snafu after screw up conspired to make it seem impossible, and yet Krantz saw past the hurdles to the outcome he wanted, and rightly foresaw that it would be NASA's finest hour.

We see that kind of vision in Henry V's St. Crispin's Day speech where, outnumbered by the French, King Henry does not bemoan the troops he lacks. On the contrary, he bids any reluctant participant to depart:

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!

KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
* * *
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

Henry had the common, English long bowman who was more than a match for the French cavalry. "All things be ready, " he declared, "if our minds be so." He was right. The French were cut down before they could even engage. Henry and his "few, [his] happy few" garnered glory that Henry (at least the Shakespearean version) foresaw. They became the eternal archetype for the "Band of Brothers."

Finally, we see that kind of visionary leadership in Winston Churchill, who knew very well that his countrymen were about to be pummled to within an inch of their very existence by the worst that modern warfare had to offer at the time. He called for a kind of sacrifice that this country, by all modern observations, would never tolerate in our current mindset. But he did so while seeing past the obstacles to the British Empire's "finest hour."

Now, I fully recognize that triathlon and Ironman are nowhere near as important or as significant as warfare or the saving of human life. Nevertheless, these far more serious pursuits have something to teach me. Starting now, I'm through with my old way of thinking. If the lake is cold, it's cold. The colder it is, the greater the accomplishment in overcoming it. If the course his hilly or windy or hard, so be it. I will find a way, and when I do, the finish line will be all the sweeter.

In the words of Sir Winston, "Do your worst, and we shall do our best."

HTFU, Greyhound!

Running On Tip Toes

One of the unique things about blogging is that it opens your eyes . Just like walking around with a camera makes you see things differently, walking through life looking for something to write about makes you notice your surroundings and think about them--although hopefully not too much. Friday, I saw something that just bumped around in my mind all weekend, through the long ride, through my long run, and into Sunday afternoon.

I went to the pool on Friday evening to grab a swim. Every lane outside was filled with kids from The Woodlands Swim Team doing their workout. The huge, olympic-size pool looked like it was filled with pirahna, the water churning like an angry sea. So, I took the next best alternative available and prepared to drop into the indoor, 25 yard pool.

As I was doing so, preparing to do a workout that no one was making me do for a race I had no hope of winning, I noticed two kids, probably 14 years of age and probably miscreants from the outdoor squad, who were getting out of the pool, one making the happy observation to the other, "no more practice 'til next week!" Something made me file that away in my brain.

A few minutes later, as I was completing a pull set, I noticed little kiddos, about 5 or 6 years of age, beginning to arrive. These kids weren't dragging into practice, nor would they have been happy with an announcement that practice was canceled. They were practically levitating as they came into the natatorium. They were doing what little kids do--running on tippy toes from the shear excitement and joy. Again, something made me file that image away in my brain.

Then, through the weekend, I noticed myself thinking about that contrast. I don't want to be a glum 14 year old. I want to be the five year old swimmers. How can I avoid the former, and get more of the latter in my life?

Obviously, I've discovered some tip toe moments in triathlon and the friendships is brings. It regularly helps me avoid the tyranny of the inevitably average middle age. In part, that is why I love it so. But I want to "run on tip toes" more consistently in triathlon and in everything else as well. I want to run through all of life on tip toes, no matter how many people tell me to "walk" on deck, and I want to do that until I can't walk at all.

Along the way, I feel like I ought to serve as a herald to all my younger friends:

"The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length, the middle-aged man concludes to build a woodshed with them." (Henry David Thoreau, Journal (July 14, 1852))

All you kiddos out there--you know who you are--all my twenty-something friends whom I admire and envy so much it probably irritates each of you to no end. Don't settle. Woodsheds suck. Run on tip toes. Fall. Then run some more. Collapse into bed every night and sleep like a 5 year old who played all day, then get up and do it again. Every day. Without fail. Until you don't wake up any more.

Be Silly

The other night, Trimama and I were talking on the Skype connection, and we were discussing weighty matters of writing, triathlon, life, the universe and everything. About a nanosecond before my pontifications became intolerably self-absorbed and pretentious, Trimama had a visitor looking over her shoulder. That child soon switched out with another child, and then another, and finally with the kid to which she is married. I had to snap a photo because it was just too blogworthy to pass up. If ever there was a family that plays and gets silly, it is that one.

