Middle Income Richard's Third Millennium Almanack, No. 42

Dancing Across (ALL Across) Tennessee

Or,

How To Volunteer (fortunately)—144 Years Too Late

By Servor Vol-Lee

You can't do this runnin'/walkin'/and/or/writin'-up stuff without themes, sometimes known as "section headings." So, here's the first:

THE IMPORTANCE OF THEME MUSIC

In Two-Oh-Oh-Two I took a little trip
Drove my rusty old Dodge down the mighty Mississip
Brought my running shoes, beans, and a major credit card
Runnin' to Monteagle, well, it couldn't be so hard

I fired my farts and McDonald's kept a-comin'
Though there wasn't nigh as many as there was awhile ago
I tooted once more and folks were disappearin'
Couldn't see a runner for as far as I would go

I looked back behind me
(Hut-two)
An' I seen ol' Lazarus come
(Three-four)
He had a couple crew members
(Hut-two)
Chewin' on some gum
(Three-four)
They drove their truck ahead fer
(Hut-two)
Sittin' when he gets there.
(Three-four)
I rubbed my eyes, not believin' what I'm seein'—
(Hut-)
How could he be gainin' when he's sittin' in a CHAIR?
(Two-three-four)

I fired my farts and McDonald's kept a-comin'
Though there wasn't nigh as many as there was awhile ago
I tooted once more and folks were disappearin'
Couldn't see a runner fer as far as I would go

Ol' Lazarus said he could beat me ever' time
(One-hut, two-three-four)
If I tried to let a vapor trail
(One-hut, two-three-four)
Out from my behind
(One-hut, two-three-four)
So I quit eatin' beans, an'
(Hut, two-three-four)
Walked on a little bit
(Hut-)
Got all the way to Camden then...
I, by gawd, up and QUIT!!

Welllllll, I...
...fired my farts and McDonald's kept a-comin'
Though there wasn't nigh as many as there was awhile ago
I tooted once more and folks were disappearin'
Couldn't see a runner fer as far as I would go

Yeah, I quit runnin' thru the briars
(One-hup-two)
An' runnin' through the brambles
(Hup-two-three-four)
An' runnin' to the bushes
(Hup-two)
Where I knew I had to go
(Hup-two-three-four)
I quit so fast
(Hup-two)
That ever' body caught me
(One-two-three-four)
An' NOBODY wuz runnin' fer as far as we would go!
(One-two, hup-two-three-four)

THAT was seven years ago. And, I should imagine, I've been vowing ever since to wreak my revenge. But as it happens, when it finally did happen, the only thing reeking... was me!

I did, however, concoct more theme music: an Irish jig, which played continuously (and wordlessly) inside my head for approximately ten straight daze.

Words never occurred to me until, like, now?

the feet the feet
i don't mind tellin' ya
the feet the feet
they both are yellin' ta
slow it down slow it down slow it down slow it and
stop all this runnin' an' poundin' an' such

the feet the feet
they're pinchin' an' screamin'
the feet the feet
i think i been meanin'
to ask and to ask and to get ya ta tell us
why all these people are faster than me

the beat the beat
it's beatin' and poundin'
the beat the beat
it pounds as i'm roundin'
this corner that corner this corner then uphill
and now all my pains are poundin' in me

It's time to get serious. This is Last Annual Vol-State Road Race, and the reason it's the last annual is because every year kind of the course mostly changes. So it is always and forever the "Last Annual Vol-State Road Race." Hubba-hubba. And I should've completed the damned thing in 2002, because in seven whole years (trust me) the entire damned thing has changed for the worse.

We meet at Union City, TN, for what's preposterously known as "The Last Supper." Yo. It happens in an all-you-can-eat freaking steak(ing) house where nobody in their right mind eats the steak. No. What you want is spaghetti, and that tastes like the angel hair you fish out of a drain.

I filled up on macaroni and cheese.

The next thing we do is hop rides in the morning to Hickman, Kentucky, which is only about 11 miles up the road. There... we wait for fairies.

OUR FERRY GOTFARTHER

When we arrived to book passage on—or to do magic with—our ferry, the ferry was gone. Lazarus found "the sign" and announced to us sadly: "The ferry's not running because of the 'Dridge Boat.'" Apparently, in order to dridge out the Mississippi bottom, the ferry alliance must vacate the forest and promise all the king's men and all the king's women never to give them a lift. But suddenly...

