Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

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 for those

This  AC100 RaceBook   photo crystallizes a lot of thinking I've been doing about hundreds over the last several years. This image is of considerable drama and suffering.  I've seen art like this at the Louvre or Met—and the subject typically has arrows sticking out of them. Howie described it as: "My proudest moment...Too bad you can't hear the hyperventilating or my talking to myself trying to calm my body down." I used this image in the AC100 RaceBook to remind people that Angeles Crest is a tough race of the Old School. No blow-up run thru finish chutes, merchandising opps, timing chips and all the marathon blow-in cheese that have percolated into the 100-mile race scene. Its not Halloween on the course. There's fun, but ultimately its all business. Contrast that with  "hundo", a  cheap shorthand reference to the hundred. Its an easy, slick, drawly, pseudo-knowledgable familiarization of a distance that really demands yo

Yes, this is Christmas, but it adequately conveys the pathos of the time. (I'm going to give trails and running a break. Check this nugget from 1989. I remember giving up a decent run for it. Maybe it was worth it, after all). In spring 1989 I got dragged to an Est-seminar by my then-girlfriend, who was big on sincere self-help stuff. Her best friend E. was there, and she's a pleasant personality. There are other hilarious details in this grotesque breakfast clusterfuck that occurred at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but they'll have to wait for another time. The featured attraction to this soggy fuckery was a couple who were pimping their self-help book, something titled "Marriage Work Out" or similar. He was a tall, angular, pleat-fronted, smartass New York Jew. She was a curvy blonde All-American cheerleader betty—blonde, blue eyed, shiksa to the core. So this intellectual jackass stood up on the platform, jingling the change in his pockets, telling us