Tuesday, October 31, 2000

KornHole Klassic 69hr Track Run

...Height & Weight Divisions

Well now, time-challenged kampers! We've opened the Mother Lode of All List Topics®™ on this one. Let's cut right to the chase!

Here is a brief summary of various Divisions that will be ***firmly*** in place for the '01 KornHole Klassic 69hr Track Run.

Height Categories:
Dwarf, Average, and Too Damn Tall

Anorexic, Uneasy-About-It, Love Handles & Roll-Overs, and Truck-Scale Worthy.

Guys, I suspect that this category will be most rife with obfuscations, hedgings, and outright cheating. Applicants/claimants will argue [invariably] that it all depends on who's doing the "examinations". With that said, here goes.

[music sfx: cue up Ron Jeremy]

Peewee, Piddling, Dull-Normal, "I'm Feeling Good", and "Too Much of A Good Thing". [For those unclear on the concept, here *is* a difference between 9 inches and 9 centimeters].

Just so no one complains of being left out, for the ladies and the guys out there who are still with us-- Behold the JogBra Competition:
Categories include Teeny, Perky, Tasty, Hmmm, Melons Out of Season, Eye-popping.

Swell huh? If this was Jeopardy, "I knew the answers, but I did not get the questions right..."

For those that just woke up, this is your chance to steer the thread back to the safe waters of salt, blisters, "why RD's are congenitally mean to me", and "what is an ultra?"

Well, gotta tend to the hydroponic PowerBar farm under the grow-lights.

Wednesday, September 27, 2000

AC100 Course Preview [Hummeresque]

For those who are running Angeles Crest 100 this weekend, the following is a summarized course overview.

Wrightwood to Three Points (0-40mi)
Enjoy briefly the tall trees and cool air until you reach Cooper Cyn. Every effort will be made to have the parabolic mirrors and the trail-embedded heating coils turned on and focused for maximum effect. For all you eager trail-monsters, the fun stops at Three Points. Sorry! The gates of Hell will have to wait until later!!

HIGHLIGHTS: Look for the Chucky Cougar Cooper Cyn Ice-Cream Stand. Specialties include vanilla drumsticks with the Jumbo Spanish Olive in each one.

Three Points to Chantry (40-75)
With the troublesome cool air and tall trees providing character-debilitating shade out of the way, you can focus on the clear blazing sunlight and refreshing heat! The tour starts at Three Points, then progressing through the scenery-challenged low hills of Sulfur Springs. After an all-too-brief stay on blacktop to Mt Hillyer, you can enjoy the majesty of the Fred Flintstone Scenic Wilderness. Keep an eye out for stoner Barneys and Betties!

Aficionados relish the next 16 miles, and prefer to run it in high-noon late summer conditions to truly appreciate it's exotic splendor. When crossing through to Newcomb's, be sure to pick up spicy hot-links and pickle brine at the road-crossing, which lacks real zest unless its at least 100! Continue to Build Character until you get into Santa Anita Cyn, and keep an eye out for our rattling friends, the West Coast Diamond-Back Rattler! They like you, they really do!!

HIGHLIGHTS: Look for the Victoria's Secret Hospitality Tent in the middle of the West Fork Cyn.

Chantry to Finish (75-100)
This is the part you've all been waiting for. After an invigorating early morning stroll up to the Mt Wilson toll-road, hit the afterburners and get on down into Idle Hour Cyn.

2009 Update:
Bored with your Upper Winter Creek to Manzanita Bypass training run leg? Take a left turn at the jct of the Upper WInter Creek/Mazanita Bypass and experience the original Manzanita Ridge Trail.

I did it recently and got a full blast of old-school climbs, bumps, and drops. Possibly the steepest part of the original course, this section probably ate more buckles than any other, yard for yard from '86-'98. At night it's even more dramatic when you pop up like a gopher from the Upper Winter Creek, and get the full light and dull roar of the megalopolis below.

Of course it brought back fun memories of scratching like a toy doggie on a vertical parquet floor on race night.

Continue thru on the current course to the Mt Wilson Toll Road. Down to Idle Hour you go! Its the last giveaway section of the course. Enjoy it.

Just when you've had enough downhill, the upward trails beckon you. Now it's 9 miles of Heat, Dust, & Dreams until Millard Campgrounds, where squirrels have semi-autos to toy with rock-throwing children. Never a dull moment here!

The last 4 miles will introduce you to the many pony-tailed, mountain-biking circus freaks who may or may not see you on the trail! Don't worry, they'll go over the edge and you won't!!

HIGHLIGHTS: You will be passing through, and maybe falling into specimen groves of the Rush Limbaugh Experimental Poison Oak Forest. This is a "not-to-be-missed" excursion.

We hope you will have enjoyed your weekend. Remember, If You Can Bonk It You Can Do It®™

Sunday, September 10, 2000

5 Flavors of Sports Drinks, & Other Observations

Before They were Legends, They Were Gyros.

Summer is drawing to a close. The light is changing, the air is cooling, and all the Trail Betties of Summer have mysteriously turned into Boy Scouts.

This was yet unknown when the Record Setting Training Team of Casino Bingo, accompanied by his peg-legged Organic Dwarf Scrivener Draw Poker; convened yet again early on Saturday morning to hammer out a cool, self-imposed 29.98 miles. This is a Continuing Saga For the Ages, in which Poker might be Boswell to Bingo's Johnson. However, this narrative is more than the One Eye'd Reigning over the Blind.

First order of Business on this still morning: the replacement of Lisa Loeb by virtue of non-performance and breach of contract. The replacement was a tossup between Carly Simon and Gabby Reese. "Nobody Does It Better" lost out to Beach Volleyball hard-bodiness. This alone was worth several 1000-meter repeats up Baden-Powell with 100-m recoveries and negative splits. It was like dancing on MTV.

There was still many hours to while away. Omar of the Fretful Oud plucked a woeful minor modality while humming "...play it again, Samarkand..."

I mentioned sports drinks. I own majority shares in all the products mentioned. I stand to benefit. You'll adjust.

Light flavor, pleasant mouthfeel. Easy on the gut. Great bait and lure for barking ducks. I understand that somebody is making a bandit variant [tuna flavored], with corresponding modifications in the product name.

The drink of choice for riding a lawn tractor. Helps maintain consciousness thru the G-force of tight turns, especially when hitting sprinkler heads. Comes in Gumball [red], Urinal Cake [blue], and Robo-Douche [citric yello or international orange]. These mix well with ClifBars, especially the new Halle Berry flavor.

This product had the most complex bouquet and flavor spectrum of any product tested this summer. From the first mixing to the final froth it never failed to exceed its low expectations. Remember when you first took a deep whiff of the ineffable exotic blend of dust and powdered rhino turds at the zoo? All this and more has been carefully preserved in this product. You will enjoy it down to the last few frothy swallows, while the artistry of Ron Jeremy plays in the background.

Now We Phew, We Happy Phew were down to the last 15 miles of our self-imposed Ultra. We were on record pace. But suddenly, the record didn't matter anymore. The roar of bladders settled yards of dusty trail in the wake of this revelation. All the time we had saved came back to us. Now we had time to enjoy the incredible beauty and majesty of the San Gabriels. We picked up our Ebonite Bowling Balls and glowing hibachis, and quick-timed it past quail that were throwing rocks at us.

