Date: Wed, 1 Mar 2000 13:10:12 -0600 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 19 "Look What We Found In The Park" "Look what we found in the park in the dark. We will take him home. We will call him Clark. He will live at our house. He will grow and grow. Will our mother like this? We don't know." --Theodor Seuss Geisel (a.k.a. Dr. Seuss) "One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish" (1960) [Note of silly serendipity: Dr. Seuss, like all these posts, also went to Dartmouth] So, I'm back on trail, running along munching what's left of my PB&J and trying like crazy to pry the top of my mouth up off the peanut butter. I've already tried prying or sliding this brown cement down to the bottom of my mouth, but, no soap. Next, I try substituting Coke for mouthwash, figuring I might unstick the stuck stuff that way. All this does is ruin a perfectly good half-cup of Coca-Cola; the peanut butter is still mortared solidly in place. I figure, what's the use? I'll eat it later, if it ever loosens. If it doesn't, I'll just donate the palate for braces to whichever dentist can pry it off afterwards. Did you ever notice this about peanut butter? Have you ever been so dehydrated during an ultra that almost any food you take in just glues itself to the roof of your mouth? Well, when that happens, I just try to think of it as an all-day sucker. It's kind of like dessert for being a good little boy. You know, for sucking it up and not complaining. I pitch the empty Coke cup in the black plastic bag lashed to the fence post on my way out of Dodge. I'm on my way again with my mind at ease. My pacer is here with the Hatchetman. Maybe I'll see them again before Oberg Mountain. This gives me something to look forward to. And guess what else? Here I round a couple of bends, whack my way through a couple of bushes, go over a little hill and dale, turn a corner, look down the trail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Why, there's Old Sultan Sloe and His Piddlers Three! Well, whuddaya know about that. I'm gaining again on Muhammad Dad. Hmmm, I think. "Too long in the wasteland." They must've hung around the Caribou Creek Aid Station longer than I did. Maybe they had to wait for a dentist. I creep up behind Dad and ask, "How far is it to Oberg Mountain, anyway?" "Don't really know," he says. "We're stopping at Carlton." "Oh, so you folks are just doing the fifty?" "That's right. And that's enough! It's the first one for a couple of these gals." "Well, good luck to you!" I say, smiling to myself, as I scoot around him. But now, of course, I have to run down his three "gals." First, I struggle to catch up with the yellow one. (This is not any kind of racial slur. She's wearing a yellow outfit. Well, possibly only yellow shorts.) "Is this your first fifty?" I ask when I close ranks. "Yeah," she says. "How you doin' so far?" "Good," she says. "I think you've over halfway there!" "Good," she says. "I can't wait." I realize I'm asking for trouble later, but I'm so close on her heels that I feel I just have to ask if she'll let me pass on the left. She lets me, so I go. I hope every one of you realizes the "danger" of this. If you don't, allow me to shovel some enlightenment along the path in front of you. If you are somewhat old, like me, and you happen to come upon someone young, like her, you cannot assume that this person is "spent" or that she'll disappear forever behind you once you pass. She is most likely just having a short concentration lapse, and later, when she snaps out of it, she'll fly past your ass like two pints of past-your-eyes'd milk on a high-speed conveyor. I can't even guess how many times I've passed a young person during an ultra who looked like death warmed over, only to experience sometime well before the end that same individual flying by to finish far in front of me. My own personal hatchetman, mentor, and coach has said, "It's like Lazarus rising from the dead." Very often later in the race, after slogging through a "down spell," you--and sometimes even I--can experience "The Lazarus Effect." If this is miraculous (and this always seems to be the case) then over the course of five years of ultrarunning I have personally witnessed more miracles than the whole Catholic Church. And every damn one of them was a young girl in a tiny yellow outfit flashing her pints past my ass, after I had first passed hers five hours ago! Or, she could also be wearing a sexy black singlet or jogbra, like the second of the three that I'm coming up behind now. "You doin' the fifty, too?" I ask when I'm almost even with her