From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Mon, 18 Aug 1997 03:29:06, -0500 To: ULTRA@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 12 Welp, frendz, Ah whone givs ya no ixscyoose fir nat ritin', butt Ah bin tinkin' n' tinkin' 'bout whutitiz Ah's spozed ta bee tellin' ya 'bout nixt, an den et fahnly dawn'd (dat iz, da sun cum up--jus' incase y'all ain't hip ta whut da "dawn" iz) dat Ah reelie oughter bee tellin' ya 'bout sumpin dat DINT happin' hafter Ah gotz otta Robbin-sons Flatz, wuch wuz dat Ah DINT git shot. (Ixspecshellie nat ba da Robber.) FORESTS N' HUNTERS Yes, friends, there is something I've been meaning to talk about all these weeks but just never seemed quite courageous enough to come up with the courage. The thing is (and I know nobody wants to talk about this--especially not race directors, sponsors, or Pubic Relations people--oops, sorry, that's PUBLIC Relations people) that much of our ultrarunning is done in deep woods, under deep cover, deeply...you know, where all the deeply hidden creatures live...and romp and play and have a good time--just like we do. But, the thing REALLY is, hey, if you're a hunter and if you've got a gun and you're interested in filling your "pot" for supper (literally?)... where ya gonna go? Who ya gonna call? Certainly not "ROASTBUSTERS." (That's us!) In order for a hunter, you see, to actually get to hunt where the stuff is that he'd like to "roast" in his "pot," he first has to grab his gun and go to where the deep woods are, which is also where WE are (which is also off limits to him, to be sure, but so is the "carpool lane" when you don't have any riders--and we all know how well respected THAT little law is, hmmm?), but HE doesn't want US busting up any of his hot roasting plans. So naturally all the Great "Wide" (pots, remember) Hunters don't want to be running into any of us who are running...but! My question, which I haven't even asked yet (because of all the Pubic Relations People) still remains the same: HOW WELL CAN THESE GUYS SEE??? Don't deer run? Don't pheasants? Quail? (Former Vice Presidents?) How 'bout raccoons? Squirrels? Grizzly bears? Rattling snakes? COUGARS!!! (Who remembers that INFAMOUS story about the Western States Trail a few years back when a cougar attacked and killed the woman runner...and then didn't some Great Wide Hunters actually go out and shoot the cougar? It made national headlines! At least among all the small-town papers that absolutely depend upon strange stories from the Associated Press or other wire services for their livelihood.) Well...OK, so how are WE to know on any particular day that there isn't some "bounty" out on the head of some cougar or rattling snake, or something, or, for that matter, how are we supposed to know that there aren't otherwise a bunch of combat-crazed ex--but now even wider--G.I.'s out somewhere within deer-rifle range looking to bag something for supper? And wouldn't WE look suspicious at, say, a thousand yards behind "deep cover"? And, hey, (I'll say it again) WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME THESE GUYS HAD THEIR EYES CHECKED? Oh, you friends and readers and lookers-at-pictures might easily argue that I'm being NEEDLESSLY squeamish, that these activities are STRICTLY OUTLAWED, and that all the rattled racing directors and pubicly interested public relations people have the day well under control, and that such a hunting-related mishap like shooting a guy named "Phooey" COULDN'T POSSIBLY HAPPEN IN A MILLION YEARS. "Oh, phooey," you say (NOW). "A hunting accident involving an ultrarunner? Ha! Named 'Phooey'??? Why, such nonsense couldn't possibly happen in a TRILLION years!" But I want to tell you TWO things that really got me to wondering.... First of all, as I was running along--happily, giddily, ecstatically!-- just so pleased to be such a small part of such a grand event as the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run and just shortly after Robinson Flat, well, I start noticing these, uh, "signs." You know, the kinds of signs you might see in your local woods or forests or trails where you might NEVER expect your local forest rangers or park police to ever be (and you think we're the ONLY ones who never expect this?); the kinds of signs that say stuff like: "NO HUNTING," or, "NO TRESPASSING--except by foot racers during a duly authorized foot race or by other wild animals at other times." Anyway, I did start seeing such signs along the Great Western States Trail, and none of them, of course, bothered me much, except for one small detail: THEY WERE ALL FULL OF BULLET HOLES! So, indeed, that was the first reason why I started to wondering.... And then when I pondered such phenomena as "no hunting" signs all pockmarked with buckshot or hollow-points or howitzer shells, well, it started to remind me of a scene I had seen last year in Mississippi. I had traveled there to do the inaugural (which is to say FIRST-EVER) Mississippi Trails 50K and 50-Mile Run which was to take place in the DeSoto National Forest in the, yes, deep, deep woods under deep, deep cover in the very, very early morning of a Saturday--protected, to be very, very sure by a myriad of permits