I lost the bet - and I am glad no one took me up on it. I was the 1,406th runner to cross the line. Sounds kind of weak, but there were over 5,000 runners so that helps out my ego a bit. Here are my memories of the race:
At 4 KMs, I was feeling the day's chorizo (from the asado my friend, Claudia, was so nice to invite me to) in the right side of my gut. But by kilometro #5 I had solved that problem. However, then came the blister popping through the band-aid. That would remain with me the entire way.
At the 7 KM mark I felt what must have been the pizza appetizers and cups of coca-cola in my lower left back. Painful stuff, but I was determined not to walk at all - if for nothing else than to save any face I could muster.
But the truly painful moment came at the 8 KM mark - let's call it the empanada episode. I love them, can't (and don't want to) stop myself from eating them, and I had two of these amazingly appetizing delicacies (with pizza, chorizo, a hamburger, and finger foods at the asado). Actually, then were salteñas but close enough. Somehow, someway, each of these little guys crept up my chest. One painfully pierced me under my right chest, the other nipping at the left pec. But I understood what they were saying, and I accepted their pain.
I was approaching the finish line; for the first time in eight minutes I saw my time - I had 20 seconds to run what seemed like a football field. I sprinted and sprinted yelling, "Shit (in English)", and stopped making a scene about 20 feet from the finish line while I accepted my defeat. I crossed at 50:10. But proudly so, somehow.