After Many A Hummer Barks The Duck
Now in the late training season, when the colors of sunlight begin their autumnal progression; is when the thoughts of many weary ultrarunners turn to inflateable sheep. Or maybe inflateable Trail Safety Companions; the better to shepherd them thru the Dork Night Without Armour in pursuit of the 100-Mile Quest.
I write this all from memory of course, lounging in Tunica Mississippi, enjoying the sultry charms of spandex'd hotties, doing basic field research on a variety of topics. My eyesight is still pretty good, and I'd say that silicone is pretty large in these parts, as well as those parts too.
I digress. For I, Mr Trail Safety, a mere peg-legged Nephew, Trail Scrivener, and Narrator of the various exploits of La-La Wimpy Cali Switchback Hill Runs; every Day Is Like Sunday in anaerobic righteousness.
Last Saturday found this Humboldt Idiom Savant Korrespondent wheezing up the indifferent majesty of Mt Baldy in the august and now Septembered Company of Dr Casino Bingo and Ms Geri K of Phoenix AZ. We labored in the shadow of Olander, and were none the better for it.
We were looking for good places to heave stragglers after Last Rites in the upcoming Baldy Peaks 50k. Race Management takes a Darwinian view of the procedings, noting that it encourages repeat customers.
Summitting Baldy yet again, and counting coup on the huddled GPS'd Sierra Club Hikers, we looked out and saw that it was good. I also noted that the two British ladies weren't half-bad either, but that is another story altogether. Maybe when the children are asleep.
Dallying not, we Busted Major Ass getting down to the Notch. Prospective ultrarunners met us wearing flip-flops and high heels. A good start, say I, and running naked will only improve matters for me at any rate. All this is Truth Well Told to Twelve hundred strangers who are my friends.
Dr Bingo parted company at the notch, as he was on Taper. His cel-phone could be heard ringing from his car, 3 miles below at Wanker Flats. Ms Ger & I displayed our hindmosts to Temptation, and traversed eastward on the 3-T's Trail, and thence down Ice House Canyon. This is the geologic equivalent of Mr T & "Brick House" of recent popular külture.
On Sunday we came back for more. Another pass over Mt Baldy. Down to the Notch, with a quick-fast getaway down yet again to Wanker Flats. Notable in Sunday's ascent was the appearance of a Trail Betty wearing nearly thigh-high gaiters. She was also using to great effect the electrified weenie-pronging REI hand-held lightening rods. Circumstances limit the descriptions I can safely relate.
Of such mortal coils dreamz are made, and all of you are pretty gosh-darn lucky. Its almost as good as Gabby Reese going with you to the Yard Sale of The Mountain Godz, and buying you a lava-lamp.
Until next time, my UltraList running Gently Chickadees...
I write this all from memory of course, lounging in Tunica Mississippi, enjoying the sultry charms of spandex'd hotties, doing basic field research on a variety of topics. My eyesight is still pretty good, and I'd say that silicone is pretty large in these parts, as well as those parts too.
I digress. For I, Mr Trail Safety, a mere peg-legged Nephew, Trail Scrivener, and Narrator of the various exploits of La-La Wimpy Cali Switchback Hill Runs; every Day Is Like Sunday in anaerobic righteousness.
Last Saturday found this Humboldt Idiom Savant Korrespondent wheezing up the indifferent majesty of Mt Baldy in the august and now Septembered Company of Dr Casino Bingo and Ms Geri K of Phoenix AZ. We labored in the shadow of Olander, and were none the better for it.
We were looking for good places to heave stragglers after Last Rites in the upcoming Baldy Peaks 50k. Race Management takes a Darwinian view of the procedings, noting that it encourages repeat customers.
Summitting Baldy yet again, and counting coup on the huddled GPS'd Sierra Club Hikers, we looked out and saw that it was good. I also noted that the two British ladies weren't half-bad either, but that is another story altogether. Maybe when the children are asleep.
Dallying not, we Busted Major Ass getting down to the Notch. Prospective ultrarunners met us wearing flip-flops and high heels. A good start, say I, and running naked will only improve matters for me at any rate. All this is Truth Well Told to Twelve hundred strangers who are my friends.
Dr Bingo parted company at the notch, as he was on Taper. His cel-phone could be heard ringing from his car, 3 miles below at Wanker Flats. Ms Ger & I displayed our hindmosts to Temptation, and traversed eastward on the 3-T's Trail, and thence down Ice House Canyon. This is the geologic equivalent of Mr T & "Brick House" of recent popular külture.
On Sunday we came back for more. Another pass over Mt Baldy. Down to the Notch, with a quick-fast getaway down yet again to Wanker Flats. Notable in Sunday's ascent was the appearance of a Trail Betty wearing nearly thigh-high gaiters. She was also using to great effect the electrified weenie-pronging REI hand-held lightening rods. Circumstances limit the descriptions I can safely relate.
Of such mortal coils dreamz are made, and all of you are pretty gosh-darn lucky. Its almost as good as Gabby Reese going with you to the Yard Sale of The Mountain Godz, and buying you a lava-lamp.
Until next time, my UltraList running Gently Chickadees...
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