From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Wed, 6 Aug 1997 02:59:20, -0500 To: stanj Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 5 DER COACH Welp, Frendz, inspit [long "i"] uv sum reesint setbax, Ah giss Ah godda priss on widdis. Yes, I've learned over this weekend that my mentor, idol, friend, hero, good buddy, and coach (not to mention liberal arts professor of creative cursing) must have had a horrible time at the Hardrock 100. He DNF'd. And now both he, I'm sure, and me, I suppose, are crushed. Together we worked like squirrels in the nuthouse attic to prepare for our respective races. We both ran every hilly, muddy, rooty, rocky, sandy, and trail-type race in the entire Midwest (and South, even). I picked him up once at 3:00 A.M. (!) to drive to Ann Arbor, MI, to run the Running Fit Trail Marathon (ooh, and what a bloodbath it was too). We drove down to Carl Touchstone's 50-mile race in Mississippi (no, we didn't just leave on raceday morning; we allowed two days down and one day back). We both did Ice Age. We did Trailbreaker. In January we ran a 20-miler around HERE in THREE-DEGREE-BELOW-ZERO weather. We worked and worked and worked. We ran and ran and ran. He coached and coached and coached. He cussed and cussed and cussed. I already KNEW most of the Western States Trail BEFORE I even got there. And I could tell you both the gross and net amounts of climb at Hardrock. He plotted how he would acclimate to the altitude. I learned EXACTLY what to do from Foresthill on in. Together we ran the Ice Age Trail for practice. He completed Kevin Setnes's race (the KM100) and I paced him. He wanted me to get a pacer for Western States and, lo, I got one. Gawd, how we WORKED for this stuff. We WORKED and WORKED and WORKED. And then, Glory Halleloo. I finished my race. But he could not finish his. And this has been my setback this weekend. I am saddened beyond all recall. I wish I could somehow comfort the Ol' Galoot. You know, teach him a new swear word, or something. Maybe buy him a Beanie Baby. (Most of you fine folks didn't know Chuck had a softer side, did you? Well, he has this little niece, or grand-niece, or something, and she has this Beanie Baby. And she's trying to cause that Beanie Baby to travel around the world, so she enlists the aid of anyone she knows who's traveling to, you know, take "Little Beanie" with. And then mail a post card back to her fourth grade class. So Chuck took Beanie with us to Mississippi, and I wrote the post card. And I took a picture of the two of them standing in front of the huge "Welcome to Laurel" sign--you know, the kind surrounded with all the Lions and Rotary and Elks and Moose. Heck, probably scared Little Beanie to death!) Anyway, next time you see the Ol' Frogman, go easy on him, will ya? I think Hardrock is just a tad tougher than Western. They give you 48 hours, not 30. (What does THAT tell you?) There's over 30,000 feet of climb. (That's more than Mt. Everest, folks!) And this year, I see there's only been THIRTY-NINE finishers. Good Lord. How many did the land mines get? How many were lost to enemy gunfire? My God, we had MUCH better survival stats in Nam!!! (No, not the Vietnam Ultra. The Vietnam WAR!) Which reminds me of today's topic (speaking of things military): The Mission. "We're on a mission from God." Who remembers the movie "The Blues Brothers"? You know, "Joliet Jake" and that other dude, uh, "Elwood," I think. Well, I guess Jake gets sprung from prison [Hey, I grew up in that same town with that same prison. Little did I know the damn place was world famous!] and then the two of them go around announcing to everybody they meet: "We're on a mission from God." And so were Chuck and I. WE were "on a mission from God." This phrase was in my head the entire time I was out West. When I first showed up in Squaw Valley and ordered my first ham & swiss-on-rye at the Olympic Sandwich Shop (whose prices match their mountains: STEEP), I told the counterman: "I'm on a mission from God." He thought I was robbing the place. He threw up the cheese along with the ham and his hands and hollered: "You CRAZY? Here MAN! Take the money! Just please DON'T SHOOT ME!" Apparently, in California, clerks behind the deli counter tend to encounter all kinds. So, I had to calm him down and explain the nature of my "true" mission. About which he too wondered, "What's Western States?" "Never mind," I told him. "Just scrape the food off the ceiling and make my sandwich." Indeed. What IS "Western States"? Why, for example, is it plural? The entire 100-mile race takes place in only ONE state--California--no? Well, it turned out that part of my "mission" was to find the answer to that question. And, I did. The reason for the plural is because the original "trail" really does go through more than one state. Actually, three of them: Utah, Nevada, and California. "The Great Western States Trail" is, apparently, the trail your great-great-grandpappies and grandmammies took to get themselves to, you know, "the land flowing with milk and honey": Sacramento. Or, as I've heard it from some of the residents: "Sacro-Tomato." Unless, of course, you happen to be descended from Indians, who actually (I think) were the very first to mark that trail with yellow engineer's tape. And if, in fact, your great-great-grandpappies and grandmammies were, say, Apaches or Cherokees (but not Jeeps), then I suppose they blazed that trail to ESCAPE from Sacro-Tomato, not to get to it first. Probably because they met Governor Ray-gun. And he broke the treaty. Anyway, they say, the original Western States Trail is over THREE HUNDRED MILES long--from Utah, somewhere, to Sacramento, somewhere (surely not ending in a bad neighborhood, right?). So, now my question is simply this: How soon before someone comes along (the Kleins' great-great-grandkids?) and "invents" THE REAL WESTERN STATES ENDURANCE RUN? The one that actually goes the full 300 miles! From the Bonneville Salt Flats to good ol' Nancy's old backyard! All the way down from the Mormon Tabernacle choir loft to the tomato patch of Governor Brown. Then, we'll all be following in the moccasin steps (probably) of Cochise. Or Crazy Horse. We'll follow all their original yellow ribbons and build a huge monument. Come to think of it, aren't they already doing that? In Dakota somewhere? Well, we'll build a replica in the Salt Lake City city park at 5th and Main. The, uh, "true" start of the Great Western States Endurance Run Trail. Anyway, it looks like both Chuck and I failed in our "mission from God." (God probably didn't like Chuck's term for it, nor did He appreciate the way I used the expression to get free sandwiches.) My actual "mission" statement (as I've alluded to all-too-relentlessly and tediously before) was, you know, to bite the silver bullet...uh, buckle. To learn the true identity of that "masked man" and his faithful Indian companion. The, uh, first actor/politician to reach prime time from the State of California, together with that faithful yet all-too-unwitting and witless victim of the first broken promise. Well, I never did meet The Lone Ranger, nor did I find Tonto's great-great- grandkids dealing in silver buckles. None could be had for love nor money. You see, after that deli guy did in fact scrap my ham sandwich together, I told him that my "true mission from God" was to beat the 24-hour cutoff. Well, that's what I'd been telling all the folks back home for months and months and months. All the while that Chuck was coaching and coaching and coaching "SO THAT I'D FORGET THAT DAMN SILVER AND NOT BLOW THE 30-HOUR CUTOFF!" And of course, I hate to admit it, but he was right all along. So, I came away with, let's see: four nearly broken toes, two HUGELY swollen ankles, one gigantic blister, a couple of bloody socks, a pee-in-my -pants from not being able to stand and walk to the bathroom, a whole bunch of weird stares at the airport, and one BRONZE buckle. That's one to go with Chuck's one bronze buckle from the WS100 that he finished because, unfortunately, he didn't get any at all from Hardrock. Sometimes, I think God Himself allows us to fail in our "missions from God." Probably--and mostly--because it's usually US who decide what those "missions" are, not Him. Either that, or we get such goofy ideas in the first place from watching old movies. (Hmmm. I wonder what movies Cochise and Crazy Horse watched? Rudy Valentino and Charlie Chaplin, probably. Or..."Valley of the ULTRA Vixens"???) [Back soon with...I dunno...the next part, I guess.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR