the morning brings mist in Mist and some very bleary eyes on some very tired runners. It is at this point that the true nature of the elite teams is most evident. Cruising along and acquiring roadkills( every person you pass is considered roadkill and they are duly noted as slash marks on the side of the van) I hear behind me the telltale footfalls of a very fast runner. I try to pick up the pace, but my quads argue with me, feeling the toll of running the first leg down off Mt. Hood into Government Camp and then sitting in a van all night tightening up. A young, attractive, roughly 90 lb woman flies past me, one of the elite Nike team. I chase her as best I can, but can only manage 200 yards or so before I return to what seems like a ploddinng pace now. The local sheriff in Mist waits all year for his opportunity to yell, holler, and threaten jail time for the most incidental infractions and he did nothing this year to diminish his legend.