We made the summit by mid-morning,
Though some came by cable car,
We gazed down at the finish line,
And it didn’t look that far.

Just two miles of rocks and boulders,
Crevices and ravines,
And fallen trees in snowdrifts
Almost impossible to see.

Down a run that’s nearly vertical,
With snow ten meters deep,
Some of the skiers here it’s said,
Could ski this in their sleep.

There’s the Frenchman, Paul La Carria’,
Who practiced on the Alps, off piste,
And the Norwegian Clause Johanson,
Who’s done this five times at least.

And fifty more competitors,
Lined up to start the race,
Known as the Himalayan run,
Or the suicidal chase.

So called because there are no rules,
All tactics here are fine,
And a million dollar prize awaits,
The first to cross the line.

Last year two skiers lost their lives,
Taking a short cut,
And another one was crippled bad,
When his ski caught in a rut.

The year before, an avalanche,
Killed five and wounded eight,
They nearly banned the race back then,
But the police chief is my mate.

So here we are, the race is on,
The skiers are prepared,
All disclaimers have been signed,
In case someone’s killed up there.

The flag goes down, the line goes up,
And the skiers are away,
A fight breaks out towards the back,
And two more join in the fray.

But the rest are gone and make the jump,
Though they must avoid the trees,
Four go down, but the rest are fine,
With Johanson in the lead.

And close behind’s the English girl,
Lady Marisa Turner,
But she’s too far off the slop, she hits a rock,
Damn, that’ll learn her.

But the Frenchman’s closing up so fast,
It’s almost like he’s flying,
While screams of pain float on the wind,
Somebody must be dying.

Another would be millionaire,
That never made the grade,
And another wooden cross upon the slope,
Will mark his grave.

Towards the front, the leaders,
Are now skiing neck and neck,
When the Frenchman stabs his ski pole,
At the tall Norwegian’s legs.

But Johanson was expecting that,
He’s run this race before,
He knows full well, there are no rules,
All’s fair in love and war.

He swerves off to his right hand side,
Then tacks back to the left,
The Frenchman sees the cliff too late,
And plummets to his death.

Now the tall Norwegian,
Races on his own it seems,
Until the German, Hans Von Gruber’,
Zooms out from the trees.



Then Johanson took a tumble
And Gruber’ pulled up short,
And helped Johanson to his feet,
Proving there’s still sportsman in this sport.

Johanson counts to twenty,
Then continues with the race,
A gentleman’s agreement,
To allow Gruber’ back his place.

But Johanson closed up on him,
As the finish line appeared,
The crowds were in their hundreds,
They whistled, clapped and cheered.

The excitement could be tasted,
As they flew on like the wind,
Each of them tried their very best,
Determined they would win.

But they crossed the line together,
Their ski’s matched stride for stride,
So close no-one could call it,
So they agreed to share the prize.

Of course that meant there was no winner,
No Himalayan king,
Don’t look at me, I never race,
I organize the thing.

By S.E.Ralph

15-4-2017