Date: Wed, 26 Jan 2000 15:55:38 -0600 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 16 Highway 61 Recom*bob*ulated "God said, 'So Siouxme, [sic] I want you--pass everyone.' Sioux said, 'Gawd, You must be puttin' me on.' God said, 'Well then, All night you WON'T have ANY fun.' Sioux said, 'Where You want all this passin' done?' God said, 'Out on Highway 61.'" --Kitschme Siouxme (With apologies, for the jillianth time, to Bob Dylan, and, from fear of possible litigation, also to Arlo Guthrie, for the following :) I'm standing here, out by the side of the side road, trying to refill my bottles and packs with condiments of reconstruction, and just lookin' for another place to dump my garbage. I didn't find one. Not till I came to the end of this side of the side table set out by the side of the side road, where I chanced to spot another little pile of garbage. I decided that one big pile was better than two little piles and so, rather than pick that one up, I decided to throw mine down. Which is what I did. And headed on down the side of the side road again, giving thanks to all my volunteers and asking them to, please, not arrest me for litterin'. Well, friends, they said they wouldn't, and that somebody would set out another black plastic garbage bag container for that very reason, so that all the two or three remaining runners that were followin' behind me would not have to risk incarceration in the Cook County (Minn.) Jail where they'd have to give up their water bottle holster belts (so there couldn't be any hangings in the cell) and toilet paper rolls (so they couldn't bend back the bars, roll the paper out the window, slide down the roll, and have an escape). Besides, at this point we're not really too sure if Jesse "The Mind" Ventura even takes prisoners. Anyway, I suddenly find myself refed, resplashed, replenished, reaided, restocked, repacked, and rereadied to resume my relentless request to repeat yet another refinishing of yet another race of one hundred miles. And it's, what, re: noon? I see Papa Muhammad and The All-Peeing Harem are still being restocked themselves as I remove myself from the roadside oasis and repair to repeat my plod on pavement. Papa's got a brand-new brag. "We're about 20 miles into it," he says to his troops, "and we're doin' great!" His eye catches mine as eye pass by. "Hi!" he says. "Hi!" I reply. Then I rethink to react, "Do you know how far this road section is?" "Yeah," Pop pronounces. "It's about two miles to the highway and five after that, seven miles total." "Thanks!" I reply as I repeat my plod. But what I'm secretly thinking is: Good. I've just picked off four more runners. And, as I think again, there's everybody that passed me lined up in front of me. All's I gotta do now is 'go get 'em!' I am really starting to feel rejuvenated. And now, as I rethink this, I should really lay off the "re" words and get on with this weird adventure the first time. It's a beautiful clear-blue-sky kind of afternoon. (Actually, I don't know that it's strictly AFTER "noon," but I'm guessing because I'm imagining all the bathing beauties I'll be seeing once I get down to "the beach." For indeed, this road detour I'm on is heading right for the Big Lake they call Gitche Gumee, and I know from previous fantasies that big lakes in the afternoon all have hot beaches with great babes all baring their Itchy Tummees. Mmmm, I think, therefore, I scratch.) I even have an extra peanut butter cookie in my hand which I figure I might as well eat as I go. I find I can chew and swallow this easily, because of all the fluids I drowned myself with at the aid station. Lordy, do I feel good. I'm back on the roads, again. I'm back to my old marathon-training jive. An' so, uh, Ah's jus' natcherly doo be doin' dat hoo-doo dat yoo knew (yoo-hoo!) dat I doo so well. There's this older guy I see in front of me. I run him down and pass him like I'm surfin' a wave all the way to the beach. And now here, I see, is an older lady in front of me; so, I pick it up. I blow the doors off her like a Cat D-9 (which doesn't have any doors) in the face of a light summer's breeze. (In other words, she doesn't stop. I can *STILL* hear her footsteps behind me!) I see two guys up ahead. One's tall and the other one's short. The tall one gains on the short one until they're just about side-by-side. Then, whuddaya know? They STAY that way. (Apparently, the one was looking for someone else to talk to.) I creep up steadily, ever steadily behind them. Then, whuddaya know? I dust 'em both! "What is your take on mutual funds?" I overhear the one ask the other. "Oh, I dunno," the other replies. "My portfolio is mostly blue chip." Gawd. It's moments like these I'm so pleased I'm not Rich. So, now I've, what, passed at least fifty more people and the line in front of me is getting thinner? And Papa-Was-A-Rolling-Stone and his teenaged Ronettes STILL haven't passed me back? Wow! I'm in heaven! And here now--I look further