And so brings to a close yet another installment of the Permananent Collection of Lost Weekends.

yours truly From the VisionKwest [Un]Divided Highway,
--Draw Poker

Thursday, September 07, 2000

After Many A Hummer Barks The Duck

Now in the late training season, when the colors of sunlight begin their autumnal progression; is when the thoughts of many weary ultrarunners turn to inflateable sheep. Or maybe inflateable Trail Safety Companions; the better to shepherd them thru the Dork Night Without Armour in pursuit of the 100-Mile Quest.

I write this all from memory of course, lounging in Tunica Mississippi, enjoying the sultry charms of spandex'd hotties, doing basic field research on a variety of topics. My eyesight is still pretty good, and I'd say that silicone is pretty large in these parts, as well as those parts too.

I digress. For I, Mr Trail Safety, a mere peg-legged Nephew, Trail Scrivener, and Narrator of the various exploits of La-La Wimpy Cali Switchback Hill Runs; every Day Is Like Sunday in anaerobic righteousness.

Last Saturday found this Humboldt Idiom Savant Korrespondent wheezing up the indifferent majesty of Mt Baldy in the august and now Septembered Company of Dr Casino Bingo and Ms Geri K of Phoenix AZ. We labored in the shadow of Olander, and were none the better for it.

We were looking for good places to heave stragglers after Last Rites in the upcoming Baldy Peaks 50k. Race Management takes a Darwinian view of the procedings, noting that it encourages repeat customers.

Summitting Baldy yet again, and counting coup on the huddled GPS'd Sierra Club Hikers, we looked out and saw that it was good. I also noted that the two British ladies weren't half-bad either, but that is another story altogether. Maybe when the children are asleep.

Dallying not, we Busted Major Ass getting down to the Notch. Prospective ultrarunners met us wearing flip-flops and high heels. A good start, say I, and running naked will only improve matters for me at any rate. All this is Truth Well Told to Twelve hundred strangers who are my friends.

Dr Bingo parted company at the notch, as he was on Taper. His cel-phone could be heard ringing from his car, 3 miles below at Wanker Flats. Ms Ger & I displayed our hindmosts to Temptation, and traversed eastward on the 3-T's Trail, and thence down Ice House Canyon. This is the geologic equivalent of Mr T & "Brick House" of recent popular külture.

On Sunday we came back for more. Another pass over Mt Baldy. Down to the Notch, with a quick-fast getaway down yet again to Wanker Flats. Notable in Sunday's ascent was the appearance of a Trail Betty wearing nearly thigh-high gaiters. She was also using to great effect the electrified weenie-pronging REI hand-held lightening rods. Circumstances limit the descriptions I can safely relate.

Of such mortal coils dreamz are made, and all of you are pretty gosh-darn lucky. Its almost as good as Gabby Reese going with you to the Yard Sale of The Mountain Godz, and buying you a lava-lamp.

Until next time, my UltraList running Gently Chickadees...

Monday, September 04, 2000

Teletubbies In Hell, or, Another Boring Training Run

This past Saturday saw a bright and shiny shuttlebus hauling about 25 crypto-Teletubbies up into the San Gabriels for a bright and shiny training run. This was Day 1 of Tom Nielsen's Labor Day AC Whack-A-Rama. Jay Grobeson waved us all bye-bye at the Windsor Park,ing Lot, having taken depositions that would be used against us later.

This run is played out in the force-field of the mighty bulk of Mt Wilson, known also to its devotees as Mt Wilson-Phillips.

You will have about 25 miles total to physically ponder your relationship to this mountain. You will also get a pounding sensation from whichever direction is applicable.

The hapless runner first enters the Force Field climbing up to Newcomb [or Nukem] Saddle. A short state of grace follows a ridgerun and downhill, followed by a short preparatory penitential climb up to Chantry.

Chantry is a mere pullout on the bardo. A surprisingly runnable section awaits, then a longer prayerful climb up once again of Mt Wilson. The Toll Rd is reached. Free? Not yet! The sinner has 4 miles of downhill to Idle Hour. But you, hapless runner, are still in thrall to Mt Wilson-Phillips, and will be until you climb up out of Idle Hour to Sam Merill. Only then can you begin to escape the clutch of the late-race Dark Star.

With all this in mind, Casino Bingo, and his peg-legged dwarf companion Draw Poker, were on track for another record-setting Beach-Ballz-2-Wallz®� Training Run.

Skillfully covering their getaway from the top of ShortCut, they spun their lead into the virtual miles ahead of the pack. It was Garside-ean in it's scope, and they updated their webpages continually, even as they ran. But their focus and drive did not preclude periodic altruistic "dust-settling" that accompanied trailside pauses.

Their solitude did not last forever. Select participants, ever eager to Learn The Secrets of Real UltraRUnners pursued them. One such candidate, whose initials are Jay Anderson, ran by in a bright orange hat that only recently had a pork-chop tied to the top. Presumably this was for the delectation of Chucky, the Cheez-Kutting Kougar. Jay [not his real name] astonished and amazed Team Bingo/Poker with his off-the-lip 540 switchback spins. Then he and his weeping bladder vanished into the verdant distance.

Their arrival at Chantry Flats in mostly unsupported bid for World Domination was met by a totally coincidental tailgate fiesta hosted by Jay Grobeson, who knows the difference between Guilt and Innocence when he sees it.

Bingo and Poker plead 'nolo', hoovered up available goodies, and then rejoined the Pursuit of Sunday School Ultras just ahead of the arriving bailiffs. The following 15 seconds were well-spent in earnest discussion of splits, blisters, and Your Dad's Sox; then reverted to loftier discussions of Best Unsupported Actresses. U2 played in the background, accompanied by barking ducks.

The trail at this point has gotten a bit narrow for Shopping Karts and Rickshaws, but is bereft of the indolence of previous sections.

Now, having climbed up to the Toll Road, Bingo and Poker were treated to a Luciferian view of the great metroplex on the plain. It was balmy, high 70's, clean air, even a bit nippy by late August norms, if not n0Rms. Manfully adjusting their PETA-approved sealskin bolero jackets, they were off again.

Just above Idle Hour, they stopped at the bucolic "Uncle Hal Water Drop" and refilled their bottles. This correspondent remembered what the July 4th run felt like [oppressive humidity, carnivorous insects] and was glad to Be Here Now.

Brain-death set arrived in the Idle Hour Canyon. Too much fun was being had. The Teletubbies were reduced to merely whimpering instead of being their bouyant selves. Somebody remembered that Jay G would be at Millard, and that was our lode-star for the moment.

But in the midst of this Vale of Tears, Bingo and Poker encountered two Darwin Candidates. The first was a group of thrashing day hikers who decided to vertically assault a near vertical brushy drainage, eschewing the mundanity of hiking on trails and fire-roads. One wondered how many rattlers they woke up in their quest. The second was a goateed wonder-dewd who decided that it would be a really smart idea to downclimb another near-vertical crumbly decomposing granite slope above Millard Falls. But we lingered not in the Groves of Idiocy, nor read about them in the papers the next day.

As foretold, Jay the G awaited us at Millard. A full spread and cold drinks were there. Managing not to incriminate themselves again, Casino Bingo and Draw Poker made themselves at home, but stopped short of coling their feet in the ice-shest.

