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


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