Damn! Completely disoriented, I thought all that screwing around has finally caught up with me. "Okay, one more beer, one more blast, whatever," and suddenly the humorless,

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cool Matre D' shows up at the table with the bill, right here in good old Bandimere Speedway. Thirty- five years old and I nod right here on the Bandimere's front porch.

To this day, I don't know who it was, but a young girl saw me on my haunches with what had to look like "I've-just-seen-the-devil" look on my face. She came up and asked if I was okay. I thought I might get real confessional, since I started thinking that my breathing difficulty was the final payoff from a poorly planned recreational approach to life, but I did a Pass-a-dena.

"Well, I don't know, kiddo," I responded, blind to all who would see. "I just feel weird. I'm having great difficulty catching my breath. I'm seeing spots in front of my eyes and I just got back from an all-nighter in Los Angeles. I don't what it is."

Silence for 30 seconds.

"You know what it might be," she said. "You're new to the area and are not used to the altitude in Denver. You probably shouldn't try running up these hills until you get used to it."

Kick me in the ass. The child's right. Slow down, chump. Where's the fire? Look around you. As the weekend wore on, I noticed that the crowd at Bandimere Speedway was healthier than most. No flushed faces except for this disturbing wreck of a reporter.

And I learned my lesson. Save for about six blackout periods (mostly with the aforementioned Texans at closer-to-sea-level downtown Denver), my first Mile-High Nationals went reasonably well. Sure, it's awkward to be unconscious in front of a few thousand fans in the top end seats, but a wobbly reputation takes time to build.

"What's that?"

So, who's the "Bleacher Creature" in this fable?

Well, not the young girl, certainly. However, the reporter. . .that's a different deal altogether.