From there it was a mere 4.5 Cali miles to the finish. Switchbacks and cacti were in perfect alignment as always, and will probably be so come Race Day. In the warm afterglow of Brain Dead Narcosis, it was easy to say "gosh! I was just sandbagging out there and really coulda pushed it harder!!"

But that is Sunday School Running, and awaits another day.

NEXT TIME: 4 Major Flavor Groups of Drink Mixes

Monday, August 28, 2000

Burning Man Or Ring Of Fire?

The Surly Bighorn is your friend.

Trespassing Spies In The House of Ultra-Love

37 miless in the San Gorgonio Wilderness
Some climbing, a few rocks. Big trees.
Minimal sensory overload from trail-betties.
9-1/2 hrs, more or less, whatever.


Yes, my ultra-List love monkeys, you've been waiting for this all week. Another istallment of Boldly Glowing Where None Others Have Disregarded Posted Warnings Before. Not mere signs and barbed wire, but pushing out beyond ordinary frontiers of brain-deaded consciousness. You too can shuffle in the footsteps of another high-mileage narrative.

Our mandate from the Mountin' Gawdz was a mere, self-imposed 37mile lollipop of mountain fun. This particular installment was in the San Gorgonio Wilderness. This group consisted of Dr Casino Bingo, Balto the Wonder Dog, Tara Lipinsky, and yours truly Draw Poker. In the words of Don Henley, we four were the New Squids In Town.

San Gorgonio raises its indifferent grey bulk 11,200' above the fleshpots and pleasure domes of Cabazon, gateway to Palm Springs. From the peak you can see it's rival Mt San Jacinto to the south. It too tops 11,000ft. All that separates the two is a yawning gulf, a busy interstate, and the vanishing dreams of the Morongo Casino patrons. But San Jacinto has a tram which makes for more abundant humor references than Gorgonio. Here, we had to make do with a handful who'd found their way to the top with the latest that REI has to offer. I felt nearly naked.

All this was still several hours in the future. Our day began with a multi-switchback warm up out of Forsee Creek for several hours, then followed by some vigorous ridge running. A descent into Dollar Saddle was mere foreplay for the counter-clockwise circumnavigation of Gorgonio, which entailed some climbing. The trails at this point were nearly paved, the switchbacks insignificant, and there were passing lanes for rickshaws as well.

Gorgonio was reached. A taste-test on a 2-week old half-eaten Clif Bar was conducted. Good mouth feel, savory, with flavor bursts alternating with crunchiness. Onward. The circumnavigation continued. Rocky switchbacks, but once again, these were pallid and insignificant, probably not up to spec for other correspondents. We passed the 'must-see' DC-3 wreck, but missed it. It is more for the upwardly damned on this trail, craning to see when will it all end.

Our water bottles were nearly empty. This made for a 22mile interval between car-cooler and first water, as the previously passed springs were whiz-trickles over green rocks. However, because we were lucky Cali squirrels, there was a prevailing cool with periodic cloud cover. We didn't fry our narrow asses. At South Fork we pumped water, I using my special pump that closely resembled a dead squirrel. My companions shot sidelong glances at the evident disproportion of my right arm to my left. When all bottles were filled, I rearranged the squirrel on my head, as it was also my sun hat.

We started climbing...again! Another hour brought us back to Dollar Saddle. Balto had stretched out on a log. He was sleeping, perchance dreaming of a life where he was dancing on MTV. Britney Spears was cooing in his ear, luring him with shallow and transient carnalities. Tara was staring off into space. Our japeries woke him. He shook his head and said "Who's Britney Spears?"

Now it was only a mere 14 Cali miles back to the trailhead.

The last seven miles had all the rocks and roots we had coming up, but were now alert for our passage. Squirrels in trees hurled pinecones at us. Big horn sheep smoked cigarettes, drank beer and popped off rounds just to watch us dance. This was Livin' Large in the Food Chain.


Experts have estimated that if this particular run were unkinked and laid out in a flat place, northern Ohio perhaps, it would probably equal 100 miles. But the effort and expense of doing this have stifled this line of empirical enquiry.

At the end of the day it was Just Us, a bucket of teamwork, and nary a naughty thought to distract us from our Higher Purpose. That alone is enough to make a grown man cry. Or a dead man come [thank you, Mick and Keith] depending on your perspective.

yours truly From the VisionKwest [Un]Divided Highway,
--Draw Poker

Sunday, August 13, 2000

Sunday School Cantina Of The Damned

or : The Baldy Peaks Course Preview

A training run. Baldy Peaks, 2 times over the 10,067 summit. Heat, dust and dreemz. Lots of elevation gain, rocks, switchbacks of both Eastern and Western proportions. The JogBra team on site. Nose rocks to suit the owner. Bonking. This could be you on race day, Oct 21, 2000. Delete now.


Saturday morning found our Tres Amigos desperately searching for reasons why we couldn't be down in Montclair picking up girls. The clock was ticking, the mighty mountain awaited our feeble efforts with yawning indifference...

A wave start out of Ice House Canyon clustered Team 3A in a competitive profile. We are Balto the Wonder Dawg, Casino Bingo, and your humble scrivener, Draw Poker.

Christina Aguilera was calling splits at the mile mark. A brass band announced our modest intentions of conquering the wilderness. PR flacks quoted us promiscuously. There was no fact-checking, and it was good.

The itinerary, ladies and gents, was two full loops on the Baldy Peaks 50k course. This is the canonical course, as dreamed and actualized by John Davis of Claremont. It is a course that will cause you to take inventory of your meager 50k possesions. There are scenic distractions, some elevation gain, a few rocks but not enough to dissuade most of the gathered readership.

There is also a hidden element on the course, the one that inspires those of the "Ultras as Sunday School" devotional sect.

You will be gathered to the mountain-top not once, but twice! Sa-tan will show you the great subdivisions of the known Western World, and you will be temp-ted. You will have a descent into the lush pleasure grotto known as Manker Flats, where you will be refreshed and humoured, then Expelled.

On your Exile from Manker you will take the torturous path past the Sierra Club Hut. You imagine your earthly woes behind you. You dream that your splits, so earnestly discussed on days like this and again at work, will improve. But no. The trail, in its ineffable wisdom takes the direct and thorough path to your redemption up over boulders, with nary a candy-ass shopping-kart switchback in sight. It goes straight up. There are places you reach out and touch the face of Gawd®™, and it is granitic with a grinning lizard staring back at you.

But enough!--that is Ultra Sunday School! You, however-- are throbbing, sweating, dusty avatars and demiurges of the Meat-Space Coordinates! This is the pumping disco-beat of What's Happening Now, Baby! And once you get all of your legs under you and heading back down to the Notch, it's a different world---yeah!

Team JogBra? You thought I'd forgotten! No way!

The Troll once asked the Knight "What is your favourite colour?" If you answered Heather Gray- into the abyss! White? Maybe you passed. Fire Engine Red? The troll is hurled into the crevasse. On with the VisionKwest.

And thus we were. We three, we raggeddy-assed three made it back to the Notch. Balto and Casino Bingo elected to do the Extra Credit Continuation up Thunder Mtn, and then go "off-course" to Ice-House via the 3-T's Trail.

I, humble peg-legged nephew of the Little People of Stonehenge, elected to depart from this Dynamic Duo and make my solitary way down to Manker Flat. My dharma had taken me on the Non-Mandatory Path, away from the Toolshed of the Mountain Godz. My car awaited me there, from the morning.

