From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Fri, 26 Jun 1998 09:46:39, -0500 To: ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 23 [Editor's--or Somebody's--note: We've been pleased recently to receive inquiries about "the rest of this story." The nature of these queries, quite surprisingly, have not been "DON'T PRINT the rest of this story" but rather "WHERE can we FIND the rest of this story?" This is rather gratifying, and all of us here at Invisible Publishing are genuinely excited that *somebody* is reading this stuff. Generally, we were receiving only complaints. About things like sacrilege, language, content (athletic or otherwise), theme, purpose, relevance, meaning, taste, special favors on an individual basis, inconsideration, and frustration with the First Amendment which seems to permit such erroneous creativity in the first place. We've also noted recently that R.D.'s are receiving similar complaints. Thus, we share a bond. R.D.'s stage the events this author writes about, so that EVERYBODY can complain about both. Perhaps we should be thankful for this much, though: Generally, complainers don't issue their complaints in 24 parts over a year's time covering the same event. We have noticed how, over the course of a year, the complainers are now all different. We like that. That's progress. It shows somebody's moving on. Thank God. But, to answer the inquiries from all the good folks who're still with us, you can find "The Legend of Pecos Phooey" in its entirety on Stan Jensen's Web Page at: http://www.run100s.com/ (if you have trouble dialing that up, contact our good buddy via e-mail at: StanJ@run100s.com). But don't send him an e-mail NOW. He's at Western States!--where, last year, he took a picture of Pecos Phooey at the aid station at Robinson Flat. We're not sure that Stan is an R.D., but, for our money, he is most definitely a V.I.P. We like to remind everyone that ultramarathons do not come with guarantees that priceless assets like Stan Jensen will always--or ever--be there for our friendship, resource, and/or noted volunteering magnanimity. We should appreciate these people whenever they happen--and tell them so. If any complainer needs help with the composition of his or her e-mailed letter of gratitude, Mr. Phooey is available...after Saturday.] "Let's Give 'Em A Hand, People. Hey! They just ran a hundred miles!" The thing about No Hands Bridge--besides the horse poop--is that it is so very quiet yet seemingly surrounded by so much activity. So much traffic. In fact, so many OTHER bridges! Look on a map. Highway 49 has its own bridge. The railroad (if it's there) must surely have its own bridge. And it seems like other thoroughfares surrounding the area all have their own as well. I swear, Interstate 80 is near there and THAT has its own SERIES of bridges. I'm from Chicago. The scene around No Hands Bridge reminds me of the scene where a whole bunch of Interstates all spaghetti-bowl themselves just west of the Loop. The thing is, we run there too. That's where the Chicago Marathon goes. And yet, some-miraculous-way-how, the runners are never endangered by the traffic. There's OTHER streets and bridges, you see, that the tourists never see. And those are the ones we run on. Same way with No Hands Bridge. Another thing about "that bridge" is what almost nobody out there in cyberspace would know about unless you were enrolled in the Western States Endurance Run, volunteering for it, or connected with it in some other way. And that "other thing" is that, because No Hands Bridge nowadays serves almost nobody EXCEPT WS runners and, of course, all the king's horses and all the king's men, the State of California wants to tear it down. So, prior to last year's event (and maybe even this year's) we enrolled runners got lots of mail from Norm and Helen and the Western States board people, and so forth, emphatically URGING us to write to our (and their) Congressmen, Representatives, State Senators, and anybody and everybody else we could think of both in Sacramento and Washington DC in order to PETITION like crazy to not only KEEP the bridge but to RESTORE it as well. And, well, the third amazing thing about "that bridge" is that Norm was successful! The thing still exists, it hasn't been torn down, and I understand Congress or somebody has allocated funds to fix it up, paint it maybe, and, we gotta think, employ the use of a pooper-scooper. Now you know yet another reason why I did not want to quit until I'd seen that bridge. You see, I had done exactly what Norm asked. (Just imagine the enraged e-mail outcry if EVERY OTHER R.D. sent mail to his or her race enrollees asking them to write their Congressmen. Why, people might have a hemorrhage. They might pop a blood vessel right there on the spot. Right there by their mail box. Imagine the audacity of privately begging people to help out with a cause that will ultimately benefit those people themselves. Like "trail work." Heck, I'd done mine by volunteering at Kettle Moraine, and I had a blast. And, guess what. Kevin Setnes, KM100's R.D., was happy to sign my paper for Norm--and here he was, Kevin, enrolled now in the very same race I was! Of course, I never saw him. By the time I got to No Hands Bridge, Kevin had not only finished, showered and shaved, but he'd also gotten a good night's sleep!) So, I just had to see the "worthy cause" I'd petitioned Congress about. And, having now been worthy enough to cross it, I surely gotta write back and amend my petition to include the scooper. But finally, perhaps the last "thing" about No Hands Bridge is the aid station just before you cross it. They got great