Once again Chuck and Tony challenged us with the sweet mystery of darkness and body-beating terrain. Then left us smiling with a deep inner warmth whether we knew it or not. Death was not present, although a few people were brushed and whispered and a few more may have ascended to another plane of existence. No bodies were found but a full 21 people were lost (I mean gone forever) during their quest to CP 80.
I know of three that did return. Drake the Demented Course Clearer, approached the life-sucking overgrown undergrowth CP from every angle possible. Each one of his attacks was defended and thwarted with a ferocity that until that time was unheard of in the floral world. Fauna Drake did fail and returned to the finish two days late, certainly weary, glassy-eyed, and with that pre-Ahabian stare and mumble that most of us try to avoid. David the Driven kept his bearings and struggled through the gauntlet being pummeled, stabbed, scraped, electrically shocked, and mocked all the while, bearing up under the constant onslaught of mean-spirited comments about his upbringing coming vibratorily from deep within the diabolical thicket. He pushed on till reason won out over suffering, and he left wounded but preserving some sense of himself and a better than tenuous grip on reality.
Jake found CP80 to his and everyone's amazement. Tentatively we cheered his accomplishment, not being sure if he had sold his soul to the devil or was the recipient of divine intervention. He said that he plowed through the miasma and took a bearing from a pond. He then went to the CP, beaten, but pleased. What we did believe from his story, suspecting Valhallic or Beelzebubic intervention, was that his compass was reading crazily, spinning needle, in need of an exorcist, and he feared he was lost forever. When I mentioned this to my home, and sometimes, racing partner, Katy, she said that CP80 was probably a site of some very bad Juju between the white frontier people and the aboriginal Americans.
Rob and I ran into David somewhere, sometime in the middle of the night. We accepted his story as the truth that we should follow. We had already had a bad feeling about the CP in question due to its high point value, its remotitude, and its pre-advertised suggestion of extreme uglitude.
Rob and I had a good time, a good race. We pushed ourselves, and with fairly accurate navigation, bright flashlights, that accompanied our parking lot grade headlamps, we finished in fine fashion, each of us winning a door prize. For me, the night was simply beautiful. I'm fairly certain I found an Amanita Verna, commonly called "The Destroying Angel," because of its lovely long white stem, white cap, white gills and its contents: five deadly poisons. This 'shroom is not "Psilosyben." The trip would be to the hospital or the dirt, but it is one elegant beauty. The "Death Cup" was above ground and profound.
We also came across some extraordinary bushes, previously encountered in the Sheltowee Extreme South Race of Stephanie Ross. Although a tad thick, they were heavenly lemon-scented. We wrinkled some leaves and were able to momentarily forget our various discomforts, and our compass bearing. Faint coolish breezes greeted us on ridges and knolls. I was lifted to an ocean beach night stroll nearly hearing the waves.
The climax of the race came to me late as we were basically returned to HQ having just tagged CP32 while viewing the G-spot. Although I was feeling all parts of my skeleton cracking and chipping and falling into my feet as we pounded down the Andean switchbacks a lone owl spoke serenity to my core. Rob and I stopped to look with our mighty torches, but the owl stayed hidden high up in a maple. I began a "call and response" with our feathered friend, nearly believing that we were actually communicating. I tried to refine my intonations and mouth shaping as we kept in touch during our hurried switchback descent. My high companion was probably thinking that I was a life-long smoking, low minded morning dove with throat nodules, but I cared not. We had a thing, we did. After the finish and just before pancakes the predawn sliverish old moon rose above the canopy showing us its full circle and its crooked orange smiling light. The next day she would be nearly invisible, rising with the sun and thinner still, to be born again in a day or two falling after the sun.
Food and friends, driving home, smiling and sleepless. Without music, I kept hearing odd and constant noises from my aging truck. I soon realized it was the abundance of late summer night music from the deep rich woods. The katydids, crickets, and what-have-yous had been our constant companions throughout the night and stayed with me as I drove away through fog and sun. I listened till the night caught up and I napped at a rest stop.
Yours,
The One Who Strives for Mediocrity
Bill Donnelly