I then drove down to Ice House, lolled in narcoleptic twilight and awaited the arrival of Balto and Dr C. Bingo. In time, they emerged from the still lengthening shadows. They too sat inert and pondered the Tao of Duh.

Before We were Heroes We Were Grinders. The Mysteries of Baldy had been revealed, but are inadequately conveyed, and are as transient as a baton-twirling trophy at a garage-sale.

Baldy Peaks awaits you and your efforts. You will get your money's worth. You can buy that for a dollar and still get change back.

NEXT WEEK: "Coyote Ugly-- & You"

yours truly From the VisionKwest [Un]Divided Highway,
--Draw Poker

Sunday, August 06, 2000

Heat Dust & Dreamz in the Angeles Crest

Heat Dust & Dreamz in the Angeles Crest
[a continuing narrative of the Training Effect]

Summer as we know and love it here in SoCal was waiting for us this weekend. It was omnipresent behind every bush, around every corner, and shrivelling every shade spot within the feeble 33.3333 mile thread of our Saturday run.

Of course, the "Imperialist We" is none other than Dr. Casino Bingo, and yours truly, his infernal helper and trail-dwarf Draw Poker. We were there to time Dr. Bingo on a stretch of trail, perhaps not rocky enough to some standards, but adequate for the enjoyment of most; this time between Islip Saddle and Short Cut [25.91-59.3mi].

We calibrated the colo-rectal odometers [CRO], and were off. The sun had been flexing its chi for several hours. With the rising heat, I detected the smell of bat urine, but realized it was my hat, unwashed from a month ago.

Cooper Cyn was strangely quiet. We had expected to see stoner maidens creek side, but were treated to silence. Pulling away from the cool water, we could rest assured that we would now get our moneys worth.

Our first water drop at Pajarito was a welcome opportunity to fill bottles, push and shove to secure a shady spot. When that played out, we headed onward to Three Points. Every mile brought us further away from character-debilitating shade, and into the Flaming Furnace of the True Faith.

Three Points is a fairly short leg from Pajarito, but the theory here is that 2 closely spaced water-stops before a long bleak stretch of sun-blasted hell might be nice. A mitigating factor is that the trails are too rocky to push shopping karts, so this will have to do.

We sat in a semi-shady hole and swilled fairly cold Cokes, watched the sweat explode out of our pores, the salt rime on our faces, and feel the adobe nose-rockets form in our nostrils. The last was a purely private experience. With all liquids exhausted, and the car still 16 miles away, we decided to get moving again.

Being the observant squirrels we are, we noticed, strangely, that we had the trail entirely to ourselves. It must be "Old Cigarette Days" down in Palmdale. The rising mercury was an afterthought. Barking ducks stalked our every move through this landscape, taunting our fragile eggshell minds.

Aficianodos of the AC100 course are unanimous in their high regard for the stretch between Three Points and Mt Hillyer. It has everything you could possibly want: sun, scrubby bushes, minimal shade, sand, decomposing granite, indifferent lizards, the works. And thus we savored the full effect.

Summitting Mt Hillyer, the casual runner passes through the Fred Flintstone Stoner Wilderness. It is the boulder-coda to a Roman Wilderness of Pain. Wending your way through the rocks, and downward into the ever-compounding heat, we crossed into Bandido Campground.

The low pulse of a poorly played tom-tom greeted us. A quick glance revealed double-wide New Agers, who were there to commune with Beelzebub, or Barney. That deity is tolerant of mediocre musicianship. We left them in the sultry heat for the delights of Chilao.

Now we are 6.5 miles from Short Cut. All our bottles are dry. This is heat-training with an attitude. I seem to remember it being about 2 hours. My dick is not the same one I started with. Where did all these waffle-prints come from?

The sun is merciless. It's had all day to cook the various bowls we are staggering through. There is periodic shade. That ends in the final drop down into Short Cut Canyon. I know that the car is parked on the highway. I feel my blood thickening and my brain starting to backpedal. Eventually we make the shade, which corresponds to a strolling climb up and out.

I've had too much fun. I'm walking. I'm having recovered memories on what really training for this sport is like. Dr. Bingo has long since vanished up the trail. I arrive at the car. He is downloading trail-porn with a glassy stare, cold Coke in hand. I fall into the front seat. I stare at my feet and think of nothing at all.

He's the lucky one. On Sunday he gets to frolic on the slopes of Mt. Baldy, something to the effect of 24 miles. Meanwhile, I sandbag and do a JoggerzWhirld®� 11-mile outing on the Sam Merrill Trail. But then he's in training...and I'm not!

yours truly From the VisionKwest [Un]Divided Highway,
--Draw Poker

Monday, July 31, 2000

Another 110-Volt VisionKwest

Casino Bingo and I, the humble Draw Poker, had commenced and completed a "training run" this past Saturday up the Angeles Crest. "Training" and "run" are elastic concepts. It pays to be flexible. It's like hearing "Chariots of Fire" played on a whoopie cushion.

We started at Vincent Gap and took it to 3 Pts. It was 28.88888 miles of self-imposed multi-level hurt. We were there to check up and make sure all the rocks hadn't been removed or smoothed over to non-standard specs.

This was the first really hot weekend we've had. I forgot to stash a cooler with ice-cold Cokes around the halfway point. This was a point of longing and regret.

More pressing than dehydration was a yawning and serious shortage that caused considerable worry. No Trail Betties. None. None anyway, until we got to Cooper Canyon. SOMEBODY was asleep at the wheel, and heads will roll. But we had been promised that Lisa Loeb would serenade us in black-rimmed glasses and a guitar. When its hot out, Minimalism is Best.

When we arrived at Cooper Cyn, it was high noon. We had already larked over Baden Powell, then dragged our narrow Euro-Asses up Mt Williamson, and joyfully made the descent. The parabolic reflectors were on, the heating coils were working. The settings were on "Medium".

As we pulled away from the second shaded stream crossing, my TrailBetty Locator began to stir. We met up with a sizeable hiking group. They must be getting ready for the Annual REI "Take Your Girlfriend Hiking" Weekend. The 2 Tuff-Guy Leaders were kitted out with regulation Shishkabob Hiking Poles, and GPS devices were probably chirping away in their packs. They were jockeying for lead...it was too close to call. Following in their wake were veritable droves of Trail Betties, outfitted in TrailReady® JogBra tops. Not a hiking pole or GPS in sight. Stepping into the bushes, I struggled to turn down the volume on the Locator, wrestling it with both hands.

By the time they all passed, the batteries had died. Nature's Majestic Silence closed in around us. It said "DORK". We plowed on. Bargaining with Nature, I made a Vow that I would accept Ms Loeb with a ukelele. Silence.

We made Cloudburst Summit. The sun had been screened by a passing cloud. We were no longer writing our wills. Unseen strangers were.

We traversed the trail section where motorcyle trash is dense. The squirrels here have elaborate dens, decorated with reflective and glittery trash from wrecked motorcycles which had reached the unexpected end point in their terrestial trajectories. They've had their cases adjudicated immediately in the Court of Natural Law, where verdicts are immediate.

OK. Ms Loeb and a pennywhistle. I know when to moderate unreasonable demands.

