Oyama Poem
The Oyama Mountain Race (9km uphill). A poem by Gareth Pughe
Oh Oyama, Ohyama, green and high under the sun,
The Kanagawa mountain whose flanks we run for fun.
From the streets of Isehara, the road stretches long, steep, hazy,
Lined by grizzled, ageing folk, sure the runners must be crazy.
On canopied mountain paths, we strike our panting course,
Up steps, past rocks, o’er time-gnarled roots, much slower than a horse.
Oh Oyama, Ohyama, temptress south-west of Tokyo,
A place where many, many times, I have stubbed my toe.
There are among us some who move with lazy grace and ease,
But here come I, bent and stooped, as if crippled by disease.
The seconds tick, minutes pass, sweat soaks through the shirt,
And on I stumble, ever slow, with no energy for a spurt.
Oh Oyama, Ohyama, harsh mistress and eternally arch,
You summon us to run up you every second Sunday of March.
At 3k I know the truth, I’m slow, nothing could be worse,
Except, of course, the awful trial of wading through this verse.
I stumble on, I pick my path, my weary way I wend,
To record my worst time ever as I finally reach the end.
Oh Oyama, Ohyama, race done, spent, time to leave here,
I say goodbye, we part our ways—until this same time next year.
