Lies, Damnable Lies


Lies, Damnable Lies


A sultry whisper in my ear. “Finishing a marathon is like pie…warm Apple Pie…” It was Denise Richards. I began to sweat. I looked at my wristband.

WWSD. What Would Satan Do? I was stuck for an answer. I smelled brimstone. A deep laugh boiled up beneath me.

“Silly wabbit…Carboplex! Carboplex!…Remember last summer at band camp!”

Dark laughter fading away. It takes a brain to laugh and a train to cry.

A sound like a gunshot. The relentless Music-Box Dancer replay of “Chariots of Fire” Swirling issues of JoggerzWhirld blinded me. Recipes for low-fat smoothies and better 10k splits blighted my vision! I was trapped in a crowd of 50,000 gerbils wearing bibs and ChampionChips! I fell down. I was being trampled! Denise Richards was laughing at my incompetence… again! I tried to get up and she faded away in the crowd that swirled around her, as I woke up with a jolt.

I was not running the XX LA Marathon. Praise Gawd.

I lit a Kool 100 to settle my frazzled nerves, put on my fuzzy house-slippers, and proceeded to get ready. Because its high time we went. A 26 mile trail training run. Rocky trails. Deep ruts. Mud so colorful that when your shoe landed in it it looked like it barfed up a burrito. Up and down. And if your sense of time is elastic—a three hour cruise; at least for half the way.

The first mile was all high knees. Then I did at least 2 miles of butt-kickers.

I was running this as a benefit for the Rev Tom Krüll, and his Little Chapel of Propwash in Dallas, Texas. Tom has been a Youth Pastor at the Retreat For Wayward Cheerleaders for many years.

I was racing to meet a challenge grant from D&L Holistic Industries. Part of the Challenge was that I have to meet the reclusive Co-Chairman “D” at his Fortress of Biscuit-Joinery sometime in 2011. He would have a check for the amount stuck to his forehead, and I would have to match it. It is high-steaks financing, with fries to go. I was a little too tall coulda used a few pounds. I was also dressed in a chubby-child’s Batman costume.

The good news was that I was in the lead, far ahead of the pack. Doesn’t hurt to stack the deck either. Ask Mr Diebold; who counts the votes makes a difference.

All of Gawd’s Magnificence was on full display. I could see the White Massif of Mt Bäldy in the faraway distance. I was unable to see if the vice-prone Bighorns were gamboling with their captive sex-slave Sierra Club members. Maybe later.

I heard mariachis. I was an Army of Juan. Just when I couldn’t take it anymore, Avril Lavigne, the Once and Future Cher, fixed her doleful coon-eyed self and began to serenade me. It was so complicated.

I finished like two trains running. It was only 6:30 by my watch. Not bad for an old-school finish in a brass diving helmet. The shoes were something else. All I could hear inside the suit was the phantom echoes of Barking Ducks. I now rest on my laurels and contemplate the next stage of my ultra career.

Bone Regardez,
Mr Trail Safety

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Drunk Ultras Are Not Cute

Uncle Hal Winton: An Incomplete Memoriam

AC100: Whole Lotto Love