Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

* The 23rd Psalm. Abridged and embroidered by Lady G, (with apologies to the King James Krewe)   The Forest Prince Is My Pacer, I shall not Bonk. He maketh me lie down in the Gu-spot, And I complaineth not. He maketh me do the wild thing, And I shall not falter. He anointeth my lips with SUCCEED! And I DNF-eth not. I scampereth naked down the Trails of Life, And I am not spanked (well, maybe later). I gather to my bosom the Jaybirds of the field, And verily, the Forest Prince is pleased. For he is the tall wood that crowneth the hill-top, And of righteous girth is his timber. And I shall dwell on this in rapture, For this, and the Rest of my Posts. ORN: Avoided the nettles today, maybe tomorrow.

The majesty of poetry. For your edification and enjoyment, from the "Poetry Korner Kompilation" Erasmus Binkster, editor, [Coprolyte Press, Hellmouth CA, 2000], p 9.  This slender volume has long been out of print, and is somewhat difficult to find.  The Greatest Show: A Poem for Spring  See the pinks, the blues, the yellows, the Reds, Watch the flowers open their pretty heads! For it starts the road to summer, In a field of glory, getting a hummer!  The sun is warm, and it dries my face, As my equatorial zone starts its race! The grasses change from brown to green, And ladies asses in see-through dresses are everywhere seen!  All the cute fuzzy animals are to a Purpose Aligned, The deer, the bear, the squirrel: One Mind, The Primal Fandango is truly hard-wired, Why just waking with wood, makes this boy tired!  With birds in the air, the clouds multi-layered, With a song on their lips, that's Carole Bayer-Sager'd! Tom-tits, jaybirds, robins-no slackers! '...

Ocean in 16:9 format, yo. As promised, a Brief Twice-telling as-told-by-an-idiot of the "Titanic" story, featuring Lady G and the Forest Prince, along with a host of ultra-personalities.   SCENE 1: DOCKSIDE: TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE  The FP is playing cards with a buncha guys. He has 5 aces. The squareheads are pissed, but they are only extras. Lady G arrives in a big floppy hat. She is wearing bike shorts. Nobody notices, because they are digitally produced, and chickens do not have lips. JayBird is writing an ode to Tassel-Headed Korn on EE deck.   SCENE 2: AT SEA Lady G feels the pull of gravity. She is holding onto a flag-pole, minus the barnacles. A Celine Dion song plays somewhere, and a white bouncing ball helps you out. The Old FP is smoking a cigar, lit from the flame shooting from his butt with a Zippo. He sees a periscope in the distance. Far below decks the Ark of The Covenant awaits the arrival of a velociraptor. n0rm is getting the ...

Once it was asked: " Mountain money?" Do we have to bring special money when we run ultras in the mountains? and Mr Trail Safety replies: Aaah yes...Mountain Money. Nothing quite like it. In other times and places, enterprise and necesity dictated using many local alternatives. For in those far-off days, things are not as they are now, and nostalgia ain't what it used to be. And what was considered legal tender? How about... smooth round stones the size of a fuzzy marmot head, warmed by the sun. Or perhaps a fragrant cluster of dried grasses, with the whiff of coyote whiz a tangy memory. In shady forests, cool moss or even a Douglas fir cone could be utilized, for that rigourous hygenic sensation. The effect was enobling to say the least. In modern times references have been made to the whys and wherefores of shaggy sticks and oily trefoiled leaves, with the eternally predictable results. No doubt you too have heard some of this oral tradition here, in this very place, an...

Be The Power That time of the year, again. This is when all good ultra-Bobs and -Betties look deep into their psychic drop-bags and take inventory of how They Can Do It Better Next Year .  Mr Trail Safety has done some preliminary research, and is happy to share out the results. Here's his Up-Close & Personal Resolution List:  I resolve to have the Victoria's Secret Gals as my crew and pacer for all runs and races over 26.2 miles. They will be dressed in "Sport-Appropriate" attire, consisting partially of fuzzy mules/or 4" Chas Jourdan heels, wee aprons so as not to stain them with Gatorade, etc; large silk turbans and dressing gowns when it gets below 60. They will be provided with satin-covered pith helmets and SPF-69 sunblock during the summer months.  I will high-step it over Katherine's Pass in Utah leading a brass band. The humble procession will conclude with a shaman swinging a censer and a chain-saw. Which one will be smoking the most?  My Ensu...

[first inflicted on an unsuspecting audience in 1997] We arrive at a resting state. Objects have assumed their entropic limits. The green Tassel-headed Korn anticipates its mortal end before the sharp knives in the harvest time. We are now, of course, above THE FARTRESS OF SOLITUDE. Our Tortured Young UltraRunner sits and ponders the spectacle before him. He is wearing his Hat. It shades his fevered brow from the Brightness before him. All of his silver and bronze buckles, the plaques, conspire to refract the piercing brightness of the track-lighting from their awesomeness. He should be happy, but his countenance is furrowed. He is wrestling with the weighty thought that at the End of The Last Great Race, There Is No Finish Line. He hadn't expected this. He expected a round of thunderous applause at the AC100 awards ceremony. All he heard was the pounding of distant surf when he put the milk carton up to his ear. He had his speech ready, trimmed it down to a brisk 14 minutes. He in...

