From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Thu, 18 Sep 1997 15:39:08, -0500 To: ULTRA@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 13 Welp, frendz, mah momma awliz dun tole me ta "wraht if Ah foun wurk"; so naw's Ah dun foun et, Ah giss Ah kin wraht agin. Dat wurk, bah da wey, dun tooked fur too dang long ta doo. So's naw Ah 'pollogize wonst agin. Butt heer's sumpthin' Ah jus' NOZE y'all kin git inn two: SHORTS It's funny what you think of during a hundred-mile race, isn't it? (Of course, those of you who haven't done a hundred-miler yet can't exactly answer that because you still don't know WHAT to think...about this or any other topic I'm about to tell you about. Of course, I know pretty well what some of you already think--some of you think that my previous worry about getting shot by hunters is completely unfounded ["People only get shot in big cities," you tell me] and others of you think that my talking about what the most attractive female runners are wearing [or not wearing] is almost completely obscene ["You're pathetic," you tell me]--but I had a relative once killed by a gunshot in RURAL Illinois and if I'M "pathetic" for being attracted to attractive women, well then...WHAT are YOU? Butt, I digress.) I am GOING to talk about these SHORTS, so help me, because of THREE very significant reasons: 1) They were IN the 1997 Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run, and neither Norm nor Helen saw fit to throw them OUT. 2) They were worn, for all I could surmise, by a very attractive foreigner who, herself, thought NOTHING whatsoever was wrong with wearing them; who doubtless wore them in races in her own home country; and who most probably still continues to wear them in races in her own home country without thinking anything whatsoever is wrong with it. And... 3) They were in front of me. I mean, RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. At that time, and for those precious many moments, I could think of nothing ELSE as worthy to think about...and, now that I think about 'em again, I can think of nothing ELSE as worthy to write about! Not even church. Not even God and country and apple pie. Not even the National Rifle Association. Yes, they were right THERE in front of me; for a long, long time; going up the side of that first mountain. And then--poof! They were gone. Vaporized? Gone in a gaseous state? A whisp of cheek? A cloud of smoke? A FART? (Lek?) [Oh brother! I can hear the critics screaming over THAT one!] So, I'd long since comforted myself with THREE thoughts: 1) I'm glad it's not Helen or Norm wearing those shorts. 2) Well, I suppose this "vision" of those shorts was destined to be my sole reward for getting up REAL EARLY this Saturday and starting the race on time...even though that vision, like most, didn't last. And... 3) The gal in those shorts is TALL, STRONG, and YOUNG. She is a powerful gal. God love her for that. And so therefore, like all such tall, strong, young, and powerful women in races I run in, she is destined to finish well ahead of me; and so that is therefore why I won't see those SHORTS any more! So now, just imagine my surprise when...somewhere near the end of the LONG, LONG gravel road (which constitutes, I suppose, our only travail with "Deep Canyon"--a misnomer if ever there was one; it should've been called "The Closest This Race Will Ever Get to Running on Stuff You're Used To") which leads eventually to the Dusty Corners aid station...there...I see, running waaaaaaaaay in front of me, what looks like, well, maybe...maybe it is, maybe it isn't...maybe THEY are...THEY ARE! THOSE ARE THE SHORTS!!! === And I'm gaining on them! Holy Moley! ("Holey Molly"?) Well, I started this episode out with a thought about thinking about all the funny thoughts you think about all along a 100-mile race. Uh-huh. And one of those "thinks" I thought about was this joke: Husband takes off his trousers, hands them to his wife and says, "Here, woman. Put these on." She does and, of course, they're way too big for her. He goes, "See that? That's only right. Because I WEAR THE PANTS in THIS family!" So the wife removes her panties and hands them to the ol' man and instructs him to do the same. He struggles, they don't even slip over his feet and ankles, and he gives up before ripping them to shreds, saying, "I can't get in these!" And she goes, "Yeah, and you WON'T either, until you change your attitude." So, I'm running along the long, hot, fairly smooth gravel road--playing leapfrog with an older guy (hey! how come HE'S running so good here? he keeps getting in front of me! does he know something I don't? like, maybe, what lies ahead, for instance?)--thinking profound thoughts of domestic harmony, marital power struggles, women's (and now, men's) "sufferage," and finally the unflagging popularity of rating panties (or is that "panty rates"? Er, "raids?")--when, all on a sudden, what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a miniature sashay and eight tiny drainhair... ["STOP!" I can hear some of you now. "Stop the presses! Stop the Internet! Hold up cyberspace! Who's in charge here? Get this Phooey the hell off this LIST!" Oh, I'm certainly giving my critics a field day now, aren't I? Imagine the obscenity! My gosh! Talking about stuff all of us have but aren't supposed to. Apparently.] Well, no sirens. No S.W.A.T. team banging on my door. So, I'll continue. What happens is, of course, the next aid station (Dusty Corners), and she gets in and out of there before I do. About this time I was really caught up in the "hunger phenomenon" (both sexes apparently experience this, but of course neither one is supposed to, apparently) and so I gorged myself on whatever sandwiches they had available. Imagine: ham & cheese! Turkey club! Italian meatball! Wow! This was better than the lunch counter at Woolworths! "I'll take two of everything!" I said. (And they obliged!) [And let me just say one more time that, hey, without these wonderful, wonderful people volunteering to work all day long--and night too, if need be--at these aid stations, well, you and I would have no race. There could be no such thing as an ultramarathon. There would be no "Phooey." And, well, no critics either. Hmmm... No. Can't think like that. If I can endure the ancient