From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER)
Date: Thu, 28 May 1998 02:59:28, -0500
To: ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU
Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 17

[Note from the Hue and Cry:  "GET THIS STUPID LEGEND OVER WITH!"]

[Author's response:  It's pretty sad when you're out there trying to run
something like the Ice Age Trail 50-Miler and somebody like Nikki Robinson
comes up from behind and kicks your butt, slaps some figurative sense into
your silly head, tells you you're waaaaaaay overdue with the next episode--
AND that only about two weeks remain before the gun goes off for the NEXT
running of the Western States 100-Miler--and then proceeds to bury you in
her dust.  So, OK.  This one's for Nik, who's told me time and again, by
the way, that I'm just a little bit better at writing than running.  Well,
I vowed there and then to "beat the gun" and actually finish THIS STUPID
LEGEND before 5:00 in the morning on June 27, 1998.  Wish me luck.]


                    The Snake of Volcano Canyon

Before I look ahead, here, now as I run out of Michigan Bluff (right)
leaving all this death and destruction behind me--the old mining town
converted to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (a.k.a. M*A*S*H unit)--and run
down the depths of Volcano Canyon, I'd like to tell you a little something
about running out of Michigan Bluff.  I'd like to, of course, but that
doesn't mean I will.

I'd like to leave THAT as something of a surprise for this year's runners.

Besides, I'm not sure I remember it.

Well, if I do remember it, it's nothing short of incredible.  I mean, the
trail they expect you to run on.  This stretch is incredible!  The rocks
suddenly become boulders, and the rounded corners of all the boulders
suddenly have points.  Sharp points.  And the trail is about 20-feet wide
and, I mean, it is FULL of sharp, pointed, big, HUGE ugly boulders.  And
there's no going around them either.  The berms on either side of the
"trail" are worse.

It's not so much a "trail" as it is a mid-block demolition site on the
South Side of Chicago.  I've had kids with gleaming knives chase me across
better surfaces.  The rocks and pebbles become busted bricks and broken
beams.  The points become daggers and the daggers get longer and multiply.
Runners with Air Nikes risk flat tires.  I'm not kidding.  Another note for
the WS novice on what to carry in your fanny pack:  Tire patch kit.  If you
forget, the M*A*S*H unit sells them for five hundred dollars.  Bring your Visa.

As I head out across this unfortunate consequence of non-partisan rural
renewal, I cannot believe how difficult it is to:  a) keep air in my tires,
b) have enough of it left over to breathe, c) stay on my feet, d) keep
moving, and e) figure out where the hell I'm going to come up with $500.
Immediately I think:  "Man, if it's like THIS all the way to Auburn, I am
M*A*S*H*ed!"  (Actually, that's not exactly the word I thought.  But it too
had asterisks.)

Fortunately, they only give you about a mile or less of South Side
"sandlot" ballfield to play on, and eventually you move onto even more
hazardous things.  Like snakes.

OK, now the reason why I mention snakes is because Mo Livermore mentioned snakes...

I gotta tell you about Mo Livermore.  There, I'm tellin' ya, is one first
class young lady.  I figure she's gotta be about THE Guardian Angel of the
entire Western States Endurance Run.  She takes care of you.  And she's
about to do me the biggest favor ever done to my sad an' "saury" a** when I
finally get to Foresthill--if I ever actually do get to Foresthill.

Anyway, when I had long, long ago first arrived at Squaw Valley and
attended some of those pre-race clinics Norm Klein had set up, there was
this lovely lady named "Mo" standing in front of the class teaching one.
And she was extolling the virtues of these unique Western States bandannas
(with the sponge inside) that you simply "dip in the streams" as you "leap
across" and wrap the cold soggy mess around your neck.  It keeps you cool
till you hit the next canyon.  Anyway, that's what she was talking about
(and, yes, she's such a good salesperson, I bought one) and, while she was
on the subject of leaping light-heartedly and -footedly across streams at
the bottoms of canyons, she just casually mentioned the dreaded "s" word:  SNAKES.

(By the way, look in the WS record books.  The reason Mo Livermore talks so
light-footedly about leaping across streams AT SIXTY MILES INTO THE RACE is
because she herself is such a great runner.  Look in the book.  She won the
damn race in 1981!  Or, well, her age group at least.  In 1981 some of the
rest of us were still high on Acapulco Gold and Boone's Farm Apple Wine.
We weren't running ANYTHING...except, maybe, from the sheriff.  And in 1997
at the end of June, I can tell you, I personally wasn't leaping about from
stream to stream light-footedly at all!  I was rather heavy-handedly
CRAWLING on all fours at the bottoms of those asterisk-spangled canyons.  I
was, however, keeping a sharp eye out for the snakes.)