"So, whudda we gonna do now?"

...here comes some dood in a pickup truck.

"Y'all wanna feery rahd?"

Is the pope cathlick? Do quando ursum poopum in woods? Does the damn Mississlippery need "dridging"?

Yo! So... the nice man in the truck zoomed off to gather up his sailing mates and kick-start the ferry boat. Just for us. Man oh man. Yood think we'da croaked an' gone ta ho heavin'.

("Heaving ho?")

It caused this year's race about a 40-minute delay, of course, but nobody minded. It gave me a chance to talk my bride into doing a "scary" river ride with me, and the rest of us time to reflect: Hmmm, what other race do we know of that lets us ride for the first quarter mile?

The stude, the studette, and "the little tug that couldn't."

Eventually, the ferry and the boatmen all came ( -_- ) and we got on and went for our ride. On the other side, in what's actually Dorena Landing, Missouri, we got off, peed mightily and severally, and got back on.

It's sorta/kinda Laz-like: He points out the "line" painted on the ramp behind which cars generally all line up... so we all line up... and then Laz sez, "Go!" And we all race down the ramp and stop mid-deck on the ferry. Then enjoy ourselves. I took a photo or two...

Don't ask me to I.D. everyone. I mostly just met these people that morning!

Laz is the one in the Sunmart jacket, straw hat, and dazzling bright legs that give off electricity.

...and then Beth my bride points out a stunning freak of nature (and coincidence?) that none of us were aware of before:

Check out that name on the left, second up from the bottom!

That makes two-out-of-three (that I, at least, know of) of ultramarathons originating from "nerve central" at the Cantrell House that have the name "Barkley" in 'em. And later I found evidence on The Strolling Jim course (a 40-mile race) of a Barkley-like mind game: There's paint, for example, right on the pavement near Wartrace, TN, that spells "40 MILES!!!" which is, unfortunately, nowhere even close to the finish line.

NO BIBS, JUST FLAGS

Dr. John ("UltraJohn") Price printed out for all of us complete sets of maps, and supplied us with little American (not Confederate) flags to wear on our packs or clothing in order to, I guess, help distinguish ourselves as hip ultra non-runners in some non-event (no RRCA sanctions or insurance necessary) from all of your other average unhip, non-ultra cross-state trekkers.

I call John "Dr." on account of his impressive running credentials and bestowed roads scholarship. His incredible, mind-boggling idea for this year was to run the whole freaking thing twice. TWICE! He'd park his car at the finish, run to the start, turn around (ride the ferry with us) and run back to his car. Simple, no?

IMPOSSIBLE, yes!

Dr. John never made it all the way to the start. I'm told he fell short about a day, phoned for help, and got a ride from about 100 miles out back to Hickman, KY, but... after the rest of us had already started. One can only assume also daht owluh Der Ffahrie BOatmen did not roust their shipmates and kick-start the sailing vessel solely for the sake of one roads scholar.

But pay that no mind. John proceeded (from wherever or however he was officially granted to start) to swoop over the course like that whiz-of-a Wizard over Oz. And he might as well have had a hot-air balloon, too, for all I saw of him. I think he swept over me while sleeping my first overnight in Martin, TN. Whoosh! Then Came Bronson, and there went John. See John went. Went, John, went!

His flag, however, I enjoyed, and his maps proved absolutely necessary. [You can see such a flag on Rita Barnes' bedroll in an above photo.] Lazarus distributed all John's contributions out of a box at The Last Supper. I felt about as useful to the Confederacy, as well as to all future Christendom, as Judas. And I can tell ya this much: Had you given me thirty pieces of silver right then, I'da chucked this nonsense all the way back to the first century, A.D.

Speaking of which, looguh whuh Ah found...

Not too shabby for having been built under Tiberius Caesar, two whole millennia ago!

I want y'all to know that I checked this! Augustus was honcho when Christ was born, but he croaked in 14 A.D. So that put his successor Tiberius in power right about the time Jesus would've first built his church upon this earth; unless Simon Peter did it, but ol' Pete was crucified—upside down—by Nero, which happened some years after Tiberius croaked.

