The alarm screams truce at five AM,
But I pull the covers over my head again.
A neon track, a choreographed plan—
Training regime? No thanks, man.

I’ll take the slow lane, the unkempt trail,
The bike with the rust and the squeaky wheel.
Let others grunt in their gleaming shrines—
I’ll chase sunsets, not finish lines.

My muscles speak in lazy tones,
My breath knows nothing of champion’s bones.
But the wind on my skin and the dirt on my shoes
That’s the only coach I’ll ever choose.

So clock your reps, log your protein shakes,
I’ll be here, making my own mistakes.
No gold, no PR, no sponsor’s demands—
Just two bare feet and unplanned hands.