Heading into Glenwood, we heard a LASD Medevac chopper hovering above Highway 2. I optimistically figured that with a chopper, the likely motorcyclist would not need a coroner. A later conversation with an NFS Ranger revealed that it would likely be a fatality, as his eyes "looked real bad, with major head & spinal trauma". Keeps NSAIDs in perspective. Gawd, I love motorcycles.

We finished as Heroes, and Legends In Our Own Minds. These were not the same minds we started with. We had been stood up again by Ms Loeb. We wouldn't be hearing "Stay", not even a capella. Nature is Tough. And we Dwelt in the Double-Wide Abode Thereof, and ordered take-out.

Until the Next [Re]counting of Coup, yours truly From the VisionKwest [Un]Divided Highway,
--Draw Poker

Tuesday, July 18, 2000

Leadville Advice/Crew & Pacers

"Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive..."
Hope Pass, 1997 Leadville 100.

At 12,000', Hope Pass gets all the love. However... Hagerman Pass [approximately 15/80 miles in the course] is the hidden beast in the LT100. Only 500' lower than Hope,  disguised by a pole-line utility road so it doesn't say "big-assed mountain" quite so loudly.

Brandon Sybrowsky paced me from WInfield to Fish—he at a low idle to my determined shuffling. Along the way we had some hilarious discussions on poisonous mushrooms, Mormonism, Copper Canyon in Chihuahua, and  paleoarcheology. For starters.

Around midnight, Bruce Hoff and I had come back over the top of Hagerman  on the inbound leg, when Tom Sobal, Leadville Mountain Man, camping out with his kids, dryly observed "you don't have any time to waste, you're on the buckle bubble".

He was right. I crossed the finish with 40min to spare, to get "La Plata Grande". Damn buckle's so big, I served a turkey on it at Thanksgiving. You'd have to finish the Vermont 100 ten times to get buttons and cufflinks to go with it.

Watch the irreverent Animated LT100 mini-movie here.

Now the Advice part of the show
With a first-time crew, a lot is going to happen, and if they aren't sport-acclimated they might freak. Something about barfing runners, hypothermic if raining and just tuckered-out cranky assholes will throwthem for a loop. Homer's Odyssey provides some examples: ie advise them to stop their ears with wax to avoid the Siren song of pain and DNF.

To maximize the chances of success:

  1.  Be REAL NICE to them. They have given up plenty to be there. Buy them whatever they want. Just hand them your wallet.
  2. have all your gear readily accesible in the car and PORTABLE.
  3. drive the course with them, and show them reasonable places to park. In the first half of the race, parking will be a clusterfuck. As the field spreads out, things will lighten up. But by then everyone is brain-dead.
  4. Have a plan worked out IN ADVANCE. Work it out based on training runs that are longer than 25mi, and preferably back-to-back. Brief the crew the day before the race.
  5. Avoid the pre-race dinner madness. Have it all done by 330-4pm.

Extra text notes as follows:

Pacers & Crew are strongly advised to sleep whenever possible, eat well and take care of business. FILL THE GAS TANK[S] OF ALL APPLICABLE VEHICLES. Watch for tickets on the Winfield Road. I leave this to yr judgement.

Anything can & will change. And thanks to everybody again for helping me
make this possible.

CREWING: by Aid-Station

Avoid Tabor Boat Ramp. At May Queen, they will be parking somewhere within
a mile of the meeting place. The road in from Leadville does a hook down into May Queen. It will be blocked off on the outbound leg. You will be met where the Colorado Trail meets up with the road. This is when you drop flashlights etc, take on/discard rain gear as necessary. Unless its pouring like hell at the start, I'd avoid tights. All this depends on your personal
prefs and body-temps.

The course runs off the road and does a U-loop thru the fish hatchery. Yr
crew will find parking somewhere in the loop.

3] TREELINE: park where possible.

Crew parks across the street, unless the Divine Madness Dipshitz haven't taken over the parking lot. The A/S is in the aluminum pole bldg Vol FD. When it rains its panic because all the CO Yuppies are huddled not wanting to get wet. Its 'fuck the runners, here's my baby carriage'. No joke, that's what happened in '95.

Goatfuck galore. Have yr crew meet you at the foot of the CO Trail where it drops off Hope.

  1. Find one who has shitloads more experience than you.
  2. Find one you like, AND respect. This will make their suggestions/threats more palatable.
  3. Find one who's been out on the course before.
  4. They'd better have their act together: flashlites, nutrition, gear, etc.
  5. Experience, Experience, Experience.
An experienced pacer:
  • won't be all over you like a toy poodle, asking you "Howya feelin'?" because they know you are most likely dead meat on a stick.
  • will be able to listen to you and yr guts and tell that you are dehydrated, and do something about it and not get panicked.
  • can provide hours of really inspirational jive or XXX party jokes, depending on your preferences. I learned lots of things from Brandon Sybrowsky regarding edible and poisonous mushrooms, canyon travelling in Northern Mexico, and the non-availability of liver transplants in mushroom overdoses.
  • can look at your vomit and assure you its OK if you are clear, and tell you to sip instead of gulp.
  • will tell you when your quads lock up at 85 miles that its fairly natural, and that ibuprofen isn't going to make a dime's worth of difference, and they'll go numb anyhow, so may as well pick it up and keep moving.
  • will dispense hi-quality No-Doz instead of lo-grade generics. Micro sleep episodes are not unknown.
I find it better to have two if you get really lucky. If you can only cajole/con/shanghai one, then save him/her for the anchor leg.

In the event that you can't locate an experienced pacer, and you get a novice: Be Nice.

It's only a race, or a run, not some baroque test of self-worth. Either way, nobody likes to be the object of a tirade or scream-fest on the shores of Turquoise Lake at 3AM. You are the CO of Team You. Make every effort to prepare for their experience, because by yr participation, You Are In Charge.

The unforseen will happen. If for some reason you DNF, then explain to yr pacer that they are free to do what they like; they can pace a stranger, hang out, or pack it in like you. This is a contingency you may not want to exercise, but be aware of it.

Thursday, July 13, 2000

Another Tedious Training Run Posting

Greetings! VisionKwesters!!

This past weekend Dr Casino Bingo [Andy Röth] and yrs ever truly, Draw Poker; commenced, delivered and finished a short and indolent 25-mile training run. On Saturday. Wrightwood to Islip Saddle, a clean 25.

I can hear the snickers and guffaws from some of you, but rest assured, in the best tradition of various List etiquettes, you can multiply all the mileage listed by 2.14 if it makes you feel better. I did, & I feel great.

All Great Runs commence with idiocy. If you haven't done this lately, try it. The feeling of accomplishment is enhance if your shorts are a tad tight. I left my hat and sunblock in the finish-line car. Dr Bingo left his post-run sandals at the start. I was able to buy a hat at the start in Wrightwood. It was worthy, but made my ass look too big.

We got to fumble around at the top of Acorn Drive, and managed to lose the trail. After doubling back and forth, in a rhythmic display of incompetence, an up-gully scramble was arranged which got us in touch with our inner-trail selves. From there it was a lead-pipe cinch to follow the Auras of the Great on the fabled AC100 Trail.

Whereupon we encountered Caesar Cepeda at Vincent Gap, who was effusive in his directed profanity and invective in his feelings of tenderness and devotion to the indifferent mass of Mt Baden Powell. His mastery was evident, as he had 3 prior ascents that day alone to construct his thoughts. When we left him at the near-summit junction, it was evident that his next move tended towards deconstruction.

