From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER)
Date: Wed, 17 Jun 1998 02:32:59, -0500
To: ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU
Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 18

[Note from common courtesy:  Gosh, I'm speechless.  (Good thing I'm not
"talkin'" all this, huh?  Just writin' it is bad enuf.)  But I'm speechless
because of all the good wishes that were sent to me, both on- and off-list,
regarding my iron-poor blood.  Thanks to all wonderful and generous listers
who expressed expressions.  I'm not sure I need that Geritol yet, but I am
otherwise grateful for all your grate help.  Despite the recent raging
"late entries" controversy, I have always believed that the people who
subscribe to this list are among the best, friendliest, and most helpful
people on the planet.  Things I have done to remedy my lack of ferrousity:
1) bought an iron skillet from the Salvation Army Surplus store, 2) saved a
week's worth of sheet metal shavings from my drill press, 3) cooked them up
in the skillet over low heat with grommets of New York tent stake and
slices of METRA rail.  Mmmm.  Now, when I go to the fridge, all the magnets
jump off and stick to my stomach.  I'll be non-anemic in no time.]

       Foresthill Aid Station: Emergency Surgery w/ My Pacesetter

The thing I just realized I forgot to tell you about was that Western
States almost killed me.

Well, all right.  Actually, I was the victim of a land mine that crippled
the left foot and almost got separated from my unit.  I was on sock patrol.
 Intense field maneuvers--recognizance, you see--when all of a sudden I was
bushwhacked by a slacklash in the forefoot and fire in the rear.

Blisters.

I'd never experienced them before in shoe camp.  The thrill sergeant who
broke me in to this outfit warned me about them, and so did the medics, but
I paid no attention and went blithely about my training.  I ran my 440s.  I
did my miles.  I ran double-time.  I ran errands for the sergeant.  I was
the only recruit still running most of the time--mostly due, of course, to
most of the troops being done long before I was, and lying back resting on
their bunks in the buttocks, waiting for revelry.

But THIS time...my number came up.  I was ambushed.  The sneaky snippers
that lie in your sneakers shot a couple huge holes in my foot, and I was
starting to struggle out there on maneuvers.  I called for the corps men,
but they were evacuating elsewhere.  I called for my sergeant, but he was
in fatigues.  So finally I called out for Norm and his Air Rescue--but then
quickly remembered the hourly price tag--and so decided instead to shut up
and suffer in silence.  Which is why I never told you about my blisters
until now.

And, no, I'm not mentioning it now just to give me an excuse for being
passed outside Foresthill by Tony, my fellow Illinoisan, who proceeded to
blow the rest of my doors off from that point to the finish...but I'm
getting ahead of myself.  No, the point is, that horrible, rugged, ROCKY
and rooty Western States Trail just punished my feet much harder than
they'd ever been pushed around and shoved before, so naturally you'd expect
at least one foot to blister like my tool shed after a cheap coat of paint.
And you're right.  It did.  Sears Weatherbeater notwithstanding.

I figured I was in trouble probably as far back as Devil's Thumb--in fact,
that's the darn climb that probably did it--and I also figured that if I
didn't get some help at Foresthill, I probably wasn't going to make it to
Auburn.  But...amazing memory!  I'd seen the M*A*S*H Unit at Michigan
Bluff, and so I probably figured there'd be some kind of medical help at
Foresthill.  I was right.

Oh, man!  What a scene!  This thing was HUGE!  I mean this was no M*A*S*H
Unit.  This was Division Headquarters!  With Walter Reed Army Hospital on
the grounds!  (Norm spares no expense, friends.  He's like Amoco.  "You
expect more from Standard, and you get it.")  I staggered into 5th Division
Headquarters and struggled to bleat out a request for a nurse, only to be
quickly solicited as to the true nature of my problem and immediately
directed to a podiatrist!  And not just one podiatrist, but a whole squadron!!

"Oh, doc," I said when one came up to me, "am I ever glad to see YOU!"

"Siddown, son," he said, and not in an unkind way either.  This is just my
way of spicing up a story.  "Wherezit hurt?"

"My left foot," I said.

"Good movie," he said.

"Yeah, but it still hurts pretty bad," I said.

"Isn't that what Ebert said?" he said, "or was it Siskel?"