Come to think of it, isn't the cross the symbol of any of Christ's churches? But that couldn't have been a symbol until after Christ died, right? (Do you, for example, know in advance how you're gonna die?) So maybe that original church was constructed by Pete under Nero, after all. Hmmm... Nah. Look again at the photo. No cross! So there ya go. It must have in fact been built by Jesus, in rural Tennessee, right around the time he became carpenter enough to do it, eh? Most likely a few years after the age of 14. Teens then were probably as useless on the job as they are now, although, of course, they do already know it all. Hmmm... but maybe teen Jeeze really did!

OK, let's move on. Next topic:

YANKEE, GO HOME!

I must say, I didn't hardly ever get those old familiar "warm and fuzzy feelings" from any of the passers-by I passed by. But things went marginal enough, I suppose, as I marched my imaginary troops across Missouri, Kentucky, and deep into Tennessee. I found myself thinking like Bush thought of Iraq: "Missoin accomplisht! Yea! Alls I gotta do is lib berate deze peeps, an' dey'll warship me laik a conkkerin' heero!"

Well, that daydream all changed the first time I asked some bunny for directions.

"Ah dunno," she said. "Ah wuz jus' fittin' ta ax y'all iffn Ah dun passt Foster Falls yit?"

No. I told her she hadn't, and she seemed happy. She then drove farther down the road, towing her U-Haul full of children.

Ah, Bushie baby, never mind Iraq. I'd just like Tennessee to appreciate us as citizens. "Heroes" is totally out of the question.

Actually, if the real truth were really known (I'm a writer, hey, I like to embellish :) I had no trouble whatsoever with the hoi polloi. The natives weren't restless—although they did tend to drive like maniacs—and most of the shop people and hoteliers were only too happy to take my money. Coin of the realm. Good ol' USA currency. And although Lazarus Lake will accept notes of the Confederacy (yes, even 144 years too late) in payment of entry fees for his footraces, none of the other Volunteer State's citizenry would honor it, or probably even recognize a pic of President Jefferson Davis if you enlarged it and set it over the lobby's fireplace in a mahogany photo frame.

Which, naturally, invites yet another tangential commentary on the part of yours troubly. [You didn't actually expect me to talk about running, did you?] I'd like to talk about President Lincoln. AND "the coin of the realm." Tell ya what, since I was trekking sooooo freaking slowly to begin with, I felt practically obligated to reach down and pick up the occasional "lucky penny" that I'd find. And pennies—dontcha know—all have Lincoln on 'em. (No more Indian heads left lying on the streets, I'm afraid.) And how ironic! One hundred and forty-four years ago Tennessee HATED Lincoln. And today? The roads, shoulders, and ditches are practically paved with him!! Altogether, by the time I was done, I had reached down and gathered up $2.73 in coins, one slug, one tiny flag pin, and one bent shiny round thing with the word "Pooh" on it. (My opinion of this whole stinkin' thing?)

Carl Laniak suggested once on the cell phone that all the runners in front of me were deliberately tossing those coins, knowing full well how stooping to grab 'em would slow me down.

"That prevents any possible need for sprinting against you at the finish," he said.

And he was right of course. In fact, I think I may only have run ONCE—to show off for Laz—during the entire 314 miles. OK, maybe two or three times... on a few steep downhills.

But getting back to Lincoln and his image and likeness being strewn hither and yon all across the (well, at least one of the) Confederate States of America, perhaps it wasn't so ironic—or respectful—at all. Consider this: those one-cent images of old Prez Lincoln were THROWN OUT! On the ground! Subject to tire treads and hikers tramping all over 'em! And, I should hasten to add, most of those pennies were discovered... face down.

( O_O )

Only one more note I could possibly add to this philosophical digression: While I hiked for the first five days, my sweet bride drove ahead and all around—scouting out restaurants and motels for the night. Plus she'd occasionally deliver fresh Gatorade and sack lunches. So you can imagine how heartbroken I felt when she eventually did, in fact, have to leave and drive home to attend to her prior-arranged appointments, meetings, and whatnot. Anyway, to show my appreciation, on the day she left I pulled out my little plastic baggie full of precious metals and said, "I don't have anything else to give you, Sweetie, except this." And I handed her all my coins of the realm. She smiled.

