Peeling, two-toned skin.

For the four or five of you who still read this blog, I did indeed lumber past the finish line, clocking in at 6 hours and 10 minutes. Two weeks later, I still have the "scars" to prove it.

Right around when I started the half marathon portion of the race, the "Two-Scoops" Raisin Bran sun popped up ready to deliver 97% humidity and temperatures in the high 80s. Protected by sloppily applied Coppertone Sport SPF 30 and some apparently somewhat see-through spandex, my body still looks like its been ravaged by vitiligo.

At this very moment, I am staring at my thighs and can't help but think of the half moon cookie. Anyways, back to the thank you letters which are proving to be far more of a challenge to write than doing the actual race.

Embracing my own mortality on the eve of the Gulf Coast Half Iron Man.

Perhaps the most self-centered, navel gazing thing a person can do is write his own eulogy (or as Derek Zoolander likes to pronounce it... eugoogly). I'm not saying I expect to meet my doom in the rougher than expected Florida Gulf Coast waters... but just to be safe I'd feel better knowing (as I finally succumb to a ferocious battle with a giant squid) that my last written words were not about my aspirations to be white trash, or I guess in my case yellow trash.

Anyways... here's what I would imagine my eugoogalizer would say at the funeral.

As a child Robert W. Tai aspired to be two things in his life. An Olympic champion in anything and Spider-Man. He failed to reach either goal. Later in his life, after watching Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock convincingly play law enforcement officers in Point Break and Miss Congeniality, Robert set his sights on joining the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Upon hearing this, Robert's mother and father feigned heart attacks and threatened that the next ones would be less dramatized but more real (much like Redd Foxx used to do in Sanford and Son). Loving his parents and not wanting to deal with the guilt of being the cause of such suffering, Robert ended his pursuit of that dream. Always eager to impart advice (unsolicited or otherwise) to others, Robert decided that teaching would be a noble use of his time. Unfortunately, despite nearly 8 years of college... Robert realized he did not know anything well enough to actually offer something of value to any would-be disciples.

However let us not dwell on his failures, which we can continue later on at the reception, but rather celebrate his many accomplishments.

At the age of 14, Robert peaked as an athlete after being crowned the National Rec Center League Standing Broadjump Champion for the Mid-Atlantic States by setting a NJ state record 9'3" standing broad jump for boys aged 13-14. (Unfortunately this record would be shattered three years later by his next-next door neighbor.)

Robert also has the rare distinction of gaining a graduate degree in a program at a world renowned university where he had absolutely no idea what the point or value of the degree was at any instance before, during, or after his stay there. Here's a hint.. the mascot does not match up with the school nickname.

Robert had worn many hats in his all too brief life. Spoiled son, bratty brother, amateur pugilist, doting uncle, cameo husband, sort of father, professional glad-hander, and Las Vegas MVP.

He was kind to animals, small children, and the elderly. He was usually honest, sometimes modest, and always willing to help a buddy out. But above all, what I will remember most about the man his friends have known as Robert, Bobby, Rob, Javi Colayco, Cookies, Bobby T, Puddles, Mr. Furious... is this....

He always looked good in a 'beater.


And that folks is all she wrote. Wish me luck tomorrow morning in the surf, sand and blistering roads of Panama City... because this might be the last time you'll ever get a chance to.

Rollin' in Redneck Riviera

Some of you may know that Panama City, Florida is the annual destination for MTV's Spring Break. Just two months ago this town, this beach, this hotel, and very likely this bed I'm sleeping in was overrun by debauched, sloshed college kids doing body shots and making "unfortunate mistakes" immortalized by their camera phones.

Like Spring time's youth gone wild, I am a grateful visitor of Florida's panhandle. The sea water and local color recall a much simpler time from my childhood.

Spending my summers on the Jersey shore growing up, my friends and I coined the term "beach hick". Unofficially a beachhick is defined as a resident of a beach town, usually between the ages of 20 and 50, whose defining characteristic is that his/her car payments likely exceed what he/she pays for his/her housing. This usually comes in the form of 2-3 pristine Trans Ams, I-Rocs, Corvettes, etc. parked in front of shabbily kept, weed overgrown shanties. The distinctive sound of hard rock or the Beastie Boys echoing from sub woofers. "Beach hick" is a derisive term. Although its shouldn't be. It really is just a way of life whose proponents should be commended. In a world where our life's priorities are often too skewed towards careers, mortgages and fashion... beach hicks embrace life's guilty pleasures unapologetically.

I suspect Panama City has its own variation of beach hicks, as do all beach towns. On the surface the residents appear as cheery and relaxed as residents of the Jersey shore. The most obvious distinction primarily being that accents down here more closely resemble Dale Earnhardt Jr. rather than Tony Danza.

Truthfully, I'm incredibly envious of beach hicks. Where I a braver man, I'd relocate to the nearest shore town, regrow my late 90's mullet, tear off the sleeves of all my tee-shirts, find my boogie board and buy a Dodge Charger. I suppose there's still time.

The end of the taper...

It's 10:53pm, two nights before race day. My flight to Panama City, via Memphis, is tomorrow and my ride picks me up at 9:20am. Bruno Kirby offers Meg Ryan a kiss two minutes before New Year's while Princess Leia pleads with her to stay, but settles for a peck on the cheek instead. Simultaneously, Billy Crystal can't find a cab and therefore decides to run through the sparsely populated streets of shockingly temperate NYC to Park Plaza (it is supposed to be the middle of winter). I bet in the end Sally still hates Harry, but not really. I need to stop getting sucked into the Oxygen Network (what?).

I probably should quit procrastinating and start packing, as I don't want to forget to bring my wetsuit, bike helmet, or decidedly un-modest TNT race uniform. I also should eat the three bananas on my kitchen counter that I bought earlier this week to counteract the cramp that was in my left calf. Don't want fruit flies when I get back on Sunday.

I feel confident and calm, but I imagine my impending insomnia belies this to a certain extent. Hopefully my hotel room faces the beach.


Postscript:

In response to the comment from MoC in the post below:

• roughly 10 hours a week since November
• Yes, I could have earned more money with the same time commitment by taking a second job or pickpocketing yuppies at nightclubs. I would have needed to still be living in Michigan to take advantage of its 10 cent bottle and can deposit to realistically achieve the goal through recycling. It would have taken me roughly 4 months alone to learn to play an instrument or master a similar talent to a degree that I would deem acceptable for busking outside of a Metro stop.