With apologies to the Bard...
All of letsrun is the rage,
And all the runners except elite merely posers,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one poster in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the child star,
Mewling and puking in the coach's sight.
Then, the whining RW reader with his fanny pack,
And shining sweating face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to the finish. And then the miler,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful stride
winning by an eyelash if that. Then an old master,
Full of strange oaths, and leering at the tarts,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the age group vet
In fair round belly, with half-tights snug,
With eyes severe, and singlet wicking water,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into lean times for awards, slipping times,
With Oakleys on nose, and Camelback on shoulders,
His youthful speed well gone, a waist too wide,
For his shrunk splits, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans PRs, sans everything--
except internet access.