Here, at the beginning of the year, when there are lots of resolutions and plans and seriousness and introspection, that picture is a great reminder not to take one’s self too seriously. Sure, there are real and profound benefits from approaching this sport and this life with discipline and self-awareness. But you know, if there is no fun in it, if you’re not playing, what’s the point? Notwithstanding all the training schedules and monitors and gear and precision and practice and seriousness, this is supposed to be fun at the end of the day.

Years ago, I was one of the many who vow to go to the gym, or run, or get in shape, and I tried to do that, mostly by myself. My discipline was better than average, and I would see some temporary benefits in improved fitness or lost weight. But those benefits were always temporary because the training was a chore that was too easy to pass up when the weather was bad or life was busy. That changed when I found a type of training, in a community of athletes, that turned exercise into play time.

Playing changed me completely and permanently from the inside out. When training is play time, who is going to willingly give up play time no matter how busy they are? What kid in his right mind is going to give up “recess” to make sure he’s really sharp on those spelling words? Who is going to over-analyze a game of duck, duck, goose or ponder heart rate data on a game of tag?

As adults, we risk losing one of the essential ingredients of the well-lived life when we lose touch with play and all the child-like fun that goes with it. Kids learn and grow by playing, and we do too. If you stop playing, learning and growing, your purpose here has been forfeited and you’re just taking up space. Not to get too Jesussy for a general audience, but the guy I try to follow and emmulate once told his disciples, “Yo, bro! Don’t get in the kids’ way. Let them up here to me, for God’s kingdom is made of kids. Unless you change your act and start being a kid, you’re sunk.”

OK, so that was the Greyhound Amplified Version of some real bible verses.* And whether or not you’ve got a taste for Jesussy goodness, there are other sources that say the same thing. Sinatra, for one, reminds us that fairytales can come true--it can happen to you--if you’re young at heart. So, you don’t have to be a bible thumper to know that it’s worth looking in the mirror and asking whether you’ve lost the kid in you, and if so, how to get him or her back. Life is too precious and too short to scowl through your days like the world’s only living heart donor. Life is too important to leave it to the grownups.

Be silly. Training is recess. Go play.


*Mark 10:13-16 (“People were bringing little children to Jesus to have him touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.’ And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.”)

The Iron Greyhound

You know, this could be you.

Hump Day Inspiration

So, yeah. This is the taper. Then why am I so tired? And why do I hurt? Where did that knee pain come from? And that twinge in my neck and shoulder? Are they even real? Are they psychosomatic? Am I psycho?

Two weeks ago in the throes of peak mileage, I was pushing through it all. This morning, I could hardly get going. An ez recovery run was almost insurmountable. It's as if my brain has shut down and subconciously believes that these workouts don't "count." My body can't be bothered to put in a true effort. Is this normal

I need inspiration. But, if you don't want to cry, don't scroll down any further.









Don't say I didn't warn you.

Hump Day Inspiration

Still getting over that cold.

Hump Day Inspiration

Iron weekend ahead.

Self Explanatory

Quit 'yer bitchin', Nancyboy.

New Beginnings

"He has the deed half done who has made a beginning."
Horace

Wildflower was a crisis of confidence for me. Frankly, I had started to get cocky about being able to finish this Ironman thing, and the triathlon gods decided to teach me a lesson.

At first, the lesson resulted in that "I don't belong here" feeling that most of us have experienced at one time or another. Then I tried to listen. I know what I need to do in befriending the open water. I'll be there every chance I get. I know what my 40 year old frame needs by way of recovery. I will be cutting volume even further during recovery weeks because I know I need it.

But then there is the whole "beginning again" thing. I had to start training again.

So, I did. Some swimming, some biking, some running--all strictly in conformity with the plan set out by Coach Book. Man it felt good to have fresh legs again. I guess I had been so tired for so long that I had forgotten what normal felt like.

But it was weird. These were some of the same basic workouts I had done before, the distances were not appreciably greater, but I had an intruder along for the ride.

