From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Thu, 5 Mar 1998 09:25:30, -0500 To: ULTRA@caligari.Dartmouth.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 15 {Note to the Editor's Note: I have recently been rather emphatically reminded that, contrary to my seemingly very best efforts, there are still some people out there who have not yet forgotten this whimsical little series, and maybe one or two who are seemingly interested in seeing me continue. This comes as quite a surprise. So, I promised them all that either I'll fashion this thing into a book--and pay them to buy it from me--or else complete the "Legend" before the 1998 edition of the Western States 100 starts this June. Maybe this heightened sense of competition with the starter's pistol will cause me to, uh, "get the lead out" (of my pencil) or get the pencil out of being jammed in my keyboard. Which, by the way, has NOT been the cause of all this delay. For that, you must see the Editor's Note.} [Editor's Note: You--if you're still there, that is--may recall that the last time we heard from Mr. Phooey he was climbing up Devil's Thumb gazing up at the underside of someone else's shorts who was stopped dead on the trail in front of him looking up but, apparently, not up at the butt of still someone else who might be stopped dead on the trail in front of her. And you may also recall that what Mr. Phooey said at the time was that he would be "back--within days, I promise--with Part 15." That was three months ago. In the meantime, Mr. Phooey tells us that he's been plagued with any, or all, of the following: the plague; a complete change of clothes, job, and life; the utter collapse of his whole house of cards; and, just for good measure, the complete crash of his computer as well. He also lost all of his data, including Parts 1 through 14 of this very "Legend." However, he now reports that he never did receive any plaque (except for what's on his teeth); he has finished the laundry and is already sick of his new job and life; someone gave him a new deal; and, what's more important than any of that, his friend Stan Jensen's website has bailed him out. For at that very site (http://www.run100s.com) he, and you, could find the archives of Parts 1 through 14 of this selfsame "Legend." So now, having reread Part 14, he was able to requote his own promise about being back with Part 15 in a matter of days. He has picked up his thread, then, from that which was hanging from the shorts in front:] THE DEVIL'S MIDDLE FINGER It was her all right. Heike. Standing stock-still on the trail in front of me. Head cocked to one side. Water bottle in hand. Both hands on hips. I tried to figure out what she was looking at. I cocked my own head at the same angle. Ah, then I saw what she was looking at: Buzzards. At least they weren't circling overhead. No, they were split off to the side, on bare naked limbs of trunks sticking off the side, standing erect in the canyon. (Pardon me. I must still be thinking about those shorts.) But then I wondered what SHE was thinking about just standing there, gawking at those almost-hawks, instead of continuing to climb out of this canyon. Why would anyone stop like that? Well, isn't the answer obvious? Isn't the usual impulse to stop before dying? Didn't all these miserable runners on the trail in front of me figure they're all going to perish soon? Wasn't I just a little bit slower in figuring it out? "Devil's Thumb"--indeed all these godforsaken canyons of the Western States Trail--WILL start to play with your mind like that. I promise! After just an endless, endless climb DOWN one side of those horrible monuments to Ronald Reagan country and "Death Valley Days," you are then faced with an even more endless, endless, ENDLESS climb UP the other side! And, guess on which side the buzzards are perched. Did you ever see that cartoon (running magazines of lesser fame and distances like to print it on occasion) in which two buzzards are sitting on a telephone wire just above the 20-mile mark of a marathon? The one says to the other, "This was a pretty good spot last year." I chuckled to myself as I looked at a few of those creatures now--live and in ugly color--sitting on branches of trees in the canyon. But--and this is important--the vision prompted me to keep moving. I can't say what it was doing to my friend Heike or the other runners. You laugh. Ha! NOW. But just you wait. You'll see this coming June. You'll remember what I told you. You too will see those ugly buzzards and remember what I said. You too will find yourself wishing you were staring at shorts instead. Which, unfortunately, as I had to pass her standing there still, I could no longer be staring at. So, I too had a wish. Ah, but keep reading. It turns out my wish was later granted...in spades. I remember asking her if she was all right, when I eased myself around her on that very narrow trail. "Sind Sie ho-kay?" I said auf Deutsch. (Notice how the "OK" needs to be translated into German in order to be understood.) "OK," she said, without bothering to retranslate into English so I could better understand. "Ah, danz gut. Ich verde Sie sehen nach das Ende!" I exclaimed, remembering my high school language class and not having a clue as to what I was saying. I was feeling pretty proud of myself...until the canyon got even steeper. And steeper even yet. And THEN I noticed that some of those other runners that I'd seen just standing there were now starting to PASS me! Whoa! What's THIS? Could it be they were only resting? And now, recharged, they were about to leave me in their dust? I who kept going and thought it was "sissy" to stop, stock-still, in the middle of a trail to rest? Quickly, I looked back for Heike, but, fortunately for my sanity, didn't see her. Instead, here came a whole little platoon! I tried valiantly to enlist. One of them, this guy in a baseball cap (which I assumed had gold braid on the brim), began giving us the play-by- play of the elevation, the distance, the trail conditions, the history and a full gazetteer of the surrounding countryside. I imagined him as the sergeant. "Well, men, we have about a thousand feet still to go. At this pace, we should reach the aid station in approximately eighteen minutes. At that point, we will pause. You will refresh yourselves in approximately three- and-a-half minutes and consume the Army-issued beverage of your choice. You will eat a quarter of a sandwich. And a banana. Half a PowerBar and a M-and-M. You will then be weighed and your body examined by the Medical Examiner. If you are dead, you will be detained. If alive, you will proceed. I will lead you up the face of Pork Chop Hill into enemy fire. You will do exactly as I command. To do otherwise would cause your demise. I, as your dedicated platoon commander, have spoken. That is all." "Yessir!" And we all snapped to attention as best we could. At least, I will say this, that young man stopped us all from thinking about buzzards! Turns out, the guy lived right there! About five miles away from the place, he said. He runs the great and mysterious Western States Trail nearly every day of his life! And of course he was right. In about twelve minutes--and several hundred feet--we saw a good and kindly woman who had carried a water jug down to meet us, perhaps thinking we might need a swallow to make the last few more hundred feet. And of course she was right. I took FIVE swallows. Then, in about another six minutes, amid the thickets of roots and the clutching at straws, we finally crested the summit, planted our flag, and claimed the whole territory for Spain. Well, no. Actually, I apologize for my delirium. What happened was the aid station volunteers at the top of that climb--Devil's Thumb--all (every single one of them) burst into applause. I thought for a moment I had died and gone to heaven. Some of them were, in fact, bedecked in angel's costumes--complete with wings and halos--or was I simply hallucinating? Anyway, the schtick was, we had just climbed out of a region belonging to the devil and had entered there into the Pearly Gates. Certainly they gave us heavenly treatment, and I thanked them all profusely for their fluid, their applause, and their M-and-M. I asked what day it was, what my name is, how much farther until daybreak-- and it wasn't even dark yet. Then I asked them to kindly take this devil's thumb from out of my, uh, shorts. Which they kindly did, and then kicked my ass out of heaven and back on my way down the trail again. The path of enlightenment or the road to ruin. Take your pick. [Back--within years, I promise--with Part 16.] Rich Limacher RDJT76A@prodigy.com THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR