Real Men/Women of Genius #97

Bud Light presents…

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

{Re-al men of geeeeeene-yuss!}

Today we salute you, Mr. First-Time-Ever Crew Person for a Very Competitive Ultrarunner.

{Yoooooooooooou’re gon-na be a paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack muuuuule!!}

What could be easier, right? You drive the van; she (or he, of course) runs the race. All’s you figure you need to do is show up. On time. Before your runner gets there–to that next checkpoint, aid station, or crew access place. Simple. A trained monkey could do it.

{“Whooooooooooooooo are you calllllllllll-ing a mon-keeeeeeeeeeey?”}

They never tell you the race takes place in the forest, on mountains, in swamps, all over deserts, or throughout jungles, or all of the above, sometimes all at once. And before you can meet your runner even at mile fifteen, your beautiful new Dodge Caravan is buried up to its tailgate in the reddest damn soupiest sucking mud your ass has ever seen.

{Good thing you reeeeee-newed your Trip-ple-A Mo-torrrrrrrrrrr Club mem-berrrrrr-ship!}

Ass, too, is buried. Yours. Up to your plumber’s crack in the same damn mud. And also? It’s grass. You now have less than forty-five minutes to “unstuck” yourself, call for a tow truck, and winch your vehicle out of the muck. After that, of course, comes the REAL crewing adventure.

{Maaaaaaaaaaaaaay-be some slo-wer runnnnn-ners will-help-you-push?}

Do you have the correct course marked on the trail map? Do you even have a trail map? Do you have the right fluids? Are they mixed properly? Gels? Bars? Changes of shoes, socks, shorts, skirts, tops, bottoms, sideways, sweat bands, arm sleeves, and jogbras? And get your mind out of the gutter, Jack. Competitive ultrarunners know how to change bras right in front of your eyeballs without you ever seeing ANYTHING.

{“I prommmmmmmmm-ise to co-ver myyyyyyyyyyyyy eyes!”}

Batteries? Flashlights? E-caps? NSAIDS? TP, moistened towelettes, Kleenex, and YaxTrax for the upcoming snow fields? Jack, you DO have your work cut out for you.

{“Howwwwwwwwwww-in-the-hellllll do I carrrrrrrrrrrr-ry all this STUFFFFFFFFFFF?”}

So crack open an ice-cold Bud Light out of that big chest you’re humping on foot because they won’t let you drive here, O Himalayan Sherpa and Mule Skinner, because really, when your little hot mama depends on a clothes-change at mile 55 and she finds you’ve stored everything inside the ice chest underneath the ice and the beer? She is going to be fully cured of ever again wanting to suffer through having another crew. Or frankly, after this race is over, YOU.

{Mis-terrrrr First-Time-Ev-er Crewwwwwww Per-son for a Ver-yyyyyy Com-pe-ti-tivvvvvvvvvve Ul-tra-runnnnnnnnn-er!}

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

( O_O )

Yours troubly,
The Troubadour

Book Review:
http://tinyurl.com/VirginAndVeteran.

Better Resource:
http://thefuntimesguide.com/2004/10/bud_light_real.php.

Yankee Folly of The Day:
[Elsewhere noted. Probably “Crook Blago” news is stale by now anyway.]