Wednesday, December 31, 1997

New Year's Ultra-Rezzos for '98

That time of the year, again.

This is when all good ultra-Bobs and -Betties look deep into their psychic drop-bags and take inventory of how They Can Do It Better Next Year.

Mr Trail Safety has done some preliminary research, and is happy to share out the results. Here's his Up-Close & Personal Resolution List:

1] I resolve to have the Victoria's Secret Gals as my crew and pacer for all runs and races over 26.2 miles. They will be dressed in "Sport-Appropriate" attire, consisting partially of fuzzy mules/or 4" Chas Jourdan heels, wee aprons so as not to stain them with Gatorade, etc; large silk turbans and dressing gowns when it gets below 60. They will be provided with satin-covered pith helmets and SPF-69 sunblock during the summer months.

2] I will high-step it over Katherine's Pass in Utah leading a brass band. The humble procession will conclude with a shaman swinging a censer and a chain-saw. Which one will be smoking the most?

3] My Ensure shots be followed by Sam's Club Premium Vodka or lighter fluid, whichever has the best bulk deal at the time.

4] During longer races, I will compose ultra sagas in Urdu, and accompany myself on a harpsichord; so as to give comfort and calm to my Pacer, or Inflateable Trail Safety Companion. Whatever.

5] I resolve that my crew and pacers power-load on kim-chee and HazMat Chili prior to races, as I do. Simple Acts Nourish the Complex Human(r)(tm).

6] I will always use wooden kitchen matches to clear the air.

Well, that's it for me today...gotta go!

As ever,

[Mr Trail Safety signature]


Tuesday, October 07, 1997

There Is No Finish Line

[first inflicted on an unsuspecting audience in 1997]

We arrive at a resting state. Objects have assumed their entropic limits. The green Tassel-headed Korn anticipates its mortal end before the sharp knives in the harvest time. We are now, of course, above THE FARTRESS OF SOLITUDE.

Our Tortured Young UltraRunner sits and ponders the spectacle before him.

He is wearing his Hat. It shades his fevered brow from the Brightness before him. All of his silver and bronze buckles, the plaques, conspire to refract the piercing brightness of the track-lighting from their awesomeness. He should be happy, but his countenance is furrowed. He is wrestling with the weighty thought that at the End of The Last Great Race, There Is No Finish Line.

He hadn't expected this. He expected a round of thunderous applause at the AC100 awards ceremony. All he heard was the pounding of distant surf when he put the milk carton up to his ear. He had his speech ready, trimmed it down to a brisk 14 minutes. He included citations to Gawd, Ultrarunning, Pacers [uh strike that, make it Official Trail Safety Companions] Race Directors, and even Aid-Stations had been figured in. Then those goddamned Indians hogged the spotlight, and goshamighty, it was hot!

The worm of doubt did a slow lazy turn. He began to reflect backwards...back in the night...when it was Dark...before the Dawn.

[slow fade in as we watch the shuffling Jaybird descend the inky blackness into the remote depths of Idle Hour Cyn. He can hear the fragmnents of irreverent guffaws and conversation. He is annoyed at this and yet relieved...a source of conflict no doubt].

Our Hero, the bike-short'd and mattress-tagged D'Artagnan, is accompanied by his faithful retainer and bondsman Porthole [or is it Asshole?]. Their shuffling of feet is accompanied by a ghostly clanking of sabers. D'Artagnan's Hat is turned backwards so he can Revel in Gawd's handiwork in the starry firmament. He stumbles over a rock. A curse is emitted.

Lights come in view. A voice bellows "RUNNER!" People scurry. He is relieved to see that they will do his bidding. A man holding a clip-board bellows his number. Gosh, he sure is loud. Maybe he recognizes Who He's Talking To. He collapses into a chair.

Porthole commences a recon of the tables. He notes the Skoal, squeezable CheezWHiz, MilkBones and Spam. He settles for some watermelon.

[we now have set the stage for a tableau bouffant]

PORTHOLE: "Well, Dart-Bum, Howdya feel?"

[PORTHOLE leans back in the chair, quaffs some Gatorade from a flagon. The boisterous sounds of a 17th century French country aid-station are in the background. A wild pig runs thru the throng.]

JAYBIRD: "Tired. Real tired."

