Real Men/Women of Genius #30

Ingelhook Wineries present…

REAL WOMEN OF GENIUS

{Real gals of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we lift our goblet to you, Miss Over-Credentialed Newbie Member of the Ultramarathoning Listserv.

{Miss “oh helllllllllllllllllllllllp-me-pleeeease, I’m new heeeeeeeeeere!”}

You could be signing up for the whole wrong list. You’re fresh out of college, yes, but you were an All-American cross-country star for all four years, and your state and national records are new enshrined on the south wall of the fieldhouse.

{“I uuuuuuuuuuused to run a littttttttttt-tle bit!”}

On the profile “clip-out” new member post, you list your complete and full: name, address, telephone number, email address, website, facebook page, twitter-ID-whatever-the-hell-THAT-is, hometown, PRs, weekly mileage, and all your favs, hugs, and diggs… plus those points of ALL MEN’s focus: your DOB, height and weight.

{OOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!}

Five-foot-seven and one-hundred-and-nine pounds? Please. Give us a break. The only other place we’ve seen stats like that was on the backside of the Playmate-of-the-Month’s fold-out page.

{Butt weee could nev-ver read it cuz the front was on our walllllllll!}

PRs of 4:13 for the mile and 5000 meters indoors in fifteen-and-a-half minutes? What, are you wanting us to ask for your autograph, or just show up at the start of your very-first-ultramarathon-ever and squeeze you to death?

{“Dooooo [we] think yooooooooou can suc-ceed at thisssssport?”}

You say you’re really new at this and desperately seeking help and guidance, but you already run six days logging 85 to 140 miles a week “depending on what races you’ve got coming up.” Plus you belong to CrossFit, in Caliphrenia someplace, and swim, spin, lift, and take aerobics classes on your “easy days.” But what we men *really* want to know—since we realize your regimen is impossible to continue—is what magazines to buy with your picture on the cover.

{Weeeeeeeee got ev-ry Run-ner’s Whirled that’s evvvv-ver been print-ted!}

So pop the cork quickly from that bottle of White Zinfandel, O Heartthrob Of Ours Uta Pippig—now that you’re finally old enough to drink it—otherwise our attention might soon become flaccid. And you really don’t belong here, you know, because everyone on THIS list runs races not measured by stopwatch, but by calendar. Unless maybe, just maybe, you’re here to snag a man? Most likely then, by comparison, a very very OLD man.

{Miss Over-Credentialed Newbie Member of the Ultramarathoning Listserv!}

White Zinfandel yuppie wine: we don’t drink it ourselves; we’d rather guzzle beer.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,

Rich Limacher
TheTroubadour@sbcglobal.net

Yankee Folly of the Day:
Hey, if Sarah Palin can make the cover of Runner’s World, there could be a future for you too, yes?