Sunday, May 20, 2012

2012 Born To Run 50k Report: All Lies, Embroidery and Horseshit

Its what you need, what you need.
My pre-race crystal visions were shattered at 0445 by Norteña music. From 300 yards away, the musicians plaintively elucidated all the primary infinitives of estar, cantar, llorar, mandar and so on. For this I waited 10 years since my last ultra? I silently thanked el Profesor Mauricio for bringing me two steps further into knowledge.

Slowly, I began firing on one cylinder, which took a while. After bleeding the master-line, I synchronized my watch from a sundial, because gnomon is an island unto himself. Due to the mist, my astrolabe was useless, but it mattered not.

 The parking was now filled by cars with "26.2", "140.6" and similar stickers on them. This alerts thieves that they can steal skanky socks and shorts that smell like ass if they only wait.

 RD Luis Escobar, in full authoritative charro regalia, gave an epic hellfire & damnation notification after the orientation speech—"If you come to me saying I got lost, I got poison oak, I fell down—all of those statements begin with 'I', and you get to solve the problem". More RDs oughta do the same.

 Then the 20-gauge shotgun went off, and violated the rights of innocent air molecules. Everyone bolted from the start, and I opportunistically drafted in their wake.

 Jabbered the entire way—people pretended to be interested, but they kept speeding up. Otherwise I'd've been out there 9hrs. I suffered recovered-ultra memories of chasing Andy, Dave, Balto, DT, and all the rest of those fast fuckers.

 My Dead-Cow Hide-a-Key®™ idea got another affirmation from the Universe around mile 17 or so. Its a amazing how things just appear when you think about them.

 And thusly I did the 50k: 6:56 more or less. 3 laps, washing-machine style on 2 different loops. I'd've shot myself if I'd done the 100k or 100miler.

 Course is delish—pastoral live and canyon oaks, lots of meadows with exotic grasses that make my head explode. Weather pleasant—fog overcast until around 9 or so, warm but not heinous. Probably the last weekend before it goes straight to hell until November.

Other details are timeless. Like the last-minute readings from Coprolytes 3:16, the Parable of Releasing the Chocolate Hostage. The occasional drone of statistical drizzle, like so "...when I ran that year, my splits from Knobber Bridge to Felcher's Corners were 20min off, etc".

 I crossed the finish line with only my own waffle-prints on my dick. I'd promised my team and sponsors URFKT and IguanaTurd NRG-BRZ a daylight finish, which they got. My contract was renewed for another year.