Date: Wed, 24 May 2000 02:29:17 -0500 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 25 "Have You Got Your Flashlight? Rain Gear? Bail-Bond Card? Life Insurance Paid Up?" "Just five hundred dollars and they'll set us free. I couldn't raise a penny if they threatened me. I know five hundred don't sound like much (cheap), But just try to find somebody to touch. "So, here we are in the Tijuana jail. Ain't got no friends to go our bail. So, here we'll stay 'cause we can't pay. Just send our mail to the Tijuana jail." --Denny Thompson The Kingston Trio (1959) [Editor's note: This manuscript arrived this morning, postmarked from Marion, Illinois, and apparently mailed at the federal prison there. The author expressed concern about being able to have done his time in time for the upcoming Hardrock Hundred, although, as he put it, "I probably busted a Thousand Hardrocks already."] "Pair up in threes." --Yogi Berra "The Yogi Book: 'I Really Didn't Say Everything I Said'" (1998) [Author's note: For this episode's audio-visual aid, point your browser to the following web address: http://www.shta.org/Photos/p154.htm It's supposed to be a photo of Oberg Mountain, but it won't help you. First of all, it isn't clear whether the bump ("peak") in the foreground is Oberg Mountain, or whether the true Mountain mound ("bump") is in the background. Secondly, this doesn't help me either. I never saw it. By the time I arrived here, it was pitch dark, pouring rain, and, baby, I wasn't seein' a damned thing!] A little farther on... (excuse me) A little darker on... I squint... and I see an aid station nestled amongst the trees. [Actually, that's a lie. It was not even close to being "a little farther on." It was A LOT farther on. It seemed like forever!!!] (The reader, as well as the runner, should realize here that, just because the sign halfway up Carlton Peak pointed "THATAWAY" for all the 50-milers to get off the trail and go, yes, that-a-way; well, it doesn't mean that YOU have run 50 miles. You have probably only run about 48 miles, leaving a two-mile "side trail" out to the side down off the side of Carlton Peak with a long sideways to go to this side of that parking lot on that side of this forest someplace, where all this imagined "whole lotta shakin'" would be goin' on in side your head. But no. There'll be none of THAT now. This trip, from here on out, is definitely on the side of suffering.) I see by the literature they let me keep in my cell that the Tofte/Sawbill (a.k.a. Britton Peak) aid station is 50.9 miles into the race. And Oberg Mountain, the aid station after that, is 56.6 miles into the race. Of course, none of this really matters. I never saw anything. I'd been brain-dead since that highway sign, indicating Grand Marais was just 44 miles away. And that was, what, 20 miles ago? Anyway, to make a long, tedious, encyclopaedic epic work of literature a tad less Britannical--by at least one or two words--I should tell you that, yes, I finally do arrive at the Tofte/Sawbill aid station, and the first things those sweet volunteers ask me are: "Have you got your flashlight?" "Yes, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I'm guzzling Gatorade.) "Have you got rain gear?" "Yes, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I reach down to feel if my jacket and long-sleeve T are still cinched to my double-holster Roy Rogers cap pistol belt. They are. Glug, glug.) "Do you have a bail-bond card?" "No, ma'am. Do I need one?" (I stop glugging and instead hand her both my empty water bottles.) "You're going to be out after curfew." "Yes, ma'am." "Does your mother know this?" "No, ma'am. And please don't tell her, okay?" "Is your life insurance all paid up?" "I dunno, ma'am." (Glug, glug. I pick up where I left off.) "Well, then, Tom here would like to talk to you. He's with 'the good hands people.'" "I can see that. Nice cuticles, Tom. And thanks, but no thanks. The wife has the policy." (Glug, glug. Chomp, chomp. Hmmm, not bad PB&Js.) "But is it paid up?" I stop glugging and chomping. "Here's the deal, Tom. She has no reason to fake my death or hope I croak. The policy wouldn't even pay her enough to ship the body home." "And," I continue, "I would love to keep chatting with you, Tom, and maybe even review term or whole-life products with you and compare your actuarial percentages with my easily affordable monthly premiums, but hey..." (they hand back my refilled bottles) "...I GOTTA GO!!!" And, with that, I'm gone. This is, after all, an "unlikely" adventure. The thing about running at night is, it gets dark. And, conversely, the thing about running in the rain is, it gets wet. And the first thing that happens almost immediately after I leave this aid station is, both of those things happen. I decide I'd better, finally, reche into my pouche and pulleu auxt my Petzl. After aux, I'm on my way to Leveaux, wheech eez (I see by what they let me keep in my cell) another "mountain." I quickly switch the brim on my cap from front to back, then fumble with my zipper seaux to reche in and pulleu aut my.... ...you know! And now with my beaming lamp on my cap and my thinking cap on my head, I focus on down the trail and watch it, in the pouring rain, turn immediately... ...to MUD!!! Funny thing about mud. It is soggy. It is slippery. It is relatively not very clean. And you would just be amazed how it alters your footing for the worse. Funny thing about the Superior Hiking Trail. It is long. It is dirty. It is not very handicap-accessible. And you would not believe how its HILLS can alter your footing for the worse. Funny thing about me. I am running. (That's pretty funny all by itself.) I am slick. The soles of my shoes are even slicker. And you would be amazed how simple a task it is to slip and fall on your ass backwards and slide thirty meters down the very same hill you're hiking on, only to be deposited without ceremony upside-down in a clump of fallen pine trees off to the side of the trail. And that, I swear--as the IRS is my judge--is precisely what happens to me now. Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. "Whoooooooooooooooa!!!" Flop. Frump. Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide. Stop. Dump. I'm literally upside-down, with my ass off the ground, with my chin on my knees, and my body in the trees. My backwards-facing hat is frontwards again. My lovely Petzl is poking out. (Some sixteen inches outside my shorts.) My glasses are gone. My singlet is ripped. My face full of dirt. And my ass is caked with mud. If this were happening to you, instead of to me, right about now I'd be busting a gut. Rolling off the aisle. Laughing my cake off. I lie there. I'm upside-down. I can't move. I'm a turtle on its back, helpless. Imprisoned in my own little hell. And I'm starting to wonder all over again if that life insurance was ever, in fact, paid at all. Well? Should I scream? (There's no one to hear me.) Should I laugh? (Aw, I think, save it. I'll need to remember this to write about it later. And THEN I can laugh my cake off.) [Author's note: Somehow, landing in prison for bad taxes takes all the humor out of being be pine briars for a mis-trail.] Maybe I should cry instead? (Naw. Who'd know? It's pouring rain! Who could tell they're tears?) Well, of course, this is where everything just shuts down and my race could well be over. Except, of course, for two small details which I think about as I try to think about what to do next: 1) I don't want some horny moose to find my Petzl and eat me; and 2) I don't want my wife to have the last laugh. So, I decide to do a backward somersault and... ...that's what saves me. My feet come crashing down through the briars and brambles and the needles and branches--almost to the ground--but they can't quite reach it because I'm still on a hill and there's a lot of fallen trees under me. But at least I'm rightside-up. >From my new vantage point, I can see how far my Petzl was out from my body and, with great care and tender groping, I can finally feel the bulb end, pull it back, and align it safely by my fly. From there I can lower my head, extend my tongue, and... ...spit out all the pine needles. Then, armed with my newly realigned light, I quickly locate all the rest of my missing parts, reassemble everything, climb back up the fallen branches to be level with the trail once again, and plant both feet firmly back down on the mud. And then--hmmm, was I going up this hill or down it when I fell?--I take off trudging again. Trudging very, very carefully. This "spill" has probably cost me half an hour already. I really can't afford to flail along with reckless abandon any more. So, of course, when it levels out again, I take off running. After a short while, off in the distance I see a light. Hmmm, I think. Oberg Mountain already??? Then, I think, can't be. And, of course, it isn't. Upon drawing closer, I see that it's not one, but THREE lights! Drawing closer yet, I see that these lights are mounted on three people! Whoa! What's this? Not possible!!! "Hi folks!" I say. "Are you in this race too?" "Sure are!" "Well, I think you're going the wrong way!" "Nope. Don't think so!" "You must be! I've been going straight ever since Carlton Mountain. Did you miss the turn-off? Are you all doing the fifty?" "Nope!" "Then you must've gotten turned around somewhere?" "No, I think we're headed in the right direction." "You do?" "Yeah." "You sure?" "Yeah." "Well, uh, gosh. Maybe... uh, could I follow along with you then... uh, till at least maybe we see where we all got turned around?" "OK. Fall in!" I turn around and follow. At this point, I'm not quite sure who's right here, but I also don't want to be all alone for at least a little while--in case I become an upside-down turtle again. Besides, at this point in the race, I tell myself I need to be assured that I'm not the only last person in the race. Because then I really could become moose lunch! "My name's Kitsch, by the way," I say. "I'm Hardrock. He's Coco." "I'm Jo." No. You have GOT to be kidding me!!! Those were cartoons!!!!! As I say, this is not a very likely adventure, is it? And so the four of us "pair up" and run together all the way to the parking lot-with-aid-station at Oberg Mountain. It keeps raining the whole time. The trail is getting muddier and muddier. And NOBODY is laughing even after when we get there. And wouldn't you know? This is "Pacer Central." Right away here, comin' to greet me with a huge smile and an even bigger "hi," is Hihowarthya. And, right behind her, dressed like a sailor aboard an icebreaker, is her number one brave, Heap Big Chef Hatchetman. These people are a blinding sight even for St. Paul's eyes. And, I think, I'm witnessing a miracle. And what are the very first things she says to me? "Do you have another flashlight?" "Where is your rain gear?" "Are you carrying a bail-bond card?" "Is your life insurance all paid up?" Welllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... How did SHE know about our hero's wife's miserably cheap short-term policy? What do THESE PEOPLE know that our hero doesn't about the legal thorns and entanglements that lurk during the trial ahead? Or, rather (did we say "trial"?) during the extremely muddy TRAIL ahead? And finally, sports fans, what DO moose eat anyway? Pretzels? Oh, you won't want to miss THIS next exciting episode! It's the volume of this encyclopaedia that dares to ask: "Why does weather travel mainly from west to east when the direction of the revolving planet is also mainly from west to east?" And... "If you're traveling in a camper from south to north, do you suppose you could give me a ride?" The answers to these and all other unanswered cosmic questions shall soon be gleefully mailed from Marion, disguised as "Part 26." Kitsch Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net