Tomorrow, I leave to run the American River 50-miler from Sacramento to Auburn. I have a hurt foot that in the past two weeks has necessitated an MRI, three x-rays and two sports doc visits along with one large bottle of prescription anti-inflammatories.

To say I'm nervous about it holding up would be an understatement. I'm a mess. I'm crawling up the walls. I want to finish. I don't care about my time. I just want to finish. I want it bad. Real bad. I want it with the passion of a thousand lusty wenches.

But because denial is your friend, we're not going to talk about the race. We're going to talk about after the race - after I have finished victorious.

I'm often asked, "So what happens AFTER you run 50 miles?"

Let me tell you. It's ugly.

Immediately after crossing the finish line, I will refuse to sit down. Not that I can tell you I won't sit down because my brain starts having a really hard time with things like logic, speech and fine motor control. I'll just shake my head and refuse to sit. I'm not a hero. I just don't believe I'll be able to get up again if I do.

It's possible I might also cry. Comment on this, and I will remove your lower intestines with my bare hand.

If you're my husband and know what's good for you, you'll have a sleeve of saltine crackers and a chocolate milk waiting for me. Opened and waiting. See fine motor control issues above. It'll be all I can keep down for a few hours, assuming I haven't already started puking.

There will be lots of post-race celebrating going on. Some runners - the freaks of nature - will feel well enough to participate in this. They'll be admiring each other's finisher's jackets, talking about their times, the course, any falls or injuries. They'll slap each other on the back and partake of the post-race hamburgers going on the grill. I will smile wanly in their direction and quietly wish to die.

Once back at the hotel, my husband - who is a saint - will peel me out of my shoes and clothes. He won't mention the fact that I'm covered in mud, sweat, gnat carcasses and possibly blood. (It's happened before.) He'll just get me undressed and into a hot shower.

Once clean - i.e. no longer smelling like the corpse of a rotting water buffalo - I will limp to the bed and collapse. The saint will apply ice packs to all joints from the waist down, while my body shuts down. I will sleep the sleep of the dead for several hours until I awake as The Beast Who Must Be Fed.

In 50 miles, I'll burn through approximately 5,000 calories or three days worth of food. Food that has to be replaced. NOW. I will be unable to walk without crying out in pain, so the saint will be sent to fetch something and bring it back. Anything. I don't care. Just bring back a lot of it.

I will eat my dinner. He'll be half done with his. While he is clearly still consuming it, I will say, "You gonna eat that?"

This will be incredibly rude, but I won't be able to stop myself. My body, convinced I am starving to death, will have taken charge. "Need sustenance. Kill the male," it will whisper.

Probably I won't. But I'll think about it.

This cycle of eating and napping and icing and whimpering will continue for the next 36 hours. I will do almost nothing else while my body attempts to figure out what the fuck I've just done to it.

If you see me on the street, you'll recognize me. I'll be the woman in her pajamas clutching a Costco-sized box of chocolate-covered granola bars and eyeing your chicken sandwich. I wouldn't leave that sandwich alone if I were you. Not for a second.