ALL NEW SIGNS & WONDERS!

2021

Dear Runbear Elmer & anyone & everyone else who's "involved" and a party to this (heh heh) TRAVESTY OF HUMAN JUSTICE and/or OTHER TIMING FORGETFULNESS,

Sure, I'll send y'all a sweet nice race rah-port, but FIRST ya needs to correct my time!!!

Here below, as follows, is how my official 20K time appears on UltraSignUp.com:

112 Rich Limacher Matteson IL 71 M 50 5:51:04 54.51

BUT!!!

As you know (or should ;-), I started out with "high hopes" with the 50K runners, which meant a start time of 6:10 AM CST.

And the Race Clock was set for the 50-milers, was it not? Its start time was 6:00 AM CST.

I know this because Mr. Cordis Hall, your NEW 50M course record-holder (right?), finished just behind me, as follows:

1 Cordis Hall Boulder CO 27 M 1 5:53:24 86.6

So. If he was right behind me (I'm sure there's photos to confirm this) in 5:53:24 and my time was 5:51:04, then obviously my time was recorded per the 50-Mile clock, and NOT per the 50K clock which was 10 minutes later, and so my time needs to be adjusted downward by 10 whole minutes, no? Yes??

This then makes my finishing time very pitiful. It means that I JUST BARELY "ran" 12+ miles in roughly the same amount of time as Cordis took to run 50 MILES!!!

Thusly, my time oughta be 5:41:04.

Ya think?

And this corrected new time now puts me solidly in 112th Place, otherwise known as DFL (DEAD EFFIN' LAST)!!! ??

Thanks, then, for correcting this.

Y'all's ever troubly,

Rich "Mississlippery Maladjusted" Limacher
TheTroubadour@sbcglobal.net
(who "just got home to Illinois" and "locked the front door, oh boy" just last evening;
and "what a long, strange trip it's been")
_ _
QQ
-

2021 also

 Dr. Lethargic's Half-Lyric Annual Panegyric

By Dr. Lethargic (who’d ya think?)

  The 2021st edition of, apparently, this two-thousand-and-twenty-one-year-old annual footrace through the Mississlippy Swamp went off without incident, without national rebellion, and possibly without injury.  There’s usually an ambulance and, thankfully, this year I wasn’t in it.

 We also think it went off without Covid, but that remains to be seen.

 The “thing” about this particular year, y’all, was that it was cancelled.  The previous 12 calendar months, that is; NOT the 2021st annual running of the race.  No.  I had the distinct, though uncanny, notion that This Race, by God, would go off as planned even if God Himself planned differently.  But thankfully God must’ve been in total agreement because the weather this year was spectacular.  I couldn’t have ordered it any better if I myself were a god himself.

 Most race feetures were dry, modestly-breezed, sunshiny, blue-skied, and virus-free.  We all felt like running our very best… except for me, of course.  I ran like a swamp tortoise, always ducking from the faster-moving hopping frogs and swimming snakes and things, rarely coming out of my shell except for a breath of fresh air, and a smoke.  Or being smoked, which I was by basically the entire field.  If I'd thought last year was my Personal Worst, ha!  My miserable record-keeping hadn’t seen nothin’ yet.

 Just like last year, it was all I could do to muster one loop, even though I was signed up for three.  Well, two and a half.  I had my own hiking poles this time and used all three of 'em.  I was like a five-or-six (I forget which) legged swamp lobster, sleazing my way through the primordial ooze.  I couldn’t have moved any faster if I were suddenly seventy years younger and freshly baptized.  The crawling speed would've been the same.

 The saddest thing about a usually cheerful and frisky post-Mardi Gras social event is when there’s minimal society, no Mardi Gras, very little cheer, and no frisky.  The entire three-pronged event this year was absent, for example, the whole third dimensional aspect of wonderful trailside signage.  Not one was to be seen!  Nothing of “pink rhinoceros milk,” “avoirdupois weight of the whole planet’s insects,” and of course “Marlboro Reds and water just ahead.”

