Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

Now was a good time to take a pole. I received a lot of requests to repost this post that was part of my SKT story a few hours back . Long Story Indisputably Short I was in a 31 mile race, had drop a MEGA Deuce about 15 miles in, went to the Poop Lounge in a dry stream bed. That’s kind of near the Hurt Locker. But I didn't have to fall down an embankment. Then had to wipe my butt with a tree-branch.  Came back out to finish the race.  No POOPY PANTS FOR ME!   BUT… I GOT CHICKED.   Lots of times. Fuckin’ Betties passing my ass like I had a pulmonary enema or some shit! I DROPPED THE DEUCE, BUT NOT THE BOAT!   Kept my hand out of the aid-station food trays until I Purell’d it and made sure there was no taint. Because I had to show that my asshole wasn't the boss. Several hours later my watch lost 30 minutes while I was recharging it.  “GOD DAMN! You had ONE JOB.”   But I took responsibility for it.  Then I got chicked a few more times.  They say “It&

Mr Trail Safety. Mr. Trail Safety first emerged in 1995 during the last golden age of the fabled ULTRA@LISTSERV.DARTMOUTH.EDU, out of Dartmouth College in New Hampshire. It was text only, no attachments, no #hashtags, supposedly no flaming, but tempers ran hot anyway. These posts grew out of my smart-ass self who was already over the distant trumpets of why “Ultrarunning Is Calling, And I Must Run” Pentacostalism. It was the Age of “What Is An Ultra?” and of course the Great Salt Wars, where hours and bandwidth were clear-cut in the search for immutable truths. Mr. Trail Safety asked pointed questions aimed at sport blowhards and mercenary frauds. Other posts made advocacy points. And of course there was physical comedy running through the whole mess. In the end, the aim was to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable — while being as hallucinatory as possible. Any comparisons to Hunter S. Thompson and Molly Ivins are cheerfully acknowledged. They taught me all th

The 2019 BigFoot200 Available DNFs: this wasn't the finish I'd planned for, but the one I got. Photo by Hillary Ann Vanity has a lower boiling point than common sense. Having DNF'd the 40-miler in 2018, I figured "what's it like to go big, I mean really big?" The Fates took note, elbowing each other as they crowed "Hold my beer, bitches!" It wasn't always like this When I got home in 2018 I promptly called Tom Nielsen, old friend, coach, and ultra-beast. I booked him and we got to work. I had a lot of work to do. My last 100-miler was 1998, last 67-miler in 2017, last 50-miler in 2015. A thin base, timed out at best.  At one late point I noticed that I looked fit from the neck up and waist down—the flyover section was Dad Bod. Oh fucking well. To spare you, Gentle Reader, the trudging statistical drizzle that is the geeking heart and soul of this sport, the Executive Recap is "close, but no cigar." The Race, and w

As you are, I once was. As I am, you shall be. This is about "old times." Wait around long enough and you can play along too. Recently I located the results of my first ultra— Baldy Peaks 50k, September  1989 . Looking at the finisher list, I saw   I saw “David Harrah, 63.” I remembered him well. Now I’m as old as he was.  He was always at the races. Painfully slow, with the tiniest feet imaginable. But there. This article is expanded from the interview for the SoCal Ultra Series quarterly newsletter late 1999. ==== David Harrah had an active boyhood, a shortened WWII Army stint (Graves Registration, Southern France and Normandy), then undergraduate school. In 1950 he was the lead man of 5 on Mt Yerupaja, the 2nd highest Peruvian peak. They were attempting the first summit.  Mount Yerupaja is fearsome, as described by Summitpost: “Yerupaja is Peru's second highest peak and the highest point in the massive Amazon River watershed. Yerupaja crowns the stu

This seems apropos somehow The Tarahumaran/Raramuri runners of northern Mexico have an exalted ultra reputation. Their legendary running skills have cyclically transfixed ultras here in the USA going back to the early nineties. Coming out of deep, remote canyons in Chihuahua, the optics were magnetic. What gets lost in the media pixie dust is that they are desperately poor, sustaining themselves in a harsh landscape, and beset by loggers, narcos, and an indifferent ruling class and government. Starvation is a constant threat, now exacerbated by global warming climate change. Here it comes: “Born To Run” McDougall’s “Born To Run” book is often cited as a primary source on the Raramuri. Last time it was mentioned by an aggrieved SJW who was newly woke on ultras, I nearly shot coffee out my nose. Wikipedia can be like that. But McDougall’s done well with it, bullshitting TED talks in Davos etc. I get it, writing doesn’t pay much, and Davos can be fun.  Rewind! The Raramuri have

