11 miles alone out in VF running the double mountain loop. 1:17. That's moderate for that loop. ---------------------------------- I threw some frustration at the rocky slopes of Mounts Misery and Joy today. I pushed the pace hard on the flats and flung my arms wildly on the slopes. I passed a tour group near some ramshackle hut on their way back to an idling bus. I was on a downhill, thinking of my shit for a time yesterday and was running all out. The sea of tourists parted, and their guide, some grotesquely obese man clad in full Revolutionary War reenactor regalia complete with flintlock and tricorn, raised his hand and introduced me to the group as a 'local runner out on the wonderful park trails.' He then waved his hand in a sweeping motion across my path as if I had arrived right on queue. I quickly exited stage right and made my way to Mount Misery, bounding up its rock-strewn carpet and thinking about the flagellant movement during the Middle Ages. For 33 days straight, these guys, numbered as much as 10,000 strong, walked from village to village with large leathern scourges, formed circles removing their shirts and then beat themselves mercilessly twice a day. The movement arose out of despair and desperation due to the Plague of 1259 as well as prophecies proclaiming the end of the world. So I ran and thought. We mock the Middle Ages today; we laugh at the silly remedies and the barbarity--the uncivilized nature--conducted by groups of desperate, uneducated peoples as well as greedy kings and popes. But we're no different today. You know, us, the runners. We engage in a sport where we engage in our own lengthy human procession from race-to-race, town-to-town; we strip ourselves down to the bareness of existence and then publicly beat ourselves with lactic scourges for 26 miles. Public displays of suffering, commonality, unity of purpose, processions, dogma, it's all there--even the showing off of the rewards of our rites of passage can be compared: the blood reflecting off the shiny, religious trinkets draped over us at the end of it all. We're no different. -------------------------------- I'm racing this in a couple weeks. Flyers for it lay strewn about the men's restroom from the benches to the floors of the stalls. It appears as if the guy in charge of dropping the flyers off opened the door to the restroom and just tossed them in like a hand grenade. The picture on the cover of the flyer is the one in the link to the 'sponsors' on the race homepage. It's some artsy, glossy picture of two guys desperately crossing the line at the finishing tape--fighting it out for the win. One guy looks like an Ethiopian, the other guy is white, wears an Izod shirt and looks happy as a clam. Who picked this picture? Where was it taken? Does this guy really have a chance against the Ethiopian? More importantly, who the fuck races in an Izod shirt? Who wears an Izod shirt anymore? What is this, Sixteen Candles meets Endurance? -------------------------------- This is making the rounds on letsrun. I enjoy watching Pre's races. He's so relaxed.