Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

"I don't drink Lite Beer, decaf coffee, or shoot blanks"…RD Luis Escobar prior to the Red Rocks 50 free-for all. Red Rocks 50's first 12mi out n back was like taking Salma Hayek out on a date and getting an ice cream cone. The next section was where she rips off her human face revealing a ravenous crocodile. The third section down to Romero Cyn turnaround is where she eats you. Slowly. And thats what I avoided when I took the late downgrade to the fat-n-girthy 36mi “50k” at Mile 23. We all started with good intentions etc, and gradually the more-talented pulled rapidly away from me. No bullshit story from the Late Halogen Epoch was gonna keep them down on the farm once they’d seen Hokas. I didn't have the game needed that day. Period. More on that, in a bit. THE USUAL RE-RACE FUN Patrick Sweeney administering an esoteric oath. Interpreter: Mr Trail Safety, for the beer-impaired. Photo by Nancy Kaplan, don't hold it against her. The Dirtbagge...

FIRST, A COMFORTING BROMIDE Best way to recognition and applause in ultras is to finish last. All the people who weren’t there at the beginning will be thrilled to see you—because you didn’t wander off the course while jabbering into your smartphone and so on. But I get ahead of myself. SPOILER ALERT: NEW MATH Take note of the following numbers. 9 + (5 + 3) x 2. Not written totally correctly? Too bad. Santa Barbara Nine Trails ; thirty-five miles of asskicking vert. Luis Escobar, RD, now hosts this classic race, the gold standard in ass-kicking since 1990. Anybody who sneeringly references “California Carpet Trails” is welcome to try this race on for size. It climbs and plunges in the mountains above Santa Barbara. Technical out the ass; in both sunny and shady varieties. The smooth sections are on the various sections of Edison roads. They pitch up and down too. No character-debilitating shade here either; its photon-fury at its best. Wear that black t-shirt and be prepar...

Welcome Veterinarians. And if you get hurt, lost, or die—its your own damned fault. All had gathered for the Third Annual Born To Run Ultras, and spent their night hours building towards the inevitable Rosy-Fingered Dawn. There was a moment of silence following the five shotgun blasts which shattered the remaining dreams of the fitfully sleeping fragile eggshell minds. Then the Void was filled with ranchera drum-kits and button accordions singing of lost love, Tijuana, amor y duelo, all embroidered with other infinitive Spanish verb forms.  The Born To Run Ultras is an exclusive lifestyle spa where the select can enjoy miles and miles of dirt, Merde de Vache Aromatherapy, Vinyasa-Flow Solar Immersions complete with locally-sourced wind-borne micro-abrasian defoliating treatments. The same whispering wind has rowdy siblings that will also turn your EZ-Up into a whirling airborne object.  But enough of that! Four races were on tap: a 10mi flamer loop, a 50k, 100k, and f...