It's Payback Time!
Screw Coach Charlie! I’m sick of being picked on!
Those were my thoughts a few weeks ago when I decided to turn the tables on Ladera Ranch’s own trail-running version of Quentin Tarantino, creator of intricately sadistic scenarios of pain and depravity.
I arranged for some meth lab heavies from my past to kidnap Coach Charlie from his plastic mansion in south Orange County, Calif., then drive him up to the desert in their faded puke-green ’66 El Dorado, then dump his over hydrated rear on the side of the road to see what he was made of, besides caramel frapuccino lattes and goat-cheese pizzas.
Thus was born the Primm-to-Vegas 43-mile run, held this year in frigid conditions on Dec. 13. Coach Charlie’s lovely family was there to bid him adieu, but not before eating his gels and consuming all of his Gatorade. A lovely bunch, the Nickell clan.
Coach Charlie DNFd, claiming the wind made many boo-boos on his middle-aged body. The poor boy was cold! Ah, that’s sweet. Have some hot milk chocolate – you’ll feel better soon. Of course, in Coach Charlie’s case, shrinkage is never an issue, since it’s the state he was born into, so he didn’t moan about that.
To prove how manly I am, and show Coach Charlie how it’s done, I ran from the Pacific Ocean to Santiago Peak this last weekend – a 42-mile journey that took me from the lowest to highest points in Orange County, give or take a few luxury auto dealerships.
I touched salt water and snow on the same run, and not once did I cry about how cold it was.
The tables have turned, Coach Charlie. Man up, bro. You have created a monster! Costa Rica, you are a mere pebble on my road to ultra greatness! Poisonous snakes? Hah! I eat them for breakfast and make designer boots out of them in my spare time.
Bring on the panthers, the volcanoes, the makeshift toilets dug into the ground!
And, please, can somebody sober me up! The mushrooms are starting to wear off.
Coach Greg (I like the sound of that)
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