A horrific smell crept into my nose. It was so bad that it had to have a consciousness of its own. A smell this horrific can not be on auto-pilot.

It actually woke me up.

I called my apartment complex and left a message as a means of venting my frustration over the smell, and over being awake at 5:00 AM. I never sleep well before a race, so I had been waking up all night and looking at the clock.

“There is a horrific smell in my apartment. It smells as though someone is slowly burning a turd made of hair.”

As of yet, they have not returned my call.

I went on and got up and started my pre-race preparations, which basically are to grease liberally anything that would normally be hidden by a woman’s bathing suit, and then put on my heart rate monitor strap and clothes.

I drove to the parking deck and caught a MARTA train with a horde of other runners down to the start. We had a few blocks to walk once we got off the train.

Two girls behind me were complementing each other’s running outfits. One said to the other “No, no… I like your whole essemble!”

It was colder than I wanted it to be, but it was 6am and we have this weird daylight savings system here, so it was still dark. Once in Centennial Park, I had a little wander around wondering what the hell was going on. There didn’t seem to be any signs directing me anywhere like usual races have.

After a while of wandering I found the finish and reasoned that the start must be relatively close. One block and 26.2 miles away, you might say.

I got a few texts from my friends wishing me luck. Thanks guys!

I found corral 3 where I was supposed to be, and stood in the street in front of the Omni hotel, hoping more people would come take their places in the corral so I could be warmer in the crowd of bodies. As time went by they pressed into place and things warmed up a bit.

A man squeezed through the crowd in a business suit and tie.

“I was thinking of running in a suit today,” I told the girl next to me.

She said “Was that the most visible walk of shame ever?”

We waited to start, with the announcer blaring unintelligibly over the speakers somewhere near the start. In the echoes off the buildings and around the corners, all meaning was lost.

After a while it sounded like someone was singing the national anthem. What is the etiquette on removing a visor for the national anthem? Does it get a pass because your head is uncovered on top, or what? I left mine on. Marathoners are less concerned with hat removal than baseball fans, I guess.

Finally we started. I hit my watch as I was crossing the timing mat and ran along with the crowd. I tried to keep my speed down as I knew I was going to be hurting late in the race. The sun was coming up and it looked like the sun might actually come out.

Soon it did and things began to warm up. I started getting hot in my fleece jacket, as I knew I would, so I looked forward to seeing my friend Julie at the two mile mark so I could give it to her. After I handed it off I was chilly, but not too cold.

Had I known then how cold I would be for the rest of the race I would have kept it. The temperature dropped all day and the wind whipped us like a drug addled slave driver. At least it didn’t rain, though.

But I had more pressing issues at hand, as I had to pee. The lines for the bathrooms were ridiculously long, though, and women take about five years to pee. If there is a line with four dudes and a line with one woman in it, take the line with the dudes.

We passed a band and some merry makers in Freedom Park. The band was on one side of the road, halfheartedly honking on horns and whacking drums with sticks. They appeared to be a high school marching band who had never relinquished their instruments or gotten any better at them on into their later years. The merry makers, however, were top notch.

The last of them was a large fat man dressed entirely in a day glow orange leotard and matching tutu and holding two day glow orange pompoms. He was dancing with the determined air of unmistakable professionalism, and his face was the very picture of stern commitment. He was unbelievably awesome and I couldn’t help but laugh despite the cold and the onset of a few leg pains.

“That guy got me,” I said to the guy on my right, who was also smiling. “Yeah, me too” he said.

Thanks, day glow dancer guy. You are a genius.

The course split at about the six mile mark, and 2/3 of the herd (the half marathoners) left us, so I figured it would be wise to wait until they split off and then fond a place to pee. This tactic proved to be wise. The very first group of porta potties after the split only had five people in line instead of twenty. So I stopped.

As I got in line a girl disappeared into a vacant porta pottie and no movement was observed from that point on. Apparently all three of the things were frozen in time, or their occupants were trapped inside or had fallen asleep.

After a minute or two I just started running again. I figured a solution would present itself.

Some very overweight middle aged women dressed as belly dancers presented themselves, chinging little bells together and undulating. This helped bladder matters not at all.

I wonder what it is about running events that causes all manner of bizarre groups to come out and perform varying acts of weirdness. I have personally witnessed gospel revivals, rock bands, marching bands, baton twirlers, belly dancers, Elvis impersonators and accordion duos. The accordion duo even pulled up stakes after I passed them the first time and moved farther along the half marathon race course to honk tunelessly at me a second time. Thanks, ladies.

Soon I found another cluster of porta potties alongside Ponce de Leon Ave and got one immediately. That handled, I started running again.

A herd of people running behind me slowly overtook me. I could hear them all running as a group but I didn’t feel like turning around, so I just waited until I was assimilated to see what was going on. It was the 4:15 pace group. I ran along with them for a bit but I had to let them slowly pull away because I knew there was no way I could hang on for the remaining 16 miles or so.

More running happened. Soon I stepped over the halfway point and I stopped to have a stretch. My legs were beginning to tighten up and I was hoping that some stretching might mitigate them hurting like hell the rest of the way. It didn’t.

In fact, later on in the race my right arm started to cramp up also, so I had to turn my right hand into a weird position to keep it from hurting. My left foot hurt at the ankle, so I was favoring it with a slight limp, thus giving the impression of someone with a number of physical and mental afflictions. Which, it must be said, is fairly accurate.