Greeetings, Kampers! Yes! I am now the Idlehour CP captain. As befits other Mr Trail Safety endeavours, this will be the "Tough Love" aid station. The following changes will be made: 1] All cots will be retrofitted with #10 galvanized nails, in a proper upright grid formation on 1" centers. 2] All chairs will be removed except one, and that will be re-upholstered in "Mexican Security Baroque" ie broken beer bottles 3] Any runner entering whining will be forthwith encouraged to leave the AS under their own power. Inspirational literature will be read aloud. A 10' bullwhip has been ordered for this incentive. 4] Those runners who insist on arguing with the AS captain or crew will get their coffee thru the business end of a nozzle, administered to the suitable interface. 5] Any runners who whine really hard will see their worldly efffects dispersed to the roll of dice at the foot of whatever cross they bear. I think these will make the IdleHour ...

M ike S* has stated a pressing concern: People, people, people -- we've mentioned many ultra dangers today, but have (perhaps purposely) ignored the most serious of all: low sperm count. Men -- it's unspoken presence surely torments us all. If I understand correctly, after finishing Bull Run, I was probably only half the man I used to be. Is that right? Mr Trail Safety will now present some straight facts regarding Low Sperm Count: Mike, give yourself a hand and rest easy. A lo-elevation 50 like BRR will not deplete your precious bodily fluids to that "red-line" state. With sufficient rehydration and optimal visual/tactile stimuli, you will maintain a sufficently fresh genetic inventory. Truth be told, the little wigglers will be a more virile and vigourous crop than what you produced in your sedimentary former lives. You're likely to produce more hale and hearty offspring with monster quads now than you were before. Consider this to be pre-natal conditi...

The buckle looks like this. No shit. Doppeldonger 50/50: My First 50K Buckle (Part XXII) The gun went off. I was charging up Boner Cyn, arms churning and butt-cheeks flapping. Pretty soon the race was down to double digits. At the first aid station (Chorizo Flats, 4.3mi, 1:20) I wrestled a lawnchair away from a very large woman in polyester tights and a "Lion King" sweatshirt. Her skinny wispy-bearded boyfriend "Nigel" who was wearing a Klingon Starfleet Academy jumpsuit was getting agitated, but fuck him! I was the ultra-stud gunning for my first buckle, OK? I changed my shoes and re-vaselined my face. Now I was ready. The last foot-long chili-dog was history. My loins were girded. I was the Inner Warrior. Here are some notes I made during the race, with my splits: Chorizo Flats, 4.3mi, (1:20) Wanker Hollow Pass 9.5mi Mother's Lament (12.8mi) Highway 69 Underpass (14.6mi) Wheezer Creek (17.2 mi) Brown-Eye Summit (20.1) Bongwater Cross...

So, tired of those cute lists that people make? Thought you were. Too bad, here's another. SIX AND ONE-HALF REASONS TO BE AN ULTRARUNNER GUY 6. You can piss while you run. 5. You can piss while you walk. 4. You can make pretty patterns while settling the trail dust. 3. If you should find yourself standing and taking a leak, you can hold yr love-gun with one hand, and swill from your bottle with the other. 2. When you're done, you can scratch your ass with the other hand. 1. You can use the same hand that nursed your johnson to troll through the aid-station offerings, and nobody will ever know. Or vice versa. 1/2. After you are all through with any of the previous, and there is still a large hill ahead of you, you can still rifle your sinuses and dislodge those troublesome adobe trail-nuggets. yrs ever devotedly, mr trail safety

Your money's no good here. (With referential apologies to James Douglas Morrison, Francis Ford Coppola, and Don Knotts) ------------------------- Black, fade in. Night, in Wrightwood CA. A young man is in a cheap motel. It's a motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget. The higher-priced motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget was booked. Solid. Even with the broken glass on the linoleum, somewhere. The cable there was better (but it cost $7.99 more), and you could get the Satanism Channel with the "I Love Lucifer" Marathon Weekend Special ($6.66). This motel had weary wooden floors, 33-1/3 watt lights, a sagging bed with the Great Rift Valley down the middle. Many romances had died in that divide. He could feel every one of them. Our young man is getting ready. Ready for The Big Race. His attention is fixed on a goal far away. About 100.559596975 miles, but who's counting now, huh?... Familiar music is in background, becoming distinc...

