1998
We'll enjoy a beautiful fall run through the colorful leaves together, for what it's worth, with the realization that at any moment a rabid yeti could leap out from the dense underbrush along the dark and scary wooded trail, fang-like teeth gnashing, powerful claws clutching and piercing the tender meat of your shoulders, and that would be your last memory as it schlepped you through the mud, deep into the stench of its filthy lair to sate its evil hunger amidst a slimy bed of writhing, squirming worms and fly larvae, while black-toothed, red-eyed trolls with putrid breath looked on in secret fascination, hidden safely among the branches of the trees like dirty short-armed monkeys, chortling and snorting with satisfaction as they listened to the music created by the crunch crunch crunch of tooth against bone. Children are welcome! Bring the whole family for a fun-filled day.

1999
In spite of the threats, name-calling, and publishing of unsavory photos since last November's inaugural CRECC, I plan to carry the rich, time-honored traditions of this noble race into the next millennium. For as the Masters is to the world of golf, so is the CRECC to the world of running, evoking grainy images of past heroes from a time when things were much simpler and always appeared in black and white. It's as if a cargo of miniature red-eyed dwarf-slaves were somehow thrown clear from the wreckage of their fastidiously gauche prison pods, only to find their imminent recapture unavoidable as they nestled snugly together under a bristly bush 200 yards from a gravel road near a drainage ditch, pack-like, clad only in their late 17th century goat-skin loin cloths provided them by the likes of Lothar the Impenetrable, blowing compact little puffs of frosty vapor from their pinkishly smooth, moist, fleshy head-snouts into the crisp moonlit night air, listening only to the murmur of the dreaming polar civets hibernating in the hollow oak tree adjacent to the met amphetamine factory. Last year, a donation of $50 was given to the Williamsburg High School Track Fund. Recipient of this year's contribution has yet to be determined, but will be equally as deserving.

2000
As you probably already know, last year's fiasco was highlighted by many hairy men in drag. It wasn't always like that. I remember way back when, during that inaugural CRECC, when it was all about the sport, pure and innocent. Little Freddie scooped up the injured, unconscious squirrel and hustled home, where he rested it gently on the front porch in a small basket after nursing its bleeding paw. The next morning, Freddie ran barefoot from his room to the porch to find the squirrel bright-eyed and busy. The furry creature had removed its bandage, and as Freddie reached excitedly to stroke its soft grey fur, it lunged at him, gnashing, clawing, and screaming its high-pitched squirrel-scream. After bolting from the porch and darting up the oak on the front lawn, it chattered angrily down from its leafy perch at Freddie. Freddie thought long and hard about his father's gun cabinet that night as he tried to digest his loving and caring parents' explanation that the squirrel didn't understand how much Freddie loved him, and soon he forgot all about it, satisfied that he had done his best to help it. Years later, Freddie bleached and colored his hair bright green, pierced his nipples, shaved his eyebrows, began experimenting with "soft" drugs, and started hanging around with women of questionable character that wore extremely tight black clothing in spite of their portliness. One day, as he drove home with a fresh tattoo of a skull on his shoulder and parked his rusty, hubcapless Dodge Dart at the edge of the driveway, a slightly mutated grey squirrel, normal in appearance other than for its unusual size, sprang from the oak and lit on Freddie's back, claws ripping through his black Marilyn Manson T-shirt, gripping into the soft, pasty white skin underneath. Before Freddie could react, the dog-sized beast gnawed into Freddie's jugular and Freddie collapsed on the unforgiving cement by the curb just as Mr.T exploded from the A-Team van across the street shouting "Stay in school, fool!" and "Don't do drugs!". Although Freddie wasn't all bad, he made some poor choices. Had he chosen to run the CRECC, he'd have turned out to be a good-looking Olympic champion like his sister instead of mutant squirrel lunch meat.

2001
If you want to see pretty women in dresses and pretty men in dresses, this is probably your race. Many out of towners crashed the local run in 2000, which made for riotous yodeling and horn hooting. I was not surprised to find blood dripping from the edge of my nose as I huddled in the damp wooded lot amongst the leafy vegetation near the old MELROSEcpu.com computer utility store parking lot. I tried to remain motionless, for fear of being seen, but after ten minutes, I left my crouching position to kneel in the mud as my legs were beginning to cramp. The rain became steady, and I could hear the droplets peppering the trees above, pooling into a path of least resistance, and patting heavily to the moist, muddy ground around me. I allowed the blood to run along with the raindrops down my face onto my chin, where it made the jump to stain my faded CRECC race T-shirt. It was getting darker as the clouds built and the invisible sun descended into the night. Carefully peering out from my hiding place, I saw the parking lot lights flicker and then come on. There was a loud humming at first, but it soon leveled off. Protruding from the cracked asphalt, the wet, green weeds, some of which were at least two feet high, glowed in the illumination as they reflected the illumination glowingly. Satisfied that I was safe for the moment, I peeled off the soaking T-shirt and tore two small strips of cloth, rolled them into balls, and stuffed them into my nostrils to stop the bleeding. The nose wasn't broken, but the pain was intense, and I relished it. While I waited for total darkness, I dug a shallow hole with a flat rock, buried what was left of the shirt, scraped mud back over to cover the pit, and placed a broken, leafy branch on top to hide my marks. I slid the Ruger cautiously from the straps of my lavender wrestling singlet, and slowly slid a round into the chamber, not wanting to let it slap noisily back on its own. With a full clip and cover of night, I padded barefoot out onto the wet, shiny, black, cracked pavement and walked boldly toward the old brick computer building where little Freddie used to work before the mutant squirrel chewed his jugular like a tasty slab of raw beef jerky.