Every time I started a workout this week, I had a strange feeling in my stomach. Wednesday, for example, I did my swim workout in the lap pool in my neighborhood. I was the only one there after hours on a beautiful evening. Perfect setting. Sun going down. Slight breeze. Lights coming on. But when I began the 200 meter base intervals, my stomach gnawed at me. What was that feeling?

It was fear.

Can I do this? Can I complete the workout that I start? Do I have it in me to swim these intervals hard and complete every one?

It wasn't just the swim. I felt the same on my familiar run and bike workouts as well.

But I began. And I finished. One interval at a time. One workout at a time.

Not because I'm anything unusual. I'm sure you did the same thing. All I did was start. We all have to start.

Someone planted a seed in me today. A dear friend wrote the words to me on the instant messenger, "You're meant to be an Ironman."

Her confidence is planted in me. I will water it, tend it, protect it, and hopefully, September will be the harvest.

The Clock

The clock ostensibly turns at exactly the same speed all the time. But I'm not sure that I believe it.

In high school (and even now) time seems to stand still every afternoon in that insulin shocked, lugubriated twilight between lunch and leaving to do what you want to do. But this morning, at the masters swim, that same second hand swept like lightening through our rest intervals. 12x100 meters with a two blink rest interval and until the cows come home.

Even in triathlon, a race against the clock, time speeds up or slows down, sometimes both at the same time. Hit a rough patch on the run, and you lose time with the minutes screaming by while time simultaneously grinds to a halt as the run goes on forever.

I guess I'm reminded of time because the events are starting come at me fast and furious. The calendar says I am just over a week out from the MS150. Bolder's clock says I am only 21 days from Wildflower. (I don't think this is possible, but I'll go with it.) The clock in my sidebar says I am 148 days away from Ironman Wisconsin, my first.

My sleepy brain thought about time this morning as I was standing around with a bunch of teenagers in their pajamas. Seriously. We were all waiting for the aquatic center to open, me for masters swim, they for swim team practice: a couple dozen teenage kids in their pajamas or boxers or gym shorts, come straight from bed, fuzzy slippers and flip-flops, the boys with their ratty hair all akimbo with bed head, the girls all flyaway ponytails.

Now, there's a certain sense in which I would NEVER go back to high school, even if I could. But as I stood there watching all these kids doing their bored sleepwalk to yet another practice, I was jealous. They are totally unware of the gift of their own youth--bodies that are all lean muscle, taut, smoothe skin, powerful and flexible limbs, potential overflowing, trained to glide with speed through the water, unmarked by age or injury. Yet, I am sure not one of them was aware of the blessing while they were living it. They were just going to another practice.

I felt like grabbing one of the kids by the shoulders and telling them to fill this time and drink deeply of this rich and wonderful cup that they have. But of course I didn't. They would have thought me nuts, and might have been right.

So, reader, I'll grab you by the shoulders, whether you think I'm nuts or not. You can use time, but you can't grip it. The more you try to squeeze and hold it, the more slips through your fingers. You can fill time with something, but time filled with nothing still passes--it passes emptily. Most of all, you can't kill time without injuring eternity.

The number of times your minute hand will go 'round has already been decided. For good or ill , your clock is wound. So, fill your time with good things, and gulp it down.

Taste and see that the Lord is good. (Psalm 34:7)

Solo

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

--T. S. Eliot

Fall, 1985. It was my senior year of high school. The school itself was one of those sprawling, gigantic high schools common to bedroom communities outside of larger cities. Among the 893 people on my graduating class, we could easily have sent members down to central casting to replace the ensemble in The Breakfast Club. We had preppies, cheer leaders, band geeks, brainiacs, stoners, athletes . . . all the stereotypes.

Anyway, I placed a sticker on the inside of the rear window of the car I drove. The sticker said "University of Wisconsin at Madison" and had the school's Numen Lumen symbol. I had won my audition to enter the school, and it was my statement: "I am not staying here. I am not going to the same college down the road where everyone else is going. It's clear across the country, and I am going by myself. But this is what I am doing."

At 18, I had never taken off alone before. It was a barrier to cross, and once crossed, everything changes. From that point on, I did not "live" at "home." That is "home" was elsewhere, not with my parents. I was too full of 18-year-old immortality to notice at the time, but it was an important moment, going it alone. A lot of important moments happen that way.