on down to where the side road I'm on meets the main road I'm going to and--whuddo I see? Well, hot-diggity. That there's another aid station! Good Gawd, y'all! Only two miles between oases here? At other places along the trail it seems like you go for days without aid, but here, on the highway, we get a "water stop" every two miles--just like a marathon, eh? Oh, this is terrific! I breeze into the aid station and feel so good I actually have the audacity to ask for more... "Peanut butter cookies?" "You betcha! One of the volunteers answers. "We got your peanut butter cookies right here." "Terrific! Thanks!" "No problem! Have a nice day!" "Well, see y'all in Grand Marais!" "You turn left here and stay to the left. Be careful along the highway! And good luck to you!" Zip! I'm otta there. Skip! I'm cool as a clam under some babe's hot foot. Blast! I turn the corner and the wind is--smack!--right in my face. (Actually, as I happily discover, the wind isn't too bad as I plod to the north, relentlessly onward. I'm no longer running downhill, I notice, which partially explains why I was so happy back there on the side of the side road. But suddenly now in front of me, HILLS loom! And traffic!) (But! Also just as suddenly to the side of me: No beach.) This is it. I'm now revisiting Highway 61. And Bob's song starts picking up tempo in the shadows of my mind. I'm lip-thinking, "So where you want this bummin' done? God said, 'Out on Beach Number 61.'" Again I see people stretched out in front of me. Hmmm, I think. Shark bait! It was just then that I hear a WHOLE BUNCH of footsteps. Thundering, thundering. I move to the shoulder on the left and try not to glance to my right. Too late. I *knew* it! It's suddenly Old Sultan Coal and his Belly Dancers Three. "Hi!" the lead girl, in yellow, goes. "Hi!" the second girl, in tights, goes. "Hi!" the third girl goes, with the audacity to wear a sexy black singlet. "Those cookies weren't bad, eh?" and there goes Muhammad Dad. "No! Uh... they're both delicious!" "Hah! I'm talkin' about the peanut butter!" he hollers over his shoulder. (Hope ya choke on 'em--is what I *secretly* think.) So much for passing everyone in sight, eh? Not only that, but now I hear behind me--whuddaya know?--here comes those two stockbrokers! I pick up my pace. I cannot *stand* the thought of having to listen to five more miles of stocks and bonds. I start to notice things. Things like what Butch and Schultzie and Little Bare and I noticed driving out and back along this highway yesterday. Things like signs, like, saying stuff like: "Little Marais River" and "Grand Marais--44 miles ahead." I think about that. And THEN I see what I believe to be a female figure up there in front of me. I'm gaining on her! So, anyway, I'm feeling frisky and we've both just passed this same sign and I suddenly have an urge to make a joke about it. So I pick it up. I close the gap. I come right up behind her. I imagine I'm being *ultra* cool, in addition to my usual witty, urbane, and sophisticated. "Wow," I say. "Didja see that sign? How come they give us thirty-four hours when we only have 44 miles to go?" I pull up next to her with this big grin on my face. She's Japanese! She looks at me with this incredibly "blank" stare and just shrugs her shoulders. My heart sinks, skids out of control, and heads straight for the ditch. What a dumbsh*t I am!!! All this knocking myself out to be dashing, debonair, and savoir faire, and here's a girl who "speekee no Engreesh." All my gauche pseudo-impressiveness... ("all my twenty-seven 8 x 10 color glossy photographs")... nuthin'. Zip. Boom. Da nada. Just ripped to shreds and out the window and littered all over the highway. Right there for the world to witness; right there out on Highway 61. "Kitsch says, 'God, where ya want this bombin' done?' God says, 'You get gonged on Sixty-One.'" So, I say to my sweet new cosmopolitan friend the only word I know in her native language, "Sayonara!" And I'm gong. Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... What sort of amazing turn-of-events-egg-in-the-face repartee is THIS? How does THIS make our chesty crestfallen hero feel in the bright sunshine of northern Minnesota while he tries vainly to keep up his spirits even while he lets down his soles? And what does this hot-footed Japanese "babe" think of HIM, our hero, as he dumbly presses forward while, incredibly and surprisingly, making himself out to be a completely useless fool? And what about our two stockbrokers who--unbeknownst to him--just so happened to ease up behind and overhear his entire bombed joke??? Be sure to stay tuned next time, comedy club fans, when you too will have the rare and exciting opportunity to reach out with the "hook" [called "Delete"] and yank the neck of our comic off stage, when "The Further Adventures of Jokeman and Corrobin', the Ploy Blunder" will, unfortunately, return with Part 17. Kitsch Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net