The Legit Solo Runner in its purest form is almost a unicorn. I know several of you—and I respect it. My first two hundreds were pacer-less. I got thru Angeles Crest in '91, and Wasatch '92 without a pacer. I had a crew in '91, no crew in '92. But crews and pacers can be fun, if you're willing to be responsible. More on that here . I hear distant “Chariots of Fire” trumpets.  The Solo Runner heroically running the 100 all by themselves—without an entourage, posse, or circus caravan.  The Solo Runner idea was to encourage or goose signups in the Lottery Age we now live in. It's obvious that this can be gamed by  clever people, with few penalties.  However rules are mysteriously bent when celebrity or a course-record might be involved. Take the doddering AC100 for instance. RD Ken Hamada was trying to get less cars up on Highway 2, because each runner had 14 friends with 2 cars each, creating traffic and confusion. So the answer there is to only let in pe

I was not equal to the task set before me. When I dropped at Mile 32 I gave my DFL/DNF podium speech, picked up the keys to the Benzo, thanked my sponsors . Luke Nelson puts on a very tough race with amazing volunteers.  The Scout Mountain Ultras [100/50/21 miles] is old school in the best way possible, with a Zero Douche Factor. Finish line at Mink Creek is quiet, but maybe the mosquitoes hadn't woken up yet.  But now, back to my shit: #brandambassadork #SocialMediaWhoring #BullshitExcusesYo Then I drove on down that Lonesome Highway to a Happy End.   [Insert Interlude of Beautiful Music] Now, for something to really jerk off to, where the fine blend of butt hurt is laid on [wait for it....] THICC .  That's this season's meme-worthy term, kid you not. In the beginning is the end, and shit. Just prior to the 0500 start I was trying to stay warm by a fire, knowing I'd be sweating like a pig within a mile. Two local guys were discussing ultra-injuries, a

Baden-Powell, with Angela Shartel, 2013. The AC100 is asking the public’s support for the race’s survival as a trail race. At stake is the iconic portion from Vincent Gap over Mt Baden-Powell. Which could disappear.  Their email came to my attention: This past December, the San Gabriel Mountains Foothills and Rivers Act was presented by Congresswoman Judy Chu. The legislation adds new wilderness areas the San Gabriel Mountains National Monument, and the effect on the Angeles Crest 100 Mile course would require another road section skipping the pinnacle of the course, Mount Baden-Powell. We need your help to reach out to your congressional representative to help get AC100 trail access and prevent the race from becoming a road race. Then the following text on how to locate your congressperson: Step 1 : https://www.house.gov/representatives/find-your-representative  Step 2 : Contact your Congressperson via their website. Copy and paste the following letter (add your name/title)

Mere moments before I did my first ultra, Sept 1989. I was at a wedding several summers back and a handsome young dude asked me "don't you ever wish you were young and beautiful like me?" I looked at him, thinking, "...sure." But I answered him "Billy, play your cards right, and you can be old and ugly like me." This wasn't the answer he expected.  But I deal in the unexpected. Have a seat. Oh very young, what will you leave us this time? I see your fresh faces thundering down the trail in your most Recent Race Shirt. You're young and enthusiastic. It's springtime, and Ultras are magical. Your Luck Bag is full, and your Injury Bag is empty.  As it should be. In time, typically about five seasons, you'll look around and suddenly wonder "who the fuck are all these new people?" They'll be wearing their own styles, carrying gear that is different from yours, and probably look at your flat-brimmed trucker

This is what a deluged SOB50k looks like when you're pulled. Of course if you were faster you missed out on this. A massive winter storm front rolled in on the rescheduled Sean O'Brien 50, and hit it squarely in the face. In the Pacific Northwest that's an average day, but here in SoCal its a shocker.  The race was torched out of its original Malibu locale by the Woolsey Fire. Now it got drenched in its Verdugo Mountains relocation. It couldn't catch a break this year. The original field of 250 was 93 DNS—for many runners driving from outlying areas probably bagged it on justified fears of highway closures.  I was looking for a sub cutoff 50k finish, but didn't get it. The race was called shortly after noon as local mudslides and washouts prompted the Verdugo Mtn park authorities to call the race, the end. Those of us out there when it was called were credited with a 30k finish . Wet-Look Fashion Victims At the starting line from my jaundiced per