Twenty Two-Years ago this month...

The Sixth Sneakered Sheik's Sixth Sheepdog's Sick

My introduction to the mystical world of Sneakered Trolls scurrying through the forest primordial began in New London at this year’s John Kelly Classic Road Race, my first ever.  (I mean first one foot in front of the other as quick as you can....  Ever.)

A mysterious Russian woman with legs up to my navel softly tapped me on the shoulder and asked me why I sprinted across the suburban lawns and hedges lining the route, treating the pavement like the Fool’s turf that it is.  I offered to reveal my darkest and deepest secrets if she’d give me her phone number.  “Go ahead, Mariana...  Give him OUR phone number,” intoned this Dolph-looking dude as he blotted out a good percent of the sun.  Gone in a flash was Vicente Ferrari Rico Suave and in his place stood the bumbling fumbling hillbilly with bad hair that I am.

I grinned like a madman and started croaking some lines to “Johnny Be Good.”  You know the one.  “Way down in Louisiana cross from New Orleans hum hum hum...  something among the evergreens.”  “Ah, I see, so you’re a boy of the forest,” purred Mariana.  I nodded my head like the Cocker Spaniel I am.  “Good then.  Perhaps you will come to Savoy, No?”  I turned to saltwater taffy watching her lips form the words.

“Savoy.... heh, heh, heh,” Olaf rumbled.  “Dah.  Savoy.”  His beard parted into a train tunnel and I peered in, hoping to find Dante himself moonlighting on Olaf’s molars with a miner’s light.  “It’s a Trail Run in Massachusetts.  Come.... if you like.”  And with that she and her 6’8” storm cloud were gone.

I looked up to see that I was standing in one of those post race Runner’s showers, water splashing me in the face.  Was this what they call Runner’s high?  But then I looked down.  Printed on the black tar in Mariana’s Pink Lip Gloss was the word SAVOY.  Water beaded up around it.  My destiny was sealed.  Savoy it would be.

So naturally I spend the next four days on the damn phone trying to find out where the hell Savoy is.  It seems nobody had ever heard of the place.  In fact, when I finally managed to locate a state park named Savoy, (I dialed information for Deliverance) and I asked Ranger Rick specifics about the coming Trail run, he chuckled and offered to give me the number of the Western Massachusetts's Psychiatric Counseling Hotline.  Click.  Oh boy.  Olaf was behind all this.

Mariana.  Maybe I could save her, rescue her.  She couldn’t possibly be happy with Bison Man.  I spent the night watching a Rudolph Valentino silent, chewing Ginseng Root and tying my hair in a bundle for the long voyage to the Northern land.

The next morning.  Savoy at last!!  Wet dew blanketed the red fur of my trusty bud and protector, Mr. Bear as he panted anxiously in the grass awaiting the starter’s gun.  Hopeful runners crossed their legs and waited in line for the bathroom, wishing they hadn’t had that mornings second cup of coffee.  But Mariana.  Where was Mariana?  How could I, why would I possibly run 20 kilometers if not to pursue a woman?  This was sheer insanity.  I read a poster above the bathroom as a loud rapping flatulent chorus boomed from the vent holes above the state park Bathroom stalls.

“Welcome to the Savoy 20 MILE Trail Race!!!”  20 Miles.....  20 miles.  I thought this was 20 kilometers...  20 miles...  HOLY SHIT!!!

“You got that right, bub.  Ahhh.” exhaled a weak but determined voice from inside the bathrooms.  Mr. Bear growled.  A crow laughed and swooped from high in the oak tree above.  He bulleted toward me, wings closed, looking for blood, daring me to write a silly Raven poem about his bad ass.  I jumped under Mr. Bear for cover, wearing him like a Chow-Chow skin cap.  PLOCK.  It landed in front of my nose.  The crow had dropped a single silver tube of Lip gloss, pink, with a little toothmark in the top.

A sign from the Gods!!  I ran to the starter’s line, carefully applied the lipstick, puckered up and adjusted Mr. Bear atop my head.  He would serve as my Lookout as I ran.

And we’re off!!!  My Siberian Love Nymph awaited.  Somewhere in the pack ahead...  I pushed and pushed, gasping for breath, nay, dear life.  This was true insanity.  The roots reached out to snap my ankles like dry twigs.  The sloped slippery rocks dared this long-haired punk to, “Go Ahead...  Make my geologic Eon.”  Branches sprung back from other runners whipped and scratched my face and eyes.  My nineteen dollar Kinney sneakers unraveled in a ball of polyester mud mush.  But still I ran.  Pop.  Pop.  Pop!  I cursed myself for not cutting my toenails.  They snagged on my socks and were torn off one by one with the force of my pounding.  Ah yes, indeed.  This was quickly becoming my own Savoy Death march.  No it couldn't be.  It had to be.  I couldn't forget her.  It was a LOVE MARCH.  I licked my cracked and bleeding lips to taste her.  Revlon summer shades.  My favorite.  Mariana, where are you?!?!?

All of a sudden I reached the crest of a hill.  The earth rumbled.  Bear growled atop my head.  The sun dimmed to a weak peach orb.  Cirrus clouds descended, swarmed grey and furious and made ready to rumble....  All very serious.  Footsteps clawed their way up the hill as I stood there and panted, trying to wipe the lipstick off my face.  Branches shattered.  I heard granite crumble like empty eggshells.  Oh lordy, was this to be my moment of judgment.  I thought back to all my past sins, trying to organize them all in my head, preparing myself for confession before Mariana's certain husband, this megalomonster coming my way.

Lets see.  When I was 7 I single-handedly massacred a village of carpenter ants with a magnifying glass and popsicle sticks.  I looked up.  Power lines were strung over the top of the mountain.  OH NO!  What if IT was a Mutant Carpenter Ant?  And then Bear did it.  He did the one thing Mr. Bear Protector and Ace Lookout number one Red-haired Dog Bunnies are not supposed to do.  He got scared and peed on me.

And suddenly the source of my Dolphian terror appeared.  Over the crest of the hill, this guy. I mean it.  This GUY, big face, bigger grin, dark hair, bout 220 pounds, old grey sneakers, black shorts, dirty socks, sack of dates, nuts and power bars over his shoulder...  I mean this dude...  "Hey there.  I'm FARMER ED!  Looks like you've been working up a sweat."  I slapped Mr. Bear.  He stopped peeing on me.

Well folks.  The rest is history.  Ed handed me a towel to clean up after Mr. Bear and I duly tiptoed behind The Farmer's great steps from there all the way to the finish as we finished in an epic, mythic, truly earth-shattering 6th and 7th place at Savoy 95.

And nope.  I never did catch Mariana.  Not yet...  But a funny thing happened at the post race buffet.  I went from cooler to cooler hoping to rehydrate.  All to no avail.  For every single cup tasted like....  Well you know....  I swear now.  I'm not kidding here.  Tasted like.....  Vodka.

Georgie Bear