This is a story that is shrouded in the mists of time.
It goes back to the daze when UltraRunning As We Know It Today®™ was a bold, virile, and three-legged golem, which upon several Lucky Stars Mr Happy barked with a mighty one-eyed roar. This Golem had hair on the palms, was shaggy in the butt, broke wind whilst running unto the four corners of the world, and it saw that it was good. And it paused not in its pursuits for Gu nor PowerBars, shaped as they were into funny little animals
That was before the Standardizers, the Leg-Lifters, The Steatopygic Savages bearing Ski Poles sought to cast nets and lassoes, snares and traps, satchels and paiges over this flared-nostrilled, freedom-loving snaggle-toothed Wild Mustang that it was. The Givers Of Bad Advice, the Low-Mileage Pundits, The Bladder-Blatherers and the Salt Co-Religionists were gathering and making flapping noises. It seemed like only day before yesterday.
Into this roiling pond of mediocrity strides a figure that would sooner Hold A Candle to His Own Wind than Be Serious About Squirrel Runs. Awed and cowed, the previously mentioned unwashed fell back, gibbering and chattering in fear before the lash of Penetrating Logic and Cheez-Kutting Wit ®™.
This was the Advent of Mr Trail Safety.
Smiting the Pharisees of Blisters, The Cyber-Idolators, Worshippers of Rubbery Calves, and Dork Covens of UltraPosers with vigor and rectumtude; for this is what they have craved but have been unable to enunciate in all of their inchoate postings.
But they are unable to contain themselves, and so bring down a virtual reality of Comedic Suffering about their heads. Their japeries are like unto Cowpies of the Mind, and they wonder "where do flies come from?"
And Mr Trail Safety announces himself not, nor does he abide at a fixed address with regular hours. He cums and goes at moments of his own choosing, but leaves TimeBombs of Comedy, set to go off hours after his departure, so that Points Will Be Made, and A Good Laff Is Had By All.
Thus Sprach Mr Trail Safety.