RayMiller 30k: Splits ain't gonna suck themselves

This too can be yours.

Oh, you must feel betrayed by age
I'm reading from a later page
   You can't hear me at your stage...
—Oscar Brown Jr

At the 2016 Ray Miller 30k start  today, I was chicked— yesterday. Waves of fine, talented women surged ahead and I was chill with all of it. Last time I'd done a 30k was probably 1987: the qualifier for the 1988 Catalina Marathon. Things were different then. 

Snapping off a Pro Log

But I was happy—I'd just recovered felony-function in my right arm. Six weeks earlier I'd skidded into an ER with a fractured upper-right humerus. As broken bones go, it was a stage 1 greenstick fracture: no bones sticking out of flesh, no cast or surgery. But it fucked up my life for the next 5 weeks. Hurt like hell, and all the rest. It was a replay of 2014's broken wrist.
More drugs, now.

The Self-Aggrandizing Dean Karnazes-grade Race Report Bullshit Here

I'd originally signed up for the RM50k. When things began to clear somewhat with my arm, I realized that 1] A 50k wasn't likely, and 2] 30k might be. Pulled the pre-race dropdown lever, and there it was. I hadn't done shit for mileage since April, and this exercise was strictly maintaining an even strain: no hot-dogging or red-lining. Just get to the finish in one piece. Shuffle-on!

The 30k is a popular sub-ultra trail-distance, and I witnessed a lot of hilarity out on the trail. Saw a cluster of Ragnarettes, resplendent in their finery going the wrong way on the Mugu Peak loop. Guess the signs and pink ribbons weren't lurid enough. 

 Another dialog: Two girls were discussing the difference between kilometers and miles, and that ultras were all in Ks, probably to Euro-qualify. Then there was the business of 100-milers, but they weren't clear on where that came from. It was mystery, and one unlikely to be attempted anytime soon.

 I hit the Hell-Hill Hub Aid Station the requisite Three Times [4.8, 11, 16], looted my fill, bullshitted with the delightful volunteers, and was finally blasted loose by Strava, The Implacable Mistress of Time, Space and SKT. 

 On the way down to the finish was again passed by the Way More Talented; one fine young cannibal even complimenting my on my 4mph ultra-shuffle. Crossed the finish in 5:30-something, got my gong and mug. It was a beautiful day, did nothing fatal or stupid. I'll take it where I can find it.

Obligatory Brand-Ambassadork & Sponsor Quacking

None of this would have been possible were it not for D&L Holistic Industries, Stroka®™, SpoogeBuilder®™, God®™, the Pilates coach, the Academy, and all the little people in the 310. Be certain that if you have A Spiritual Crisis Of Faith®™, agonize over it on camera, then A Compelling Uplifting Resolution. We'll fix the music and overdubs in post. You'll adjust!
Freeze-Frame!







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