From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 1997 10:33:22, -0500 Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 9 LOGIC vs. LOGISTICS Goll-leeeeee, frendz, et shore iz tuff ta keepup widdalla dis, huh? Ah bin reedin' alla disshere reedin' dat y'all allus be sindin', an' Ah hain't hardlee bin havin' no tahm ta be sindin' bak inny mar uh dissheer ritin' wuch Ah bin meenin' ta be sindin', butt fuss Ah's godda be's keeppin' up widdalla da ritin' uv alla dis ritin'! [Plus, I had a RUSH project that just HAD to get done. Otherwise? No pay. Which would mean? No entry fee money for another ultra. Which means? Utterly incalculable, catastrophic, utter and complete disaster. Unthinkable! Don't even think about it.] I gotta tell ya, I honestly believe that it's harder to CREW the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run/Walk/Climb/Crawl than it is to actually run/walk/climb/crawl it. And that goes for volunteering it as well. I mean, a couple of those aid stations...whew! How in the hell did ANYBODY ever get there? Fly? Airlift? Helicopter drop? Sign a pact with the devil...what? Maybe the Kleins know some Sherpas? You think maybe some of those Himalayan rickshaw guys with their yakkity-yaks get guaranteed green cards if they bring 'em over here to California at the end of every June? Heck, I think if the Department of Immigration made the same offer to the Indians of Mexico, even their burros wouldn't make it! Not even their burritos!! I asked the guy filling my water bottle at one of those aid stations on the way to Robinson (yeah, right) FLAT: "Man, how did YOU get here?" "We took the elevator," he smiled and said. "Congress made 'em make the course handicap-accessible." "Yeah, right." "Would you believe the Army lent us tanks and half-tracks?" "Yeah, right." "Hot air balloons?" "Hot air volunteers!" I said. "But thanks for the Gatorade." And I moved on. This is what I saw with my own eyes, way at the rocky top of one of those rocky mountain passes along the ridge of one of those horrible mountain ridges in the middle of one of those overgrown trail sections well within the middle of some other rather weird woods that not even the Indians (from America OR Mexico) had ever scouted before: A Chevy truck. And I remember saying to the runner in front of me, "Boy, now THERE's something you don't see every day! Who would ever expect to see a pickup truck stuck way up here?" "Yeah," he called back, "but notice--it IS STUCK!" (There was nobody else anywhere around it.) "Oh, it was probably some kid," I said, "in his old man's truck looking for a secluded spot to take his date." "Don't talk like that," he responded. "I HAVE a kid like that!" "You got a truck too?" "Yep!" "A Chevy?" "No, a Dodge." "Well," I said. "Trade it in for a Chevy!" "Maybe first I'll wait and see if that thing ever gets out of here!!" He made a good point. And, for sure, we'll all be looking for it next year, huh? If you see that same pickup on the top of that same mountain stuck in that same spot--only a whole lot dirtier and a lot more covered with rust--hey, keep your Dodge. Of course, you still might see if you could trade in your kid. A day or two before the start of the race, John Medinger gave a kind of "seminar" on crewing for the Western States. And even though I didn't have a crew, I attended his talk anyway. "You might be able to see your runner before Robinson Flat," he had said, "at Red Star Ridge. But that would mean you'd have to take Soda Springs Road. And don't even THINK of taking Soda Springs Road! It's impassible." Which, in my mind at least, begged another question. (Which, of course, I was too shy to ask him.) If Red Star Ridge is a legitimate aid station (which it is) and the only road to it is not "passable" (which it isn't), then how in heaven's name do the volunteers get there (with or without their supplies) to man the station? Which is why I was surprised to see anybody at all when I got there, and why I was prompted to ask that question. You remember (surely you remember the 7th paragraph of THIS episode:) the one about HOW DID YOU GET HERE? They made a pact, I swear, with The Dark Side. Probably the night before. Probably on Cougar Rock. Which reminds me of something else. HOW DID THAT PHOTOGRAPHER GET THERE??? === === ==== ============ === ======== For sure enough, when I myself finally found myself climbing up some godforsaken rocky ridge in the middle of absolutely nowhere in the middle of the mountains--in the middle of the CLOUDS (had there been any)--and one of the older gentlemen pointed out to me that we were about to ascend the infamous "Cougar Rock" where Ann Trason always poses for her picture for ULTRARUNNING Magazine...there, then...what do you suppose I see? A woman with a camera taking pictures. "Look up!" she says. I look up. "Smile!" she says. I smile. "Thanks!" she says. I thank. (Isn't that the past tense of "think"?) "Oh," she says, "that'll make a great picture for your mother!" I "thank." Or rather, I think: Fat chance of THAT. My mother doesn't even know I'm HERE! You think I'm gonna show her evidence? You see, there is this danger (which, so far, nobody's ever talked about) that we ultrarunners face constantly. It is the danger that our parents-- who worry about us constantly and who we've all been fibbing most of our lives and whom we have therefore never actually told how FAR we run, for fear of worrying them worse--will ULTImately find out "THE TRUTH." Well, of course, most of us never have to panic about this any more unless we do something really stupid like order the photographs with THEIR credit card, and so we shouldn't get all bent out of shape when some photographer asks us to "model" on top of some mountain in the middle of the morning in the middle of nowhere and close to the beginning of a ONE-HUNDRED-MILE race! (My mother would absolutely fall out of her rocking chair--backwards. My father, who doesn't hear so well, would go, "That's nice. What's for supper?") But that STILL doesn't answer the basic question: HOW DID THAT PHOTOGRAPHER GET THERE??? She would've had to have taken Soda Springs Road. And, well, maybe that was HER Chevy truck we saw. And guess what else? My "proofs" arrived last week in the mail. So, that must mean she and her Chevy got OUT of there, huh? You wanna know what I "thank"? I thank she made a pact with the cougar!!! [And I'm gonna come roarin' right back at ya soon...with Part 10.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR P.S. Float me a loan for EIGHTY bucks, will ya? In case I ever need some "evidence." You know, not for Mom, but for all these other people around here who don't ever believe a thing I write!