It's Accelerade, not Blood

In case you wondered what a fool looks like at the 13-mile marker, here I am.

This is why it's good to have faster friends - they can grab a camera and get into position.

As it happened, the position caught me at the finish, my gas tank empty and any thoughts of a final burst of speed fading faster than my knee.

The people in the medical tent fretted about my red-stained shirt, ignoring me whenever I said, "It's just Accelerade. Maybe they should have stocked a flavor other than fruit punch."

All I wanted was a pair of Tylenol, but I had to get through the chafing lecture first.

The shirt outlived its stains.
My pain was confined to the hamstrings and all points south.