Remember now, that was just my half-way subtotal. The accounting figure I quoted above was "earned income" for the second half of my journey. So, yeah: a) the grand total could well be double that amount, and b) do I need to declare this on my Income Tax?

"Yankee, Go Home," eh? Yeah, well, now I know the feeling. It was damn Yankees that invented the damned "income tax" (in 1914, I believe). I don't think such a damn concept had ever even occurred to the Confederacy.

One more thing: check out one of the historical markers I passed. The following, if you can read it, tells the story of the Battle of Parker's Crossroads (in 1862, I believe). The "Forrest" referred to here is Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, CSA, to whom I devilishly like to compare our own Lazarus Lake. Both are crazy nutzoid geniuses, highly skilled at getting others to charge (instead of them) into harm's way—all the while those others are thinking they're something like, what, heroes? Hah!

Stick around. Ya might just even learn something from this ultramarathoning nonsense, eh?

Notice, too, how in the above historical marker, Yankees did indeed feel the sting of unwantedness. And perhaps, after the war, they too (like me) were sent home.

THE WORLD HAS GONE TO THE DOGS

...and not just to the Yankees, Recession, Ponzi Schemes, big business bailouts, and umpteen trillion dollar national debts. The whole of freaking society has descended into snarling, barking, yelping, attack dogs, and (of course) their pooh.

the towns the towns
they're full of dogs yelpin'
the towns the towns
nobody is helpin'
i ask and i ask and i want you to tell us
why all these people are richer than me

the feet the feet
they're pinchin' an' screamin'
the feet the feet
i think i been meanin'
to ask and to ask and to get ya ta tell us
why all these people are faster than me

There is nothing good to be said about bad government, bad business, or bad dogs. And the Volunteer State has LOTS of the latter. [As to questions about the former, I'll have to let you (or others) decide. All I personally ever noticed was bad highway patrol and lots of CLOSED business.] But those #!#!!#&## dawgs were sumpthin' else!

Why were they all LOOSE???

Who let the dawgs out, who? WHO?
Who let the dawgs out, who? WHO?
Who let the dawgs out, who? WHO?
Who let the dawgs out, who? WHO?

Apparently the same heightened levels of cognition and awareness dominate both today's popular music and Tennessee's dog ownership. In short: no cognition at all!

I must've been "viciously attacked" (?) more than two dozen times. And, again, I owe my survival to the wisdom of Dr. John. [OK, who's old enough to remember that old rock group known as Dr. John & The Night Trippers?] [Anybody?] [Didn't think so...] Anyway, our very own Dr. John revealed some time ago in a post (I think) to the infamous Ultrarunners' Listserv that the best way to handle barking, attacking dogs is to stand tall and still, point right at them, and shout in a loud voice: "STAY!!!"

Reason being, I guess, is that that's a command most dogs are most likely to have heard before and responded to. Of course, I also couldn't help but notice how so very, very many inhabitants of Tennessee these days are Hispanic... or Indian! [The Simpsons' stereotype of who owns today's convenience stores—how about motels?—is not far off.] During about the third or fourth vicious dog attack, I found myself wondering: "How do I say 'STAY' in Spanish or Hindu?"

But the good news about bad dogs is: Dr. John's prescription proved potent and effective. I was in fact able to forestall all snarling, yipping, barking, excessive-noise-producing canine attacks and continue my sojourn alive and intact. One notable exception, however, was the one attack dog that DIDN'T bark.

In my earliest youth (I started out in my conquest of commerce and industry as a paperboy) while delivering newspapers I happened to learn a valueless lesson: Dogs that don't bark... BITE! Sometimes during my commercial apprenticeship, I did happen to notice that barking dogs bit, too; but ALWAYS in my studies did I learn that true "attack dogs" don't give any warning. Just like, I think, attacking lions or tigers don't either. They just focus their nasty squinty little eyeballs dead ahead onto any hapless male sojourners' exposed naked flesh... and pounce!

Chomp!!!

But, as luck would have it (this time, but not so often during my youth) that particularly raving pouncing beast did not quite have a chance to clamp its jaws around my lower limbs, before its particular young girl owner came chasing after.

