From: RDJT76A@prodigy.com (MR RICHARD J LIMACHER) Date: Sat, 27 Jun 1998 04:10:53, -0500 To: ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU Subject: Legend of Pecos Phooey at WS100, Part 24 Thanks, Norm, But There's Just One More Thing... Most of the time when you or I run a race (or so I assume), most of our pre-race concentration is focused on getting to the finish, and doing that as well and as quickly as possible. We don't (or so I assume) worry too much about what happens after we get there. Right? "Afterwards? Oh, well. That'll take care of itself. Whuddo we care 'bout afterwards? That's 'Miller Time'!" Well, now, (at the risk of liking too much to hear myself "talk"--ala the Congressmen that you, too, seem to vote for--and/or doing absolutely nobody any good with this long, long-winded filibuster) let me tell you this: "My fellow Americans, the absolute WORST part of a hundred-mile footrace is NOT getting to the finish line; it's what happens AFTERWARDS!" You absolutely have to give this some thought. Some advance planning is definitely in order. And let's begin with the obvious: At Western States, how ya gonna get back to your car? Your car is A HUNDRED MILES AWAY! Parked in that vast parking lot by Plump Jack's Bar & Grill at Squaw Valley Ski Resort, in northeastern California!!! But, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Your first task is: Where the hell's your drop bag? What you want to do first--seriously! it's hot! you're soaked! you're way overdressed!--is strip. But, let's not get ahead of ourselves. The very first thing you REALLY want is...a chair. But, again, I'm racing ahead of myself (if that's possible). The VERY first thing that happened that one fine day of my life one year ago just seconds after I crossed the actual finish line on the track of Placer High School in Auburn, California, on June 29, 1997, was... I received a medal from Norman Klein, race director extraordinaire, and... one helluva great big bear hug! And, I've gotta assume, he started giving medals and hugs, what, YESTERDAY? Wow! That's, what, 10, 12, 13 straight hours of medal-giving and bear-hugging? Whew, man! (Could YOU do it?) That's stamina, my friends. I can't even stay awake that long on my job! But, again, I'm still racing ahead of myself. Back up a few steps. There was yet another who crossed that finish line with me. I know. I now have a proud 8x10 color glossy photograph to prove it. (Yes, "with circles"-- the WS logo--"and arrows"--on the track itself--"and paragraphs on the back to be used as evidence...." Anybody catch this reference? In fact, has anybody caught ANY of my references all throughout ALL of these 24 long, long-winded chapters? Of course, you have. You're all my brothers and sisters. We've grown up together. We've listened to the same records together. And you've beaten me severely about the head and shoulders with bedpillows ever since.) That other person is Steve Reagan, my pacer. Pacers don't get much credit, do they? Here he was, volunteering freely to run with some stranger (just how "strange" he never suspected, huh?) all night long and coax that strange stranger, somehow, some way, to make it all the way to a finish line some 38 miles away. And for what? Steve didn't get a medal. He didn't get a hug (maybe he did from Norm, I really wasn't watching that close, I was thinking about a "chair") and he certainly never got a dime for all the magnificent work he did out there. He told me shortly after Norm released me ("Release me, oh darling, let me go") that: "I wasn't going to let you quit. No way." Of course, I kidded him: "Right. You had to get me to Auburn 'cause your ride's here!" Anyway, I remembered Mo Livermore and her kind words back at Squaw Valley about how I could make it without a pacer, but, now that I had one, I am so very glad that I did indeed have one! He pointed out every rock, every root, every possible thing that could trip me up for 38 miles. He went in front of me at night and lit the way. He followed behind me when I wanted him to. He talked to me. He kept me awake. He went through the freezing river with me. He gave me confidence. He gave me first crack at the M&Ms at all the aid stations. And, at the end, guess what? He gave me a CHAIR!!! What a guy. He also gave me a slip of paper with his name, address, and e-mail on it. I told him I'd e-mail him about this very list. And later I did just that. And now he's on it. Check him out. He's just posted here again a couple days ago or so. Steve Reagan. Another great friend of mine. Guess what else? He sent me an e-mail saying, guess what? Yep! He's headed back to Foresthill. He's volunteering to pace some other stranger yet again this year. Hell, tonight!!! What a great guy. In his e-mail he reminded me again of how he damn near broke his foot stepping in a hole last year, while guiding me through the woods. And he apologized (?) for slowing up because of it??? Hey, all is forgiven, buddy. Actually it is I who