Running…My Mouth!

That’s it…I’m sick of this modesty bullshit. Where did it come from? I’ve seen it growing like a fungus for years and now the stench is unbearable. Did it start with “participation trophies” over “winner’s trophies”? Did it take hold when giving kids an “F” in school was too harsh? Was it hybrid cars?

I say be a loud jerk about winning. Win the overall? Wear jorts and chug from a bottle of Cristal Champagne  on the podium. Win your age group? Dance around in a cowboy hat and scream like Axl Rose. You train hard, get up way too early and deal with rubs and rashes in awful places – go nuts. This quiet as a mouse attitude is a yawner.

In fact, I think those “modesty monkeys” go so far to be quiet they actually attract more attention.


Me: How was your race last weekend?

Them: Oh…it was OK.

(Immediately I think maybe they had a rough go and should not persist with questions)

Me: Challenging course, a lot of climbing? (thus giving them an out if they cramped up or faded)

Them: Um…it was tough.

Me: So, how’d you do?

Them: Oh…I won (and then everyone in ear’s shot freaks out).

Right there…(insert favorite expletive right here). Come on! Just walk up to me and say it. Hey Nail, that race last week…I killed them all! Grabbed them by the hair and punched them in the face. Then I went home, showered, got a tattoo and set a KFC on fire.







Now to me…that’s really winning.

And Leadville belt buckles…those should never be bashfully stashed in a drawer away from lesser eyes. Those should be worn every day and used to stencil names of a male body part into the hoods of idiot Porsche Cayenne drivers who park diagonally and hog two spaces at the trail head.

Reminder: We are training our ass off in the mountains – you know, the home of bears, mountain lions and rattle snakes…where do we get off being soft on swagger? Hell, I’m pulling pieces of my nail out of my nail bed and crapping outside at 5am…you think I am going to be PC about my good days?

We should be loud. We are better people because we run and suffer. That pork rind huffer with the muffin top and dirty sweatpants shouldn’t even look us in the eye. And Smokey McStink body should gag on that cancer stick as we walk near his wretched death-cloud (and by the way…please stand right outside the door of every damn building as you coat your disgusting lungs with more disease…your lungs look like tapioca pudding smeared on a steel wool pad). The damn warning label is right in the side of the pack…idiot.

Ok…where was I again? Oh yeah, modesty…I need that like carbonated Mtn. Dew at an aid station…it makes me want to barf. So let’s just drop the act and be the egotistical loudmouths we all really want to be. At the next race walk right up front and let everyone know: “I’ve got a cooler full of champagne, leather chaps, a skull ring and I am here to break as many legs as possible. Now pull that trigger – the ice in the cooler won’t last forever!”