Part 1? Here.



Last night I returned from three days of intense cross-training in the backwoods of the Deschutes National Forest. The regime consisted of grueling runs along the slopes of Mount Bachelor and rafting trips on the Hosmer Lake that would break most men in my weight class. I am now fully prepared for tomorrow's Run-Hit Wonder. One of those Gibson guitars is surely mine. You can bet on it.

OK, not really. I ran around for ten minutes before getting lost in the campground. The rafting consisted of apathetically drifting while drinking discount Rogue Hefeweizen and laughing at families in incredibly expensive kayaks.

That's not to say there weren't moments when I actually broke a sweat. My companions, their dogs and I had to fight a serious wind to get back up stream. As we struggled against the tide I had to urinate so bad I somehow gave myself a headache. Come on, that's the sort of gritty hell workout that would make even Rocky wince. After all, his training regime probably allowed for pee breaks.

Anyway, tomorrow morning I and 10,000 others will run the 10K through a maze of '80s bands. Well, they'll run and I'll probably walk. While chasing frogs in a mountain stream (yes, you read that right. Frogs. Mountain stream.), I cut the big toe on my left foot. Then, late yesterday, I was stung on the same foot by a yellow jacket. This entire thing has become the stuff of countless cheesy underdog movies. Will I overcome all this adversity and, through sheer will and the goodness in my heart, win this race tomorrow? Naw. Unlike the Bad News Bears, the Mighty Ducks and Charlie Sheen, the chances of me coming out on top are next to zero. Actually, to be frank, they're below zero.

If you're at the race and you see a runner walking, taking pictures of the crowd and chain-smoking, that's me. I may have to stop at the Matador for a mid-race vodka Red Bull. If I'm going to lose this thing, I may as well do so in the most obnoxious way possible.