I rounded a corner off of Virginia Ave onto Park Pl and was greeted with a scene of unbridled ridiculousness. Five of my friends were clustered in someones driveway making a lot of noise and drinking heavily. Mellie had a sign that said “RUN JERK”. They all hugged me, and someone spilled what smelled like mimosa on my shirt. Caren appeared to be doing a vaudeville style dance including a great deal of knee movement side to side. It was awesome and intensely bizarre.

Soon Chad started pushing me on down the course and everyone cheered. Thanks to him I got going again. I definitely wanted to stop. I had about four miles to go and I felt like complete crap. I wasn’t running anymore. It was more of a barely controlled shamble.

After that I ran through the park and under the four miles to go inflatable arch. I began to wonder if the thing were ever actually going to end. My barely controlled shamble disentigrated into a painful mosey. About that time I ran into a group of my friends that I call the Girl Team. They snapped my photo.

After that I ran into another group with a sign that read “Boobies for JIM” but I was pretty out of it at this point. It was three miles to go. I also did not actually see any boobies, so points off for false advertising.

Amy ran alongside me to encourage me. She wasn’t running, but is an 8:00/mi marathoner so she knows what it feels like. She reminded me that I can do a 5k drunk in my sleep, so I could surely do the last 3 miles of this race.

I got into a conversation with a guy shortly after that who had run 273 marathons counting this one. He said he does 10 to 15 a year. I didn’t know what to say to that and I didn’t feel much like talking anyway. I also didn’t feel like running.

We all shambled up a hill and there was a bored looking cop at the top saying that it was less than a mile to go, which was a lie. I wanted to tell him he was lying to some very, very tired people so he’d get his shit straight, but I just shambled on.

Soon I saw my triathlon club buddies with less than one mile to go. Mari even ran out with a beer. I had to shrug it off.

“How are you feeling?” she said.

“Terrible.”

Finally I was running alongside some bike rack so I knew I was almost done. And then I finished. I got a finishers medal and one of those space blanket things and sat down on a park bench. It was too cold to really sit there very long. Thankfully Julie came and found me and I shuffled onto the MARTA train and went home.

I am glad to be finished.

I tried to get some of my lazy friends to get out of bed and come with me to my race expo, but they were having none of it. In fact, I got called some not very nice names for my efforts.

To make matters worse, even my GPS was being squirrely and refusing to navigate. It definitely gets melancholy during rainstorms and is distant and unresponsive. You may think that this is because of the cloud cover obstructing its communications with the positioning satellites, and if you do you are right but not imaginative.

I could have joined my GPS unit in being despondent, having been abandoned by my human friends much like it was cut off from its electronic satellite friends, but nay. I have a great deal of hurting to do tomorrow and spirits must be kept up.

So I stopped off for some coffee and then headed to the Georgia Dome in a downpour.

Soon my GPS perked up and we mounted the Great Atlanta Divide known as Peachtree St. It runs along a ridge downtown, giving the heart of the city a feeling of having been built on a roof with Peachtree St as the peak.

Once at the Dome, I was politely robbed of ten dollars for the privilege of parking in their mostly empty wet smelly parking deck. The lady at the window said “How are you today?”

“I’m gettin’ fleeced.” I said

She laughed politely. I parked and had a lengthy slog outside in the rain trying to find the correct entrance to the dome.

Inside I skipped the line to find my bib number as I already knew it. and went straight to the window at the far end with the low numbers. I picked up my bib, which had a disposable timing chip attached to the back.

This is my first race with the new style of disposable chip. It’s pretty awesome. I bet all you people who bought chips to use personally feel kinda silly now that they’re handing these things out.

Hopefully this technology trickles down to all races and we all get chip times and detailed splits on everything.

As I was handed my bib I realized I had specified that they put the name “Napoleon” on my bib in my race registration form. There it is, right on my bib. Napoleon.

So despite my feelings that the French are a little too prickly about their bicycle racing, I am running this one as Napoleon.

Vive la France!

It’s midnight and I’m riding home and the streets are wet. I’m not too cold.

I stop to text “Yes, I have a huge boom box taped to my bike for this purpose.”

After a light, the road looks like someone spilled glitter on it. It’s really beautiful.

A car swerves angrily to the next lane to pass me an a dangerous and exaggerated fashion. Girls clip clop down the sidewalks in their high heels and puddles spray off my tires onto my jeans. Music flops out the bar windows with cigarette smoke like a fat belly over a belt line.

They are all drinking and celebrating.

I get some milk and some Junior Mints. The first goes in my shoulder bag, the second go in my pockets, and I’m nearly home, lights flashing.

I am going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a million dollars.

Yes it’s true. I was always fat.

My sister made a montage of photos of me from birth until the present for christmas this year and it should be titled “Tales of a Fat Man”. I looked through it once and then hid it under my bed.

Attached here is a great example of my fatness in pleasing sepia tone, as though the photo itself were sweating butter.

You can see that once my parents adopted me, I slimmed down a lot. they encouraged me to keep my weight under control and play sports, and it had a positive effect. Once I graduated high school though, and was on my own in college, the fatness exploded with every bit of the speed and ferocity of Dave Matthews’ popularity.