candy there! But I don't think they give any to the horses. No, finally, the real final thing about the bridge is that: hey, once you get there, you're still not done yet. You still got some 3.2 miles to go! (Give or take a couple of tenths. Look at the literature. It tells you that the actual distance of the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run is 100.2 miles. And I'm here to tell ya...that's right!) >From the bridge you have to climb yet another huge hill to make your way up to Robie Point and, I swear to God, you don't think you'll ever get there. There's even a couple of meadows you pass through which reminded me very much of that Kettle Moraine race. There's meadows there too. Except in Wisconsin, just after a little rain, those meadows are under water. Not so at Western States. But, in my delirium, I thought the flowers and cactus were the same. When you get close to Robie Point, guess what. Suddenly, and again without warning, you see something you haven't seen in a long, long while: sports fans. Yes, they come out there by the one's and two's. They cheer you. They say things like...what can they say? Near the end of a marathon, for example, they say, "You're almost there! You can make it!" Here they say stuff like..."Are you OK? Are you SURE you're OK? If you want, we can have an ambulance waiting for you on the road up ahead." No thanks. Steve and I come this far--we're not likely to bail out now. Besides, if we did, we thought, we'd still have to walk to the finish and, hey, if we did that, we'd finish! Ha! As Michael Jordan used to say in that stupid McDonald's commercial, "There's still plenty of time on the clock!" Well, I'm sure Steve will attest, I was moving so slowly by this point (Robie Point) that talking about running was pointless. And I was very guarded about my points. Like Mike, I became a point guard. (I WANNA SEE MICHAEL JORDAN RUN THE WESTERN STATES! I'll betcha THEN there wouldn't be so few sports fans out there, huh?) Oh, folks, the delirium was setting in fast. I grabbed a drink at the Robie Point aid station and asked, "Is Michael Jordan here? I swear I just saw him pull up on the trail in a stretch limousine." No. They pointed us toward pavement and said, "You only have about a mile to go." "WHICH WAY?" "That way." "ARE THERE ANY MORE HILLS?" "Oh, it's mostly downhill from here." "REALLY AND TRULY???" "Well, after this next little rise it is." Next little rise. Oh, baby. Here we suddenly found ourselves IN TOWN, in Auburn, on paved streets, and now, suddenly and without warning, we had to climb more hills. Actually, on looking back, if you or I were suddenly to run that stretch from Robie Point to the high school track--in the middle of a 5K perhaps--we wouldn't even notice the "rise." But, after 98.9 miles, stepping over a speed bump is like ascending Mt. Everest. I even felt like asking Steve for oxygen. In fact, I was gasping for air right along. More people! Lining the streets! Wow! The sports fans of Auburn were coming out in droves! (Actually, no. Turns out we'd come upon a couple of cheerleaders, walking down to their school for practice. Hell, what do I know?) "ARE WE THERE YET?" "Almost!" the girls answered. "WHERE'S THE TRACK?" "Oh, only about a mile and a half." I was chestfallen. (Of course, they weren't. They were too young.) All right, we had to run some more. (Yes, Steve URGED me to run. We had to make a good impression at the finish. I go, "Where's the Finnish? Are they sports fans?") OK, it was downhill--FINALLY--but it was still a lotta paved streets, lots of turns, not too many cheerleaders. (By the way, I should mention that those girls were walking. And they passed me up running!) Steve "sprinted" ahead (i.e., jogged to the corner) and said, "I see it!" Oh joy. Oh rapture. Oh my goodness. I don't believe it. We're here. We rounded the last corner, went down yet another little hill, and BURST through the gate onto the Placer High School all-weather 8-lane 400-meter track. Not. (Not "BURST," I mean. The track, of course, was real.) What we did was, we staggered. Well, I did anyway. What Steve did was his own damn business. They have this announcer at the stadium (well, all right, in the little "press box" above the bleachers) who I don't think is the regular Placer High School sports announcer. I think he was brought in for the event especially by Norm. Hell, I think he was a California Congressmen. He certainly had the voice for it. What a booming bass voice he had! (But now think about why I say what I just said. When do you suppose Tim and Ann and Kevin and the rest of the front runners finished? What, YESTERDAY? And this booming bass man, this marvelous sports announcer entertaining all the marvelous two or three sports fans...started announcing THEN? And he's STILL talking NOW? Isn't that a filibuster? Now do you see why I say he's from Congress?) And this is exactly what he said: "Let's Give 'Em A Hand, People. Hey! They just ran a hundred miles!" Yes. I did. And as I rounded the last turn (sprinting--NOT--for all I was worth) I kept watching the clock overhanging lanes 3 thru 5. It said my quarter-mile lap was 28 hours something. Oh, I got it. They were measuring my lap from Squaw Valley. So then, when I finally crossed under that thing, a miraculous "other thing" happened. The clock gave me a number even I could never forget. It clicked. I looked up. And it said (loud voice booming down from the sky): "28:28:28." Noon is happening in about fifteen minutes, Earthlings. Take cover. [Back--one more time, folks, promise--a little later with Part 24.] Rich Limacher The Ultra Nutty Troubadour RDJT76A@prodigy.com