From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER)
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1998 09:36:37, -0500
To: ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU
Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 22

[Editor's note:  Work has fallen behind here due to work.  At least, that's
what the author tells us.  And his training is almost non-existent.  The
best we can get out of him is a promise to be finished by 5 a.m. Saturday.
This being 6 a.m. Thursday, we're expecting a flurry of activity within the
next few days.  Of course, any possible "advising" function or value this
might have for this year's runners at the Western States 100-Mile Endurance
Run is also non-existent.  We should imagine that, by the time you get
this, you're already gone.  Well, speaking on behalf of our author--as if
we could ever get him on the phone--everyone here at Invisible Publishing
would like to wish everyone there at the '98 WS100 a very successful race.
Be sure to start slowly and taper off.  And good luck to you!]


                          No Hands Bridge
                    (And Very Few Feet As Well)


Anyway, we finally did slosh our way out of the bone-chilling water and
suddenly--faced with two options: climb up or go back--we decided to opt
for the first and climb up the southern embankment of the Rucky Chucky.
(Don't ask me why they call it that.  It's the American River, Middle Fork,
I think; but maybe the name of the crossing itself is Rucky Chucky,
probably derived from the original Cherokee name when it was the Indian
River Bank, Canoe Branch, before the corporate takeover by the likes of
George A. Custer & Co.  The phonetic pronunciation of that original name,
I'm told, is:  rukKEEchukKEE, meaning "place where Cochise puked.")

The scene on the opposite shore was only slightly less Hollywood-like than
the "Close Encounters" location we'd just left and, frankly, we didn't give
a damp.  We were frozen and soggy and, since Steve was my pacer and didn't
have the chance to have them drop his drop bag, I also dropped the idea of
stopping to change my shoes.  Our reasoning was:  "We've got 9 hours to
cover 22 miles.  We gotta book!"

Besides, Steve reassured me since he's practically a native to these parts,
the air really is dry enough to dry out your shoes in no time.  Which is a
completely foreign concept to a usual runner in places like Wisconsin.
There you can tiptoe through a mud puddle and be soggy for a week.  But he
was quite right, you know.  There really isn't much need to change shoes
after plowing through the river.  You're like air-popped popcorn.  You dry
out as you leap all over the place.  You're much more likely to feel the
need to change your rations.  All the PowerBars et al. that you haven't et
yet and are still sitting at the bottom of your fanny pack are thoroughly
trashed.  You're not likely to "et" them now either.

We simply waved to the good folks who were volunteering on that side of the
river, waved to my untouched drop bag, and pressed on.  It seems we had to
climb this long, gradual hill to make our way up to Green Gate--which was
only a little over a mile-and-a-half away, but which took us, oh, maybe an
hour.  (I had started slowly, you see, and this was the tapering off part
of my run.)  And by the time we got there, I don't remember it.  So we
pressed on.

I did remember, however, something else I'd apparently read in my motel
room after picking up my packet the day before.  No, two days before.
("Packet" ha!  What they give you at Western States darn near fills up your
trunk!!!  I told you:  "You expect more from Norman, and you get it.")
What I remembered reading was that sooner or later the Western States Trail
turns itself into the Auburn Lake Trail, and so there I was looking around
for a lake.  Which is a nearly impossible task at 3 or 4 in the morning.
We could barely see the ground in front of us, let alone the surrounding
scenery.  And I remember speaking about this "new" trail to Steve, thinking
he'd remember it too, seeing as how he's practically a native to these
parts.  But he had no idea what I was talking about.  (Which puts him
solidly in the mainstream, no?)

But, guess what.  The vertical markers I'd been seeing periodically all
throughout the race--which said, of course, "Western States Trail"
(although, I swear, some might've said "Great Western States Trail")--now
suddenly without warning changed to: "Auburn Lakes Trail."  It reminded me
of how, in Wisconsin, the Ice Age Trail sometimes changes to the Nordic
Trail or John Muir Trail suddenly without warning, just like this.  You
know, somebody really ought to post a warning in cases like this, don't you
think?  Perhaps they should put another trail marker a few hundred feet in
front of the other trail marker, saying:  "WARNING!  Trail Name About To
Change Suddenly Without Warning."  You need to watch out for things like
that.  It helps to pass the time as you run or, in some cases, walk slowly.