2002
Apparently, the city has repaired some of the Sac and Fox Trail flood damage, and the CRECC route is again whole, but I would suggest using even more caution than usual when navigating the course this year. If you think you'll use it all up before the 4.2 mile race ends, however, I would suggest bringing extra caution with you. It's not all that heavy, and it may just prevent you from ruining a fine run by stripping down in the last 100 meters to your fake implants and soiled underwear and dropping onto your back in the leafy grass shouting, "I can't stop my massive thighs! I can't stop my massive thighs!" repeatedly while kicking wildly at the air as other racers run by with easy, fluid strides. "You shunt go in dere," said Bill as he licked the inside of an old tuna fish can. He was a dirty hobo that lived outside and stank. I knew him because I used to bathe him on Thanksgiving and other holidays downtown at the train depot. He was back under the overhang, protected from the rain. I held my gun flat against the side of my leg as not to threaten or excite him. "Someone has to," I said as I brushed past him into the doorway. My lavender singlet made a zipping noise as it rubbed momentarily over his corduroy suit coat with the brown elbow patches. Did he...? ...I bet he thinks I did! After a moment, I realized he probably wouldn't have been able to smell it over his own stink even if I had. Still wet from the rain, I felt the cold brass knob on the rusted metal door and pulled. The hinges squealed on the rigid frame set in the decaying brick structure. Palatable dankness came out of the even darker darkness within. I glanced back at Bill one last time. He looked up from his dinner, tongue bloodied, and slurred, "You cain't keep endin thentisis with presposishins." "What else should I end them with?" I asked vacantly, and disappeared inside.

2003
Well, I believe flood damage to the Sac and Fox Trail in Cedar Rapids, Iowa has been repaired, but who really cares? The new race course will be on a very similar mostly non-paved trail in Anaconda, Montana, where flooding doesn't seem to be an issue. In the past, we have donated any profits (however meager) to various track funds or running clubs. Because the Anaconda Parks and Recreation Dept has graciously allowed us to use the trail for this shindig, we will donate any profits to them so that the trail system can be maintained and hopefully extended eventually. By the way, I was too lazy to come up with a new race name, and the old one is really impressive sounding, so I kept it. Don't know what it means, exactly, but I like the sound of big words. (What it really means is I can use last year's leftover trophies.) Also, if you've visited the website, you've probably noticed a predominance of unattractive men in red dresses. Dressing in such a manner is not a requirement to participate, and is actually frowned upon by many folks. In fact this race was once a normal event, without any weirdos or freaks. By the second year, however, the race was deluged with the kind of lowlife riff raff found in cheap, unsavory novels about men in red dresses. Not that I read such novels. Really. Actually, I can't even read. Anyway, I figured if I moved the race 1300 miles away, I could start fresh and avoid the aforementioned "unpleasant element" that has plagued the world's greatest race for the past four years. I look forward to seeing a new batch of runners (and walkers) this year.

2004
Well, flooding is rampant again in Iowa, and I assume that the Sac and Fox Trail in Cedar Rapids, Iowa has been washed out yet again. Hope you Iowans are enjoying your new lakefront property. Someone should start up a mosquito festival 5K. Food for thought. In case you've been out of the loop, the race is now held in Montana, where flooding doesn't seem to be an issue, and inside, the rain continued to hammer relentlessly on the steel roof. In the complete darkness, I slopped carefully through puddles formed by water leaking in from the battered tin above, feeling my way around wet tables, chairs, and other rotting, broken office furniture. Bill's garbled words, spoken from his bloodied, tuna-stenched tongue, still echoed in my head as I stepped into a falling rain stream. Because my nostrils were still stuffed with strips of cloth to hold back the bleeding, some of the water splashed into my open mouth and the taste of metal and barn owl defecation occupied me in an inert and meaningful way. With a wry smile that no one would ever see without night vision goggles, I remembered my grandmother's zeppelin. Suddenly, something furry and warm brushed against my hairless forearm and I thought of red-eyed dwarf trolls with puffing head-snouts as I readied my pistol. Then my mind began to wander. I saw images of Freddie's massive and ferocious squirrel gnawing at my meaty muscles but I forced myself to focus as the hasty rustling noises started somewhere at the other end of the horrible room. As always, bring the kids and dogs and enjoy some CRECC family fun! See you on race day.