There's no season at all like a New England fall
For running through trails in the trees.
The foliage is fair and the nip in the air
pairs well with the bite in the breeze.

The best place to run 'fore the autumn is done,
and where the fastest all abscond,
is just a stone's throw from the home of Thoreau
—the woods near Walden Pond.

One day a young man got out of his van
and with a quick goodbye to his team
alone he set out on the twelve mile route
(taking a right o'er the stream).

He jumped an old log and skirted a bog
and began to pick up speed.
And so he flew through to where the old trees grew
and modernities recede.

Now—let's momentarily digress—there's some stuff to address
that I earlier neglected to mention.
The reader (that's you) should probably view
this next bit with some apprehension.

Many a runner's been lost in these woods so near Boston
and though they don't quite make TV,
the locals have tales about these dark forest trails 
that all but the bravest would flee.

They talk of a man who once also ran
through the forest in ages gone past.
The tuberculosis with the usual prognosis
'made him a dead cat at last.'

But once he had died he'd been unsatisfied
with the life that he'd just completed:
mainly comprising of philosophizing
but never having competed.

For some of the men around him then
were kings in that heavenly span.
And the top category of everlasting glory
was judged by races ran.

Eventually he grew tired of not being admired
and being considered of little worth.
He slipped out the back of that angelic track
and headed black down to Earth. 

He had to first step down a level to talk to the devil
and explain some of his goals.
In order to earn an unholy return 
he promised to send back some souls.

He was soon installed in a haunt near to Walden,
back home in the woods he did know
(for in case you've not figured out who we're talking about 
it's none other than H.D. Thoreau).

So back to our kid: running quickly amid
the forest's most thicket‐y part
he heard a sound from behind, that though ill‐ defined,
sent a dread creeping over his heart.

He turned to look: and leaping over a brook
was a ghastly man of sport.
A horrific sight was the dead runner‐wight
for his shorts were much too short.

With an unworldly stride it ran up beside
and then slowed to match the boy's pace.
In a voice cruel and low said 'I'm Henry David Thoreau:
how would you like to race?

If you win you'll get shoes in which you'll never lose:
the sandals that Hermes wore.
But in the case that you don't, and I'm certain you won't, 
your soul's mine for forevermore.'

Now Thoreau, you might know, was fat and real slow,
and though he'd lost some weight in death,
within two hundred feet he pulled up in defeat
and stopped to catch his breath.

We don't really know why he thought he'd try
to race without training first.
He wasn't even the most fit philosopher’s ghost
he was closer to being the worst.

So as it turns out the local stories about
Thoreau were simply in error
(Ralph Emerson indeed was the one
who was chasing down joggers out there).

At the end of the day the kid walked away
with some magical shoes with wings.
But I'm sad to report they had no arch support
and he never wore the things. 

James Leakes is a former 5k runner (13:42 PR) looking to transition into the beer mile. When he's not training or writing poetry, he works as an investment analyst in Boston.