Karen: I wish it wasn't true, just as I wish my daughter would have kept it to her self, but hey, what are children for if it isn't to torture and otherwise ruin their parents lives. Elizabeth is better at that than most, and I have a story to tell about her. Elizabeth is a really fast mile runner. She first qualified for state as a freshman, but her 6th grade times were good enough even then. Well, I occasionally help the little creep train, which means I ride my bike next to her and maintain a constant pace for her. (I have one of those rad and really cool radar speedometers!). Often, Elizabeth will wear one of those small backpacks commonly used to carry books, filled with 20 lbs of sand. On this morning, she came over and set her stuff down in the front room, and ran upstairs to read the FML on my computer. I had only dragged my butt out of bed a few minutes earlier, working late at night on a chapter of the disseration from hell. When I finally got my act together, she retrieved her pack, and we went outside for the run. Elizabeth took off and I followed her slowly down the lane. In Columbia, there are few bike lanes, and even fewer sidewalks, so we headed down the hill to the MKT Trail, then down that for 5 miles, then backtracked a bit and up a hell of a long hill towards home. For me and my powerful and stocky legs, the ride is a piece of cake, and the hardest thing for me to do is hold the pace down for Elizabeth. Normally I crank the ratios up to make the ride harder, but sometimes I just crank them down and practice my revolutions. Also, I tend to follow just behind Elizabeth because she talks when I am beside her, throwing off her rythym, and because I can better see her form as she runs. I have to remind her not to roll on the outside of her foot as she runs--messes up her patella. So there you have it. This beautiful slim young woman running, an ugly stocky guy sleepily biking behind heer, and a single ferret head stuck out the back of her backpack. Did I say ferret head? It seems that when Elizabeth left her backpack on the floor, Crystal, who knows how to unzip the things, climbed in to make herself home. Elizabeth picked the pack up and slipped it on without being aware of her new roommate. Of course I became very concerned, so picked the pace up just a bit to catch up and retrieve my wayward pet. Elizabeth must have caught sight of me, so decided to increase her pace. My shouts for her to slow down went on deaf ears because stuck inside those ears were plugs connected to a walkman, and its hard to shout over Metalica cranked up to 2000 decibals. She says she likes the beat for running. Sensing my words were failing to make an empression, I sped up. So did Elizabeth. In the meantime, Crystal is doing one of those "head things," where Ferrets move their head all over the place, pivoting their neck at the shoulders. She is also starting to crawl out more to investigate her new surroundings. So I sped up and started shouting for Elizabeth to stop. I realized the only thing I could do was to pass and stop her from the front, so I did so, but Elizabeth just started running faster and swerved around me, with a huge grin. She thought it was a game! So I took off after her, only to see Crystal about 2/3rds of the way out of the bag. So I cowboyed it, and swooped in to snatch Crystal. My timing was perfect, my skill fantastic. With one swoop, my right hand snatched Crystal, plucking her from potiential death. Crystal, not to be undone, decided to do me one better, and with her right hand, plucked a single silver chain from around Elizabeth's neck. Now, Crystal was unable to maintain the same grip and steadfastness of muscular tone as I, and was forced to let go, but not before she pulled the chain taut, causing the silver medallion to yank up and smack Elizabeth on the chin. Startled, Elizabeth looked eye-to-eye with a passing Crystal, let out a hollar, then started to brake. I actually mean skid. And, like everything else she does, she skidded quite nicely, right off the trail into a ditch full of muddy water, muddy leaves, and muddy mud. Honing her gynmastic skills, she did a roll, tucking the shoulder perfectly, and landed on the only part of her anatomy that has any padding at all, ending waist-deep in good Missouri mud. I also skidded to a stop, while Crystal was acting like one of those toy clip-on animals, clamped onto my forearm. I yelled to see if Elizabeth was ok, and was met with a heidious noise. At first I thought Elizabeth was dying, so I dropped my bike and ran over. To my surprise, I was hit in the chest with a mud ball, or the approximate form mud takes when being flung. Crystal was still clipped to my right forearm, so I couldn't defend myself rightly, and just rushed in to stop the muddy barrage. Elizabeth was laughing wildly and tossing mud at me, saying stuff like, "I'll get you for this," and "When you least expect it, expect it!" I needed to stop the misunderstanding, so asked, "Is that a slug or is it a leech?" Elizabeth sprang into the air and onto me, yelling, "get me out of here!" Well, I would have, but even my powerfully muscled legs were mired in the mud, so with Elizabeth's mass and my inertia, I sort of, well, tested the floor of the mud pit with my butt. Crystal decided my head was a better perch, so leaped for the bill of my ball cap, knocking it off and landing in the mud as well. (I know, wear a helmet! Kids, don't do this at home.) Well, I scooped Crystal up, who decided to hide her indignity by crawling inside my jacket, and helped Elizabeth to her feet. I tried to explain what happened, but I was not being believed. Lucky for me, when Elizabeth opened her backpack, she found a little reminder of what really happened. Crystal had left a single calling card! Needless to say, Elizabeth dumped the now-muddy sand, and was very embarrassed. Both of us solicited strange stares as we returned home, and Elizabeth was somewhat less animated than usual. We rinsed off with cold water from the garden hose (Crystal got a warm bath indoors) and Elizabeth ran to the shower "to look for leeches." She has still owes an apology for implying I would purposely cause such events to occur. I only wish I had. Bob C and the 17 Missouri Mudders. [Posted in FML issue 1917]