 I was beginning to think I was on another planet.  Maybe they don’t speak English here, I mused.

 Then, some youngster proved it.  He asked me, incredibly, what was the race mileage where I was standing and he was passing.

 “Do you have a watch?” he asked.

 Immediately I was struck by this total contravening of Earthling logic.  A watch?  To tell the distance??  I was flabbergasted.  What planet does that?

 Then I remembered the basic pie plates.  That tried-and-true method for figuring out where you are in Carl’s Race.  We’d just passed #6 a while ago.

 “You’re at about six-and-a-half miles along loop one,” I told him.

 He thanked me—in English!—and went on about his way, speedily.  No telling what lap he was actually on, but, of course, I’m sure he could figure that out even without a watch.  (Hmmm… these days maybe not.)

 After he’d zoomed on ahead, I remembered “The Millennial Way.”  This is the way that today’s Earthlings operate.  They don’t, for example, have whirling-reeled Univacs occupying huge atmosphere-controlled rooms inside factories.  No, they wear computers on their wrists.  And they have pocket-sized telephones to make long-distance direct-dialed calls to Paris, for example, and not Paris, Tennessee.  France!

 In the middle of a footrace!!

 I’ve got to admit, this is epic stuff.  In my own time and pace, I have witnessed Good Ol’ Carl’s Mississlippery Trail Race morph from an easy 50-miler that I could do, to a super-tough 20K near-disaster that I damn near can’t.  But this wondrous event has other timeless distinctions also.  It’s the first and only ultra I’ve ever done that was shut down mid-race—not once but TWICE!!  Yup, the good floods soaked the great woods so thoroughly back in the day that the Good Lord wasn’t willing and the creeks did rise and the bad rangers screeched all proceedings to a halt!  You can’t make this stuff up.  But it all happened so long ago, that even I (who can remember what he had for breakfast) can’t remember exactly when.

 The next timeless distinction to befall The Carl Touchstone Memorial MS50/50/20 Trail Race is simply this:  A GREAT PANDEMIC rose up and smote the Earth!  And yet Carl’s has been about the only race to be saved from ceasing, eh?  A year ago March, this Great Ugly Disease hadn’t yet fully strangled the world, and so we had The MS50 for 2020.  Then the vaccines were invented, and hey!  The MS50 for 2021 also happened without missing a beat!

 I now think these two distinctions are related.  Through Carl’s heavenly timing, perhaps, his trail ultra is making up ground for its previous misfortunes.  And I have no doubt that—even if the Apocalypse itself comes!—next year’s race won’t be cancelled either.  Ultimately, ya know, we’re gonna all someday run this miserable slippery thing with Carl himself:  in heaven.

 By then, I also imagine that all this digital modern-day stuff so needed by Millennials to run footraces will be… wait for it… in The Cloud.

 [End]

In Addition to Being a Memorial Race
for Carl Touchstone
This Year We're Forced to Add DeWayne Satterfield
2020

By Rich Limacher
(some sort of "troubadour"
who usually likes to joke around,
but not this time)


Not only was this year's Mississippi 50/50/20 run just prior to This Major Horrible Covid-19 Pandemic that now ravages the world, but it also just so happened to be run just one day after the death of one of my immortal heroes (who ought to be everybody's hero at this race).

I was alerted to the horrible fact of DeWayne Satterfield's passing by my old buddy Mike O'Melia. And if he didn't say something-by the look of this present website-it might be that none of us here would ever know.

Nevertheless, there happens to be a fitting tribute to DeWayne on this very website, which you can access by clicking on the following link:

http://www.ms50.com/Years/1997/97.html

That was in 1997. He was a very young man-a very tough, strong, and fast young man-way younger than me-and yet here I am, by circumstances beyond anyone's control, outliving him. But if The Pandemic has its way with me, maybe not for long, huh?