sacred rigors of the Western States Trail, then I suppose I can put up with a couple of bible-thumping holier-than-thou's in the present day. It comes with the territory. You put your ink out there; they smear it.] Wonderful sandwiches! Mayo, butter, and PB&J all smeared just right! I left that station feeling like a satisfied customer at Walgreens. Only thing missing was the milkshake. Apparently, my sweetheart in the heart-stopping bright blue short shorts is a faster eater. (!!??) She left well ahead of me, as I indicated, and I didn't see her farther down the trail. Until I suddenly came around a bend in the trail where the trail bended...and there she was! Sitting. Off on a log at the side of the trail with her shoe off. "Wow, babe, can I slide over there next to you on top of that log?" is what I DIDN'T say. "Are you OK?" is what I DID. "Stone," she said. "Oh, you picked up a stone in your shoe?" "Ja." Ah! First hint that she was foreign. "Well, honey, let me just sidle on over and kiss that sore foot of yours and make it all better" is what I DIDN'T say. "Well, good luck! Have a good rest-of-the-race" is what I DID. "Ja, danke," is what she did too. And so, I pressed on. Which then suddenly occurred to me as presenting a whole new raft of problems. And, at the moment, I could think of three: 1) Maybe she'll rip those shorts on that log. 2) Ack! A blown opportunity! I forgot to bring along paper and pencil for her to write her name, address, and phone number on! 3) Now I'm in front of her! Ack! Ack!! Unless I slow down and let her pass, I'll never see that beautiful vision again! I needn't have worried, of course, about problems numbered 2 and 3. In the first place, I asked myself how many international phone calls I've made in my lifetime and came up with the astonishing number of zero. In the second place, I asked myself how likely I was to keep up this "blistering" pace from about mile 42 all the way to the end, and all the while holding off this gorgeous Amazon with more power in her nostrils than I have in my entire body? And the answer I came up with was the astonishing "zero likelihood." But Problem Number 1 COULD present a problem. I reflected for a time on how singularly UNprepared she was. She wore no pack. I think she carried but one water bottle in her left hand. She was REALLY leaning over to fix that foot problem (I told you my heart stopped, didn't I?) and, by so doing, I couldn't help but notice how she wasn't wearing...um...a jogbra? Then, of course, she had on THOSE SHORTS. Maybe a pair of socks, maybe not. I wasn't counting socks. And two shoes. Sum exhaustive total of my sweet foreigner's entire collection of accouterments: 4 clothes, 1 bottle. (And I was worried because I had no crew.) Well, it wasn't long before I realized that, actually, none of those three problems were going to be problems. Why? Because, suddenly, there she was! Now she was sidling right up next to me! (Or, maybe she was just passing on the left.) "Hey, baby, what're ya doin' tonight after you're done runnin' around" is what I DIDN'T say. "Um...is your foot OK?" is what I DID. "OK," she answers. "You found the pebble that had gotten wedged inside your shoe?" "Not so good Englisch," she says. "Oh," I say and think a minute. "Deutsch?" "Ja, Deutsch." O-boy. Now, on top of everything else I've got to worry about...NOW I've got to worry about conjuring up my high school German lessons! "Alzo gut," I stammered. "Ich heisse Ricard, und sie?" (I'm trying to remember how one introduces oneself in German. Lesson One, Page One.) "Ich heisse Heike." "Heide?" "Heike." "Hike-ye?" "HEIKE!" "Oh ja," I say. "HEIKE!" Like I know what the hell I'm talking about. It was only later--much later--in the Super 8 (no, sorry, alone!) after the race that I looked up in Norm's official program among the listed entrants and found--ah ha!--a "Heikki"! But, it was only later--much later--in the comfort of my own airplane seat that I realized "Heikki Ingstrom" is from Utah. And! "Heikki Ingstrom" is also...a man. And of this much I was very, very sure: This is no "man" who's been running next to me. "Alzo gut, Heike," I say. "Sind sie vom Deutschland?" "Ja." "Woraus?" She then proceeds to announce what seemed to be a fairly well rehearsed string of German words, all intending to tell me where in Germany she is from. I don't understand a word of it. And I badger her (badly) about it over and over, until she finally says something I THINK I can understand. She tells me where her home town is situated. "Zwei hunnert kilometer sudlich vom Berlin," she says. (200K south of the capital.) "Oh," I go. "Danz gut!" I then proceeded to recite whatever I could remember from Lesson One, Page Two (let's see...was that THIRTY years ago?)--which wasn't much--and she then proceeded to pull away from me. "Ah," I remember saying to myself. "The VISION is restored!" It did seem, now that I think about it, that she really and truly wasn't much interested in making idle conversation with some Yankee dork who was brutalizing her native tongue. The "dork," of course, had other ideas pertaining to that native tongue... But it was not to be. I imagined she'd been propositioned MANY, MANY times before--including before, during, and after races--and in MANY languages and in MANY countries. So, I figured if the likes of Omar Sharif or Sean Connery or Mikail Barishnikov had doubtless thus far been unsuccessful, what chance did I have? I let her go ahead, content to enjoy yet another fairly long, continuous, uninterrupted gaze at my cherished "vision," shorts though it was. [There is, however, more to this story, and I shall be back with it soon in Part 14...provided, of course, I'm not arrested, sued, enjoined against, injunctioned upon, or served with a summons in the meantime. Or, much to the delight of some of my most favorite folks, removed forever from this LIST.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR P.S. Stan Jensen, one of the all-time good guys and in whose debt my inclusion on his website remains and continues, has actually provided me with the actual name of Heike's German home town, which I shall be happy to pass along to you, too, just as soon as I find it buried under here in my hard drive. Um, yes. But alas, neither one of us has her picture!