She yelled at the dog. I yelled at the girl. And, after some confusion as to who is to be taking orders from whom, everything stopped. The dog retreated, its corporal saluted, and I fired my musket. Or so I so earnestly wished.

All was not horrible, however. There's this BP station at Parsons on the right side of Route 412 just shy of the bridge across the Tennessee River (the first time) and ALL OF A FREAKING SUDDEN ( -_- ) here comes this (I think) black panther... (labrador).

Is it silent? (yes) Does it wish to eat me? (I think so) Is it right now charging across all four lanes of pavement directly to my side of the highway in order to bare its fangs, pounce, chomp, claw, chew, and devour? (hmmm...)

Apparently not.

No. Miracles never cease, I guess. And just as Daniel survived the lions' den and Jonah stayed alive in the belly of the whale, Servor Vol-Lee endured the full frontal licking and panting of Rex, the black panther. Oops, I mean labrador.

He was wearing a collar, but I don't know what to look for on dog tags (having escaped the service) nor on dog collars (having never owned one) so I didn't read it. I contented myself with calling him (even out loud on several occasions) "Rex," short for "Rex Judeaorum," which all of you Latin and Roman Empire scholars should immediately recognize.

Me 'n' Rex. Just like Opie and whatever-the-hell-dog-HE-had in Mayberry [was that Tennessee?] or Rin-Tin-Tin and his handler or Sgt. Preston and Yukon [or was that the place? I forget the dog's name] or Timmy and Lassie or Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman. We were just one large pair of sweet-whistling Dixies. I'd mosey alongside the road, and Rex would try aimlessly to kill himself in traffic. [I told y'all they drive CRAZY here, right?]

Oh, one thing I did learn, though: in Tennessee they honk for dogs, not people. Apparently, Vol-State motorists believe dogs are intelligent enough to understand dumb auto industry signals, while pedestrians are not. I think they think walking folk represent job (or welfare) competition, whereas canines won't ever steal their pay-(or government)-checks. Hence, spare the Peabodies and wipe out the Shermans.

Speaking of which, I'm very sure "Sherman" is considered a pretty bad name in the South. Nevertheless, my Rex and his Opie waltzed together just fine... all the way to Linden and my next-scheduled hotel. Yessir, I whipped out of my backpack one pretty valuable K-bar (something for "athletes" made by the same outfit that makes Special-K cereal, I think, which I got free at some marathon "expo" about three years ago when I still had gumption enough to trudge marathuds) and fed it to Rex as his reward, right there, smack in front of "The Commodore Hotel." [And wasn't there a song about that?]

the pets the pets
are lickin' an' slob'rin'
the pets the pets
are pawin' an' clob'rin'
this K-thing that K-thing this Pow-er-That and this
which I'm savin' fer my very next race

the beat the beat
it's beatin' and poundin'
the beat the beat
it pounds as i'm roundin'
this corner that corner this corner then uphill
and now all my pains are poundin' on me

Which is why I said good-bye to the dog and went upstairs to the bed.

BROAD (AND NOT SO BROAD) SHOULDERS & WOLF PACKS

I can tell right now that I'm not going to get allah dys here 'ritin' dun laik Ah'd planned. And no, you're not going to be reading much about your usual running, run-like, or racing-related stuff. I don't wanna talk about blisters or calluses or cuts and scrapes or chafing and starving or thirsting or bursts of: shuffling, crawling, and speed. No downhills, uphills, over-the-hills, broads, skinny shoulders, or YOUTH! [Wasn't just about everybody younger than me? Well, no. Ya got yer Marvelous Marvs and Super Don Winkleys, of course, so I guess there's still "room for me" but, hey, ya gits whut ya's pay for. Y'all wanna be inspired with RUNNING INFO... pay Deke. I my own self just love to do all this for love. ;-]

And if ya believe all that, I've got choice plots of recycled real estate to sell you in downscale suburban Chi-Town cemeteries! And speaking of cemeteries, some Vol-State veterans claim those to be good places to sleep at night. Right. Me 'n' Rex and the Ghosts of XXX-miss Past. Umm... let's not go there.

