By Chris Carlsten

I was chillin' (well, warmin') with the Cadillac of hot cocoa (Swiss miss), indeed transporting my flaccid quads to the snow-laden Alps from the mud-strewn Capitol Peaks Flabbergassed 25K.  Even in my hypoglycemia exhaustion I couldn't let one vexing query slip my consciousness:  who the hell transported in all that mud?  How? How long did it take?  How long would it last?  Was I the only one who could tell (that it was clearly foreign)? And why hadn't I taken a sample for analysis back at the lab (in case anyone questioned my protest, since foreign mud was not part of what I signed up for)?  The mix of endorphin metabolites, the cocoa, and anticipation of the cold Grolsch in the car threatened to put the issue to a very mellow rest when the neurosis saw a window for re-entry.  The portal was created in the form of a ghostly figure.  Sam, giddy from a free 25K ride on the back of super-pooch Merlin, squeezed the words past my shield:  "How 'bout another trip around?"  5 hours later, I had more mud samples and endorphin debt than I knew how to process.  But, at the end of the day (the darkening, increasingly moist end of the day), it was livin'.  Thanks Sam.