Well, I don't remember much about the Auburn Lakes Trail either, so we
pressed on.

Oh, I do remember one thing:  Suddenly and without warning, it became dawn.
 (Dontcha think that God should give us a warning about dawning, too?  Huge
Voice From Sky:  "WARNING, EARTHLINGS!  DAWN IS HAPPENING IN FIFTEEN
MINUTES.  TAKE COVER.")  Yes, gradually it became daylight somewhere along
the Auburn Lakes Trail and I gradually turned my Petzl off.  (I've done
that to a lot of Germanic companions, as I recall.  Although generally,
they've split long before dawn.)

I never did see any "lake" though.

We were just moseying along, Steve and I, along this heavily wooded trail
(hence the reminder of Wisconsin, and Gerta) and gradually the sun came up.
 And it got WARM.  And, by the way, I never thought much further about my
shoes, which just goes to show you how quickly they dry out in this dry
climate after the river.  Even at night they dry out!  This is completely
unknown in Wisconsin.

But then, suddenly (and also without warning) it got HOT!  Here I was all
gussied up in my freezing nighttime peraphernalia (two shirts, one long-
sleeved; backwards Madison, Wisconsin, baseball cap; turned-off Petzl
headlamp; belt-mounted spare Maglight flashlight; and "Dream 100" official
Western States fanny pack...with a still soggy mess in the bottom) and
suddenly (without warning, natch) I was overcome with this overwhelming
desire to strip!  Whew!  Man, this was getting really warm inside all this
clothing!  But of course you have no place to conveniently drop this stuff
without losing it forever to the cougars and rattlesnakes, so best thing is
continue to lug it all with you.  Which, of course, makes it even hotter.

Wouldn't you know--here suddenly and again without warning--there's
traffic.  A road!  Up ahead!  With cars zooming by!  (People gotta get to
church, you know, it's Sunday.  Even in the middle of nowhere, maybe
especially in the middle of nowhere, they gotta get to church.)  Yes,
indeed.  We were coming into the Highway 49 aid station.  And (again,
natch) I don't remember it, so we pressed on.

(Wasn't there a Bob Dylan song about this road?  "God told Abraham, 'kill
me a swine.' Abe told God, 'well, that'll be fine, but where should I kill
that pig of mine?' God said, 'out on Highway 49.'")

(Ah, I seem to remember even less about music than I do about ultras.)

We pressed on.  And on and on.  Good Lordy.  The sun was comin' up HIGH.
The trail condition was gettin' worse.  The elevation was changin' ("I
wanna take you HIGHER").  And I was just a-sweatin' like Abraham's pig.
The trail went up and up and got to be endless.  The surrounding scenery
(which, of course, we could see very well) was almost sahara-like.  Mostly
dirt.  (No surprise there, right?)  And rocks.  Not many trees.  In the
distance, visible for a long long time, was Highway 49.  And, if you were
as delusionary as I was, God.

But then--and no, not suddenly, but anticipated for a long, long time--we
gradually crested the last long winding arid hill...and there, below us,
was No Hands Bridge.  With hardly anybody at all on or near it.  Sure, we
again had the usual enthusiastic welcome from the aid station volunteers
that WERE there, of course, but I just couldn't hardly believe the
emptiness of the bridge itself.  Not even a road-like road going across it.
No evidence of railroad tracks.  Nothin'!

You know what you find all over No Hands Bridge?

Horse turds.

But that's all, however.  The runners this year are safe.  They won't find
any remains of my own.


[Back quickly--suddenly and without warning--with Part 23.]


Rich Limacher
The Ultra Nutty Troubadour
RDJT76A@prodigy.com