This now is 2020. Here is more or less his obituary:

https://www.irunfar.com/2020/03/dewayne-satterfield-1964-2020.html?fbclid=IwAR3L3vDiT2K6zBl9W7wa3rIB80BxB47R_79_XGjLkaF9Vof1HZYZXuC-0w4

Meanwhile, I guess, everything else about either our beloved Mississippi race or DeWayne or both is on Facebook.

Facebook. How did THAT enter our universe and subsequently take over? Does nobody read emails anymore? What about websites for ultramarathons like Mississippi? If it's not on Facebook, it just doesn't exist?

Consider this: our beloved Carl Touchstone never saw Facebook.

Our beloved DeWayne Satterfield never saw The Coronavirus Pandemic.

And neither did most of the rest of us who managed to run Mississippi this year before that damned disease hit.

There are just a couple things I'd like to say by way of "hero worship" concerning my friend DeWayne. First of all, he was my friend. In fact, he was EVERYBODY'S friend. Next, he was a GREAT RUNNER, and I mean that sincerely. Year after year in that DeSoto National Forest, DeWayne would lap me in the race-and at nearly the same exact spot every time! It was at roughly where the Mile 6 pie plate was stapled to a pine tree.

I used to enjoy-and even look forward to-his lapping me, and I told him so. And he was never EVER condescending. When he passed me, it was like the happiest happening in the whole race! I cheered him and he cheered me. Imagine that. I'm on Lap 2 and he's on Lap 3 or 4. I was never sure which, and he didn't tell me. But it was always the last time I'd see him during that race because he'd win it! (See again the link to 1997, which dutifully notes DeWayne's victory. Lots of victories! See again the irunfar tribute.)

Another thing. DeWayne was a fairly constant competitor at The Barkley (that totally insane yet unbelievably popular 100-miler in Tennessee). Me? I became the camp cook. Anyway, DeWayne nearly always showed up late the evening before (the man was a rocket scientist-for real-and never could leave his post at Huntsville, AL, until the end of the week) and he'd ask to park his car on my spot. Permission granted, with pleasure, every single time!

Finally, there's this. I forget the year, but I (me!) actually succeeded in trudging across Tennessee-for a total of 314 miles-the same year DeWayne won that race as well. (He may have won it other years, too. But this one was particularly memorable.)

I'll never forget good ol' Gary (Lazarus) Cantrell driving the course every day, looking to encourage the stragglers, like me. On my last day on the course (just barely keeping ahead of the cutoff-me and Mike O'Melia both, by the way) good ol' Laz drives up and says to me: "Imagine this. DeWayne Satterfield finished the race, went home to Alabama, did an entire week's work, and you're still out here!"

Yeah, yeah. But then guess what happened? DeWayne himself soon drove up to me in his car-yes after working all week-and ASKED ME IF HE COULD GET ME ANYTHING!!!

I was totally floored, and I wasn't even on a floor. So I asked him for a Gatorade.

And I'll be damned if he didn't drive down the road a ways, buy at least TWO bottles of the stuff, then drive back and give 'em to me.

That's just who he was. A "road angel" if ever there was one.

And now I can't help it. I have tears in my eyes.

The Trail Race That Eats Your Shoes (2019)

I see that maybe y'all have been, what, "missing me"? And that's why you keep posting up here OLD stuff? Well, do let me make amends. I might be late this year, but I'm not still lost in them there huge woods o' yours!

The reason I'm late is a secret. So, sorry. But I will give hints, or three, at the conclusion of this very essay-IF, that is, y'all'll kippon reedin' 'tel tha ind.

Let me begin:

It was a dark and stormy night…

Yes, that's right! In fact there must've been FORTY of 'em all in a row for the month-and-a-half at least (!!!) leading up to this year's MUD TRUDGE. OMG I don't actually think the DeSoto National Forest has ever been LESS friendly to visitors wearing new shoes than it was on March 2nd. RAIN!!!!!! Oh my goodness! And MUD!!!!!???? No, you don't wanna hear about it, or have me show you photos of it (mostly because I didn't take any) or describe it any more horribly than I have already described it in, yes, some of my OLD stuff. [Look it up. Here on this website. You'll be underwhelmed.]

