No Way Out
I booked my flight to Costa Rica today, the last day of November and perhaps the first day of the rest of my remaining short, pathetic, delusional life. The airline, Lacsa, sounds like some outtake from “Borat” that ended up on the cutting-room floor – some obscure word that means, “Death in Lame Airplane That Falls and KABOOM! Incinerates All Aboard in A Hellish Fireball, Including American Runner Boy of Dubious Talent.”
Perhaps I need to switch to decaf.
For the record, Lacsa is Costa Rica’s national airline. It stands for Lineas Aereas Costarricenses SA. Put that in a pipe and smoke it.
It’s one thing to claim one is going to enter a six-day stage race in a foreign country (more foreign than central Orange County? Crap, I’m in trouble!). 
It’s an entirely different thing when one actually panhandles hard-earned cash for a red-eye flight from LAX to San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica (not the monument to capitalism in Northern California).
So, I’m in.
To make sure I am increasing my threshold for pain, I ran in last week’s Santa Barbara 9 Trials, which translates to, “
Freaking Annoyingly Difficult 35-Miler Through a Roller-Coaster Course With No Breaks Whatsoever, Especially for Coastal Challenge Entrants With Leif Garrett Hair. Oh Yeah, There’s an Overall Elevation Gain of More Than 11,000 Feet. Hahahahahaha!”
Perhaps I doth protest too much.
I’m easing into this Coastal Challenge thing. I’m starting to walk barefoot on razor blades and drown my Grape Nuts in Drano to build up my stomach lining.
Next planned run: Dashing up a rain-fueled mudslide in fire-devastated portions of Orange County. We “Canyon” folk are funny that way.
Greg
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