I used to be young
I used to understand
I used to be strong as any man

— the prophet mcmurtry

—

If you run ultras, you know about ultrasignup.com. It’s the place where they sign you up for races while tacking on a hefty fee for themselves for no particular reason, and then list your results.

My first event was in 1992, and I’ve posted a lot of results once. But in the 31 races I show up in there (I’ve run many more, this joint just lists races they’re affiliated with), I have always been proud that I have had only one DNF.

DNF stands for “did not finish,” shorthand for “I suck.” Hmmm. Maybe longhand, since I suck is actually shorter. Whatever.

And so it was with great shame that I saw last night’s concert has been added to the list.

Mo didn’t think I should go, which of course meant I HAD to go, since I’m a guy. Not a smart guy, mind you.

The show was at a tiny club, with 300 people jammed in, and enough oxygen for 200 of them. We were at the very front, standing in front of the PA and feeling like 16-year-olds again. Until the point where I felt like a 70-year-old.

To my credit, I made it OK through the opening act, BettySoo, who is a fine performer and has an old Gibson I would have tried to steal were I in any sort of shape to make a run for it. James joined her for three songs, so I had something in the bank when the brief intermission came up.

Standing packed into a small space might not have been the best idea for recovering. But I was determined. Until I wasn’t.

Even when the main event started, I knew I was done. That feeling you get when you’re cooked at mile 20 and the biggest climb is still ahead. I guess I felt alright except that my brain was increasingly fuzzy, I had a terrible headache, my heart was erratic, I ached all over, and I was having an increasingly difficult time maintaining the “standing upright” thing that concert protocol dictates.

After six songs, I told Mo I needed to go. She looked at me with a mix of concern and relief. I don’t think she’s much of a McMurtry fan. We shuffled out during the intro to Choktaw Bingo (We saw a sign that said “hitchhikers may be escaping inmates, but we didn’t see any so I guess the inmates caught them.” And that was that.

Six songs. The equivalent of dropping at 15 miles of a 50 miler. The walk of shame past the front door. The silence of the night in the parking lot with a hint of music still floating through the air. The shame of the DNF, unable to make it to the end. No concert T-shirt, the equivalent of a finisher’s medal.

But the next day, I’m not that bummed. Along with ruining everything else, the internet has destroyed the concert experience.

I’ve seen him playing live on YouTube a bazillion times. I’ve listened to the live version of the songs on Spotify until they have been burned into my brain. And because of setlist.fm, I already knew what songs he would be playing. So what’s the point? To confirm that he exists? To hear the same somgs played exactly the same way except at 100 decibels with a questionable sound mix?

What’s the point of real life when you can just enjoy it online?

And so there is is at the bottom of my ultrasignup list. July 17, 2026, DNF, 10 years after the Horseshoe Trail Run debacle. No, I don’t think he played at the Horseshoe Trail Run.

No run today. I appear to be dead. And I don’t want to risk a second consecutive DNF.

Still, I hope I get to see him again someday. I really want BettySoo’s guitar.