Nah, my place at night was between clean sheets inside cheap motels. [Yo! In Manchester I found one for $30.00—full delivered price, tax included! (But cash only.) I'm guessin' that little old lady didn't much concern herself with damned Yankee income tax, ya s'pose?] Here, if anyone's interested, was my progression-through-the-time-warp, with all motel stops-for-the-night duly boldfaced:

From Dorena Landing, MO (the start) ==> (to) Martin, then ==> Huntingdon ==> Lexington ==> Linden ==> Hohenwald ==> Lewisburg ==> Shelbyville ==> Manchester ==> Monteagle ==> Castle Rock, GA (the finish) after which I was treated to a free (!) bed at the world-renowned Lazarus Bed & Breakfast in Wartrace, TN.

The rest of it [misery, pain, agony, sores, swelling, sadness, depression, hard times, hardly moving, death-wishes, dog attacks :-| ] you don't really need to read about, at least not from me. From me, yours troubly, you expect less (much less) and you get it!

So anyway, since I cannot possibly do justice to every topic I really wanna be distracted by, let me post-up a few tell-tale images and then conclude with some commentary just brimming with my more usual non-pith.

To wit:

Will he be bringing the pork chops? If so, sure!

That oft-cited writing on "the broad side of a barn." Rock on, huh?

The world-famous Barry Barkley chicken farm is somewhere down this road.

THIS is the "finish line" ...for 2002. Right. Everything's worse in 2009. Now the finish is another whole day away!

In '02 the joyless singing was: "For those about to fry, we sah-luuuute you!" Not all that much improvement in 2009.

Obama country? Or, maybe just the last "big town" we traipse through.

Now here's a question for the Latin scholars:

No, not quite!

All of this dubiously delightful photography aside, the real pith I withd to dith out here... uh... is my observation that the beasts today's motorists most resemble aren't dogs, but wolves. While walking briskly (in my mind dancing Irish jigs) alongside rural highways, I came to notice the following phenomenon: for a long time there's no cars; then boom! A little pack of cars. All together, tightly packed, all zooming at considerable speed, with eachRIGHTonTHEbumper of the car in front, except for the ditz in front.

Hmmm... just exactly like small wolf packs. All following the leader, except, of course, the leader. I reasoned it this way: humans must be afraid, afraid to be alone. When humans driving fast machines come upon another human-driving-machine, they join forces. They don't necessarily speed up or back off... they join. They... tailgate. It must be some kind of primal NEED. The front human welcomes "company" and the behind-guy doesn't wanna be "left behind." No one strikes out on one's own; everyone's content to sniff what's coming out of the rear end of the one in front. Just like wolves. Right?

Which brings me full circle: None of those motorists are on foot, truckin' along with me! So. I guess I take pride in being non-wolflike.

[The scientists and civil engineers among you will throw up your hands and probably holler: "You numbskull! The only reason for your stupid 'wolf pack' behavior is because the a**hole in front's too slow!!!" Sure, everybody stays behind the a**hole because nobody wants a head-on collision! Even my insurance man could tell me that.]

My point exactly: the insurance guy isn't out there slogging 314 miles on foot! Neither are the scientists, the civil engineers, nor the car drivers! Making them the wolves, and me?

An idiot.

THE GRATE DEPR/SEC/REC/ESSION

One quick observation and then I'll move on. The South has really been hit by this horrible economy. Everywhere I looked... thirstily, hungrily, starvingly, FAMISHED and nearly dead... I'd see this:

And notice? It's CLOSED!

Most other stores were closed too, and empty, boarded-up, out-of-business. Why, it's enough to cause entire states south of the Mason-Dixon Line to band together and secede from the Union!

And I mentioned this supply-shortage to Laz. In '02 he was forever touting highly as to how "you don't need aid stations; there's stores!" Well, now there isn't. So my advice to next year's Vol-Staters is carry LOTS of fluids and plenty of lightweight snacks. Rice cakes, for example, were almost perfect foodstuffs, and I brought along my "standard Barkley issue" iodine tabs for making safe any water you scoop out of creeks or streams. But, of course, that iodine was... uh... too heavy. So I dumped it.

