The Wreck of
the Antique Eltees
the tune of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot.
Or not. You decide.
early, I hear, that Millenium year, when they all got an e-mail from CJ:
“The reunion was fun, so let’s go for a run–do an OC two-seventy relay!”
Then Gidmark replied, “There’s a race on the side of Superior with a
course like an arrow!
A mere hundred K, we can take the whole day! It’s a race called the Edmund
It wasn’t too long before Corrigan signed on, and then Storbeck (though he
nearly missed it),
Park, Shipp, Vogelsang, and al-so Easter-lang, and the Antique Eltees were
They met then in truth and drove north to Duluth, on a Friday 13th of
With Campbell the man in command of the van, and good Music the official
The weather was drear, but there was pizza and beer, though the streets of
the city were gloomy,
From the cabins that night they could make out the sight of the whitecaps
out on Gitchee Gumee!
The morning dawned gray, it stayed raining all day, from the start of the
race through the midmark;
The long legs were first, they were surely the worst–for poor CJ and
Storbeck and Gidmark.
Then Michael in tights was a marvelous sight, running out from the town of
And Dan, Bud, and Jack, they all followed in track, while the van trailed
along with the others.
The trees, they’d been told, would be all red and gold, and the marathon
route would be pretty,
Who knows if it’s true–the sun never broke through, and the Death March
slogged on toward the city!
Nine-plus hours, they say, they had labored that day, when Tom Corrigan
finished in glory;
The Antique Eltees had been brought to their knees by the stupidest quest
The legend lives on from Superior on down, but the moral you’ll take from
If CJ should call saying “running’s a ball,” run away just as fast as