"MY FOOT, DOC!  It hurts NOW!  Fix the blister, PLEASE!"--is not what I
said.  No.  I said: "Please, kind sir?  Pretty please?  The bottom of my
foot hurts me awful.  And if you can't help me, doctor, I'm afraid I can't
finish the race."

"Relax, kid," he said.  Or, well, he probably didn't say "kid."  I think he
was a volunteer intern.  Probably wasn't much more than a kid himself.
Hell, I was probably old enough to be his father!  I shoulda called HIM "kid."

Well, to take the "spice" away from my story and insert a little truth here
and there (you expect "truth" from a guy named "Phooey"?):

1) He was a magnificent podiatric intern.
2) He fixed my foot very, very well.
3) I have no idea what he was doing "down there," but it sure felt good.
4) No, I did not climax.
5) But I sure came close.

While I was seated in that lawn chair with my leg propped up and the
podiatric high priest performing an emergency exercystem on my sole, I used
the opportunity to:

1) Offer up incense.
2) Sacrifice a virgin.  (Me.)
3) Say the rosary.
4) Change clothes, and
5) Rehydrate like crazy!

(What, did you forget this was a running race?  Did all the spice of my
story confuse you?  Don't you realize that this is nothing more than a
grossly overly repetitious 10K?  And once I got up off that chair, I was
really gonna have to book it?  Hey!  There's a 30-hour cutoff here and I
was only sitting at the 62-mile mark!  And hey...it was getting real DARK!)

A couple more things happened while I was being resuscitated at Foresthill:

Helen Klein came up, said hi, and REMEMBERED ME!  She called me by name!

(I know what you're thinking:  She came up and overtook me on her way to
the finish line.  But, no.  She was just volunteering at the aid station.
What a gal!  She makes we wish I were even older than I am!  I'm tellin'
ya, if I were only alive during the '30s and '40s, hey... well, hey.  I'd
have probably had my butt blown off in World War II!!!  So much for
anachronistic pre-war romantic fantasies.)

Mo Livermore came up, said hi, and REMEMBERED MY NAME!  Hoo boy!  Wow!
Hey, I WAS alive during the '70s and '80s!  So how come I never met Mo?

(I know what you're thinking:  Because she was at the FRONT of the pack,
that's why!!!  So much for post-hippie substance-withdrawal drug-impaired
blacklit lustful college male phantasies.)

Anyway, guess what?  This was "Pacer Central," Mo was in charge of it all,
and she'd just found for me a volunteer pacer!  Yes!  A PACER to take me to
PLACER County!  ("You expect more from Norman, and you get it!")

I reattach my shoe.  I stand up.  I thank the good doctor.  (Really!  I was
so damn happy, I practically kissed him!)  I finish gearing myself up out
of my drop bag for nighttime maneuvers. I grab another army-issue beverage.
 I eat another ration.  I rezip the drop bag and Mo-sey over.  I follow Mo
to the 5th Division, Volunteer Battalion, Pacer Central.  She introduces me
to my pacer.  His name is Steve.  He is a very, very large man.  I look up.
 I salute.

"Holy Haikeem Olahjuwan, Batman!  This guy is HUGE!!!"

But, what a guy.  What a great pacer.  [Look elsewhere on this very list.
He's Steve Reagan.  Hell, I introduced him to the list!  Don't ever "flame"
him, OK?  Promise?  Flame me instead.]

Anyway, after saluting, being briefed, and hydrating sufficiently for the
mission, my new thrill sergeant Steve and I set out down the road out of
Foresthill Headquarters and soon plunged ourselves deep into the savage
nighttime jungle...watching out for snipers at every turn.

And (of course) singing hippie anti-war protest songs every step of the
way.  "For it's one-two-three, what're we fightin' for?  Don't ask me I
don't give a damn, next stop is..."

...Auburn.

By golly.  Auburn or Bust!  (By the way, what IS that town called "Bust"?)

Actually, no.  There's LOTS more stuff happenin' between here and Auburn.
Lots more jungle.  And even...yes, "snippers" from Germany.  In blue shorts!

[Back--soon!--with Part 19.]

Rich Limacher
The Ultra Nutty Troubadour
RDJT76A@prodigy.com