(A day-by-day account of Eddy's journey to Minneapolis to set yet another world best - a paced 10K in 15:44)
Wednesday, October 27
On the way to the 1993 World Record Challenge, I once again experience the ever-amazing aluminum tube travel phenomenon. How is it that so quickly and with such finality I can step out of California's Indian summer, be transported in a dreamy slumber and emerge into Minneapolis' brutal fall, where falling snow is hastening the demise of a moribund outdoor in-line skate season?

Thursday, October 28
Ted Dawson shuttles me to the Dome. Stuck in the middle of downtown Minneapolis, where all the connected buildings look like a human habitrail experiment gone awry, the Dome has an otherworldly appearance.

Inside its hermetic confines, conditions seem ideal for in-line speedskating - room temperature, a glassy surface, no wind. But as I accelerate up to speed, the seal-coated concrete betrays me. I'm slipping out. At 80 percent maximum effort, I reach a top speed and can go no faster without losing the last six inches of my push. This won't do - I'll need to be going at least 95 percent during my record attempt.

It had been foretold, but I didn't listen. Local speedster Mike Krieter had once referred to the Dome as "the great equalizer." Remarkably, skaters of wildly disparate outdoor skating abilities can all skate laps within a second or two of each other. "It's slower than asphalt," another racer, Tim Small, states matter-of-factly.

But wait. After the land Zamboni cleans the floor, my borrowed indoor Hypers (thanks Howard) are sticking better. I can turn a 58-second lap, although not without considerable effort. If I can just put together 15 sub-one minuters, I can duck under 15 minutes for the 10K. Dare I dream of being so consistent?

Mike Cofrin calls later and reads off all the record lap times. The time lost each lap is horrendous: the one-lap record is 54.75 seconds, but the fastest two laps are 1:58, and so on, until eight laps at 8:36. My bubble is about to burst.

Friday, October 29
There's more human drama here than I'm prepared to deal with. The ultradistance skaters have been out there for nearly six hours, and the fixity of purpose etched into their faces makes my eyes wet with emotion. After six hours, Kim Ames is hurting, eyes puffed up by disappointment after a bid to establish the six-hour record. Kimberley Pavich, en route to skating 24 hours, has wrested the mark from her but is now paying a heavy price: total bonkage. She's proof that you don't need it to be Halloween to look ghoulish.

What's more, I feel like it's April Fool's Day, and I'm the butt of a cruel joke. It seems that the USA Track and Field official has measured the distance around the upper concourse and found that a 10K is actually 16.6 laps, not the 15 I'd been planning on. What now?

Saturday, October 30
It's gut wrencing to see the physical toll skating 24 hours has exacted on the bodies of Jonathan Seutter and Kimberley. Jonathan looks as if he might have some vapor left in the tank - but his eyes are weary and he cringes as he requires help to regain his feet. Kimberley Pavich must be devastated: her legs have given out completely, and her socks are glued to her feet with blood. Sitting in a lounge chair, she looks oddly quiet and composed. Her stoic face won't admit the wracking hurt.

Now it's my turn to be the king of pain. Instead of attempting the impossible, I have decided to salvage a good time by attempting a paced record (the International Skating Federation (FIRS-CIC) makes no distinction between paced and unpaced records). Ted will ride the bike in front of me, and for 10K I'll put the poker as deep into the fire as I can tolerate.

The countdown expires, and I'm off like a banshee. Ted falls in up ahead. All I have to say is "gas" or "brakes," and he speeds up and slows down expertly, so as not to gap me or cause a collision. The arrangement works well, but I'm not gaining the benefit of his draft in the turns, which is about 50 percent of the time. After only a few laps, my chest is heaving, and my heart rate is pegged at 195 beats per minute. I'm on the verge of blowing myself to kingdom come.

We're wailing. I barely register the "sixes" and "sevens" being yelled at me but know that if I want to break 16 minutes, I have to keep this up. With six to go, my brains are scrambled, and my legs are toast. My body tells me to stop, but I press on deeper, knowing the race has just begun.

The last six laps last a lifetime. When it's over, I'm so cooked I don't care to know my time - I just want to catch my breath. Having played with fire, I feel dessicated from within. No amount of water succeeds at dousing the taste of copper pennies in my throat.

I'm not yet reveling in my time of 15:44. I still feel like a slouch who's drafted the whole race and sprinted out for the win. And then, as the jets in Mr. TWINCAM's jacuzzi soften the knots in my legs to the consistency of butter, nothing else seems to matter.