“Is that for real?” asks the guy behind me at the corner market. I turn around. He’s a young guy, long stringy blond hair, and a red face with that sweating-alcohol-out-through-the-pores thick sheen. It’s 11am, and he’s buying beer. I’m not sure what he’s asking me.
“Your shirt,” he says.
I look at my shirt. It’s an AC100 shirt I got last year for crewing Maggie Beach. “Oh yeah. It’s for real.”
He looks incredulous. “You did that? How long did it take?”
“This year, yeah. It took me a while. 32 hours.”
“You stop and sleep, though? You don’t run it straight through, right?”
It’s the same conversation I’ve had a bunch of times, but never with a total stranger alcoholic who looks borderline homeless, buying booze at the corner market on Sunset and Coronado. “No, you go straight through, no sleep. But we walk some of it.”
“Up the hills, right? Those are some serious hills.”
I’m surprised he knows the course. We trade a few more sentences, but I’ve got to get back to work, and he’s got a couple of tall boys to polish off before it gets to afternoon. I pay for my groceries.
“Hope to see you on the course next year” he says.