shoes. "Yep," she says, "Sure am!" "Is it your first?" "Nope. I've done them before." "This one?" "Nope. This is my first time here." "Well, good luck to you." And then I commit the cardinal sin, and pass her. But then I hear behind me, "Are you doing the fifty, too?" "Naw," I pretend to proclaim with panache, "I'm doin' the hundred." "Wow," she says. "You're a REAL man!" "Ha! Then how come I'm last?" "You're not last. You're in front of me!" "Ah," I say, "but you're in a different race! And I started an hour before you!" "Well, don't let me hold you back." "No, and don't you pass me again either!" "I promise." "You promise?" "I promise." "You're lying to me, just like all your older sisters have always done--for years!" "I don't have any sisters." "No? Then who are these other two you're running with?" "I have no idea! We're just running together." (Well, there's THAT theory shot to hell.) So then I turn and ask, "Is that man behind us your father?" "Who?" "Your dad!" "Ha! I don't think so!!" "Well, just don't tell me *I* am, and we'll be fine." "Don't worry, you're not." "That's good." "Well, good luck in your hundred!" "Thanks! Save me a beer at the finish!" Right away I'm regretting the "panache." I look ahead and there's gal number three. I resolve then and there to--if I have to--simply step around her without making an ass of myself. I just know these three girls, at least, are destined to come back and haunt me. I come up behind the lead gal and she suddenly stops! "You don't have to do that," I say. "Yes, I do." "Why? You're running very well." "I have to pee!" "Oh. Sorry." "It's not YOUR fault!" "Well, heh-heh, I hope everything comes out all right." (I can be such a wiseass sometimes.) "It will. Don't look!" "I won't!" And I'm gone. Hmmm. I'm thinking, Maybe Hihowarthya was right. Maybe I do indeed like this section of trail. Look at all the new friends I'm making! Or, well, maybe not. The thing I'm noticing about the Superior Hiking Trail at this point is how different it is from the rocky, boulder-full, cliff-like sections that smack you in the face when you first start out. Here the terrain is grassier, more lightly wooded, and seemingly drier, although I do sense that there must be BIG WATER all around. Well, certainly, somewhere, there's Gitche Gumee. The hills are littler, the climbs not nearly as steep, and, as noted above relative to women, the scenery is gorgeous. I do like this, Sam-I-Am. I do like white milk and ham! After running for a long time through such happy terrain, again I see a road crossing, and again: an aid station. But, sadly, no pacer or Hatchetman. However, I am mindful that Sam-the-Sham and his Sparrows are RIGHTBEHINDME, somewhere, so I make short work of this aid station. No sandwich this time. And lots more fluid to STILL try to pry my peanut butter palate loose. But I do not like this, Sam-I-Um. I do not like yuk stuck to my gum. If ever I thought of hollering about this (you know, crying out in despair of ever freeing myself from this peanut yuk), well, my impending wail and tooth gnash is going to have to be postponed. Because what do I see now shortly after leaving the aid station and picking my way through the woods again? Honest to goodness, there's this sign posted off to the right of the trail, saying something like: _________________________ | | PLEASE OBSERVE QUIET | | THIS IS A DOWN AREA | | ________________________| Hmmm. I think, Maybe I'd better suffer in silence. But then, I also think, I'll just wait and holler later, when I come upon the "UP AREA." For every "down" there must be an "up," right? Isn't that, truly, "The Lazarus Effect"? On our trail there is no jazz. No outlet either for those who razz. And that is why we have a Laz. A Laz for spaz is very good. Have you a Laz for spaz? You should! Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... Now that our hero's passed the 32.5 mile mark, for sure, we think, he has indeed lost his marbles. Did he read this right? What in the world is a "DOWN AREA"? But do you think it's now going to be possible to keep him QUIET? And who in tarnation is this "Lazarus" anyway? And WHAT IN THE WORLD does Dr. Seuss have to do with any of this? Well, beginning readers everywhere, you'll just have to wait till the next book is released to find out. Oh, and by the way, now we're being told it's entitled, "Horton Hears A Bark(ley)!" (And happy belated birthday, David, wherever the heaven you are.) This nonsense will--unless stopped by civil action--continue sometime after tomorrow with Part 20. Kitsch Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net