( O_O )

THE WORLD-FAMOUS LAZARUS BED & BREAKFAST

After Shelbyville (and an endless trudge along Route 64) I was looking forward to seeing the "youth hostel" that I did not get to the previous evening: The Lazarus Bed & Breakfast. Mike O'Melia, I'm told, did get there, but I was somewhere in Misery in the rain. So, I found the cheapest dive in Shelbyville (Laz sez the natives say "Shulbvul") operated, of course, by Hindus.

Taika gud looguh dys:

See the dry stonework? Can there be any doubt whose fenced-in yard this is?

But when I arrived there, of course good ol' Lazarus was gone. (Or, perhaps not quite brought back to life yet by that greatest-of-all-possible-carpenters who build that 2,000-year-old metal church, remember? ;-) So, ever the industrious dance hall apprentice that I doubtlessly am, I sat down on this...

To some of you, this just might possibly seem somehow familiar

...and ate lunch.

I also stashed inside the cab half the contents of that backpack you see there. It was too damn full of "stuff" which I'd need to get home with, since by that time my wife had left me, my money'd run out, my driver's license was a bail bond ( -_- ) for the same exact county in Illinois where that infamous Drew Peterson is currently being held behind bars...

Ah, inasmuch as I'd like to make something funny out of this, I can't. My wife did indeed "leave." I didn't kill her.

And neither did I try and stuff her body into some weird blue barrel... and hire my son-in-law to help me carry it downstairs and into the back of a station wagon sitting inside the garage.

( O_O )

Nah, she's here smiling over my shoulder right now. I did, however, just recently have to go to Will County Court. The bastards.

On my way out of Laz's place, I just had to take a shot at his mailbox. Old Barkley runners will know why.

How come it doesn't say "Idiot"?

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Right. I clicked my heels (ouch!) three times and... WHAMMO: nothing.

First I had to nearly die of thirst on my way to Monteagle, and then I had to crash at Monteagle. [You will not believe this, but I found the exact same kind of Chinese buffet by the Day's Inn there which we have here in Park Forest. Coolie! And my fortune cookie's fortune? "A pleasant surprise is in store for you soon." Right. Two fewer dog bites and having to hitchhike back to Park Forest. The "surprise" must be: the ride I'll hitch will be in the back of a dog pound truck.]

The next day: BOOM! I'm up and out and down the road early. I trudge and I trudge and I trudge. See Vol-Lee trudge. Trudge, Vol-Lee, trudge! This elementary school reader is about to be translated into Mandarin, as Mandarin is soon to become our native language, whenever our Chinese national mortgage lenders decide to call in the loan.

After some time and not just a few centuries (but not twenty of 'em) I finally, finally, F-I-N-A-L-L-Y turned around and saw with my very own bloodshot eyes the following Vision of Happiness:

This was in the opposite direction, unfortunately, since Alabama didn't have one. And neither did Georgia!

the feet the feet
i don't mind tellin' ya
the feet the feet
they both are yellin' ta
slow it down slow it down slow it down slow it and
stop all this runnin' an' poundin' an' such

the feet the feet
they're pinchin' an' screamin'
the feet the feet
i think i been meanin'
to ask and to ask and to get ya ta tell us
why all these people are faster than me

And now... for a few words about Cyndi and Dave and DeWayne Satterfield:

AWESOME folks. SIMPLY AWESOME!!!

Cyndi became this year's Women's Champion, and Dave helped her. Oh yea! He freakin' RODE A BICYCLE-HAULING-A-TRAILER right behind her! Wow! On all those roads with no shoulder, too! [Frankly, I'm surprised he's alive. Although I think Dave's NOT a Yankee, so he should be OK. :-]

Dave's Cyndi's Mensch Numero Uno (read: hubby) and if I were her, I'd be givin' him backrubs and poofing-up his pillows, easily for the next 2,000 years. And if I were him, I'd be takin' her out for wine & dinner, easily for the next 10,000.

Man oh man. They win AND then they backtrack along the course to meet 'n' greet me! ME! The tortoise!! (OK, Yankee tortoise :-(

Dave hands me a fresh quart of Gatorade, and Cyndi gives me a bear hug. And they both walk with me for a spell down the line...

That was my second-to-last day. On my last, you'll never guess. Here comes DeWayne Satterfield, sittin' in the driver's seat, driven up behind me in his car. And just in time!