This year's MUD SLOG featured no trailside road signs. Hmmm… None! Wow. What happened? Y'all run out of crayons? Hippopotamus milk is no longer pink? Or, milk from a rhino isn't chocolate?? These truths (ha!) are no longer worthy of mention? Or of printing on stick-em-in-the-ground signs (no doubt they're former real estate "for sale" signs, eh?) for the absolutely hilarious trail-slogging entertainment of those of us slogging along the trail? What happened? Did Running Bear's insistence upon correct spelling and Google fact-checking intimidate the Southern Mississippi Sign Painters Union?

Maybe he found that "hippopotamus" was spelled wrong. Or "rhinoceros." Maybe y'all were trying for more than one, and couldn't come up with the plural. Hmmm… is it "hippopotammusses"? "Hippopottami"? Or "Hippopotamae"? How about "rhinocerossessesseri"? Hey, it's "Mississississippi," isn't it? What, really, do you do if there's more than one of your state with the same name?

Call it/them/us, like, Statuses of Confusion?

Anyway, one heckuva GREAT time was had by all. We didn't die. No ambulances were needed this year-I don't think… heck, I pretty much KNOW because the one that was there had left by the time I finished. I found no other runners sunk up to their nostrils in mud, yelling-"HELP! QUICKSAND!!"-as I went moseying by. I saw a few muddy face-plants, though.

Oh yes. Now I remember… THE absolute highlight of my, um, "run" this year was when I was trudging the out-and-back, and some sweet young girl came zooming towards me (no doubt on her last loop while I was still on my first) and (somehow) she recognized me and then suddenly blurted out: "When I grow up, I want to be you!"

I go, "No, you don't!"

And then she was past too fast to hear my follow-up: "Cuz if you were me, you'd just be another toadally miserable nearly-dead still SLOGGING after FIVE HOURS had passed on his very first loop!!!" So she probably couldn't hear my thought after that either, as to why in the world would a beautiful young GIRL want to grow up to become a curmudgeonly old MAN? (It boggles the mind.)

Well, OK, FOUR hours.

And yes, for a 50K, this one was my all-time Personal Worst. [Sad face]

Anyway, here come those three "hints" now, about why this report took so long:

1st) During the race I happened to overhear a few delightful YOUNG people just so happening to be talking about "The Barkley Marathons."

2nd) I couldn't react in time (old and slow, remember?) to tell them that I happen to be writing a book about *that* and that I had to "squeeze" THIS very wonderful, though soggy, trail race in between chapters that were still in miserable shape (and also moving too slowly). And, OK now, at long last, here's:

3rd) The book is now done and actually available on Amazon. I think all ya need to do to unearth it is go to Books, and do a Search on "Barkley Marathons," or something.

Hey, modern technology, huh? WOW!!! Twenty-three years ago, I would have to pound out these "race reports" on a typewriter and snail-mail them in to Running Bear. Eh? Whereupon he might promptly ship them right back, demanding better grammar and spelling! (Not to mention coherence and logic.) [Smiley face]

Well, hope to see y'all next year!!


Yours (or theirs, I can't remember which) troubly,

TheTroubadour@MiddleAges-dot-com

by Rich "The Troubadour" Limacher (from 2018. Rich is real slow sending in his report)

No, the "Marlboro Reds" sign is old. It's become sort of a standard. Something to be looked out for, to be shuddered at, to let you know you're not in the wrong race. And you certainly can't miss it-if you are indeed in the right race. It's put there every year just ahead of the first aid station called Bubba's Trucks Stop; and, yes, it's plural because, when Bubba sees big loads like mine hauling up that road every year, he knows there's more than one truck.

So no, this isn't one of the new "Signs And Wonders." Bubba did put out some new ones, but most of the "freshly added" were scattered around the second aid station, which is also the third aid station, because it does double duty. It dutifully shoves folks on down the out-and-back road, who then risk dying in traffic; and then, when they arrive DOA back at the (very same) third aid station, they perform their second duty and call for a hearse.

