First thing this morning I got a free upgrade to my coffee. Second thing this morning I was told I owed them another two dollars. Third thing this morning I cried. They gave me no warning, just a friendly question essentially asking if I wanted a normal Boring Brew or a Dark-Roasted Orgasm. Which would you pick? I was told they use a special Clover machine that digitally controls the temperature and pneumatically sucks the money out of your wallet. The worst part was that it tasted so damn good. I don’t know if I told myself that to justify my subservience, or because it actually made my underpants go from tall to venti. Either way I’ll just let it slide and next time I’ll be sure to ask up front whether or not it will be more expensive for my bank and expansive for my dank.
I was hoping to save half the drink for later since it was so potent but we ended up not going back to the hotel afterwards and I needed my hands on the camera, so I had to down the whole thing right away. Within thirty minutes I was so shaky and jazzed that if I held a pickle I’d have to charge it for a happy ending.
We headed for a little side-event down the street for some of the volunteers and corporate folks and I managed to control my case of the shakes for a few minutes while Lights played:
I wasn't not turned on. But that was because of the magical coffee from earlier, so this just made things worse. When she looked at me all I could do was try to mouth the words "no no, it's just a tripod."
After the show we grabbed some all-day breakfast and headed back for a meeting and a session on the erg. Surprisingly, no one wanted in on the workout part. So it was just me, the erg, and a few concerned hotel guests who thought they heard bulls having sex in the gym.
I was just about to start my cool down when I got a text saying we had to leave for the next event in fifteen minutes, so I ran to my room and had the coldest ninety second shower possible. As I was getting dressed I received another text saying that it was a more formal event than originally suggested, requiring dress pants, long sleeves, and … good lord … no hats. I was devastated. The sweat still hadn’t stopped and now it was getting worse. I get my hair from the Greek side of the family and I didn’t bring anything goop-related to tame it when it was unleashed from a hat into the humidity of TorontFro. I just had to hope for the best as I rushed out of the hotel, that maybe when it dried it would just know what to do. But like the end of a dirty movie, it went everywhere.
My heart rate was still over 150 until about three ice cold drinks and an hour into the event. And then I realized the sauce on the hors d’oeuvres was sriracha. Gee willickers, Batman, this kid's having a tough day.
Sweat: everywhere. Heart rate: climbing. Simon Whitfield: rather frightened.
I somehow survived my blackout condition for another hour until we headed to the opening ceremonies. I was worried I would be walking in circles, confused and delirious, but it turned out Charmaine Crooks had that covered. The third leg of the relay turned into a leg and an arm while she searched for her teammate and then stopped for a look-around when the journey became suspiciously lengthy. It was like watching over someone’s shoulder while they play Pac-Man at an arcade and you just know that ghost is gonna eat him and there’s nothing you can to but cringe.
All in all the ceremonies were amazing. Cirque du soleil left me speechless, no one at the podium could speak french, and near the end someone's south american grandpa wandered onto the stage and we all used his full twenty minutes to guess which language he was speaking. Autopsy reports of the audience suggest they died listening to broken english.
So that's that. The Games are officially on.
There were a few more hours left in my night, but since my good man Eric thinks these posts are too long, I'll leave it at that.
Hope you made it to the end buddy.