We then abandoned a group of Boy-Scouts that were installing a large wooden sign on the ridge. It had the color and surface aspect of a large graham cracker, and would undoubtedly be treated as such by certain species of knife-carrying termites. But leaving them to their tasks, we headed down the trail that would eventually finish at the car.

The weather was cool and clear, which will be fondly remembered later this summer as the Weekend Of Living On Borrowed Time.

People ask us "What do you think about when you are out for hours on end?" We discussed many deep topics, as is customary and worthy of Over-Educated Morons. Most devolved on the nature of noted Best Unsupported Actresses in this year's crop. One idea which emerged from the VisionKwest Idea Korral was a dot.com sequel to "Being John Malkovich". The working title at this time is "Fucking Meg Ryan". We feel it has wide appeal, great venture capital potential, and should release us from our day jobs fairly shortly.

We finished as Heroes, where once we were kings. Eating peanuts and drinking cokes at Islip while brain-dead is a pleasure accorded to few, while driving back to Wrightwood is the lot of many. We did both, and then brewed up an espresso in Wrightwood, before riding the multi-laned Interstate snake down to the Casino Bingo Compound in Upland CA.

On Sunday I felt the full weight of my sinful exertions on Saturday, and contented myself with a 12-mile drag up the Ice-House Cyn on Mt Baldy to Ontario Peak. The view was totally bitchin', but there was a championship Motorcycle Sand Hockey Match live from Uzbekistan that I had money on, so we beat it down the mountain quick-fast. Besides, the interactive Britney Spears kiosks were out of order--again!

Until next time,
Mr Trail Safety

Friday, July 07, 2000

NSAIDS: Ultra-convenient Whipping Boy

A while back there were a spate of posts on the presumed dangers and evils of NSAIDS. Whooooooooo, was I scared. There were sober-faced recitations of all the really Baaaaaad things that it would do to you, followed by 2nd-hand fatuous advice from MDs regarding same.

But guess what? NSAIDS were taking the heat for incompetent training, bad "coaching" advice, and poor judgement by many ultrarunners. Several years ago, we were all treated to an account of a gal who turned her guts inside out at Across the Years, who was dehydrated, went to the hospital, was a CCU guest and all that...and NSAIDS got the rap.

I can hear the wailing now, and little hands pounding away on the keyboards. Relax, it'll get yr minds off Jeopardy questions regarding the Southern flag, [of which there are 2: the civil ensign and the battle flag, but that's one for the re-enactors out there].

I digress. Where were we...pain killing! Pain killers MASK pain. Imagine. Blocks transmissions at critical neurons. Of course it screws with kidney function. But wait a minute! You're running an ultra, and that DOESN"T screw with kidney function? Sorry, that was *you* getting in touch with Gawd out there.

So. My advice to all who choose to ignore it this:

  1. Train better. Which means work on form, distance, endurance and BALANCE
  2. Race way less often. Most ultra-idiots race so much they have no time to train. This is like woodcutters who are so busy they have no time to sharpen the axe. And nothing is more dangerous than a dull axe.
  3. In your off hours, drink lots more water, and a lot less beer.
  4. If some dip-dunk is holding out on you for fluids, deck them, drink up, and when you finish...go home. 


Thursday, June 29, 2000

I'll Dance With My Reefer

A Pretentious Fat Koach, er, Man regales the unwary with details on stretching....

I'll Dance With My Reefer

A few minutes ago I took off my shoes,
And balanced against my refrigerator.
The calf raises I commenced to start,
I'll do it again later.

I did 45 slow raises with each leg.
I weigh 270 lbs today, [sans clothes].
I fronted my bulk against cool white,
The door against my nose.

As I slid against the enamel finish,
My "he-boobies" a-squeaking,
I was glad I was facing front-to-back,
Or it would have been butt-hairs I'd been tweaking.

I'm glad I can share this with all of you,
I know you follow my gist,
Because each and every one of you,
Are my friends upon the List.

Saturday, June 03, 2000

Koach's Eulogy for Frosty

Today's a Day Without Mirth,
In Kanine Happiness, there is a dearth,
An uncritical audience exceeds its worth,
For Frosty's left me, here on Earth.

His favorite words were: "Let's Go Running",
Even though he knew I was just funning,
In small circles 'round [it's "Littleton-ing"],
While by the swings, I'd be sunning.

Frosty's in Heaven and getting started,
Running laps with the dear departed,
I'll remember him as I shuffle broken-hearted,
While at Badwater -- shopping-kart'd.

Monday, May 29, 2000



When the full moon transits Venus,
Is when I start dreaming of gator Penis,
Only in fall when leaves are golden,
Doing hucklebuck like in days of olden.

[still with me?]

Now I'm running with tights so loose,
The guys whistle seeing my lips of moose,
A welcome change from hee-haws,
Yes! I'm past menopause.

[I'm on a roll! So spread me!!!]

When days are chilly I'll eat clam chowder,
Unadulterated by soy powder,
No rigid veg can give me heat,
Like a hot foot-long of gator meat.

Oh my, Oh me
I think I've got to pee.

---Lady Gee-Spot

Monday, May 08, 2000

Voices Carry From SO Far Away

So far from List I have been mopin',
I was unaware my account was still open.
And for all of you who've been waitin' [hopin'],
That Love's Cow-Poke has still been ropin'.

My house will be finished in just about three days more,
And from a great remove I hear the Listers roar,
The bottomless well of salt and more,
I heard a silent hand on My Heart's Door.

I told wise folks back in Philly,
I had my share of city-life [rilly!],
Now I feel like a fresh young lily,
Buyin' lotto tickets with Buck and Billy.

My House of Love, of much is said,
I have a second room--and a double bed,
And o'er the floor you'll gently tread,
And not disturb those getting Head.

But let me tell you of this I know,
For My FP tells me so,
I hear his whistle while I go,
Leaving golden tracks of yellow snow.

Gosh! I feel better already.

ORN: Avoided salt-trucks, dived into ditch. Maybe 4 miles tomorrow.

With Wuv, Lady Gee-Spot

Wednesday, May 03, 2000

Zane Grey Hi-Line 50/Mile 44/Cinerama Komedy

Mr Trail Safety in his element.
Photo by Andrea Feucht. Don't hold it agains her.
(original post 2001, post-edits April 25, 2013)

Now this is probably what you were waiting for. If you get offended easily, please read to the end of the post and get your money's worth. As Bette Davis once might have said..."Unbunch your panties, it's gonna be a fun ride."

At the Friday Nite Pre-race, the BIC Lighters were going off, and runners were throwing their shorts on the stage as Linda and Geri went through the pre-race usual. Amidst the lurking Barking Ducks I could hear "FREE-BIRD!" and so on.

The race started on Saturday at 0500. Lucky for me, I was still in bed. Several hours later I woke up and made some French Roast and watched the Japanese fleet sink into the Coral Sea. Bummer for them, I had an aid-station to Krewe. I donned ritual garb of white coveralls, with nary a wrinkle or crinkle, and had a solemn vest with totemistic numbers therein, several iterations of "69". Photos do not lie, and Komedy is Not Pretty.

After a rendezvous with Mile 44 Co-conspirators John Burke and Jim Kirby at the Big Motel, we decamped to the site. I arrived as Stan and His Ham-Krewe were in position, with bristling aerials a-go-go.