Along the way, though… ah, that's where all the wild new things to read are!

Here's a few of the more memorable ones:

A PANDA CAN POOP UP TO 40 TIMES A DAY.

Hmmm… no wonder there's so much logging being done in this forest. To make all that toilet paper! And BTW, I've also been told (by zookeepers perhaps?) that panda poop looks like sweetcorn. Maybe that can be next year's sign?

Here's another one from this year:

AS MANY AS 300 WEDDINGS ARE PERFORMED IN LAS VEGAS EVERY DAY.

Right. Even more poop!

And possibly as one of the less subtle effects of all this matrimonial cause-

THERE ARE TWO EARTHQUAKES ON THE PLANET EVERY MINUTE.

Or, hey, almost as many Las Vegas weddings!

In the spirit of Burma-Shave (and I'll bet I'm about the only runner here that remembers those old roadside signs), we travelers just love being entertained every year with new trailside signs (and wonders, too). Like this one:

HIPPOPOTAMUS MILK IS PINK.

But maybe it's past-your-eyes before you can see it?

Now let me guess about rhinoceros milk. I'll bet it "builds strong bodies 12 ways." I'll bet it's like Bosco. I'll bet rhinoceros milk is chocolate.

Do you see how all these clever little-known-fact-but-true signs give us runners something to think about-besides pain? It is indeed a wondrous concept. And whoever does the research on all this should be commended. Heck, I have been in such pain over the years here that-you betcha!-reading a fresh sign that I might've missed on an earlier loop gives me just enough brain-balm to ooze straight through to the finish.

How about this one:

YOUR BODY CONTAINS ENOUGH IRON TO MAKE A 2-INCH NAIL.

Right. And right about now, it'll be the last one in my coffin.

Another thought provoker:

PARROTS NAME THEIR YOUNG AND JUST LIKE US THEY KEEP THOSE NAMES FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES.

Until, I suppose, they get them changed at The Chapel of Love in Las Vegas.

Bubba's their own self did come up with a new one. It was just after their station and it was about 8,000 words, all in small print, and thus tempting you to STOP and READ the whole dang "thang" whilst you were munching your chips and swilling your Heed. It took me ten minutes to read. And it was all about how races are meant for you to MOVE and put forth YOUR BEST EFFORT, but if you're standing here reading this stupid sign, you are NOT moving or putting forth your best effort.

So, yeah. When I finally got to the end of the sign, I dropped the chips and chugged the drink and got my panda-ass the heck OUTA THERE!!!

And never mind the 40 poops.

Here's one of my favemost signs; and, sure, next year go ahead and ask me how I remembered this:

ANATIDAEPHOBIA IS A WEIRD CONDITION IN WHICH YOU THINK THAT SOMEHOW, SOMEWHERE YOU'RE BEING WATCHED BY A DUCK.

Wow. Who knew?

And finally, this next one is indeed my absolutely all-time favorite. It appeared alongside the out-and-back "road of death" just after leaving that second aid station. Check it out, oh ye millennials:

IF WE SEE YOU COLLAPSE, WE'LL PAUSE YOUR GARMIN.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

I nearly peed when I read that.

And if that didn't make me feel all warm and fuzzy (and moist) inside, just a tad farther down that same road, this happened:

A sweet young speedy runs by me, then stops, turns around and says, "I'm really impressed that you've done this for 20 years!"

Hmmm… does she mean reading signs, or showing up every year for the race?

"Twenty-two!" I correct her, grinning.

"Oh, sorry," she grins back, then continues speeding.

Awesome runner. And actually-ya know?-I think the privilege of appreciating young people fly is what brings me back to Mississippi each March.

That, and this (which happened on my second loop at that same aid station):

A nice young man who was volunteering there says to me, "Didn't you know Dr. Touchstone?"

