From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 1997 02:58:07, -0500 Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 1 PRE-FIRST TO THE PREFACE Welp, frendz, Ah shurely duz reckon Ah gotta tale ta tell ya... First, there was Gordy Ainsleigh. Let's put this whole thing into perspective, shall we? If it wasn't for some (probably) bad acid trip that THIS CAT took back in August of 1974 (back in those waning hippie days when most of us, sooner or later, took bad trips--except his was on foot and mine was on something else), why, heck, there probably would be no Western States Endurance Run to this very day! But first, before we get to that "first," we have to preface our remarks by interjecting one, oh, maybe two more "pre-firsts." (Bear with me on this. This is complicated.) I was told by another runner who had, what, taken a skiing trip (of all things) to Squaw Valley, California, that he had happened one day, while waiting, I guess, either for a chair lift ride or a come-on from some shapely blonde, to look off to the "side of the side road" and spy a historical (hysterical?) "roadside" marker. He (his name is Bill) told me, "Rich, it said THAT was where the Western States 100-Mile Race starts." I go, "No sh*t?" He goes, "Yeah. I didn't realize I was standing on such hallowed ground." Well then. Little did I realize that just a FEW SHORT YEARS after my running-cum-skiing buddy, Bill, told me this amazing fact that I myself would be gawking around that selfsame ground--in the summer when NO chair lifts are operating (or blondes either, for that matter)--wondering just where in the hell that historical roadside marker was. June 24, 1997: This is when I, in my compact rental car out of Reno ("free"--ha ha--"upgrade" because the guy said my originally requested sub-compact WOULD NOT MAKE ALL THE CLIMBS--so what was I supposed to tell him: "Hey, buddy, I'M GONNA HAVE TO MAKE ALL THOSE CLIMBS!"?), first set eyes upon THE CLIMBS of Squaw Valley. And the parking lot. Let me tell you a little something about THE parking lot at Squaw Valley. This thing is even BIGGER (if you can imagine this) than anything Walt Disney himself ever imagined would be necessary to park cars. Remember what they told you in history class? About how the ancient Romans used to flood the Colosseum and stage naval battles? Well, with all those CLIMBS surrounding that parking lot, they could easily flood it and re-enact ALL the naval engagements of World War II--ALL AT ONCE! And possibly even "sink the Bismarck" from World War I as an encore. Anyway, you can imagine my delirium. Here I am driving into this place gawking all around...first of all wondering which one of these resort-type buildings houses the "race headquarters," otherwise known as "Plump Jack's Inn." (Yeah, right. What kind of bad acid trip was THIS cat on?) Or, I guess I should also be looking for the "convention center." But of course all I'm seeing is "Olympic"-type stuff: "Olympic Sandwich Shop," "Olympic Opera House," (OPERA HOUSE??? What, are we all gonna SING???), "Olympic Sport Shop," "Olympic Cable Car Ride," and, of course, the familiar five huge Olympic rings which happened to be hanging on top of--what looked like--a "side road." "Hmmm," I think. "Maybe I'm on the right track. Or road. Or trail!" By the way, lest any of you have already forgotten, or (egad!) WEREN'T EVEN BORN YET, these "Olympics" of which every one of these buildings speak happened IN THE WINTER OF 1960! So, you know, even if we WERE supposed to be singing on race day, most of us probably wouldn't remember the words. I parked my little green Toyota Tercel [let me tell you, speaking of lost naval engagements of World War II, it only took 'em another 40 years or so, but the Japanese really have WON the War] and set about on foot to find either: a) that historical roadside marker, or b) Plump Jack's VERY un-Olympic sounding Inn. Or, of course, Plump Jack himself. [Wouldn't you just love it if I could tell you I found him? Sitting, what, behind a five-pound steak, quaffing a yard or two of dark English ale? Belching? Quoting Falstaff? And I could then ask him: "Yo, Jack. What WAS that acid you took back in the sixties?"] (OK, OK. Sorry for the tangent.) Anyway, I DID in fact happen to find the Plump One's Inn, and then I promptly and plumply plomped on in. What I plomped on into was, in fact, Plump Jack's Inn Shop. So, I go right up to the first sales-type guy I see, and go: "I know you've been asked