Taking an experienced survey of the site, I decided that I would have to deploy the 50lb Betty-Bait Salt Blocks with the Whistle attachments around the Aid Station. Available from D&L Industries, and are guaranteed to "Bring chix out of the stix!" John and Jim gave me skeptical looks. I bent to my task. They found it hard to believe that these salt blocks were going to lure nubile young women, but this is part of the Burden of Proof.

By noon the dirt road leading to the Aid Station was crowded with young women who were drawn mysteriously to this Aid Station. As the day drew on, they arrived eagerly and left only with great reluctance, even as ancient rhymes were recited. This one was enhanced by head-gear left by Geri in the supplies, a set of bunny-ears.

Here comes Peter Cottontail,
Hopping down the Poontang Trail,
Sings a Little Song for you and Me!
If you think you've got it rough,
You ain't seen him in the buff,
He's the Magic Guy for you and Me!
We noticed that several runners who had previously considered lingering or dropping out rallied in a miraculous manner, and burst away in a blaze of speed, a moving testimony to the Power of Prayer.

In matters Gluteal. the most exuberant Display was by Rich Fisher and another Gentleman, who were the Battling Geezer Butts of All-Time. Mr Fisher put on an astonishingly vigourous exhibition, and was by far the Most Lively Ass We's ever seen. Las Vegas has many hidden treasures, fer sure!

RDs Linda and Geri stopped several times by to see how things were going. The Ejecto-Seats were in fine working order, and we didn't have to shoot any stragglers.

Jim Kirby had a bleeding toe. By application of stout ropes and brute force, an amputation was effected. He was anaesthetized by a playing of the latest "Capitol Steps", and by John Burke reading the letters of Mary Chesnutt.

Tracking the observations with HoosierMetrics, we found the following correlations:
Salt Blocks => Nubile Women
Left hands => Scratching "parts"
Right Hands => Picking Nose
M&Ms => Pawed by hands

The end result: A lot of left-over M&Ms.
So there you have it, by my Fine Hand, etc etc

It must be noted before all is forgotten: 

While we were setting up, two pear-shaped elderly white hikers in coveralls approached us. They wanted to know if "the trail was safe?"

"Safe from what?" was my reply.

"You know, safe."

Aaah. The subtext was "safe from unspecified non-white threat elements".

Then I saw they were packing. Strapped to their porcine frames were .32 snub-nosed pistols. I started to laugh at these trembly, fearful chubbies. Looking at their faces, their sun-protection was on their pink faces was melting like tallow.

I laughed in their faces and told them that the trail was fine. I imagined Chucky The Cheese-Kutting Cougar doubled over with helpless merriiment as he gnawed these Weebles while they frantically went for their pistols.

Saturday, April 22, 2000

Statistical Dredging = Junk Science

A nameless truthseeker once wrote:

Shouldn't there also be some correlation with acute injuries other than
sprains, if the "sweets connection" hypothesis is true? Falls, etc.?


Wake up! Let's call this statistical dredging what it is: JUNK SCIENCE.

I don't know about the rest of the List, [or at least the parts of the List that still have Critical Brain Mass left], but this is meaningless!

However, using this seductive analytical model, we can now describe definite links between the following Categories:

Men => Hard-Ons
Women => Menstrual Cramps
Night => Darkness
Nipple Chafe => Bloody T-shirts

Lets also include links between the remaining categories as well:

Ultras => Fatigue
Trail Dirt => Brown Socks
PowerBars => Funny Little Animals
Letters to "Penthouse" => Reality

and so on.

The point is, ladies and gentlemen; that any sort of linkage can be created using any 2 contrasting terms/words/conditions, and that statistical models can be constructed accordingly.

Fun? Yes. Meaningful? No.

Remember, it wasn't so long ago that "experts" cited "statistics" to "show" that women who ran "risked" a prolapsed uterus.

Thursday, April 20, 2000

Highline 50, Mr Trail Safety & U

Howdy! all you Happy UltraKultists and Wallet-sized Poster Children...

Highline 50 is coming up fast and furious in your face like the Great One-Eyed Desert Lounge Lizard that it is!

As some of you doubtlessly realize, Yrs Truly, Mr Trail Safety is going to be Large and In Charge at Mile 44. For some, this will feel like Mile .44. The decimal point is meaningless. In which case, all of your Libertarian beliefs will have been thoroughly audited to your own satisfaction.

Or, you could you be like "Tiny girls, Dancing for Gold..." Me, I'll be John Tesh-like; sitting at a tiny toy piano, banging out "Music Box Dancer" or other greats from the Richard Clayderman ouevre. Well, you can't make an omelette with out breaking an ouevre. More on that later.

It is entirely likely that one of the following items will be present:

***Kim Chee
***Chewing Tobacco
***Squeezie Cheez
***30-wt motor oil
***Kessler's Whiskey
***Dog Biscuits
***E-Z Insertable Serrano Chilis


Well, that's it for me. More later, and it will include a 45-part race report, including late-breaking news about various celebrity penis reductions, and bootleg MP3 'NSync Bulgarian downloads.

For liability reasons, I can't guarantee that everybody won't get a Big Hug from Mr Trail Safety, Barney or Barney & His Barnyard Friend. Especially of you're a Hot Chick. I've got the video cam, and you don't.

bone regards,

Mr Trail Safety

Sunday, April 02, 2000

Hellmouth 100

Egregious and desperate measures commonplace here at the Hellmouth 100

Hellmouth 100-Mile Endurance Fun Run and Dog Jog

For the Third Straight Year, since 1998 of the Last Century, the Hellmouth 100 is here for our benefit alone. But U-2-Can-Join-The-Hellmouth-100 Family. At the hip [NTB], if necessary. Here it is!

The race starts at 12:00pm sharp, Aug Sept 19 2000 from the fabulous BoehnerDome Mojado County Fairgrounds, 10001 E Milspec Thruway, Hellmouth CA


Picking your first 100 is a big decision. You will find out many things. For instance: You might discover that legal representation before, during and after the event may be necessary. But let's not dwell on that right yet.

Many races are touted as a good "first time". So are the sisters of a lot of really scary guys. The humididty of Vermont, the poison oak at Western, the potentials for building a great rock collection at Wasatch, the nose-shattering aridity at Leadville, and the blighted trees at Arkansas all make heavy competition.

Not even the prospect of a nearly vertical climb up Mt Wilson in the middle of the night, where a vomiting episode will not only leave it on your head, but it will also fall into tomorrow [an unexplained time/altitude continuum shift] can begin to compare.

Folks, the race for you 100-mile virgins is here. This is really for you, and you alone. None of your friends will be here.


The race starts in the modern day, and ends where "time began, a long while back®"

This scenic and amazing run travels a circular point-to-point. Starting at the Fabulous BoehnerDome at the Mojado Co Fairgrounds, it travels for 12-1/2 miles southbound on the shoulder of the scenic Hellmouth Fwy (I-666) [from the Hooterville Offramp past the Naval Night Bombing Range]. Mind the heat-seeking anti-personell gerbils.

