Sunday, September 22, 1996

This Is The Race [homage to Jim Morrison]

Your money's no good here. 
(With referential apologies to James Douglas Morrison, Francis Ford Coppola, and Don Knotts)

-------------------------
Black, fade in.
Night, in Wrightwood.

A young man is in a cheap motel. It is a motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget. The higher-priced motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget was booked. Solid. Even with the broken glass on the linoleum, somewhere. The cable there was better (but it cost $7.99 more), and you could get the Satanism Channel with the "I Love Lucifer" Marathon Weekend Special ($6.66). This motel had weary wooden floors, 33-1/3 watt lights, a sagging bed with the Great Rift Valley down the middle. Many romances had died in that divide. He could feel every one of them.

Our young man is getting ready. Ready for The Big Race. His attention is fixed on a goal far away. About 100.559596975 miles, but who's counting now, huh?...Familiar music is in background, becoming distinct. The words have changed. Do not pretend you don't remember. We come into the song somewhere in the middle, we don't have all night...but he will. We've all
been there...

MUSIC UP TO:

"...The Runner awoke before dawn,
He put his shoes on.
He took some shorts from the ancient drop bag
And he walked on down the hall...
And he came to a door
And He looked Inside
"Runner?
"Yeah man?
"I gotta pee now..."
"RUNNER...."
"I GOTTA (Apocalyptic SFX here) COME ON BABY......

(SFX: bumping, thrashing, man wrestling fire hose kinda thing)

Segue to:

(SFX: Water gurgling)
A guy is playing a sinuous melody line on an organ several rooms away. The fan windmills slowly overhead. Headlights from a passing car throws a pattern of venetian blinds in the room, a rickshaw passes by on the way down to Victorville. A medevac chopper is heard in the distance...)

"This is the race,
My only race, the race.
This is the race,
My only race, the race.
For every drink I've tried, the pace,
For all my batteries fried, your face,
No drop-bags I've not tried, the race,
I'll never look PowerBars in the eye,
Again, my friend...
This....is....the....race....

FADE TO BLACK

Monday, September 02, 1996

An Ultra Modest Narration (1/42, XL)

A True Narration, by a well-known running personality.

Well now. I feel i can tell this story with a straight face and no need for superfluity. Yes. Other men have always wanted to know, and well, women are curious. Very curious. This is how i went from Couch-Pud to UltraStud.

Not long ago, I was running an acceptable pace at a prominent Rocky Mtn 100 in the alst month. I was running without socks. I was effluorescing due to slight inconvenience of giardia. The toe-jam was fragrant. the weather was perfect.

I was thinking about getting laid by a Dead-Betty back in town when I got through. I was saving my best story for her. She would turn me into the trailer hitch of C&W song. I had a modest collection of authentic ultra-adventures to narrate to a relay of respectful and worshipful acolytes. They hung on to my every word, only seemingly leaving me when I would make the garbage bag hanging off my butt hammer and rattle with periodic gusts.

But more replaced them. Their espect and ardor were incredible. They had read my posts to the UltraList. Consulting with my arch rival (Runner X hailing from a level and lackluster midwestern state (who was feeling the lack of a livestock salt-block he left in the airport [hah!]) I determined that my co-dependent polymers were in pretty good shape.

Then disaster struck! The 200lb test on my Deep-Vee buttfloss was fouled, and I entered the realm of Ring Of Fire! My doppelganger flatlander arch-rival laughed triumphantly, and brandished the Chili-flecked Vicks Bum-Rub in front of me. I was incensed! This was not sporting!! And race management didn't have any!!!

I was composing self-serving and witty posts in my mind to take the mind off the wisps of fragrant smoke that rose from my shorts. FInally, I was pulled from the course at the Fuego de Culo AS which wasn't marked on the course map. Just when things started to look good, my rival pulled off his shoe and said "Catch a whiff of this one..." when I

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