Date: Tue, 21 Sep 1999 00:12:24 -0500 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 1 So Catch Me, Sue Me! [First, for the lawyers, a couple of poignant and plagiarized quotations (since every epic has them) to enable the offended poet to litigate for damages and possibly collect the lion's share of all advanced and future earnings and royalties derived therefrom, after having first deducted the usual one-third, of course, for the lawyer. To wit: $0 - 99%$0 - 33-1/3%$0 = $0.] "By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis Start line of the ultra slaughter..." --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Until you've run a hundred miles in my moccasins, back off the criticism, Jack." --Cochise "Anything that can go wrong will go wrong." --Murphy [And, secondly, an editor's note: All the names in the following "Adventure," and possibly one or two of the places, have been changed to protect the author's sad and slow--and pretty much impoverished--ass from all the lawyers.] This saga begins where all my sad and slow--and pretty much impoverished--sagas usually begin, in the neighborhood garage down the street. It was, like, a week before I was scheduled to drive my sad and slow--and pretty much immobilized--Pierce-Arrow all the way to Silver Bay, Minnesota, to begin what I had whimsically referred to as my "bounce back ultra," after the horrors I had endured the previous July at Hardrock. And the man himself, the neighborhood garage mechanic, was standing there shaking his head. His name's Murphy. "Kid," he was sayin', "I got good news and bad news. The bad news is your car is junk. The good news is I got another one to sell ya." "So, what's wrong with my car?" I inquired, fully knowing about the bad rear suspension and the gas leak, which is why I brought it in, in the first place. "Kid," he explained, "your gas tank's rusted clean through and your struts are shot, their mounts are rusted off, and the only thing keeping your left rear wheel on the car is the ground." "Gee, thanks. So, uh, what's it gonna cost me to fix it?" "Kid," he smiled, "I wouldn't even bother. Maybe a grand just to get started, and who knows what the hell else'll fall off once we tear into it (heh heh)." "But I gotta drive it to Minnesota on Thursday!" "Kid," he laughed, "I wouldn't drive this thing to Main Street. A spark from your ass end could hit the gas leak and you and your 'rocket' here could light up the night like the Fourth of July." "What should I do?" I asked (just waiting, I suppose, for the punchline: "Don't light any farts"). "Kid, I got just the thing. See that Edsel over there? We just fixed it and the guy didn't want to pay us. So he turned over the title instead. I'll sell it to ya for the cost of the repairs--twelve hundred bucks. Wanna test drive?" "Will it make it to Minnesota?" I asked, thinking the Great Spirit was shining down his guidance upon me. Finally. "No guarantees, kid," he said, "but one thing's for damn sure." "What's that?" "It won't fall apart before Main Street!" Well, I did in fact take it for a test drive and he was right. It made it to Main Street and back. By the way, the neighborhood garage is located on Main Street. But, then too, I also drove my old Pierce-Arrow all the way back home (without exploding) and there it sat and then I got worried. Did I want to sink twelve hundred bucks into another old junk--with still no guarantee I'd make it to Minnesota--or did I want to run out in a panic and put a down payment down on some new (future) junk and hope all the paperwork could clear by the time I HAD to hit the road? Well? ("We're waiting, Kitsch.") No! Absolutely not! Instead, I did the next best thing. I checked airfares. The best "deal" I could find on that short of notice was Indian Teepee Airlines round-trip to Duluth for $428.00. Ouch! So instead, I did the next best thing after that. I called up Indian Bareback Horse Rentals and reserved a Pinto at the weekly rate. "Unlimited mileage?" I asked. "Ugh, Kemo Therapy, you betchum!" they said. "You pay only oats and barn." "And any emergency blacksmithing too, eh?" "Ugh! We make treaty?" Yes, we made the "treaty" on the spot. Of course, Indian Bareback Horse Rentals is located about ten miles from Main Street, and my squaw had to take our "good" horse to work that day; so, ugh, I had to leave my "bad" ride in the barn and jog. At that point, it would've been fairly easy to catch me and, I'm sure if the neighborhood mechanic's attorney had read this, sue me. But there I was, tapering my final ten miles all the way to the rental wigwam and soon rode out with a beautiful new steed, freshly broken in by all the cowboys and pimps of THAT bad neighborhood. Should I tell you which bad neighborhood? And risk a letter from their bad village attorney? No jive, Clive. Ain't no sense in that. Just think of Chicago and how its very "finest" cowboys and pimps have all drifted to the suburbs over the years, and you'll get some idea. [Here's a hint: Rent the original "Blues Brothers" movie. That shopping mall in which they drove their car and smashed all the stores? It's still there. And still in the same condition!] Man, I felt really cool driving all the way to Minnetonka in my brand-new ride. I wore wraparound shades and a big floppy pink velvet hat. My gold necklace had a little spoon on it. I sat in the middle of the front seat. I operated everything with just my baaad left hand. From my lips hung a long white lollipop stick. And I had my ear pierced just for the occasion--in honor, I suppose, of my dead Pierced-Arrow. This was Thursday now, a week later and just two days before the start of the heap big Superior Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run along the heap biggest lake's touristy North Shore. (Hmmm, I always thought the "north shore" of Lake Superior was Canada!) Well, that's what all the signs said! Right out of Chicago, they all said: "North Shore 628 Miles." And they added: "Aren't ya glad ya rented the car?" But before I left--and this is where I start plagiarizing Gordon Lightfoot--I was concluding some terms with a coupla publishing firms, then I left fully loaded for Cleveland. And later that night on my dash flashed a light--could it be a new gale it was feelin'? I want you and all Mr. Lightfoot's attorneys to know, well in advance of any future chapters to this "Adventure," that I have bought and paid for my tape recorded copy of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." I also want you all to know that, prior to my departure, I sat right where I am now and copied down all the lyrics by playing the tune over and over, because, well, I guess they couldn't fit all his words on the cassette's cover sheet. (My hero. A wordy songwriter!) But I say this in case Gordo gets pissed when I don't quote him right. I also want you all to know why that song is particularly appropriate to my particular situation, as I was driving northward two days ahead of the race. First, I'm sure the Edmund Fitzgerald is Lake Superior's most famous shipwreck (immortalized as it was by Mr. Lightfoot waaaaay back in 1972, the year--one of them--when I graduated--guess from what, or from which reform school?); and, secondly, that song tells of a tremendous disaster (towards which, after Hardrock, I now felt particularly sensitive). And finally, need we repeat? I was on my way to run along the shore of that very same lake. If the "gales of November" chose to come REALLY early this year, I could be in big trouble. Well, I was close, no? There weren't any "gales," but there SURE WAS RAIN!!! But, I'm getting ahead of myself. The rain isn't going to show up in *this* "Adventure" until probably Part 8. Maybe. IF I can somehow manage to come back to life by then... "The legend lives on From the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee" The lake, it is said, Never gives up her dead When the skies of November turn gloomy." --Gordon Lightfoot So, Siouxme! "Kitsch" Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net P.S. I promise. You won't have to wait for Part 8 until November.