M. decided a fine way to spend the first Saturday of the month running at various elevations over an “extreme” distance of 50 Kilometers, which the internets tells me is 31.07 miles in American.

What the fuck? I say. I’ll give M. credit, the man gots guts.

His cell phone is dying, so last I heard he’s stopping at, I think, 25 miles. The bitch of it is it’s a trail run in the woods, so there’s no room for spectating. Worse yet, thanks to the fucking oil spill from the cargo ship that “bumped” the Bay Bridge, I can’t actually drive any where near the race. They have shuttles. But the shuttle schedule on the web site is thrown together and clearly written for the runners.

So far, the wilderness challenges, which seem to yank M.’s crank more than your nice suburban 10K trots, run in a vague state of disorganization. Clearly, they’re planned by runners with good hearts rather than event planners with keen sensibilities and mad organization skillz. Throw in a oil spill and closed beaches, roads, parking lots and trails, and well, I get to sit on my ass and wait and see if M. gets a shuttle back to the hotel where the shuttle picked him up at 5:30 in the fucking a.m.

I hope the boy’s OK. And, I hope the knee pain reported to start at about mile 16 is minor and fleeting.