Mo said, "Last time I ran the trail, I saw this big snake basking in the
sun at the bottom of Volcano Canyon."

Well, that was enough for me.  Only one kind of snake I know inhabits the
wilds of the High Sierra--RATTLESNAKES!  Imagine running through every
single canyon prior to that point terrified--not of the sheer steepness of
the canyon walls, but of what I might find every time I got down to the
bottom.  At the first canyon, I imagined: "Oh pooh!  A garter snake."  At
the second canyon, I thought:  "Hmmm.  Maybe a rattler."   At the third:
"A blanking, asterisk-splattered Diamondback!!"  At the fourth: "A fifteen-
foot Cobra!"  But by the time I got to Volcano, the fifth, it was:  "Sweet
Jesus!  A Python!  I'm gonna be crushed and swallowed alive by a Python!!!"

Of course, such stuff never fazed such a stalwart archangel as Mo.  No.
Mo's so tough, I don't think even the snake-infested Temple of Doom in that
'80s-something Indiana Jones movie could shake HER up.  Anyway, by the time
I got to Volcano Canyon, I completely forgot what she actually SAID about
the snake.  I only remembered that she said SOMETHING about "the snake."
'Twas enough for yours phooley.  I was positively petrified.

John "Tropical John" Medinger introduced Mo, and called her by that name
throughout her presentation, which is how I knew her name was "Mo."  After
selling me on the official Western States neck rag and scaring me half to
death with her rattlesnake story, I bravely approached her afterwards and
asked, incredulously, if her last name was "Bartley," for I just figured I
was standing in the presence of greatness.

"Oh no!" she laughed.  "It's Livermore."

"Well, I'm very glad to meet you," I said and slowly, by degrees, succeeded
in turning the rest of the conversation AWAY from reptiles.

And after speaking with me for about five minutes or twenty-four hours,
whichever was less (and earned the lesser buckle), she learned ('cause I
told her) that I was without crew or pacer or any-warm-body else to guide
my progress or ease my journey to Auburn.  And, voila!  It just so happened
that SHE was in charge of "Pacer Central" at Foresthill.

"Hey," she said.  "You never know.  If somebody shows up looking for
someone to pace," she said, "I'll connect you."

"Thanks!" I said.

"But," she added (and I thank her to this day for saying this), "you look
like you're strong enough to make it anyway."

Sure, I thought.  As long as there ain't no snakes.

Well, I'm gonna make this long and boring story only slightly less long and
a little less boring by telling you, quite simply:  a) I made it all the
way across the rubble field, b) all the way down the east side of Volcano
Canyon, c) across the ROCKS across the stream at the bottom, d) all the way
up the west side of Volcano Canyon, and e) all the way--almost--into
Foresthill without, yes, without so much as a single teensy-weensy rattling
snake sighting.  Phew!  After Volcano, I thought, there couldn't possibly
be any more snakes.  Could there?

Oh, the reason why I say "almost" is because I really and truly did see a
"snake" just before leaping and jumping light-hearted and light-footedly
into the thriving metropolis (civilization!!) of Foresthill.  I get all the
way there--almost--see, and here comes this little "snake" right up from
behind me and just passes my a**!  I was ahead of this guy for almost 62
solid miles...and here comes my nemesis (my "snake") named Tony McElligott!

"Gotta pick it up," he says, deliriously, as he trots right on by me like I
was trotting even slower, or something.  (After having the sh*t scared out
of me in Volcano Canyon, I was just glad to be moving at all.)  What a rat!
 Er, snake!

Here he's from Illinois.  HE'S the sumb*tch that talked me INTO DOING THIS
IN THE FIRST PLACE!  I met him at Boston.  He talked about 100-milers.  He
talked about how the worst feet of all human beings on earth belong to
people who run 100-milers.  Then, he throws this party in his backyard for
all the Illinoisans who ran Boston.  At that party he goes inside and comes
back out with a f***ing Western States entry form!

He goes, "Here, Pecos."  (Right.)  "You can do this, too!"

So, I beat him at Boston.  I beat him at Kettle Moraine.  And now the
"snake" recoils and kills me at Western States.

Ha!  Good thing I drank up all his beer, huh?  (And!  His liquor cabinet
full of after-dinner drinks to boot!)

Mo was right.  There's all kinds of snakes that come out at Volcano Canyon.

In fact, there's eight million of them.  And this...this has been only one.

[Author's note:  Quick!  Who remembers the old TV show "Naked City"?  If
you do, tell Tony.]

[Back soon with Part 18.]

Rich Limacher
The Ultra Nutty Troubadour
RDJT76A@prodigy.com