"Oh yes," I respond. "He was a good friend for years."

"He was my orthodontist when I was growing up."

"Oh."

"He used to tell stories of running a hundred miles, and I just couldn't even comprehend it!"

"Oh yes," I say. "He and I might've even done one or two."

"And now look," he says. "I'm HERE!!!"

"Yes you are!" I tell him. "Yes you are. And you'll be running hundreds, too, before long."

And, well, that's the real reason for my, um, longevity "record"-shared of course with Harry and Bob. The REAL REASON is to remember our old friend, Dr. Carl Touchstone, without whom none of this in the middle of the DeSoto National Forest could have been possible.

So please, everyone involved, whom I gratefully admire, keep this memorial running!
[For at least another 22 years, eh?]

 

TWENTY YEARS OF RUNNIN' AND THEY GIVE YOU THE DAY SHIFT

by Rich "The Troubadour" Limacher (from 2017, but its timeless now)

Back in my day, we had Bob Dylan. I think he started out as some kind of Yankee (possibly Damn) from Minnesota, but doubtless ended up in the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. In his equally nowadays unknown Subterranean Homesick Blues, he sings this lyric: "Twenty years of schoolin' and they put you on the day shift."

[Ever your pseudo-scholar, I've footnoted it here: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bobdylan/subterraneanhomesickblues.html. See the last stanza.]

If you're searching for relevance, you won't find any. Or maybe there's this: I have now run your usually soggy Mississlippery footrace for 20 years. (Hubba hubba. Yay me-and two other guys.) So there's been three of us who've run this thing (or some version thereof) for not only two decades, but also two decades in a row! Except for 2006 and the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, when the race was cancelled.

So. That's almost 20 consecutive years, almost from March of 1996 to March of 2016, and almost 20 completions of the 20 distances I signed up for. But as I've told countless others over the centuries, "Mississippi is the only race I know where a finish isn't guaranteed, not even by the people who put on the race!" Indeed, it's the only known race that's ever been "called on account of rain" twice!!

But I get ahead of myself. This is supposed to be a grand, perhaps subliminal, retrospective of one lone runner (perhaps crawler) over the course of the past score years. I just wish I could remember them.

In 1996 the very man we memorialize, Dr. Carl Touchstone, was alive and well and putting on an ultramarathon in the middle of the Mississippi woods. (Its predecessor was a road race, consisting of many loops run on pavement around some MS town I've never been to.) This was now woods indeed: deep in the middle of the DeSoto National Forest, where Robin Hood and his Band of Merry Men gave me the idea of coming from the Middle Ages. I think. Hence my e-mail "handle." Well, it probably wasn't Robin Hood. It was probably the Sheriff of… Cook County, Illinois. I developed my e-address because nobody knows how to spell "troubadour" and you cannot believe how much this has cut down on my SPAM. Plus the Sheriff hasn't been able to find me either, in order to serve a summons. But I digress.

Carl, who fast became my great friend in this brave new whirled called "ultrarunning," just so happened to hold his first woodsy footrace right smack on my birthday. And for my being from the Middle Ages and born some 800 years previous, that took some research! But Carl did it. So of course I showed up-and wham: his dear wife Wanda even brought a birthday cake to the race. Heck, they sang to me after I finished! No one's ever done that! Never before nor since. (At a race, I mean.) So, it was evening and morning The First Year.

On the Second Year, our Carl staged another race in the woods, and I similarly attended. And during those early years of creation, I actually did manage to finish 50 miles. Our Carl wasn't overly impressed, though. When I looked up his running records, his times beat my times by hours! But Carl was also good friends with Norm and Helen Klein, who put on (perhaps the most famous ultra of all) the Western States 100-Miler, and so I managed to run that that year as well. Hubba-hubba. Yay me. None of those folks were impressed.

