trying to make it all last.

So, everything's packed.

I've got "...a long sleeved shirt
with horses on the front
and some gum and a lighter and a knife
and a new deck of cards (with girls on the back)."

Or wait, no, those are Tom Waits lyrics (Shore Leave).

Anyway, I believe I'm all packed for Titusville, home of the Oil Creek 100 Trail Runs.  One of those three races is the 100 miler and that's the one at which I'll be toiling away most of Saturday (beginning at 5 AM, ET) and the first portion of Sunday in pursuit, of all things, a belt buckle, a purty one, but still....

How that remains the 100-mile award of choice, I'm uncertain, but so it is and off a chasin' it, I will go, knowing full well that it'll never be asked to hold up a single pair of pants so long as we three (me, the buckle and my pants) shall live.

Last year's successful effort was shockingly calamity-free (though slow) which likely means all hell will break loose this weekend.

Hell breaking loose makes for better blog fodder anyway, right (though god in possum form is pretty good stuff)?  And better blues songs:

"Baby, I'm so far away from home
and I miss my baby so
I can't make it by myself...."

And that's why, while my baby (all my babies) will be at home, cheering from afar, Jefferson'll be there to help me get back to Titusville and, eventually, Mount Joy Road and Sporting Hill.

If you'd like to cheer along too or you just get tired of watching the proverbial (or actual) paint dry, peek in a time or two at the webcast.

Here's the link:

Bear in mind that it will likely be running hours behind if working at all.  That's no swipe at quite capable race director Tom Jennings or the exceptional volunteers at Oil Creek, but just a fact of life in "real time" ultra webcasts as the aid stations are remote, electrical outlets are sparse and satellite feeds are spotty.

Besides, everyone's plenty distracted with other things.  You know, like Bib #132 (me) will be quite busy"pacing myself, trying to make it all last".

For the record, and to my wife's chagrin, I am packing my long-sleeved shirt with horses on the front.  Oh, they're ducks.

Same difference.

Giddap, giddyup, GIT THEE UP!  Quack, quack, quack.

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