Me: [stopped still, faced with a severe directional dilemma] What? It's DeWayne!

DeWayne: Hey!

Me: What the hell way do I go?

Him: [pointing] This way. You could go that other way, but that's wrong. Trust me. I went that way.

Wow. He just saved me, oh, maybe an hour.

"Hey," he says, "can I get you something to drink?"

[STOP. Let's process this. Here we have The Men's Champion—the record-breaking champion, I think, for speed—coming back a week later to ask the last-place guy (trying hard to break the record for all-time-slowest ;) if the first-place guy can buy the last-place guy a drink. Ya got that? Good, 'cuz I have no clue!]

Whatta mensch. If DeWayne ain't my all-time hero-like "King of the Road," then I don't know who is. DeWayne is also the guy who, for a decade, lapped me every single year at the Carl Touchstone Mississippi 50/50 Race. Yo, and each lap is 12 miles! So he'd be on his 4th lap while I was still doing my 2nd. (I think that's how it happened.) Anyway, you couldn't possibly ask to be lapped by a better guy.

Dr. Touchstone (yes, a real doc/dentist) was another one of my heroes, as well as a friend. In fact, all throughout this year's Vol-State race I wore a Carl Touchstone race shirt. Bright dazzling day-glo green. For, like, visual safety in traffic. The only things brighter than my shirt, we think, are Laz's legs.

How come all these fine Southern gentlemen are such gentlemen? Up North, we're not used to this. Up North, bastards arrest us and we have to show up in court.

Anyway, I did indeed take DeWayne up on his offer, and boom: he drives away and comes right back with TWO big bottles of Gatorade. And later, as I crawled up Sand Mountain, he drove by again and gave me a Coke. [He also said there'd be an Alabama State Line sign, but there wasn't. But I won't hold that against him.] He practically saved my life! Or kidneys! Or my ability to basically start peeing again! What a man, huh? He makes me pee my (not in, but after) pants off and I'm thankin' the guy!

E-V-E-N-T-U-A-L-L-Y, though, all good things must come to an end, and I stopped—just about one split-second before tumbling over the cliff. [Laz and Carl held my arms, thanks!]

They actually never told me about this: Castle Rock, GA, is all rock, all the time. It's one gigantic plateau, about 300 feet straight-the-hell UP from the Alabama forest floor crashing far, far below. So you're supposed to (no, not kiss the rock a la Hardrock) just step on it. But at the correct exact Lazarus-designated place. Oh, you could kiss it, but that would require getting down and kneeling, and that would require (somehow) getting back up.

I thanked them, but declined the lip service.

And—dammit!—leave it to The Creator of The Barkley to actually end a 314-mile road race with "a trip through the woods" (short, yes, but packed full of woods-like danger!) in which, for example, SAWBRIARS GROW!!!!!!!!!

So, yes, after about 313.075 miles of hard, hard road, yours ever troubly had his Mississippi race shirt snagged. Maybe even his arm punctured. Perhaps blood poured forth and covered my watch!

But it was dark, so I couldn't see anyway. Which—save for Carl and Laz—could have made that head-long plunge into an Alabama funeral all the more exciting, yes? The stars were fantabulous!

Fuhgeddaboud it.

I accepted Susan's plastic Tennessee stick-pin as my finisher's "award," thanked each and all profusely and incoherently, and then begged for a ride!

Ol' Laz and his bride Sandra deigned to grant my request. I then crawled into the back seat and ACHED!!!!!!!!!!!! IN PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Pains the like of which I had never, ever felt before IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!!

And, lo, they bringeth me unto the basement of hot showers, and in to cool refreshment, and giveth me up into the night... and showeth me unto yon crib...

There's no place like bed. Yup, this one's The Lazarus (extra) Bed... but no Breakfast!!!

...where I slept like manger till mourning.

( x_x )

And boom: Laz drives me to Sandra, and Sandra drives me to airport. [And that's how to get rid of a Damn Yankee!] Then boom: I'm back in The Land Where Lincoln pennies fall face-up, and somewhere there's a weird blue barrel containing (no doubt) the remains of the umpteenth bride...

...of my cellmate.

( O_O )