should apologize. I really should've given HIM the medal. That's a thought, huh? A finisher's medal for pacers? Sure! Hell, I've gotten 'em for just finishing a 5K! You'd think there ought to be SOMETHING for noble souls who go 38 miles! In the woods! In the dark! Over cliffs! Through water! Around the track and in front of long-winded Congressmen and one or two wildly cheering sports fans! Here's what I think--and you'll shoot me for saying this; that is, if you're still reading--I think Mo should collect some money from every runner who asks for, and gets, a pacer out of Pacer Central. That money should go to pay for an official pacer's finishing medal, complete with a space on the back for the runner to pay for engraving both of their names and their finishing time. (Here I'm asking us to pay more money. I recall reading how some people went ape over Western States raising the entry fee. And when Norm asked for a little trail maintenance, whoa! Some people nearly went berserk. God forbid we should actually be asked to cough up with something to show appreciation for our pacers.) And speaking of Mo Livermore, she was there too. She gave me bottle after bottle of Gatorade--the drinking kind, not the critter-repellent kind. She also took it upon herself to take a picture...of Mr. Phooey sitting in his chair. And she sent--two of 'em!--to me later with a very, very nice note. Two color glossy photos with paragraphs on the back of each one to be used as evidence...that I actually made it there, too, to the finish of last year's Western States. What a great gal. My God, everybody connected with this event is a superb human being! And speaking of which, guess what. Guess who I suddenly looked up and saw, sitting in her own chair just out of handshake and hug range? Yep! The German girl in the blue shorts. And she was STILL wearing 'em! And she was smiling, one beautiful gorgeous ear-to-ear grin, right at me! I smiled back. It was all I had strength enough to do. Mo took those pictures and, next time I looked across, she was gone. Meine am schoensten Fraulein Heike Pawzik, vom der Stadt zweihunnert milen sudlich von Berlin, vas vamoosed! And I've never seen her again since. But now I gotta go back and tell you about the drop bag. And other pains. Which set in...SEVERELY...while I was sitting in that chair. Lactic acid? Ha! We're talking entire vats of acid--like in the James Bond movies! My legs were every bit as dead as the acid-bathed Blofeld. I suddenly--and very, very much without warning--could NOT stand up. Then, I could NOT move. And then I had to walk to the other end of the track to get the drop bag to dump my extra clothes. Norm, you see, (do you see the wisdom of using a high school for the finish?) had the building open for us runners. Yes indeed. We were allowed--encouraged!--to go inside and take a shower. But in order to do that, you need a drop bag. And inside the drop bag you needed to have had the foresight to have placed: 1) a bar of soap, and 2) a towel. So, guess what Mr. Phooey phorgot? Both! And I could barely walk and it took, oh, probably an hour to get to the boys' locker room--but I was determined to take a shower! Even if I had to stand naked in the sun and air dry! Ah, but I met yet one more runner from our Illinois contingent, Ken Mick, who was already in the locker room. He listened to my heartbreaking story (about no soap or towel, NOT about no German girlfriend or passport) and very nicely offered me a chamois cloth. You know, the thing you wash your car with. Seems like Ken normally packs carwashing materials in his duffle bag when headed to a 100-mile footrace. What a guy. Then...it took almost another hour to pry off my shoes! And, literally, peel back the socks. Slowly! Carefully! OUCH! Jeezsiss!!! The toes are all BLACK! And they're all smooshed together! The shower! The steam! Aiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! It took forever, and I don't want to drag this out any longer than I already have, so...I'll summarize. (Yeah. Right. I couldn't do the whole race in less than 24 hours. You expect maybe I should write the full story in less than 24 chapters? In less than a year???) 1) I SLOWLY cleaned up, got the road dirt off, and gave my carcass a wax job with the chamois. 2) I SLOWLY, painfully, MO-seyed back outside and over to the Placer High cafeteria where they gave us all a wonderful meal and I met, once again, Gordy Ainsleigh. (See earlier chapters about that delightful meeting.) 3) I QUICKLY ate, and drank, everything I could get my hands on. 4) I SLOWLY went back out to the football infield to watch the very end of the race. Actually, I just wanted to lie down on the nice grass and... 5) ZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 6) I suddenly--and very, very much without warning--woke up. I had to pee! And! I COULDN'T MOVE!!! And! It was a loooooooong way back to that boys' locker room! And! NO porta-potties near the finish line! Oh Noooo! 7) I was in trouble. 