From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Sat, 6 Dec 1997 21:15:11, -0500 To: ULTRA@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 14 [Editor's Note: Readers will recall from last time--any readers still with us, that is; we realize it's been about a quarter century since we've heard from Mr. Phooey--when he last wrote these words: "There is, however, more to this story, and I shall be back with it soon in Part 14...provided, of course, I'm not arrested, sued, enjoined against, injunctioned upon, or served with a summons in the meantime...." Well, call him the prophet. He has apparently languished these past few months in a German jail, arrested, apparently, on a charge of injecting himself with too much of his heroine. See below.] Welp, frendz, ah done foun da shortz. Ah com acrost 'em here inna kattlelog here inna jail. Dey seem ta be iggzackly da same konna shortz dat she wuz wearin' ot dere infrunna me onna trail at Westurn Statz. Looka here. See um? Dey's on page 9. SHORTS REPRISED "The thing" about shorts, I've discovered, is that they offer such a delightful and conveniently unrestricted (G-rated) view of "the legs." In some cases, the view is indeed approved for all ages--no parental guidance necessary. These shorts are generally long. They discreetly cover everything and anything that the wearer and the Motion Picture Academy of the Arts wants to hide. And generally the legs themselves arouse no purient interest. This is fine. These shorts are good. I wear them myself. Other views (and indeed aren't legs rather pictures in motion themselves, or, um, "motion pictures"?) may require a certain amount of guidance from a parent or other guardian. These would be the PG-rated views afforded by, say, the more athletic type shorts. The kind worn by, say, Uta Pippig on camera in front of an audience of millions watching the Boston Marathon. Some gawking pre-teenager, for example, might inquire of an adult guardian what that might be which seems to be oozing down upon those gorgeous legs which happens no longer to be hidden by the G-rated shorts. The guidance of the older and wiser guardian would immediately direct the pre-teen to his bedroom, without snack, there to languish in misery until such time as he might become enlightened and never again dare to ask such filthy questions. And Uta's courage captured by international television certainly enlightened the likes of me, I can tell you. I no longer feel embarrassed on the trail during a race when the forces of nature take over. I simply provide the guidance those shocked onlookers around me so desperately seem to need at such times and say, "There's a check for a hundred thousand dollars waiting for me at the finish." Still other pictures in motion, or views afforded by the shorts, might require stricter ratings. The kind worn by Mary Decker Slaney, for example, or Anne Marie Lauck are DEFINITELY R-rated shorts. Seems to me I read once that those particular types of shorts are known as "bun-huggers." And that--wouldn't you know--reminds me of a joke told by, and apparently morally approved for, grade school kids. Question: "How can you tell the real Ronald McDonald at a nudist camp?" Answer: "He's the only one with sesame seed buns." Ahem. Anyway, about those R-raters. I, in my previous haphazard travels, also happened once to find myself sitting in the Olympic Stadium at Atlanta, Georgia. I was watching, I don't know, some kind of preliminary heats of the steeplechase, or something, but--amazing benefit! --there, in the infield at the very end of the track where I happened to be sitting, was the women's high jump competition. Now, let me tell you something about female athletic fashion among the international community. One word: "teensy." Those shorts were even MORE R-rated than anything Anne Marie ever wears. In fact, they dangerously approached, yes, the "X." Which, now finally, brings me back to what I was watching slung low on the hips of Heike, my German traffic-stopping friend, as she was, once again, cruising past me at about mile 45 of the 1997 Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run. Man, (or should I use the more politically correct exasperation, "Person"?)... OK. Person, them were some X-rated shorts!!!! [And, if you promise to be nice and read this entire legend through to its entirety, I might even promise to tell you exactly where you could, right now, right today, view these X-rated shorts for yourself, with or without parental guidance. Heck, even if you're not even 17 yet.] All these thoughts I was thinking as I fondly fixed my gaze, and let my thoughts go wandering. I also remember the very next person to pass me asked what was so joyful at a time like this that caused me to wear such a big smile on my face, and all I could do was point straight ahead. I assumed that the true source of my prancing inner joy would eventually be revealed to each and every runner who passed me from here on out. (Interesting side note: You know, it's been, what, six months since the '97 WS100, and NO ONE ELSE has had anything at all to say about my friend Heike, or, more roundedly, about her fashion statement, or, lack thereof, that day, or, day-and-a-fraction. Except for Stan Jensen. And his perceptions have always been right on! He even sends me reports of Heike's further progress in other races since then. Races in Europe, for example. I'm not sure how Stan comes up with all this information--I'll bet you're not either--but he certainly does all of us a wonderful archival service. I hereby nominate him for UltraLibrarian of Congress!) (Uninteresting other side to my previous side note: But, since then, people have had A LOT to say about me, or, more disarmingly, about my commentary about her fashion understatement that day, or, in my case, day-and-a-half.) "Disarmingly"? I was talking about her legs! Phew! (Oh, be still my pounding heart.) She had legs--I mean to tell ya-- all the way up to her a__! Now, we're going to switch gears. First of all--I thought--she'd passed me for the last time and I'd never suffer such palpitations in my chest cavity again. Secondly, I was about to descend into Deadwood Canyon and my gaze was forced to be fixed elsewhere, else I'd miss some rock or root or something and trip and careen over the side and plummet fifteen hundred feet to my death or semi-permanent disablement and STILL be liable for the $400-per-hour that Norm told us we'd have to pay for air rescue operations. Understandably, I