The Wreck of the Antique Eltees

Sung to the tune of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot.  Or not.  You decide.

‘Twas 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 Fitzgerald.”

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 enlisted!
They met then in truth and drove north to Duluth, on a Friday 13th of October,
With Campbell the man in command of the van, and good Music the official timekeeper.

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 Two Harbors!
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 in his-tory!
The legend lives on from Superior on down, but the moral you’ll take from this fable:
If CJ should call saying “running’s a ball,” run away just as fast as you’re able!