Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2000 17:04:34 -0600 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 21 If I'm Such a Heavy (electrolyte replacement fluids) Drinker, What Am I Doing at the Temperance River? "Gonna find me A hole in the wall Gonna crawl inside an' die A-come a lady now A mean ol' woman, Lawd Never told me good-bye "Can't you see? Oh, can't you see? What that woman She been a-doin' to me... "Oh, I'm gonna buy a ticket As far as I can I ain't a-never comin' back I'm gonna take-a that southbound Ride it all the way to Georgia, Lawd Till the train, it run otta track "Can't you see? Oh, can't you see? What that woman Oh, she been doin' to me? "Can't you see? Can't you see? What that woman Whoa, she been doin' to me!" --The Marshall Tucker Band "Can't You See" (1975) You see all kinds of things during a one-hundred-mile footrace when you happen to be on foot. Even when, I suppose, more than one belongs to a Rabbit? (I think I just saw two, no?) One of the things you notice most, of course, (if you're a male) is a female. Not necessarily a female rabbit, but, you understand. Not only have I been paying strict attention to the whereabouts of those Three King's Daughters begotten (not really) of Papa Muhammad, but I've also started to notice another quite tall, and wonderfully proportioned (and apparently quite young) fellow competitor who, as of this moment, happens to be behind me in this race. ("Fellow" competitor. Hmmm. I make another mental note: Gonna hafta do something to fix English when I get done with this--unbelievably long--race, eh?) [Author's note: The author hasn't yet "fixed" anything, let alone the language, in, lo, these many months after he did, in fact, finish this UNBELIEVABLY long race.] Anyway, this gal behind me is just gorgeous... but, I think, she's waaaaaay too young to be doing this kind of thing, so I'm resolving, even as I stumble over my own two rabid feet, to try to keep ahead of her. For, you know, her own safety. Besides, I also tell myself, she's probably only doing the 50. So, even if she does eventually pass me, I won't be too ashamed, will I? Besides, I tell myself again and again, she's like the opposite of Muhammad Dad. In her case, she seems to be surrounded by men. Older men. Two, at least, that I can see. Probably old enough to be HER dads? No matter. I resolve to keep an eye out for the three of them. And I decide to nickname them after an old cartoon I saw as a kid on black-and-white TV: "Hardrock and Coco and Jo." Jo, I decide, should be the girl. Hardrock is, of course, something ELSE. So, I'm running along this nice trail section through the woods, looking backwards occasionally to mark the progress of my three brand-new "foes." And now, when I step off the trail for a second (to pee) and look backwards, whom do you suppose I see? Wrong. It's them three damn imaginary "daughters" of Muhammad X. Here I am, standing in the wind, cowering beside the trail, looking backwards, and trying desperately NOT to pee all over my shoes. "Hi again!" There goes the one in yellow. I smile and wave. "Hi! Oh, it's YOU again!" There goes the next one. I smile and wave. "Don't mind us!" And there goes the last babe, now even more scantily clad in a jogbra. I shake. I'm agog. Now, I figure, I'm finished. I've just met THE heavenly vision, and here comes Pop now to yank it from me. NO! (Ignore that comment.) What do I do? Why, I simply do what every other male ultrarunner does when he's done flashing a bevy of beauties who've just "flied" by. Smile, finish shaking, retuck, hitch, and go. Thank goodness it wasn't my brand-new nemesis who's just passed. At least I still have a chance to maintain my position. And, I suppose, my dignity. Trotting along now all by myself, once again I take stock. The advancing afternoon is progressing warmly. My long-sleeve T and jacket are still neatly cinched to my Western States Dream 100 double holster water belt. My silver bullets are all accounted for. I'm wearing my false-face. I pretend to be searching for Tonto. Naw, screw Tonto. Tonto's a male. What I'm looking for is my damsel in dis (or dat) dress. Gradually, I can't help but notice how the trail is rapidly becoming more hilly. ("Gradually" I "rapidly" notice this. Hmmm. More work needs to be done with my English.) In fact, here the damn trail is starting to get downright ROCKY again. Big boulders loom. Darkening forest begins to surround me. The gullies get gullier. The dank rocks get danker. The climbs--oh, jeez, these ENDLESS climbs!