The road hardly traveled at all

My deepest apologies to anyone looking for closure. I won’t be able to provide you with a finish time for my Bloomsday grudge match against the man who lost 470 pounds.

My bar tab, however, was $6.50.

Oh, I was definitely racing like a demon for awhile.

Sunday morning saw me on Sprague and Washington among a bare-legged tangle of rambunctious runners.

Nicole Frye, an elementary school teacher, recognized my red, white and blue Adidas from last week’s newspaper photograph. We spoke a bit about the rigors of writing.

I chatted with Barry Smith, who wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that exploded off his chest with colors.

The bouncing beach balls. The silly antenna-ball head gear. The frenetic rock tunes.

The portable toilets…

It was all so festive.

Blame the “Chariots of Fire” theme. Blame the paper number pinned to my chest. But I felt this wave of belonging creep over me like exposure to nerve gas. I was losing my identity, being assimilated into that pulsing amoeba-like mass of Spokane runnerdom.

Yes. I felt it. I was turning into – a Bloomie!

“BANG” went the starting gun. Off charged Doug like a rhino on crack, my equally patriotic basketball trunks spanking my thighs with each heavy labored stride.

For six blocks No. 73765 broke like the wind.

Where were those huffing and gasping noises coming from?

Weird.

Bearing down on the intersection of Sprague and Monroe, I had one of those light-headed unexplainable experiences that UFO abductees call radio talk shows about.

I felt compelled to choose.

Do I continue down this highway of self-indulgent conformity for another seven miles?

Or do I take the riskier road less traveled Robert Frost spoke of in that poem nobody gives a rip about any more?

I turned right, aiming for The Spokane Club.

Dehydration is a real danger to the runner. “Refill your radiator” warns the official Bloomsday instructions.

“One tequila sunrise,” I told the fresh-faced barkeep. She looked bemused to be serving a Bloomsday dropout.

Ahh. This was more like it. Why wreck a sun-kissed, picture-perfect morning with running when you can kick back in the cool confines of a swank saloon and watch the Bloomsday action on big screen TV?

God, this country rocks.

I dialed the number for Sean Spicer. He’s the former 719-pounder who dared me to a Bloomsday race saying “you’re about the only person in old Spokaloo who can’t outrun me.” We both agreed to carry cell phones to communicate with each other during our run.

“Team Kenya,” he answered, sounding winded and far away.

I told him where I was. He didn’t seem surprised.

“I’m proud of you,” he replied. “I didn’t think you’d make it that far.”

“You’re the better man, Sean,” I told him. Sip. “I toss in the towel.” Sip. “I concede.” Sip. “Check in with you later.” Sip.

I got out my pen at 9:50 a.m. and made a note: The KHQ Bloomsday coverage crew aired their first shot of this year’s Bloomsday T-shirt – the prize all Bloomie finishers receive.

I smiled. My shirtless streak remains intact.

“I just passed mile 4,” Spicer told me, when I dialed him again.

“I just ordered a Belgian waffle,” I said, sharing my own milestone. “And there’s real maple syrup involved.”

For a moment I thought Sean was going to turn around.

Too soon Bloomsday 2005 unraveled into cup-strewn history. The TV switched to arena football. My glass was down to melting ice.

I met Spicer at Riverfront Park. We shook hands. He said he finished his race in less than two hours. Not bad for a guy who just three years ago almost needed a forklift to get off his couch.

The night before Bloomsday, Spicer invited me to his Spokane Valley home. He cooked me an Italian dinner so grand I nearly wept. If I ate his grub all the time I’d weigh 719 pounds.

Sean Spicer is Superman.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied in a modest tone, “maybe Captain America.”

We loitered a few minutes at the park, reveling in our accomplishments.

Stomach surgery and regular exercise gave Spicer a brand new life.

I got shoes and a brand new thirst for Bloomsday.

Sip.