From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 1997 02:58:24, -0500 Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 2 PREFACE TO THE PREFACE Welp, frendz, naw Ah'll shurely duz rekkunize Ah gots a tale ta keep tellin' ya, but Ah awslo reeelize summa yoo ain't payin' atenshun. Judging from some rather incredibly myopic comments (well OK, one) fired back following my first foray into this brand-new legend, I get the uneasy feeling some of you fine folks don't really understand the significance of my very first sentence: First, there was Gordy Ainsleigh. Let me put that in plain English for you: Gordy was FIRST. ----- --- ===== OK, this means that this man was THE FIRST MAN to, no, not walk on the moon or make a cheeseburger or invent a sandwich or slice up a loaf of bread or even pitch a no-hitter in the World Series. No. This man was THE FIRST MAN (to my knowledge, at least) TO RUN A HUNDRED MILES. Now, let me put THAT into perspective for you. Anybody done a marathon lately? (No, 'course not. That's kid stuff anymore, right?) Well, all right, you USED to do 'em, I'll bet, and whenever you USED to do them you were literally following in the footsteps of Pheidippides, the, uh, ancient Greek soldier who first ran from the Plains of Marathon to the town square of Athens, only to stumble and fall on somebody's discarded beer can and utter with his last dying breath "Rejoice, we conquer!" and cough up his guts and die. Or, something like that. [His death, after what later proved to be only about 25 miles--or even less--could only later be explained by the facts that: a) he wasn't from Planet Reebok, b) his military-issue flatboard sandals with leather straps gave him blisters, c) Thor-Lo's weren't invented yet, d) he was the lowest-ranking non-com of his unit, e) he was the lousiest runner in his high school class, f) there were no running-club-sponsored water stops, g) he drank olive oil instead of water, h) actually they all TOLD him to drink olive oil but he drank Uzo instead, i) he forgot his Wheaties that morning, and j) two words: NO PowerBar.] And so then, about two or three thousand years later, some Count, or Discount or bank teller or something, from France decides to bring back (cough up?) this great feat (on foot) of Pheidippides (even his name sounds appropriate: "Pheet-hup-hip-is-these"); and he thus gave birth (?) to the Modern Olympics which, in turn, gave afterbirth to the modern marathon. [This stuff should be well known to you. Come on!] Then, the following year after that: we have the birth (by Caesarean, certainly) of the Boston Marathon. And the rest, as they say, "is history." [Which reminds me of all this current debate among our LISTmembers about entry fee increases and "volunteer/mandatory trail work" and such like at the Western States, starting soon. Or, now. Hey, anybody run Boston lately? (Still "kid stuff"?) Anybody object to THEIR recent fee increases? Let's see, at Boston now for just under half the WS100 fee, you get: one-fourth the distance on NO soft surface, to qualify is twice as hard, the overall expenses (big city, downtown hotels, taxis, restaurants, and ZERO discounted plane fares) are easily THREE times as much, AND... you've got corporate sponsorship up the ying-yang! (And, Lordy, don't I WISH all I had to do was some volunteer road construction to help get me into Boston!) I figure, hey, race directors can do whatever the heck they feel they have to do--and the very same holds true for us runners. You dance, you pay the piper. You want in their race, you cough up. Remember, you're following in the footsteps of Pheidippides. Which brings us right back to Gordy.] That MONUMENT at Squaw Valley, which I quoted to you at great length last time, SAYS that WE ARE ALL FOLLOWING IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF GORDY AINSLEIGH! Have you no concept of what this means, ma fullo 'Muricuns? It means that the Pheidippides of ultrarunning is alive today and WE ARE WITH HIM! We are contemporary with another maker of history! Just think: in another two or three thousand years, when some other French Count, Discount, Viscount, Vyecount, or bank teller shall happen upon the scene and suddenly want to revive the "ancient" sport of ultrarunning and put it into THEIR Olympics...why, uh, where you think they gonna go and..."who they gonna call"? Well, all right, I'll grant you that Plump Jack will no longer be answering his phone...but I'll bet you they end up back at Squaw Valley! And they'll STILL have that Olympic Opera House! And everything ELSE "Olympic" from nineteen hundred and sixty, A.D.! And they'll all still be reading that monument! And whose name is ON THAT MONUMENT, sports fans??? Yes. First, there was GORDY AINSLEIGH. And for two or three thousand years afterward, everyone who runs a hundred miles is, and will be, running in HIS footsteps. He is our Ultra- Pheidippides. The man should be famous. They ought to call the event: The "Gordathon." Aw, hell, knowing how history screws stuff up, they'll probably end up calling it the "Auburnian." Emphasis (I can see the mouths of the future coaches now) on "the BURN." Yes, we're running in Gordy's footsteps. His...uh, as he told me later... size 14 footsteps. And there I was, on race day morning, huffing and puffing up the Squaw Valleython mountainside, looking straight down at the feetsteps in front of me...and they were Gordy's. They were Nikes. Size, as he told me later, 14. [I told him later he ought to be SPONSORED by Nike...to the tune of a couple hundred grand a year. Then he told me he'd rather be running in Addidas, but in his favorite style they don't make his size. So, hey, anybody work for Addidas out there? TAKE THE HINT!] Can you imagine the marketing hype for the PAST two or three thousand years if those ancient military-issue flatboard sandals with leather straps that "our boy" had worn from the Plains of Marathon had been manufactured by Addidas??? Instead of Uzo??? Anyway, there I was, quite literally following in THE VERY footsteps of Gordy Ainsleigh. And I looked up and recognized him from his picture in Norm's program and from Norm's introducing him on stage the previous day. And I asked, "Are you Gordy Ainsleigh?" "Yep." "Wow. Gordy. (Huff puff) I'm glad to meet you!" "And who are you?" "My name's Rich Limacher, and I'm nobody famous of course, but I did want to (huff) mention something to (puff) you." "Oh yeah? And what might that be?" "Well, that when you were doing this for the first time back in August of 1974 (huff puff), I was very, very close to here myself." "You were?" "Yeah. I was on a motorcycle. A (puff puff) cross-country trip of my own. In August of that year I was tooling down Route 89 on my way to Tahoe City, and I passed right by here." "No kidding." "LITTLE DID I (huff puff huff) REALIZE that (huff puff) just 23 years later...here I'd be...doin' (huff tuff) all this again...ON FOOT!" Well, you know, really and truly Gordy did not seem to be all that impressed. (I found out later what a skilled motorcyclist he himself had been, which is probably why.) Anyway, he and I continued to talk little pleasantries until I could no longer keep up and he, literally, left me in those (fading) footsteps of his. But before we separated, I told him I was just a "troubadour" and wanted to sing his song and make him famous. "What's a troubadour?" he asked. "Oh, you know, one of those Middle Age-type guys (like me) who used to go from town to town in Europe singing and telling stories of all the great knights. And, well, days too, I suppose." Gordy thought for a moment and then came out with: "In days of olde When knights were bold And toilets weren't invented, They dropped their load Beside the road And went away contented." "HA!" I laughed. And he plod on. And THAT, my friends, shall now go down in history as THE profound speech of our hero, our knight in shining shoes, our Ultra-Pheidippides. Our Gordy. The original cat that took the most mind-boggling bad acid trip of all time! [Back soon with Part 3] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR