A runner named Ben Hian, who had won the race three of the past four years and was one of the best 100-milers in the country, had sidled up to Dusty and me. Ben was a recovering drug addict who loved tattoos: men crawling out of coffins, skulls, that sort of thing. His entire upper body was covered in ink. He wore a Mohawk, loved Ozzy Osbourne, and ran a business where he took tarantulas, snakes, and lizards to libraries and Girl Scout troops, among other places. Oh, and he taught preschool.
