Real Men/Women of Genius #72

[Indeed, our friend Juli Aistars again gets credit for suggesting this as the second half of her RM/WoG idea submitted last week. Thanks, kiddo! And good luck to her and to every other mother and body else who’s currently resting up for the “next/umpteenth annual Mother Road 100-miler” which leaves its latest OK truckstop tomorrow morning. Unlike the below, though, a troubly good racing experience is wished for all!]

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss}

Today we salute you, Mr. Waaaaaaaaay Too Completely Laid-Back “Don’t Want No Trouble” Ultramarathon Race Director.

{Mis-ter “IFFFFFFF we-can-only-ignore-theeeeese prob-lems, they’ll alllllllllllll jus’ go a-waaaaaaaaaaaay!”}

You believe ultras are friendly, come-as-you-are/go-as-you-please type events. Make very few rules, stake out some course, get the troops to line up at o’dark:thirty in the morning, and just say, “Go!” Never mind, of course, that it costs “the troops” waaaaay over a hundred bucks just to be there; that your race IS measured, publicized, and Twittered; and when you publish the results in the sport’s most universally-recognized bible-magazine, all those statistics are universally-taken as gospel truth.

{“Ohhhhh hap-py dayyy, oh-hap-pyyyy dai-ai-yayyy, when cheeses walked—“}

“We’re all friends,” you say to those super-competitive multi-talented too-fit gals trying out for the American international 100K team, and “Don’t worry about it” to the 50-mile guy trying to qualify—just to *enter* the next great Western States Endurance Run.” With an attitude like yours, O Nea Ahn-Derthal, cavewomen would *still* be content to bein dragged around by their hair.

{Weeeeeeeeeeee might-as-wellllllllllll just-shut-the-clock-offffffffffff!}

Troglodytes? Sure! They were all pretty friendly and laid-back too, right? And the Tarahumara—perhaps their best-known descendants—are all just fat, lazy Indians who have also found no use for sport or running or being competitive, even in the slightest.

{“I caaaaaan’t re-mem-ber whoooooooo won the Wor-ld Se-ries, let a-lone an-y cave-man daze!”}

But!! What DO you tell those super athletes who have just been provably CHEATED by some sweet innocent whackjob that insists she “may not have run the whole course objectively, but subjectively she likely ran more”?

{“Watch me now pull this Boeing 747 out of my top hat!”}

“We’re all friends,” you tell them. “And, hey, if things like distance, true-measurement, time clocks, and stopwatches are THAT important to you,” you say, “maybe this isn’t the race for you.”

{“That chiccccccccc who placed high-er than you—just set the new worrrrrrr-llld rec-ord for fif-teeeeen mi-les!!!”}

So crack open a lukewarm Bud Light along with your personal obviously “Unbearable Lightness of Being” philosophy, O Grand Pooh-bah of The Milquetoast Generation, because your benign and helpless attitude has just now set the whole and entire idea of sports itself –waaaaay back to the Pleistocene Era.

{Mis-ter W-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y Tooooo Com-plete-ly Laid-Baaaack “Don’t Want No Trou-ble” Ultra-mar-a-thon Race Di-rec-torrrrrrrr!}

Bud Light beer: we don’t care where they brew it; we just dig their commercials.

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Yankee Folly of the Day:
I think this here brand-new “State Your Intentions” race format is the way to go. Just live in Siberia, have NO neighbors or witnesses, tell us on Monday how far you’ll be starting running on Saturday (350 miles, with frozen pizza ;), and then sleep in. Who’ll know?