Döppeldönger DFL

A strong visual always nails the concept.
"A man alone with his thoughts lives in a crowded house"
—Don Juan Castaneda, "Conversations With Maestro Sevende Sandia"

Seconds before the start I realized I’d left my hand-held back in the car, a quarter-mile away. Holy Shit! So I sprinted back, got it, and burst through the start. And everybody had gone. This was a definite first, a DFL start with Boner Mileage. It was a fitting preview bookend to my 10:00:35 DFL finish*.

The start was a clear, calm and very cold 28F start, a sharp drop from the balmy 44F at home. All you Midwesterners can go fuck, it's SoCal. I was feeling totally naked, and only half-afraid. It was so cold, that even the venerable John Vanderpot wore long pants. Ultra-couture aside, staying ahead of cutoffs at this late stage was my only goal.

Say goodbye to my little friend

As this is a physical sport, your body makes its wishes known clearly. Gwyneth Paltrow should take note. 

At the first of several whiz-calls, I was busy admiring the northward view off the Backbone, well off-trail, when a woman who was busily singing along to Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits shouted “No fair!”
“Life’s tough!” I replied. 
I passed her to escape the Manilow.

A mile later Mr Turtlehead awoke from his slumbers, and made his will known. It took some doing, but I found a convenient place to make the Squatting Dog Sun-Salutation. I was able to gaze out on the blue Pacific, and imagined that fateful day when Juan Cabrillo sailed past and thought “that’s some fine-ass land to conquer.”

But onward. The Race Beckons.

Hello, ladies!
Brenda Luce and Cassandra Boyle were manning the Encinal turnaround. They were wearing donut outfits. From a distance they looked like boobs. Once up close I saw the jimmies. My DFL-addled brain didn’t register that, to their obvious merriment.

Brenda; “you’re a freak!”
Me: "I’m just a guy that loves women" 
Brenda: "OK. This better be on your Strava then."

Thanks to you and all the amazing volunteers out there. 

No, this is where the story ends, dammit.

Had I not been so prodigal by wasting time at some fun aid stations, I probably would’ve hit the 10 hour finish by 1630. I also didn’t realize that in the Inexorable Logic of Ultras, the distance to finish line expands.

I squatched it as fast as my diminishing abilities would have it. Suffice to say I was happy as fuck to finish and be done with it. Note for next time: don’t jerk off in aid stations asking if they had buckle polish.

So at 10:00:30 is either a DFL or first in line DNF. 

Data Mining at its Finest

Facts: visualized
Strava can be cryptic. I've made notations on this pace chart. Draw your own conclusions.

Nostalgia, And Shit

The older I get, the faster I was.
On this weekend in 1990, I ran my first 50-miler, 1990. Avalon Benefit 50, Catalina Island, CA. Cloth bibs no less. Field capped at 100.
Finishing 10-1/2 hrs later I was a different man. Had I known in high school that athletics were this cool, I never would’ve bothered with drugs.

——
*whether this is a DFL or a respectable DNF is at the RD’s discretion. Only the UltraSignUp knows for sure. 

Mug shot courtesy of Anne Convery. You can find it here. 

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