this question a thousand times, but can you tell me where the starting line is for the Western States?" He goes, "Huh? What's that?" [I AM NOT KIDDING YOU ABOUT THIS. That guy who works there NEVER EVEN HEARD OF OUR EVENT! What I sincerely want to do, now, is go back and find the Plump One and say to him: "Hey, Jack, at the very, very least and as a kind of intelligence test for all your potential employees, make sure they've heard of THE WESTERN STATES 100-MILE RACE...BEFORE YOU HIRE THEM!"] Well, another more "seasoned" clerk (or manager?) came to my rescue and his relief by saying, simply, that the race gets started under those five Olympic Rings. [No doubt, on Saturday morning, to the strains of "Carmen" or "The Barber of Seville."] I go, "Is there a 'marker' there?" She goes, "I don't know." I go, "Thanks anyway." She goes, "We're having a sale on ski poles!" I go, "No thanks. No way." So finally, I walk the, what, one hundred YARDS from where that sales guy was standing and find myself underneath those Olympic Rings...and then I start gawking all over the ground, looking for a plaque or a marker or SOMETHING like what my buddy Bill told me he'd found there. I remember seeing in Life Magazine a few years ago a photo of THE MONUMENT which was placed at Woodstock. (You know, Yasgur's Farm, upstate New York...well, no, the FORMER farm of Mr. Yasgur. Nothing, I don't believe, has ever grown there since.) So anyway, this is the type of monument I'm gawking around the ground for, when suddenly my head practically bashes into a rock (hmmm, was this an omen?) and after regaining consciousness I suddenly look up and see: A ROCK. A BIG ROCK. A big rock with a plaque stuck on. I had found it! I was so overjoyed, I grabbed my pre-race manifesto (that very lengthy document, received a long time ago in the mail, whose instructions I had been following up to this point to, you know, get me safely to Plump Jack's Steak & Ale) and turned immediately to one of the FEW blank pages. And I knelt (this is hallowed ground, remember) and copied the words all down. This, ma fullo 'Muricuns, is ALMOST "exactly" what it says: --------------------------------------------------------------------------- [logo] START [logo] WESTERN STATES ENDURANCE RUN FOLLOWING THE EXAMPLE OF GORDY AINSLEIGH IN 1974, EACH YEAR RUNNERS FROM AROUND THE WORLD MEET THE CHALLENGE OF COMPLETING ON FOOT THE RUGGED 100- MILE DISTANCE OF THE HISTORIC WESTERN STATES TRAIL FROM SQUAW VALLEY TO AUBURN. 9000' /\ / \ /\ROBINSON (HA-HA) FLAT SQUAW | \ / \ ==== VALLEY| \/ \ /\LAST CHANCE (WHAT, TO TURN BACK?) | \/ \ /\MICHIGAN-AND-IT'S-NO-BLUFF | \ / \ ___FORESTHELL | \/ \ / \ /\ __ANOTHER SURPRISE | \/ \__/ \ / \ | \__/ \ __ HELL | \ / | | TRAIL PROFILE \__/ | SEA |__________________________________________________________| LEVEL 0 20 40 60 80 100 MILES SQUAW VALLEY USA PLAQUE DEDICATED ON 23 JUNE 1994 WESTERN STATES ENDURANCE RUN FOUNDATION --------------------------------------------------------------------------- OK, now: First, there was Gordy Ainsleigh. Remember Gordy? This is a story about Gordy Ainsleigh. Or rather, his "invention." I'm going to tell you much more about him (yes, I met him personally) in Part 2 of this brand-new nightmare saga, but pre-first (I told you there'd be a couple of these) I want to tell you how...AFTER IT WAS ALL OVER on Sunday afternoon, June 29, 1997...I was talking at some length to Gordy and his wife (or some other significant other) and, yes, even his mother, who were all sitting at a picnic table outside the lunchroom at Placer High School in Auburn, California (nice school!), watching Gordy eat. (Yes, it's fair to say that Gordy was also watching himself eat.) We were ALL supposed to be eating at the postrace feast, of course, but some of us got done before Gordy did (he's a BIG man!). [And let me just interject here that many of us might have beaten him through lunch, but he sure as hell beat MOST of us through the race!] So, anyway, I ask Gordy, "Hey, man, did you see that nice monument they have at the start line--with YOUR name on it?" He looks up between forkfuls and goes, "Huh?" "You mean, YOU'VE NEVER EVEN SEEN YOUR OWN MONUMENT?" "Where is it?" "Gosh, Gordy. I'm not sure. But it's back at Squaw Valley SOMEWHERE." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah. Ask the sales guy at Plump Jack's Shop. He'll know. Now." --- [Back soon with Part 2!] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com "THE ULTRA NUT"