ODE TO THE RIVER BOEDO MARATHON

(verses for an intimate feat)

Boedo, a marathon of promised dreams and medals,
with Gabriel, echoes of saxophone and sweet biscuits.

Here, no asphalt, only lonely dust trails,
paths of Castile, where the dust clings to your ankles.

The runners cross the fields in silent stride,
as the chronometer, a stern guard, pushes on with pride.

When you stop, gasping at the end, you see this race’s art:
it’s this marathon that transforms the novice heart.

And you understand the gods of the humble road
also dwell in these races, free from the cheering crowd.

So run, you madmen, and return with that medal won!
May your endurance honor Philippides’ run,
for this is not Athens… this is Bascones de Ojeda!