A True Narration, by a well-known running personality. Well now. I feel i can tell this story with a straight face and no need for superfluity. Yes. Other men have always wanted to know, and well, women are curious. Very curious. This is how i went from Couch-Pud to UltraStud. Not long ago, I was running an acceptable pace at a prominent Rocky Mtn 100 in the alst month. I was running without socks. I was effluorescing due to slight inconvenience of giardia. The toe-jam was fragrant. the weather was perfect. I was thinking about getting laid by a Dead-Betty back in town when I got through. I was saving my best story for her. She would turn me into the trailer hitch of C&W song. I had a modest collection of authentic ultra-adventures to narrate to a relay of respectful and worshipful acolytes. They hung on to my every word, only seemingly leaving me when I would make the garbage bag hanging off my butt hammer and rattle with periodic gusts. But more replaced them. Their espect and ar...

Hi there, Ultra-Kids! Have you ever wondered if Nature Loves You? Sure you have. Don't be bashful. You have felt tired and cranky while you were putting in the Big Miles. You felt that nobody loved you and you were bored, thinking about ice-cold Cokes and soft beds. Air conditioning and power steering. You know what I mean. But the world has expressed its love for you in a very special way. Have you ever thought about all those times when you were sitting in a NFS one-seater? Did you remember all those flies buzzing below you? Did you feel them bump into your bare bum? Were you upset? You shouldn't be. They were there for you. They were expressing God's love for you. After all, 18 trillion flies can't be wrong, can they? Well now. Have a real nice day. mr trail safety

…The Also-Rans Of History! Now You, Your Family, and anyone in E-Z Reach can share The Awesome Majesty that is History's Glorious Pageant™! THE ENIGMATIC RECEDING CHIN DYNASTY Witness in spellbound fascination as we trace the glorious trajectory of this undeservedly obscure civilization. See their humble beginnings, described by famed archeologist Erasmus Binkster as “..Their moveable feast of culture was based on a simple take-out order...” Our travelog will take you in the comfort of your squishy-butt armchair through the turmoil that eventually brought this mighty empire to its knees, when religious zealots passed Draconian decrees against compulsory mastication. From this mournful twilight we can see the emergence of the Metrecal Dervishes as they swept down like thunder from the far-removed Seven-Eleven Parallel. THE MYSTERIOUS LA-Z-BOY TURKS This reclusive and mysterious culture are often confused with their more flamboyant and better-upholstered cousins, the Tuck-and-Rol...

Imagine being strapped to the roof of your mother's car. You are being driven through the countryside. Bugs stick to your teeth. Nobody wants to stop for ice cream. You have no control over the process. You are not yet a complete part of the environment. Now the car arrives at a trailhead. You are left wearing two left shoes and a pair of extra-small "Batman" underwear. The shoes are sequined. The parking lot is full of Cub Scouts. You've gotta wedgie. They are paying close attention. You will be able to use all of your senses. Now imagine stepping onto the trail. Before going anywhere, you are wearing welder's gloves and you need to thread a needle. You have been asked to complete an incomplete circumcision on an irritable, elderly bull elephant-seal. Think of yourself as the thread and the trail as the eye of the needle. Knit one, purl two. Do not deprive yourself of any of your senses by separating yourself from what's beneath your feet and ahead of you. Co...

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Koma bar, little tokyo, LA CA. February 1980. Dear Editors: I never thought I'd be writing to you about something like this. I always used to think that this happened to other guys.  Anyway, I was out in Malibu on Spring Break several weeks ago from Rump-Roast College in Indiana. I didn't know anybody really so I thought I'd go to the beach and try my luck with the local betties. Things were looking pretty bad. It took a hell of a long time to park my dad's car, and I finally got a space hear a fireplug for ten bucks. Score! Then I nearly dropped the car keys into the urinal. But anyway, I had just woken up from a nap when I felt eyes upon me. I turned around and saw the most awesomely stacked green-eyed blonde babe I had ever laid eyes on. I was drawn irresistably to her firm, swelling breasts and hard perky nipples which were insistently thrusting through her low-cut Pep Boys t-shirt. Her long, smooth tanned legs went from the ground all the way up to her in...

Lately I've been sleeping badly. Bright lights. Shadows. Feet. Numbers. Water-bottles. Hairy asses hanging out of shorts. Voices. Wide-eyed aliens wearing bib numbers. Then the Carboplex Anal Probe. I was having Recovered Ultra Memories. I got an entry into SJT50k. I took it. In a fogged dream state I drove to Arkham. There I logged on to the Miskatonic University List_Serve. Search terms "Cthulu, Salt, Elder Gods, VO2 Max". Hundreds of hits. I read them all. I began to feverishly study the UltraNecronomicon, looking for clues, portents, auguries, and divinations. I could hear the low batrachian gurgling. Nameless dread. Looks like I'll be at the starting line. Out of the corner of my eye I see the blighted minions of Yog-Sothoth lurking in the poison oak. With any luck I'll be at the finish line too.