started watching the ground. Underfootedly. And thirdly, I started playing leapfrog with the older gentleman (he introduced himself as "Jim") whom I had first played leapfrog with on the long crushed gravel road comprising our trip through Deep Canyon. And HE was telling me, "You ain't seen nuthin' yet!" (What? I thought, There's even BETTER shorts than this?) Nope. He didn't actually say that, because I didn't actually ask him about the possibility of better shorts. No. What he said was that all the mountains and canyons we've climbed so far was NOTHIN' compared to the one comin' up--Devil's Thumb. (Besides, there ARE no better shorts. Not in Germany, not in Europe, not here, not there, not on the seven continents of Planet Earth. There are, however, worse climbs than Squaw Valley. Jim wasn't kidding. Devil's Thumb could, and might possibly be, the very worst climb of anything this side of Mount Everest.) So it was with all the appropriate fear and trepidation that I--just a little ahead of Jim now--first approached Devil's Thumb, or, as it was about to be renamed, "Devil's Middle Finger." So anyway, looking down, I started down. And now let me shut the legend down (temporarily) while I tell you a little something about California canyons. You get to the point where you become scared to death every time one foot lands on lower ground than the other foot's on. The body instantly reacts. A certain phobia sets in. And if the next several footplants land on even lower ground, near panic appears. Why? Normally when you run and come to a downhill you rejoice, right? Well, that may be so at, say, the Las Vegas Marathon, but it certainly ain't so at Western States. Again, why? (Do you get the feeling that I am far wordier than I need to be? I get that feeling. It reminds me of the time...) WHY? WHY???? BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO CLIMB BACK UP EVERY SINGLE INCH YOU ARE NOW GOING DOWN, THAT'S WHY!!! And, when you go down and down and down and down and down (so far down, in fact, that they need to put an aid station at the bottom...or else Air Rescue at WS is going to become a blue chip stock!)...AND DOWN SOME MORE... you just know you're gonna be in big, big trouble. And there's also always a creek or stream OR RAGING RIVER at the bottom of these California canyons which carved those canyons in the first place. And, yep! YOU are going to have to get through, go over, plunge into that raging river even before you have to start climbing. So, whereas anywhere else on earth your running down some downhill gives joy to your heart, running down the sheer sides of the canyon walls at Western States will strike terror to your breast. Both of them. (Sides of the canyon, I mean.) Well, there I was, going trippingly down the infinitely dangerous switchbacks of the precipice, eyes fixed front and down, shoes pointed, brow soaked. Arms stretched out like a scarecrow. Balancing precariously. Using the saplings--and other saps--that I passed as convenient braking devices. Trying to keep focused. Trying to remain calm. Trying to stay vertical. Ah, at last. The raging river. What a welcome sight. What a thrill to become drenched before wrenching your quads. What joy. I stop, briefly. I look up. I KNOW it's still daytime. But, I don't see it. Not sun, not sky, not even tops of trees. I'm so far down at this point...that the best shrink in Beverly Hills couldn't lift me. Neither, I think, could a helicopter with a 5,000-foot drop rope. And, this time, no aid station at the bottom. (What did I think? Air Rescue--at $400 per--would lower and raise all the volunteers? Ha! Even Norm ain't THAT rich!) Well sir, or, no, the more politically correct phrase is: Well person, I started back up the other side. I told myself, "Self...self...ah, self, um, boy. [No need for political correctness here. I am a boy.] Boy, what a helluva mess you got yourself into now. If you can't climb your way out of here, YOU GONNA DIE!!!" I have found that this kind of thinking does tend to get your attention. I'd recommend it, in fact, next time you yourself have to climb or die. Imagine this, if you will. After, oh, about forty-five minutes of doing nothing but climbing, and STILL being unable to determine if it's night or day, with STILL another forty-five minutes, at least, to go, with no other relief in sight--except for all the buzzards who happen to be smiling; so, I suppose, if amusement is relief, that's relief--imagine all this, if you will. So now imagine me looking up, briefly, and seeing runners. One runner, two, maybe three...then another...and another...and what are all these runners doing? THEY'RE STANDING STILL!!! Yes, they are standing stock-still right on the trail. Their hands are down at their sides. Their heads are back. They are frozen. They are paralyzed. They gawk. They disbelieve. They doubt. Still, they continue to stand. They are bewildered. They seek for answers, apparently, in the grinning teeth of birds. "Before they sink into the Big Sleep, they want to hear, they want to hear, the scream of the butterfly..." It's the most unbelievable thing I've ever witnessed as a runner (that, and the girl who STOOD behind the tree to pee--but that's another story). I could not imagine what all these people were doing standing still! "Hey!" I wanted to holler. "Don't stop! We gotta get otta here alive!! Keep climbing!!!" Well, I was too tired to holler. I figured, hey. They must know what they're doing. I'm new at this. I don't know what I'm doing. But I think I know that we're supposed to get to Auburn, California, and I don't think this is it. So, if this isn't it, I, at least, gotta keep pressing on until I can look around and convince myself that "that" is it. That this finally-arrived-at "it" is IT. And that's THAT! Then, I looked up one more time. And what--no no, WHO--do you supposed I saw STANDING THERE? ["Well, I, I could see, when she looked at me, that before too long I'd fall in love with her...now she wouldn't dance with another, when I saw her standing there."] It was Heike. In the shorts. Standing still. Looking up. Gawking. Not moving. Those gorgeous, powerful legs of hers...not moving a twitch. Omigosh! WHAT DO I DO NOW???????????? "Why, cover her up," I can hear my censors saying, "and earn a PG rating!" [Back--within days, I promise--with Part 15.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR P.S. You wanna see those shorts? (Or, close.) Check out: http://www.WickedTemptations.com