I think some of the excess lactic acid I built up during my marathon activities yesterday leaked into my main reactor core because here I am 24 hours later and my body is doing all sorts of funny things like making my legs collapse with no notice and alternating my internal temperture from I’m Fucking Burning The Hell Up to Fu-Fu-Fu-Fuck-I’m Fu-Fu-Fu-Freezing. It’s as if there’s some maniac on the loose at the control panel playing with all the valves and levers and paying me back for daring to do the bike tour and the marathon on the same day. And while I’d like to credit this condition for a sudden ability to spew invective at a Tourette’s like level, that’s really nothing new. But when my left thigh muscle starts spasming involuntarily like there’s a snake in there or something? That’s something to behold, let me tell you.
But that’s the price one must pay for undertaking and accomplishing a truly idiotic endeavor. Apparently another price is short-term memory loss. Because in finally being coherent enough to review the some 140 photos I snapped in the 12 hours between 3:25 a.m. when I parked beneath the Central Library so as to stake out a spot at the front of the 15,000-strong pack of bike tour cyclists, to 3:16 p.m. a few minutes after crossing the marathon finish line, there were some snaps I don’t even remember taking. Like this one taken downtown on Third Street ( I think), whose title is either going to be “OMFG I Want One!?” or “Coolest Cop Transportation Ever” (embiggenable if so desired):
Anyway, I won’t trouble you with a recount of my hellathon experience other than to point you to my Flickr photoset of the long night’s journey into day and say that I’m one of the few, the insane, the logoistically brilliant “duathletes” who managed (with no help from the Marathon at all) to figure out a way to do both events and live to hate myself in the morning for being such a fool — but a proud fool.