Languid Early-Season Overtures To An Indifferent Muse

My life is complete--I'd put the 40" spinner rims and rear-deck deflector on the Squirrel. The mountains beckoned.
This story begins in a desultory manner.
It was a cold and dreary night, Heather Locklear was on the sofa eating bon-bons, pining somewhat over the priapic departure of one Richie Sombrero, when suddenly...a shot rang out! She shivered as the flimsy peignoir slipped provocatively down, revealing what to my wondering eyes! but a copy of Dr Geo Sheehan's "Running for Dummies". Oh. My. God. There it was--the oft-thumbed chapter on What To Do After Boston.
People often ask me about my training methods. My answers are Delphic in their delineations. Here is an instance.

Last weekend, Dr Casino Bingo and I did a Circuita Minora, a Mini-Me Transect if you will, a diet-slice portion of the San Gabriels. After duly fortified by a Grade-B Breakfast, we made it to the Trail Head at Clear Creek, the crossroads where the Angeles Forest Hwy crosses Highway 2. The winds were probably 4 on the Beaufort, with a following SW swell 12' crests on 10 second intervals. Visibility was down to 2 miles. Anything lighter than a Lindsay Lohan was in danger of being blown away.

We began up the trail in a manly manner. The cloud deck was above us, perhaps at 4000'. We ignored the ominous portents, because it made better copy. We passed the abandoned remains of Adventure Racing support crews whose hiking poles had snapped under the harsh glare of kleig lights.

Eschewing the murmured temptations of the Old In-Out-Outback of Josephine Peak, we decisively struck out for Strawberry Peak. There was nobody to challenge us, and our Splits Were Good. We had gotten a full 2-1/2 miles before the Lisa Loeb Inflatable Conversation Doll had come out and made its rounds. In penance we observed 10 full seconds of silence.

As we rounded up and over towards the Ransom Of Red Box the weather became noticeably chillier. We couldn't help but become more like Katy Couricesque in our perkiness. We made Switzer's Camp in a brisk time, seeing only .43 of the normal scrum which were huddled around smoky BBQ grills waiting for summer.

A mile later, after an unroped 4.9 section of vintage mid-century asphalt and New-Jack Scree, there it was. And I’m standing at the crossroads, believe I’m sinking down.

Bone Regards, Mr Trail Safety
"Tanned, rested and ready from his Secure, Undisclosed Location"

Listen up! This message is being sent by or on behalf of Mr Trail Safety. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed, excluding non-specific incarnations and bardo-state entities. It contains concepts that will challenge you. You may adjust. Insofas as this communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure, it is certain to cause cerebral flatulence and conceptual infarctions among the simple-minded and comedy-challenged, perhaps You. If you are not the named addressee, you are not authorized to read, print, retain, copy or disseminate this message or any part of it; including channelling the aforementioned fabulisms to spirit-bodies, Taiwanese Dream-Catchers, Heritage Barbie Dolls or Dale Earnhardt Collector plates. But go ahead, live dangerously, drive left-of-center and give it your best shot. If you have received this message in error, you deserve it--you'll have subsequent incarnations to work out the kinks. Or simply prostrate yourself in front of your Thos. Kinkade Heritage Reproduction while making a Burnt Offering.

Here, have some salt.

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