I don't know for sure, but today might be one of those moments too, on this journey back to Madison. I had plans for a big ride, a breakthrough in the bike training. I intended to start early, before an organized group ride, and tack on miles to exceed their distance. My plan was to do two loops to their one on the hilly Montgomery County roads that are my haunt at the weekend. I was going to do the ride with a friend, but my intended partner unavoidably had to cancel.

So. Me. In the dark. Pumping up the tires. Mixing the nutrition bottles. What to do?

Well, I knew one thing. I am not staying here.

When it was just light enough to be safe, I left. Solo.

I was alone most of the day, the long route group behind me, and catching short route riders as they came back into the start. The cheerleaders and drill team members who benefitted from the ride cheered me as I came first through the aid stations and road on past without stopping--like I was Floyd Landis or something. (THAT never happened in high school, I can assure you.) And I finished up the first loop.

But now what? The heat is coming, the wind is picking up, and the cheerleading aid stations will all be gone on your second trip around. I tried not to think as I mixed up more Perpetuem. With the bottles in place, I began again--solo--this time in the full sun.

They did not cheer as I left. They just looked.

Up to the half-way point of the second loop, one can turn around and save some effort. After that point, there was nothing for it except to get as low as possible on the bike to try and hide from a dead on wind that stretched the flags taut and felt like a convection oven. Even this does not work when your legs beg to stand during a climb. No cheering this time.

Except for one. Me.

We train in groups, we encourage each other in person and on the internet, and we cherish the friends that we make in this sport. But there are also those times, some of them very important times, where the aloneness is what forms us. When we are alone, like no other time, we have to decide who we are and how far we intend to go. Today was one of those times.

100 miles.

Solo.

Fear and Karma

For several weeks, I have been planning to return to masters swim for the first time since my injury took me out of the pool. I had even put it on the training plan in the sidebar.

But I didn't do it.

I didn't do it because I was afraid.

What if I haven't gained back as much strength as I think? What if I get hurt again? What if I can't hang with the workout? What will the good swimmers think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Friday, I did it anyway. I was in the slowest lane, but I did it anyway.

Saturday, I almost did not show up for a group ride with the Lone Star Multisport club from the Woodlands. Again, I was afraid. I've never ridden with that group before, and beyond my usual reluctance to meet new people, I knew they were a strong group. I wasn't wrong. There were at least half a dozen studs with ironman finisher gear. What if I can't hang with them? What will they think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Saturday, I did it anyway. I got dropped by the Justice League crew in the first group, but I did it anyway . . .

. . . and I pulled someone on a road bike who later thought better of pursuing the long route that day. Karma.

On the hills outside Anderson, Texas, having long since been dropped and riding alone with my own thoughts, I crested a hill and saw another solitary rider. Actually, he was not riding. This card carrying member of the Justice League was on the side of the road with one slowly leaking tube, one tube that would hold no air, and having expended all his CO2.

As luck would have it, I was carrying 4 cannisters instead of my usual 2. Karma.

I was la lanterne rouge of the long route, and the little voice in my head was telling me just to avoid the ignominy and jump in the car after my brick run. I was embarassed to talk to anyone, but I did it anyway.

The only person around happened to be the CO2 superhero's friend. He and I both did our first half-iron distance events last year. We began talking about our race schedules and how I had signed up for Ironman Wisconsin after seeing my friends on the course while volunterering. A spark of recognition dawned on his face. He knew I was talking about Iron Wil, and he figured out that I was Greyhound. The superhero soon returned, and besides meeting two great people, I learned some useful information about Wildflower. Karma.

Shortly before Ironman Florida, The Tri-Geek Kahuna observed one profound result of his training: "The one emotion that has ruled his life, that he was weaned on, is missing: fear." Maybe that is one of the things I'm looking for in my Ironman experience. I am the older of two brothers, and yet it was my little brother who had no fear. I was afraid of everything: swimming, girls, boys, athletics, locker rooms, my own appearance, failure, embarassment . . .

. . . a lot of the same things that have kept me out of the pool or away from the group rides.

I will always be the cautious older brother, and the future is always going to have another "it" to be afraid of. I hope that part of this Ironman experience will be increasing measures of courage . . . to do "it" anyway. If I can do that . . .

"If" by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!