Real Men/Women of Genius #19

 

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we raise our glass to you, Miss Ultra-Organized Super-Planning Leave-Nothing-To-Chance Footracer.

{Miss Best Thing Ever In-vennnnn-ted Was The Brother Label-making Machiiiiiiiiiine!}

There isn’t a blank space anywhere in your totally bulky 16-ring-loose-leaf weekly planner. You have your every activity itemized by the hour for the next six years. In fact, you have gone on-line and downloaded blank weekly calendar pages for the next six decades. So now, my dear, you’re good to go until January the First, 2070.

{Maybe ya awreddy haaaave your wedddddddddddddding planned?}

Every upcoming race has already been entered and plane tickets bought. Accommodations? Of course. Rental car? You practically have the keys. You’ve phoned the race director, you’ve emailed three-quarters of the entry list, and have previously downloaded the trail maps. You’ve Googled Earth. And you almost Googled Mars, too, but your boyfriend talked you out of it.

{“Puh-leeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Missy, can we go out for sup-per now?”}

Drop bags? Why certainly. Every single item for every single bag to be dropped at each location throughout the course has been prearranged for a week. You’ve labeled each bag, each zip-lock plastic bag inside the bag, and each and every single item that goes into each and every sub-bag inside every general category bag. You have now successfully adapted the Dewey Decimal System to ultrarunning, and carried out each decimal to the ten-thousandth place.

{Whaaaaaaaat is the label for underwear?}

You deserve a letter of commendation from the Library of Congress. Capitol Hill isn’t nearly as well organized as your running life. Your boyfriend, well… that’s a whole ‘nother decimal point entirely.

{WHUHHHHHH-DUH-YA MEAN “go with the flow”???}

So extract your cork gently from a properly chilled bottle of branded White Zinfandel before your pre-race meal, O Marian The Librarian, and offer a toast to being prepared. Because right now—here at the pasta restaurant in upstate Washington on the evening before your big race—you have no idea that you left that cute pre-mailed bib number with your name printed on it… at home on your desk inside the planner.

{Miss Ultra-Organized Super-Planning Leave-Nothing-To-Chance Footracer!}
White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don’t drink it ourselves; we’d rather guzzle beer.

( O_O )
Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Hey, are custom-printed name-I.D.’d bib numbers so very farfetched for popular trail ultras? They happen all the time with big city marathons!