8) I looked. I saw the bleachers actually had MORE than one or two people. I was in plain sight of them. I was lying on the grass at about the 45 yard line. I was in plain sight of lots and lots of people, woman and men, I couldn't stand up, and I had to pee. 9) So? 10) I did the only thing I could possibly do: I rolled over, with my back to the bleachers, unzipped, shook hands with my old friend, and peed. Just like that. Well, after THAT, everything else is anticlimactic, right? I went back to sleep, and didn't wake up till the entire finish line area was torn down. Then, of course, I HAD to get up and move. Don't ask me how I did it. Maybe by reverting to babyhood and replaying the tape in my head of how I first learned to stand and walk. I don't know. All I do know is that every part of my body was LOCKED in rigor mortis and my legs simply wouldn't move. It took another hour, probably, to make it back to the Placer High gymnasium for the awards ceremony. There's more to this, too. About how I met up with Tom Bennett, another great guy from Kentucky, and another guy Bill (?) whose name I forget, who were also stranded without a ride back to Squaw Valley. But these guys had found a guy to take them back and I asked if I could go with. Yes, but we had to go right away--and meet the driver outside on Cochise Street, or whatever it was, because that driver was on a tight schedule to get back to the airport, or something. So, Tom took it upon himself to go inside the gym and ask Norm for our buckles in advance of the ceremony. And (God bless him) Norm consented. Tom came out with my buckle. Bill (if that's his name) had to DNF out there somewhere, and so could not claim this priceless prize. No kidding: packed in cotton in a gift-like box and everything! But then, guess what. The car only had room for two. I couldn't fit. So those guys took off and I went back inside the gym. I had an ace in the hole. Tony. Remember him? The guy who blew my doors off at Foresthill? Well, he was there and his lovely wife had a rental van and had crewed him. You remember all that, right? Well, I'm glad I did because they were my last hope out of town! When I found them, spread-eagled on the gym floor, Tony informed me they were going to a motel to sleep all afternoon, and then get on the road just before dark. Sleep. All afternoon. In a motel. By themselves. Of course. So, they agreed to come back to that gate entering the stadium--and pick me up--before leaving town and heading to Reno and the airport. They agreed to dump me off at the Plump One's on their way--as long as I agreed to stay out of their motel room. It was a "deal." And I went back out to the infield to sleep some more. It was warm. The sun was shining. The grass was soft. And, on a whole, it was very lovely. I was also the afternoon's "entertainment" for all local runners and walkers and joggers and gawkers who show up each Sunday to use the track. Well, that's about it. It's taken a year to write about an event that took less than thirty hours of my life. But it made a helluva impression. I took no notes. All this fond re-creation has come out of that impression as easy as it was as hard going in. It's stamped, emblazoned, and embossed forever in my cerebral Goretex. I'll never forget doing the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run and, now, neither will you. If, that is, you're still with me. Two last things. No, three: 1) I made my self-imposed deadline. It's not yet 5:00 a.m. raceday, even in Eastern Time. And so, good rest and best wishes to all you fine WS runners who are, right now, sleeping! In Squaw Valley/Truckee hotels and motels. By yourselves. No doubt. 2) This saga HAD to take this long to write, because only three weeks ago I received the final element to conclude the story: The findings of academic research. Yes! You see, I agreed to be a part of some woman's doctoral dissertation, I believe, which she was writing on the psycho-pseudo- athletic experiences of participants at the '97 WS100. I had filled out a few surveys and answered a bunch of questions before and after the race last year, in exchange only for her report of the findings which she just recently put in the mail. And what were her findings? That I was the only one who blew the grading curve. My score was "off the chart." 3) Ha! Just kidding. No, actually, she simply added to the vast bulk of pedantic academic pedagogy by reaffirming, statistically and/or psychologically, something the rest of us have known forever: ultrarunners aren't crazy after all. Actually, as people we're not bad, but as runners we're...uh, "off the chart." Oh, but there is just one more last--very last--thing. I was wondering. Maybe I should ask this of Norm. But do you think that, if I come back and complete this race again in the near future, maybe, uh, instead of giving me a buckle, do you suppose I could have... ...a pair of those *short* blue shorts? Not to wear, of course. To frame. [The End]