On the Third-thru-I-don't-know-how-many-years, Carl and his race experienced something which to me was very unusual: monsoons. The rains fell so hard and heavy that, yes, "the good Lord wasn't willing and the creek did rise"-practically over my head! So the good rangers of the National Forest came and called off the race-during the middle of the race! They didn't want any drownings, they said. Thus Carl couldn't let me finish the 50-miler, but he did allow me to run the "little loop" (at that time it was called "The Dog Loop") and so finish the 50K. I remember being disappointed. It was my slowest 50K ever. Today? OMG I'd take that time in a heartbeat!

Sadly, waaaay before his time and way before the race blossomed into what it's become today ["What's it become today, Rich?" I have no idea. But it's good!] Carl succumbed to a horrible cancer. I was devastated. We all were. But then Steve DeReamer stepped up and directed the race and so it became The Carl Touchstone Memorial Mississippi Trails 50/50 (and later the /20 was added). Oh yes, and there's a picture (somewhere on this website) of Steve himself somewhere at Western States at some time in his life, also obviously influenced by Carl, if not by Norm and Helen, to suffer through 100 miles. Maybe he figured race directing a distance half that size wouldn't amount to double the work.

But certainly it does require that. And Steve hung on as long as he could until Dennis Bisnette has now taken over (and done a superb job!) currently memorializing our friend Carl year after year, which is why I keep showing up. (By the way, the good Rangers of the National Forest also "called the race" once during Steve's tenure as well. That's twice. "On account of rain." Who knew? Baseball gets called on account of rain, not footraces!)

I have other memories as well, except I'm too old to remember them. Oh wait. Once those Mississippi Monsoons were so severe, the trails became rivers (all underwater!) and the mud was so much like quicksand that it actually succeeded in sucking my sole off. No, not the shoe-the sole! It severed right off the shoe! Can you imagine? Fortunately it happened not too far from my parked rental car, and I was able to change into a spare pair that luckily I'd prophesied enough to bring along. My race was saved, and my unbroken "streak" remained unbroken. Over the years, Carl has looked out for sad sinners like me.

What else? Oh, all those highly entertaining trailside signs! Wow. Like Burma-Shave. (See my previous year's report.) This year, Bubba's Filling Station boasted similar signs, and so I asked them: "What in the world is Pee's Cornbread?" Bubba's volunteers laughed and offered to sprinkle me some… but I declined. Which reminds me of another sign: something to the effect that the Ancient Romans used their urine for toothpaste. (Gag!) Where do they get these tidbits? These highly suspect factoids? Another one said, "There are 177,147 different ways to tie a tie." It took awhile to commit that to memory. I'm currently trying to disprove that number.

Oh, one last thing (and this is about Carl and why I've missed him so much over all these years): The very first year that "parking tags" were issued by the National Forest, some of us didn't know what to do with them. At the pre-race banquet, I remember Carl saying that those new fees had all been paid (as they continue still to be paid) out of our entry fees. So when I showed up on race morning, and (I'm such a dufus) decided just then to rummage around my pre-race packet and find the parking tag, I bring it to Carl at the check-in table and ask: "What do I do with this, Carl?"

Without missing a beat, he takes it out of my hand, balls it up, and pitches it into the nearest trash barrel. "That's what you do with it," he says. "Your parking has already been paid."

You can't beat a guy like that, which is why I keep returning in my own feeble attempt to keep his memory alive. I just, you know, keep showing up and watching my race times go further and further into the trash. I'm pretty sure Carl isn't honored by that.

Nevertheless, the first thing that happened after 20 years when I and the other "perfect attendees," Harry Strohm and Bob Wilkerson, showed up for the banquet was: Dennis had us gather 'round and then told us, "You don't have to pay anymore." Hey, sweet! And thanks!!

So what this maybe means is that for the rest of our muddy earthly lives, we get to run those lovely, soggy, and often underwater Mississlippery Trails for free. And no matter what, those three different-distance races always take place between 6 AM and 6 PM. Or, in other words: "20 years of runnin' and they give you the day shift."

But of course your results may vary (YRMV), so don't quote me on this.

[End of memory]
[YMMV]