There were but a few loose ends to be tied. I contemplated the idea of moving out without a shower, but decided to run clean. Best not to tempt fate with a bloody bung, cleanse the crap from the night before. The phone rang, like it should, or would, at 4:54am, trusty Tim, making sure I was awake. I would not hear, from my semi-prone perch in the wildly fluctuating temperatures of my mid-19th century Harlem studio's shower. He'd call again, and I'd answer, all is well, I'm not going back to sleep, no sirree, not this day. I am awake, not ready, but getting there.
It's product placement time: placement on my feet underneath my high-tech socks, placement under my arms beneath my high-tech shirt. Will I use the nipple-guards my cousin was so thoughtful to provide? Nah. Jelly for my tits, jelly for my groin, slather me in goo and add some peanut butter, throw me between some breadsheets and call it a day. I paused for a moment in front of the mirror, naked, slimmer than I've seen my profile in 9 years, bigger but smaller, healthier but more imperiled. "These are the times that... er, try men's souls" said the Sports-Bot, in my hallucinatory ear. Men? I'm still a child.
First: underwear. I wandered to my bureau, or what passes as a bureau, a cheap agglomeration of leftover wood-parts that opens and closes my foldable wardrobe. I'd purchased a number of items for this occasion, ones I was not sure I'd use, or need, or want, but the day of is different than the days before. I must have wanted to be ready. As I stared down into the dresser-drawer, my choices were clear: the Guinness boxer-briefs, the Miller Lites, or the AC/DCs. "For Those About to Rock" remarked the AC/DC briefs, Civil War-era cannons decorating the landscape of the fabric, imploring me that yes, you, Mark, you Are About to Rock, and yes, at the end, We Will Salute You. I pulled them out of the drawer and slid them on, breathing a sigh of relief. The most important decision of the day was past.
The remainder of the decisions had been made the night before. Knee brace- Check. Silk running tights- Check. Asics NYC Marathon Commemorative Running Superterrific Wow Wow Socks- Check. Bright Green Yes I'm A Runner and You Will See me When I'm Running Whether You Like it Or Not Long-Sleeved QuikDri Shirt- Check. Adidas All Day I Dream About Sleeping Hat- Check. Brooks Addiction 7 Running Shoes, Designed specifically for the 200+ pound runner, w/ ChampionChip Government Mind-Control and Race Tracking/Scoring Device Attached- Check. Misnomered Champion overshorts- Check. MP3 Player/ Cell Phone/ Distress Call Armband w/ SOS Beacon- Check. Bag packed with afterclothes- Check. 10 packets carbo-goo- Check.
Running Number 28557, also perhaps my finishing place- Check.
Sense of an impending event, neither inherently positive nor negative, but one that may or may not affect everything else from here on in, depending on the outcome- Check.
I ambled out my door and down the steps of my apartment building, noticing with dismay that the telltale tightness in my knee that had haunted me the final three weeks of my training remained. "No matter to me," I thought. "We're already too deep to worry." I continued on across Central Harlem, the blackly empty streets (save the streetlight mercury-halide orangeglow) eerily silent as I made my way the five crosstown blocks to the 116th Street Barrio 6 Train. As the train pulled into the station, I noticed others carrying the same telltale clear plastic check-bag that I held, identifying them as fellow crusaders. I couldn't muster a word. I sat down in the fluorescently pungent glare of the subway car and thought empty, alone thoughts to Grand Central.
I followed the knowledgeable crowd out of the station and down the predawn vacancy of 42nd Street to the library. Barricades were set along Herald Square, forcing those coming from the east to walk nearly to Sixth Avenue before turning 180 degrees back to Fifth where the buses were parked, a sort of amusement-park ride line to a gas chamber, the same anticipation with none of the payoff. I found a bus, I found a seat, and I begged, pleaded, ached for someone, anyone to sit next to me, say something to me, club me over the head with a tire-iron, anything to remind me that yes, I am at home with the me that is on this adventure. No talkative Samaritan was there to quell my neuroses. I sat in catatonic silence as the bus departed Manhattan, traversed Brooklyn, and chugged over the Verrazano Narrows to Staten Island, where the story would finally begin.
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