Runner No. 2

I could take this guy. He seemed capable enough, but he didn't have the killer instinct. I could see it in the way he took his first drink. Where my tall Komodo Dragon coffee was as black as rocket fuel, his was a milder shade of cream and sugar. Tasty now, glue later. Poor chump.

I also had a plan. Marathons are about preparation, and I'd prepared for today's 4-hour race through Boston's Starbucks by enlisting Dan Stratila, a graduate student at MIT's Operations Research Center. Stratila had created a map for me of the shortest route to every Starbucks location in downtown Boston. So as I stepped out of the Starbucks at 12 Winter St. at 9 a.m. and bid my competition farewell, I was feeling confident.

Joining the suits, I marched into the Financial District. At 75 Federal St., I had a tall Colombian coffee. It was strong, and I felt it, so at my next stop, 1 Federal St., I ordered a poppy seed muffin along with my tall latte. I hit my stride at 211 Congress St., with a tall cappuccino. I was feeling cocky, so at 1 International Place, I downed a grande nonfat mocha latte with whipped cream, to my immediate regret.

If each Starbucks is a stage, then some of the characters came straight out of central casting. In the Financial District, where carefully groomed men and women can stop for coffee and a shoe-shine, a man growled into a cellphone: ''You better make sure he does." Down the block, two junior-executive types, slick as their gelled hair, huddled excitedly over coffee and matching laptops. ''We have huge deals in Sweden and Japan," said Slick #1. ''Huge deals."

Then again, some of the characters were less predictable. At a table near the cellphone growler sat a rotating crew of bike messengers, their motleys of Spandex and duct tape and leather and chrome as elaborate as any power suit. Down the block, a young Hispanic couple murmured to their infant daughter, who divided her attention between a piece of chocolate and her tiny foot. (The result: sock fondue.)

I'd zigzagged through the Financial District to Quincy Market, but now, my stomach was zigging when I zagged. So at the Faneuil Hall Starbucks, I had a Pellegrino.

Refreshed, I looped back to 240 Washington St. I'd given up trying to follow Stratila's map, as it was obvious I wouldn't make it to every location. I also decided to limit the volume, so I ordered a solo espresso -- a shot. Giddyup. At 27 School St., I enjoyed a tall green tea and the view of Old City Hall. At 63 Court St. -- the ''steaming kettle" Starbucks -- I endured a doppio espresso and the view of City Hall Plaza. In my caffeinated state, the Government Center T stop across the street resembled a bunker, or a pedestal for a statue of Dear Leader Kim Jong Il. Or both. He's tricky.

I needed a change of scenery, so at 11:25, I headed to the T. At Park Street Station, my hands trembled as a busker played ''La Bamba." Is there such a thing as caffeine poisoning, I wondered? (Yes, I later learned. More than 10 grams can kill you.) I resurfaced in Harvard Square, and drank, in quick succession, a tall iced coffee at 31 Church St., a root beer at 468 Broadway, and a tall nonfat vanilla latte at 36 JFK St.

A dozen Starbucks under my belt, I had 16 minutes to go. I got back on the T and noticed that my left hand was shaking more than the right. The thumb shook the most.

The train pulled into Kendall Square with two minutes to spare. I sprinted to the Starbucks at the Marriott Hotel. No line! I meant to order a solo Americano, but in my haste, ordered a tall. Unfazed, I downed it like a frat boy at the buzzer.

Victory has tasted sweeter.

After I finished, in walked my secret weapon, Dan Stratila. When I offered to buy him a drink, the Moldovan native ordered a tea.

What, no coffee?

''Not really," he told me. ''I drink it sometimes, when I'm looking for extra energy."

Alan Leo can be reached at aleo@globe.com