which I'm sure Dr. Carl Touchstone could tell you much more about than I could. So, anyway, there I am driving along the deeply wooded dirt road to get there--to the FIRST-EVER Mississippi ultra to be staged in these deep, deep woods under such deep, deep cover in the very, very early morning--and SUDDENLY what to my wondering bloodshot early morning eyeballs appear??? You guessed it: HUNTERS. Lots of hunters! Lots of pickups and jeeps! Lots of camouflage outfits and fatigues and COMBAT BOOTS! And SHOTGUNS!! And RIFLES!!! (So, tell me these guys didn't look like ex-G.I.'s in the middle of the deep, deep, deepest part of some vast National Forest who didn't particularly feel any need for any kind of "permit" or who probably didn't take the time to investigate WHAT OTHER INNOCENT, FULLY PROTECTED BY PERMIT activity was scheduled to take place that day and who, anyway, were just out to blow off a little buckshot into all the "no hunting" signs!!!) You see now why I was a little nervous as I made my way out from Robinson Flat along the Great Western States Trail--the very same trail, I supposed, that my great-great-grandparents rode their covered wagons along and, yes, got SHOT AT! By some other kinds of Great "Skinny" Hunters! (That is, "great hunters of the skins off the scalps of wide ancestors," who were, to be sure, not quite as high tech as the wide skinned hunters of modern Mississippi.) "Oh gosh," I thought. ("Yeah, right," you think. "I'm SURE that's what you thought, Mr. Phooey.") Well, yes, come to think of it. "Oh gosh," is exactly what I thought. And then I thought, "Am I being a target here? Me in my largely WHITE outfit covering mostly WHITE skin with only this RED cooling-off officially- endorsed Western States bandanna around my neck which further serves to SINGLE ME OUT at, say, a thousand yards from all these stationary trees and bushes?" Well, don't YOU ever think about stuff like that? I mean, I'm not kidding. Those signs really and truly WERE riddled with bullet holes! And sometimes those signs were blown clean off the fence! Clean off their signposts! Sometimes completely--and cleanly--blown away from everything! Whoa! I think about signs riddled with holes. I think about Mississippi Trails in a HUGE National Forest where NO MAN had ever witnessed an "ultra footrace" before. I think about guns and ammunition and the ex-G.I.'s that I personally have known. I think about Vietnam. I think about how, to a somewhat disturbed former military guy with a gun in his hand--and NO RECENT eye exam--I probably do resemble a nice, plump, prancing Bambi out there beyond those trees somewhere just waiting and DESERVING to be his supper tonight. Sure! And I think about that guy's "pot" (and, oh brother, do I ever know about how THAT affects your vision!); and, well OK, then I think about his hungry wife and fifteen children and how he just got fired from his job at the post office and then he picks up his old M-16 and puts on his fatigues and combat boots for the first time in twenty years; and then I think... ...about the folly of "permits" and "police protection" and how ineffective our gun laws have been and how good the forest rangers are at collecting fees for permits and making sure everyone who normally obeys the law anyway coughs up with the right amount of cash to cover those fees and, well, then I think... ...about all the movies I've ever seen, you know, where the body is found--years later--in the deep, deep woods under deep, deep cover, usually by some hapless stranger like a runner, let's say, far into the future, who happens for a moment to wander off the trail to pee, let's say, or poop into his plastic bag and ends up peeing or pooping all over my jawbone (which is, after all, how they'll identify me far into the future, because of all my expensive bridgework). THIS IS WHAT I THOUGHT! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS THINKING ABOUT as I made my way along the Great Western States Trail out--and picking up speed all the way--from Robinson Flat. Talk about a "dead runner's society"... AND I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT TOO...until...what do you suppose I should chance to happen upon next? Wrong! No, I did NOT happen to come upon what you were thinking. I did not end up looking down the barrel of a long-necked gun. No. What I happened upon next was--believe it or not--a real tiny pair of bright blue shorts. Yes! THOSE shorts! And, for sure, I'd just recently had my own eyes checked. I guess I was moving so fast out of Robinson Flat that I really did...I finally caught up with my all-time fave female ultrarunner: the amazon girl with the shortage of cloth and the two extra cheeks. And... ...now that I've got your attention, you'll be sure to keep looking in your e-mailbox for Part 13, won't you? Hmmm??? [Just keeping you on your toes...and out of rifle range. Don't think of this episode as just another "bait and switch" advertising gimmick. Think of it as a hunting tip: I did, after all, manage to hunt down and finally catch up with a very tasteful, a very mature, "deer" who was very much in the heat.] [And so was I.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR