I would like to write of the poetry of mountains, of the incredible majesty of nature, of the intensity of the confrontation of the human soul with the timelessness of geologic formations, but I cant. I lack the forebrain to comprehend these wonders, due to lead ingestion as a child. Instead, I wallow in the sublime pleasures afforded by an internet caf (Le Bure@u !) with a view of a canal probably containing human effluent. If I crane my neck to the right, and really stretch, I can see the top of Mont Blanc through a grubby windowpane. Here, surrounded by other unwashed interlopers, I can finally relax and report on current events during the H2H marathon.
Speaking of marathons, in about 1 hour 52 minutes, the Ultra-Trail Tour du Mont Blanc (UTMB) will commence right outside our hotel window After months of hiking accompanied only by the voices inside my head, I realize that multi-personality disorder is no substitute for true commune with others, and I look forward to pushing my way through the pack of 2000 competitors, to the very front, whereupon I will collapse upon hearing the starting gun, letting a small squib filled with ketchup explode under my shirt, thereby becoming the first but not last casualty of this crazy race. I do this to hopefully dislodge a few competitors from their A-game, and perhaps let the Eddy the Eagles of this group get a few laughs. 100 miles through three countries, over (up to) 46 hours, up and down over 8900 meters. I have signed you all up for next years event and your training regimen should start ASAP, as this race is no pique-nique. Check it out at:
http://www.ultratrailmb.com/accueil.php
On the other side of the canal, competitors are making their way towards the starting gate. Such a fine collection of human flesh, bulging with time-flayed ultra-musculature, carrying backpacks of carbohydrate gels, dehydrated water, and perhaps a pizza or two, wielding hiking poles that will undoubtedly be used to stab nearby participants, this race of modified humans against the backdrop of the tallest mountain in Europe overwhelms even my sensibilities as to that which is proper, correct, and human. There are mutants amongst us, and I know now where they hold their moot. Never has cheese entered their diets, these poor ultrapeople. I proudly brandish my baguette laden with camembert as a badge of dietary courage, and the occasional mutant gazes at me with a mixture of disbelief, loathing, and perhaps a hint of envy?
Perhaps though, we h2h-ers are not unlike these ultra-marathoners? They cram into 46 hours the same sort of pain-induced limbic endorphin excretion that we currently stretch out over 4 months. The hormones blur ones ability to lay down memories of the pain, akin to childbirth, thus one gets up the next day and actually ventures forth again! I am an ultra-marathoner moving at a much much slower pace, obviously pregnant. This would also explain my inability to remember where we have been, where we are going, and what transpired between these two points. I have to refer continually to the website to figure out where I am. When asked, What are you doing here?, I inevitably must answer, everybodys gotta be somewhere. This engenders a few laughs, and sidetracks the question, which I cannot answer.
At the other end of the spectrum from the ultramarathon lies the sport of sumo wrestling. Im sure cheese plays a significant role in the average 400 pound Sumo wrestlers diet; thus, we have something in common. A love of dietary transgressions can only lead to greatness, and where should one use this greatness to ones greatest advantage?
Naturally, in the dohyo, the wrestling circle. My taken shikona, or wrestling name, is Massacheesey, and I hope to compete in Tokyo next year, perhaps working my way eventually up to the envied level of yokozuna ie. The Big Cheese. Sumo wrestling can be seen nightly on French TV thus cheese-laced dreams of semi-naked diapered wrestling must figure highly in the Gallic id. I knew there was a reason why french cheese calls to me, and this is it. Sumo wrestling
<and that was all... did Grooyere intend to write more but was unable to because of some arterial occlusion brought on by overconsumption of cheese, or did he write further pearls of wisdom that were swallowed up in the great sea of bits? We may never know....>