[Jaybird takes a metaphorical pull from the invisible Lucky. Metaphysical smoke curls from his nostrils in lazy coils. Curls, coils, it's all in the accent...]

"I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for the Last Great Race. At this point I have 583 miles on my legs."

PORTHOLE nods sagely. This guy can talk some deep shit, dewd. In 5.5 Miles he'd be saying pretty much the same, only it would be 589 miles. Well, time to get rolling...

[The camera pulls back to reveal aid station volunteers contemplating This Epic Scene of Male Bonding with enigmatically composed faces. Inwardly they are screaming with laughter; it doesn't get any better than this.]

PORTHOLE: Well, liege, shall we Kicke Ye Olde Butt?

JAYBIRD: Well spoken Porthole, or is it Asshole?

PORTHOLE: You need to finish, then we'll discuss it.

[High fives, hearty manly guffaws all around]

As JAYBIRD rose, he decided he'd make one final play. He walked up to the Clipboard Man, and manfully introduced himself. Dale Carnegie woulda loved it. The Clipboard Man said "Nice to meet you too", gave the proffered hand the squeeze while looking over his shoulder. More flashlights bobbed into view. He then bellowed "RUNNER!"

Jaybirds ears rang for a while thereafter. He shuffled out of IDLE-HOUR with his hiker's pole and PORTHOLE in tow. Nobody really was impressed. The thought floundered in the morass of pain and suffering, and sank to the pit of his brain. He had to finish, he'd deal with Mr Trail Safety later.

Thursday, August 07, 1997

Idle-Hour Aid Station Update

Greeetings, Kampers!

Yes! I am now the Idlehour CP captain. As befits other Mr Trail Safety endeavours, this will be the "Tough Love" aid station. The following changes will be made:

1] All cots will be retrofitted with #10 galvanized nails, in a proper upright grid formation on 1" centers.

2] All chairs will be removed except one, and that will be re-upholstered in "Mexican Security Baroque" ie broken beer bottles

3] Any runner entering whining will be forthwith encouraged to leave the AS under their own power. Inspirational literature will be read aloud. A 10' bullwhip has been ordered for this incentive.

4] Those runners who insist on arguing with the AS captain or crew will get their coffee thru the business end of a nozzle, administered to the suitable interface.

5] Any runners who whine really hard will see their worldly efffects dispersed to the roll of dice at the foot of whatever cross they bear.

I think these will make the IdleHour Aid Station an instant ultrarunning folklore classic, and give the Brown's Bar folks a run for their money.

As ever, holistically--Mr Trail Safety

Sunday, June 01, 1997

Low Sperm Count & You: Real UltraFacts

Mike S* has stated a pressing concern:

People, people, people -- we've mentioned many ultra dangers today, but have (perhaps purposely) ignored the most serious of all: low sperm count. Men -- it's unspoken presence surely torments us all. If I understand correctly, after finishing Bull Run, I was probably only half the man I used to be. Is that right?

Mr Trail Safety will now present some straight facts regarding Low Sperm Count:

Mike, give yourself a hand and rest easy. A lo-elevation 50 like BRR will not deplete your precious bodily fluids to that "red-line" state.

With sufficient rehydration and optimal visual/tactile stimuli, you will maintain a sufficently fresh genetic inventory. Truth be told, the little wigglers will be a more virile and vigourous crop than what you produced in your sedimentary former lives. You're likely to produce more hale and hearty offspring with monster quads now than you were before. Consider this to be pre-natal conditioning.

But to answer your question re: depletion. In cases of high training [ie 100-180+mpw], and immediately following a 100mi race; there have been instances where ejaculate consisted of micro-granular emissions, similar to that of a dust-puff at the climactic moment. This is not especially uncomfortable to the "emittor", but could be problematic for the recipient, esp. if susceptible to air-borne pollen-type allergens. The colors can be interesting, and are the subject of numerous monographs [Binkster:1991, Sevende-Sandia:1993, Wanker/Blindsider:1980],

Fortunately, this condition is transient, and can be treated with the appropriate supplements [SpoogeBuilder, by D&L Holistic Industries] to indiscretely name one commercial sponsor of this info-post.

As ever, with your mind in mind,
Mr Trail Safety