Can't We Buy Success?

* * * * * * TECHNOLOGY REPORT * * * * * *

Since Cory hasn't filed his technology report, I'll fill in as best I can.

There's this stuff, see. And you buy it, see. And the more of this stuff you buy, the better you do. And if you run out of stuff to buy, well, you just aren't looking hard enough.

END OF TECHNOLOGY REPORT

I'm not anti-technology, by the way. Why, if it wasn't for technology, my vocabulary of swear words would be far smaller. And I have no criticism of anyone who tries to buy his way to a successful finish of the Leadville 100 mile run. Not even someone, who might answer to the name of, say, Cory Brundage, who buys an altitude tent to enclose his bed. Think Michael Jackson, but not as normal. But since my running partner has chosen to do this, I fully respect his demented decision.

As for me, I refuse to venture into the arena of purchased performance-enhancement.

[Go ahead. You know you want to. Insert your own ED drug punch line here]

Instead, I rely on the one thing that's at the core of everything I've ever accomplished: a sneaky dishonesty and lack of scruples. I'm willing to do anything--even, despite how much it sickens me, be nice--if it will trick others to do my work for me.

In this case, my claim-credit-for-the-work-of-others strategy has two prongs to it. First is the "crew" prong. On an overnight race like Leadville, the crew members are the ones who do the hardest work. I'm not talking about staying up all night. I'm not talking about standing around for hours in 35 degree weather with flashlights as the only source of warmth. I'm not talking about driving like crazy down unmarked dirt roads in the middle of the night, not knowing for sure if you're even going in the right direction, all the while having to dodge other crews driving like crazy in the opposite direction. All of those things happen, and all of those things are extremely demanding. But they are all a Club Med vacation compared to . . .

DEALING WITH THE RUNNER!!!

I'm sure there are some long distance runners who are nice people. Some who help old people across the street and mentor children at the local elementary school. Some who teach Sunday School and pick up litter on the weekends. But at 18 hours into Leadville, when it's pitch dark, getting cold, and there's still 35 miles to go, there are NO nice runners. And when you've got two grumpy personalities to start off with--say, Cory and me--it's obvious to all concerned that it would be more fun to go quail hunting with Dick Cheney than to crew for a couple of sour ingrates like us. And yet the crews stick with it.

Here is a typical exchange between a runner and his crew in the later stages of the race:

RUNNER (first words upon arriving at the aid station): "Where the fuck is the stuff?!"

CREW: "What stuff?"

RUNNER: "Goddamit! I'm losing time! You all are fucking worthless."

CREW: "Here's everything you told us to bring. [holding out about 40 pounds of stuff that they have lugged by hand 2 miles from where they had to leave the car] Do you need something else?"

RUNNER: "Shit, fuck, space carrots." (grabs a jacket that a crew member is wearing, not noticing his own jacket that is tied around his waist) [runs off]

In other words, here's a picture of the Perfect Crew:



Our crew is Cory's son, Ben. When you consider that Ben has known Cory all of Ben's life, and he's still willing to crew for us?! That is truly incredible.



The second prong to my plan of letting others carry me to success is the "pacer." Now, contrary to the name, the pacer at a race like Leadville doesn't really have much to do with setting the pace for the runner. You can only have a pacer after the first 50 miles, so Ma Nature has a lot more to say about the runner's pace over the second 50 than any human. But what the pacer does do is threefold. First, he or she carries your shit.


That doesn't sound like much if you are picturing a normal sort of running race, such as a 5 miler. But at Leadville, you pick up your pacer with typically 15 hours of the race still ahead of you. So, think what you do in a normal 15-hour period. THAT is what I mean by carrying your shit: you're going to need food; you're going to need lots of water; you're going to need a jacket, a hat, gloves, a head lamp or flashlight, tights; you're going to need toilet paper; you're going to need a newspaper or magazine to read while you're doing your "business"; and, of course, you're going to need a battery-powered boom box playing the theme from "Chariots of Fire". So if you have a really strong pacer who will carry everything for you, your chances of getting to the finish line in time go up dramatically.


The second thing the pacer does for you is that he or she functions as your brain. Because that gray mass inside your skull is just excess baggage for the second half of the race. Now, I have an advantage here, because that describes my brain at any place or time, but for most people, they go from smart to really stupid over the course of the race. The pacer has to tell the runner to drink fluids, to eat nutrition, to put on clothes, to take off clothes, to run, to stop running, not to worry about the three-eyed, five-legged giant Chia pets that the runner is hallucinating about. And these things have to be repeated for hour after hour. Seriously. Imagine a newborn's total dependence, but a teenager's ability to harm to oneself. That's the pacer's problem.


And the third thing the pacer has to do is to keep the runner moving forward when all the runner wants to do is stop. You can expect the runner to resort to whining, name calling, and outright lying. "I'll just sit down for 10 minutes; then I'll be all set to continue." "I've just discovered a solution to Fermat's Last Theorem! I'll just stretch out on this cot while you go get some paper so that I can write it down." "I just heard the call of a pack of carnivorous deer up ahead. We'd better not leave this aid station." I've never been a pacer for a 100-mile race, so I'm not sure what the best tactics are for the pacer to overcome this behavior. But I'm pretty sure a bullwhip is involved.




So, to sum up, the perfect pacer would be the combination of (1) a pack mule; (2) a sadist; and (3) a student of Sigmund Freud. Unfortunately, all of the people I have found with that skill set are busy auditioning for the next "Survivor" episode.


Still, a very nice person whom we met at the Leadville Training Camp who lives in Colorado has been recruiting pacers for us. An extremely nice person. A LIVING SAINT. (In case she's reading this blog.) She has found 3 people who don't know us who are interested in being our pacers. Yeah, I know. Once I say that they are willing to be our pacers, you immediately knew that that don't know me and Cory. Thanks.




So we've got a crew and pacers. And weird tents and titanium hiking poles and cooling sleeves for our arms and pseudo-snakeskin gaiters for our ankles and vitamin tablets that Barry Bonds envies. I think we're out of excuses.