--get even climier. And me... without my cli-mate. Again, I look back. No sign of anyone. Might as well keep climbin'. Pretty soon I start climbin' down. I'm nearing water. Big water. No, not the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee," but a big river that just keeps rolling on like an old man. (I realize what I'm thinking. I know my birthday's coming up. THE most dreaded b-day of all time. So now my thinking I shut down.) This is a very confusing part of the big trail they call "Superior Hiking." What happens is, you start crossing footbridges hither and yon, here and there, and, I suppose, wherever the hell else the engineers decided to build one. I try very hard to concentrate on which direction I'm traveling. Now the river is on my left. Hmmm, I think, if this river empties into Gitche Gumee, then I must be traveling east, towards that very lake. But then, suddenly, after crossing another bridge, the river is on my right. Hmmm, am I going west? Is this a back-track? How far west (away from the lake) does this trail travel, anyway? [Author's note: The answer? It's ENDLESS!!!] Next thing I know, the river's on my left again. And suddenly, well, I'm all confused. I see a kid. (Yes!) And this kid is sitting on a big boulder jutting out into the river. And what's this kid doing? Swimming? Sunning himself? Preparing to dive? Preparing to die? Nope. Fishing. Ah, yes, this is Minnesota, isn't it? The rivers here aren't all polluted yet, are they? The fish this kid catches might actually be edible. And, well, if I know kid fishermen, this kid is not likely to have hiked FOREVER to get here. His friends or family are probably down the path a ways, probably close to their car, which no doubt is beside a road, and that can also mean only one thing: the Temperance River aid station. "Hey!" I yell to the kid. "How far is it to the aid station?" The kid looks at me like I'm from Mars. "Huh???" "THE AID STATION!" "The WHAT???" "Oh, never mind. Hope you enjoy your fish!" "Who's fishin'? I'm lightin' firecrackers!" (James Bomb, Jr., eh? Well, that's my thinking. Which, by the way, I've started up again.) I think maybe I'd best get out of there. I continue running alongside the river. And, I mean, this is one looooooong river. I begin to doubt my senses. Did I actually SEE a kid here? Man oh man, I've run (it seems) another five miles since. What kid in his right (or wrong) mind would be walking five miles away from a road or a car--just to terrorize fish? Pretty soon, I see some older folks. They too (if my senses can still be trusted) seem to be fishing. I can't imagine older-looking grandmas and grandpas standing on boulders by the river also lighting firecrackers. So, they must be fishing. "Do you know where there's such a thing as an aid station?" I holler. "Oh, sure!" they holler back. "'Bout a quarter-mile down the path!" "Thanks!" "You're welcome!" I wave and they (actually just the grandma does) hoist up a beer. I want to ask them if they know their grandson is a pyromaniac, but I think better on it. Instead, I run. And run. And run. And keep on running for what seems like--jeez!--ANOTHER five miles! To myself, I think: "Liars." One thing I have indeed learned from running ultras. You cannot EVER believe what the bystanders tell you. There are probably many deeply-seeded psychological reasons for such behavior, but mostly it comes down to this simple truth: Bystanders hate you. They tell you this misinformation on purpose. They do it to thwart your progress. To confuse you. To make you want to give up showing them up. They hate the fact that you're running and they're not. Don't you think? "No, don't be stupid," you probably think. "They say whatever they say because they don't know what THEY'RE talking about either!" Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... Are you saying, sports fans, that I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT? (Hmmm. Another mental note: Later I gotta fix YOU too!) But before we leave our hero running forever beside this forever flowing, endlessly recurring, constantly crossed "Temperance" thing, we should tell you that, yes, he does eventually get to the next aid station. He also thinks that he's run very hard over this last stretch of trail and that, therefore, he's put miles and miles between himself and "Hardrock and Coco and Jo." But no. As soon as he comes in sight of the station--after he crosses yet one more bridge yet one more time--he happens to glance in his rearview mirror... ...and there she is! She's RIGHTTHISCLOSE behind him. Omigosh! This is one powerful young running chick, eh? Oh well. She's only doing the 50. She must be. RIGHT??? [We'll find out next time, when Kootsche Kioux returns with Part 22. :-] Kitsch Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net