A Hilton Holiday

It's six in the morning as we drive along the road picking up fellow runners waiting on the corner and on the side of the street shuttling them to the race. There are now four of us as we drive to the Hilton hotel. As we arrive we see more friends still bloodshot and hair on end from a late night. I am wondering how my body is going to hold up after attending a murder mystery dinner last night which included four bottles of wine (the murder mystery still remains a mystery to me).
I am expecting over a thousand people but it turns out there are no more than 40 runners. I know about 30 of them. They are the ones I term "fasties". My stomach begins to turn; the butterflies are not flying in sync. I know my body is going to suffer.
We walk out in front of the Hilton hotel and a small marching band begins to play sans cheerleaders. An Indonesian woman with tight spandex shorts leads us all in stretching exercises. The group of forty is then led to the starting line and told to follow a motorbike around the race course.
The pack quickly takes off and I try to hang on as long as physically possible. I partner up with a friend with a similar pace and we turn the corner to find a long line of traffic. The lead motorcycle is now stuck in traffic as the pack of “fasties” leaves him behind. “Right or left?” my friend yells to me as we weave through the traffic. We bang on car windows to avoid getting squeezed between them and quickly dance our way around the side mirrors. My partner makes loud grunting sounds for motorcycles, pedestrians, and carts and carriages to make way for us. They are oblivious. He goes right and I go off left; I go left as he maneuvers right as if synchronized. It’s not yet halfway and my shirt and shorts are dripping wet.
I breathe deep of the oppressive polluted air and wonder how many IQ points I am losing - So much for being a MENSA member. I’m pretty certain you get dumber the more you run in Jakarta and after you add on the free radicals you not only become less intelligent but you reduce your chronological life years by at least ten! This comes in handy when you become forgetful. Oh sorry, yeah, what were you blabbering on about? It's that darn pollution again.
The 5 Km race takes less than 20 minutes of suffering. At the finish line we watch, cheer, and congratulate the others arriving pale faced, sweaty, breathless, and disoriented. Their faces are contorted and they resemble little of themselves.
After the race we are lead to the Hilton hotel and provided the reign of the pool, a catered buffet breakfast, and prizes.
As I start to regain consciousness my friend asks me if I will be present at the “Ball Buster” 15Km on Saturday as my other friend reminds me of a Highland Games 10Km on Sunday.