Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

This too can be yours. Oh, you must feel betrayed by age I'm reading from a later page    You can't hear me at your stage... — Oscar Brown Jr At the 2016 Ray Miller 30k start  today, I was chicked— yesterday. Waves of fine, talented women surged ahead and I was chill with all of it. Last time I'd done a 30k was probably 1987: the qualifier for the 1988 Catalina Marathon. Things were different then.  Snapping off a Pro Log But I was happy—I'd just recovered felony-function in my right arm. Six weeks earlier I'd skidded into an ER with a fractured upper-right humerus. As broken bones go, it was a stage 1 greenstick fracture: no bones sticking out of flesh, no cast or surgery. But it fucked up my life for the next 5 weeks. Hurt like hell, and all the rest. It was a replay of 2014's broken wrist.   More drugs, now. The Self-Aggrandizing Dean Karnazes-grade Race Report Bullshit Here I'd originally signed up for the RM50k. When things...

Every neighborhood has its shrine. A year ago I was pulling out of a crash dive of injury and illness where I wasn't running at all. It also occurred to me that I took the wrong ten years off from ultras. No, I didn't wind up with cancer like one friend of mine. I just got served with reality. By March, I was progressing well enough to hold down a 20-mile run—until I broke my left wrist in an airborne fall on a trail that ended with a loud SNAP. Thanks to Rainer and Dave, who splinted me, then drove my whiteout self to Huntington Memorial ER, where it got cast up. And to Catherine Schulz who was my advocate in the ER, who could talk doctor-talk with the ER MDs. Few are this lucky. Would've been nice if I could've washed that arm before it went into the cast, but it didn't go all rank on me. In the Huntington General ER, an hour after I fractured my wrist. I'm being clown-slapped to keep my mind off the break. The drugs came later. Broken bones are com...

I've always been big, just the sponsorship got small. Careless Whispers I was recently called an ultra wanna-be  in an acrimonious email exchange.  The accusation came about because a  disgruntled group-member  posted a come-on from The Clymb, which is Mary-Kay Cosmetics for dudes . I busted him, he got bent, and it all went into the weeds from there.  The exchange ended abruptly before I could tell the young hot-head that I would kill to be a wanna-be. I'm an ultra has-been .  This past year was a yard-sale of health issues, which culminated in a sharp POP  coming from my left-calf this past May. I tore something, and it could've been a lot worse. I went from running to a standing stop. Running in any form is off the table until that tear heals, period.  Right now I do a lot of walking, and the diet got leaner because trousers were shrinking.  Of course,  I blame Obama, global warming, and gay immigrant whales. If I had ...