Tuesday, June 26, 2007

WS100 XXXIIIII


"Your friends are definitely better than mine"

This was the Voice Of Reason from Earl "The Rocket" Jones, as he admired my 24k bling'ed PIMP goblet.

We were at the 3rd Outer Circle of the Western States 100 Finish Line, Sunday Morning Coming Down.

The Firste Circle is the Ring Of White Chairs Inside The Barriers.

The Seconde is The Laire of the White Nurse [being all double-bubbled and shit].

And the Thirde is round the outside, round the outside.

Let's see. The main topic of conversation for all the WS Entrants was not about Hal or Nikki, it was whether Paris Hilton would be able to walk unassisted from jail after being on a reduced sperm-n-demerol regimen. Also, whether the Magenta Star Child would be able to commune with the Trail Faeries and git enuff water. But all this wilted from the mighty hear of the Krucible of the Kanyons.

To everyone's Great Surprise, it was hot. Perhaps not hot enough to fry eggs on your visor, but close. There were a fair number of people who got into knock-down fights with the trail. Advantage: trail.

I was staggered by the number of uniformed WS Personnel and barriers everywhere. Every time I turned around there was somebody. The Safety Patrol had morphed from its original 1995 Slip-n-Slide incarnation to numerous strike teams of Tres Caballeros who joined the various conga lines to be ready to assist. Services offered included in-motion acupuncture, leaching, cupping, moxibustion, Rolfing, past-Life marathon regression, and select exorcisms. I wondered if they were also responsible for in-line dust-settling sprinkling on the trail. Hm.

All this remained unknown to me at the finish. Finishers were treated to a very bad 'short schoolbus' bar band that thrashed thru a selections of oldies. I woulda preferred a 'skort schoolbus' band along the lines of the Go-go's [perhaps with a leavening of talent], but that's what an LA be-otch like me would say. The band started loud and ended on a muted note.

From there on in it was the announcer's ipod that picked up the slack. And fortunately, it was largely listenable, and not drawn from the Masterworks Korral of Led Zucchini, Journey, Rush, and Molly Hatchet. I'm sure that someone out there wanted Air Supply as well.

At 1100 hrs the course was closed. Of course there was a solitary duck making her desperate way to Portals Of Glory 100 yards out. Time waits for no man, nor woman on the Last Fateful Lap. In her moment of crushing disappointment, she could take solace in knowing that Everyone Is A Winner, and if not, its all Pacer Error.

I scrupulously avoided the Awards Show. I wasn't getting anything, which was OK, as the Karma Squirrel was packed to the titz with all my gear n shit. They had the Awards in the Big Tent, rather than the saunafied Placer HS Gym as in Years Gone By.

The next day I drove back to the Great Satan via I-5. Mistake. 99 is far more interesting—better food and cheaper gas.

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