Then it courses upwards through the scenic and geologically dynamic Chorizo Altiplano in the Dorkolithic Range, inside the 950million-acre Coprylite National Monument. It travels through several unique geologic features, including the Psuedo-Sudanese Pied-Monté Hall uplands, to the more verdant Pro-Bono [Sunni] Arboreal Inclines. From there the runners thread their way through the moribund conglomerates of the Stoeff-Topp strata to the more flamboyantly textured Lugosi-Samosa outcroppings.

After a grueling ascent and transit through the Upper Cazzo Gelato Glacier, the front-runnners will be greeting the rosy-fingered dawn over the wine-dark sea [a Homeric reference, misleading but what the hell!] as they confront the challenges of navigating the old historic Kaopectatum Trail across the flatter portions of the Chorizo Altiplano. The course is marked frequently by the day-glow spray-painted course-markings [historic dessicated camel-corpses]. You will be skirting the edge of the Milli-Vanilli Methane Dome. Open flames are not advised at this time.

The race course draws to a merciful close at the headwaters of the of the Essbeedee Lake Chain which lies in the shadow of Goezinteit Peak. There will be an awards ceremony at the Fuzzy Weasel Recumbent Recreation Area & RV Park. Plentiful parking, mind the meters and marmots. Meters are competitively priced 20min per quarter. Change available from Race Mgmt or in Hellmouth, 65mi away.

Though the trail passes through several distinct microclimes, it has the family resemblance of a litter of pups from different mommies and daddies, with the same last name, as if it was picked out of a phone book.


There will be at least 13 aid stations 

  • offering fried eggs
  • chorizos
  • brine
  • 10-40 SAE motor-oil
  • Lo-fat Pall Mall straights
  • salt-cod
  • de-fizzed reclaimed water
  • date-expired Shasta blueberry soda
  • Civil War hard-tack,
  • SPAM.


You can pick up pacers only at the 66.666 mile point, at the foot of the famed and historic Upper Cazzo Gelato Glacier. Abandoned runners at this point will be auctioned off if not claimed within 20min of race cut-off [1220pm,Sun]. Last year we placed over a dozen abandoned runners to good homes and jobs in brickyards and carpet-factories in overseas locations.


Strictly enforced in a laissez-faire kinda way, dude. Stragglers will be shot, or whatever.


  • The course is YMMV®-certified 101.69 mi.
  • The race starts at the beginning.
  • The Big celebrity send-off is from the fabulous BoehnerDome Mojado County Fairgrounds, 10001 E Milspec Thruway, Hellmouth CA. See your favorite soap-opera stars and unindicted public figures! Bring your autograph books! Wear adequate eye protection.
  • Search-N-Rescue is being handled by the Average White Person's Militia, George Lincoln Rockwell Chapter.
  • Andorra does not have an air-force, nor does Mongolia have any submarines.
  • Ask for our special Kult Group Rates, teams now forming.
  • Entry Fees: $99.95*


We started writing them down to keep down the whining. But in CyberSpace no one can hear you whine anyway.

  1. Ski Poles are allowed only after the first 200 Yards.
  2. Pacers are allowed only after the first 66.666 miles.
  3. Farm animals in the runner's entourage are exempt from the above.
  4. "Personal Rhythmic Self-Actualization Devices" shall meet OSHA specs. They are governed by the same Length x Width x Ht formula for carry-on luggage.
  5. No French Ticklers
  6.  No unauthorized 8-tracks of Bobby Goldsboro, unless sanctioned by Race Mgmt
  7. No unauthorized fabrications of Little Funny Animals out of PowerBars.
  8. Special shopping cart and rollaway bed divisions.
  9. Extra rules and regulations are kept in the Tool Crib at the Fairgrounds, and can be deployed at a moment's notice.


  • Overall
  • Age Group
  • Weight Divisions [lbs and kg]
  • Palanquin & Sedan Chair
  • Best Reptile Costume*

NEW FOR 2000!!!



WeaselJizz TriState Distributors, Joachim's Kim Chee Huts 1 & 2, Banger's Comedy Swamp, Yasser's Home-Style Kosher Pork Burritos, Hellmouth Hilton and Landfill Vista [race HQ]


Full length documentary being filmed for ESBT [the Failure Channel] for later broadcast. Also carried live on our very own KGFY 86AM.


  • Girls with High-Beams get in free. Add'l benefits available for a small renumeration to the RD, call 1-800-BIG-TIME for information.
  • Awards courtesy of the Hellmouth 'Gypsumaires' Rockhounds.
  • Post-Race Caramelized Hockey-puck BBQ hosted by the Dorkolithic Range S&R. Legal representation courtesy of Bucky Kibble III of Pogey, and Maroon, Admiralty Law In Extremis.
  • And if you die on the course we get all your lame gear.

Bone regards, Mr Trail Safety. RD

Of course this is copyrighted. © 1998, 2000. So there.

Friday, February 04, 2000

SGM50k: 3 Miles From The Top

In which a Race Report is filed regarding the San Gabriel Mtns 50k.

***Life's A Bitch, then you finish uphill.
***Some runners were drinking Aid Station beer
***Why STUFF Magazine is totally cool
***Blatant Attempted Puppet Abduction
***S&R Dogs that Drink Beer and Find Amorous Couples in the Wild
***RD Jim O'Brien has a twisted sense of humor
***Ian Torrence & Jennifer Johnston win like last year.

So much for the highlights. Now is the hard-hitting report that everybody has
been waiting for. What....really happens at an end-stage aid station?

The morning dawned clear and cold. Perky weather indicators were in evidence
everywhere at the start. The sun rose and not a moment too soon for the
shivering heroes. WIth a shout and whoop, they were off and the Mt Zion Aid
Station Krewe begins its descent. Chucky the Cheez-Kutting Kougar lives
nearby, and has missed the company of chubby hikers due to the recent closure
of the Chantry Flats Picnic Area.

As befits a multi-loop course, we got to see runners when they were Young &
Restless, and then in the Twilite of Their Race. Mr Torrence scooted thru
before we were set up the first time, and ignored stern commands to return to
the aid station. His subsequent return was equally brief, only with a greater
lapse between him and his pursuers.

Aside from these distractions, we got to dissuade runners from going up over
Mt Zion twice. Some expressed regret, but most were relieved. Upon arriving at
Mt Zion the second time, a local runner hereafter referred to only as Jay G
dispatched the dregs of a Corona and then attempted to abduct the Barney Hand
Puppet of Mr Trail Safety. Mr Trail Safety gave chase, and Barney was
recovered with no evident damage. Barney is still in counselling, but shows
every sign of leading a full and productive life.

Conversations with Bob, our Ham Radio & S&R Dude were likewise informative.
His dog Hogan displays a notable affinity for fluids that have been passed
through a brewery. He also has a good nose for finding loving couples in the
rough during S&R Search Dog Field Trials. This endears him at parties, no

Eventually the last runners came through. Every one of them expressed nothing
less than extreme jubilation when presented with the news that "The bad news
is you have 3-1/2 miles to the finish. The good news is that it's all
uphill!". We were kept busy picking up the $20 bills scattered around the aid
station. This was balanced by 2nd guessing regarding an elderly Optimus 8R
stove that was having trouble bringing an espresso pot to boil. Altitude
aside, it burned out all the residual carbon by producing a stellar pot of
200-proof French roast. And it was with this that the Mt Zion Aid Station
Krewe saluted each other, and Chris Kastner, the kind and pleasant host of
Sturdevant Camp that helped make it all possible.