Coburg Harriers half marathon 30.7.06

As a rat spins in its exercise wheel, so the wheel of time completes another yearly revolution and in doing so transports my legs towards the start line of a second annual Coburg Harriers half marathon.
Goal time for a half marathon: 84:24
Target time Saturday 30.7.06: 86:09, which is 4:05 pace.
PB for a half as at 30.5.06: 87:45

The wheel of time oversees this mortal coil of mine when the reverse should operate. As a rat controls the spinning of its wheel, so my mortal coil should control the wheel of time which envelopes me. One hundred thousand years may pass for this to occur but why should it take that long, one could ask.
A rat can speed up or slow down at will during its static exercise wheel journey.
Time expands or contracts, speeds up or slows down in any significent degree, in comparison to a clock ticking at a point light years away. So time need not be the master. It can be stretched or shortened at will. As the rat shapes its wheel, the mind shapes its aura of time. Your friendly neighbourhood black hole gobbles up time. It should be a snack for the human mind, in time, to do likewise.

I have come across the expression 'mortal coil':
1...a D.H. Lawrence short story titled 'Mortal Coil';
2...a Star Trek Voyager episode titled 'Mortal Coil';
3...Shakespeare's 'Hamlet', in his famous 'to be or not to be' soliloquy, as follows:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-
No more- and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to! 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.