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
