(continued)

TALL ORDER Malkoff was able to avoid heart explosion

1:05 p.m.
Store Count: 67
I'm patiently waiting for my iced green tea on 22nd and 6th when the construction worker I hit with my bike from before leaves me a voice mail message asking if I'm okay. He wishes me luck on my quest before asking, "What's The Colbert Report?"

4:33 p.m.
Store Count: 98
Biking around the Financial District, I hurt my leg. One of the baristas at Pearl and Maiden sees me limping and offers to make me an ice pack. It really makes me appreciate Starbucks employees. Had I entered limping into a Dunkin' Donuts they would have asked if I wanted my leg amputated.

6:01 p.m.
Store Count: 108
We've just biked from the Allen and Delancey location and James, our unpaid college intern, is nowhere to be found. His bike chain is broken. We spend two minutes trying to fix it, but to no avail. James yells, "Vaya con Dios!" as we abandon him and make our way up the Bowery.

6:17 p.m.
Store Count: 109
I take sixty seconds to scoff down an Asian Sesame Noodle Salad with my hands outside the Third Avenue and Fifteenth Street store, to the disgust of a bunch of downtown indie-rock types. The barista inside asks if I'm feeling okay. It's clear that I'm a mess. Besides being tired and in pain, most importantly I never want to drink coffee again.

6:52 p.m.
Store Count: 116
I'm flying up Park Avenue to 34th Street and clearly should not be operating a bike. My reflexes are operating about a second behind, I'm dizzy, and my speech is somewhat slurred, like Bob Dylan post 1976. I wonder if the barista who didn't know who Paul McCartney was back at 33rd and 10th knows who Bob Dylan is.

SPEED JUNKIE The kickstand on his bike fell off somewhere in Chelsea

7:10 p.m.
Store Count: 119
I need to ditch the bike. Either I'm going to get hurt or someone else is. I call my only friend with a car, Jill. Meanwhile, I feel like I just drank a cocktail of vodka and Tylenol P.M.

7:40 p.m.
Store Count: 127
I'm laying on the sidewalk outside the Starbucks on 41st and Madison. A barista carrying garbage bags comes outside and practically sets them down on my feet. Hey, I'm a Starbucks customer, just a little loopy (a lot loopy). Jill shows up with her car. Luckily, it has a bike rack, or I would have offered my bike to the barista in exchange for an Adderall.

9:07 p.m.
Store Count: 138
A trophy wife at 50th and Lexington has been complaining to the only register person for the last three minutes about the temperature of her non-fat Caramel Macchiato. She's killing me.

9:45 p.m.
Store Count: 142
I officially hate biscotti. Even the word is obnoxious. Biscotti. See what I mean?

10:19 p.m.
Store Count: 148
I have seven more stores to hit before they close at 11 p.m. I need a miracle to pull it off. I've been sleeping in between locations and dreaming of an afterlife without caffeinated drinks.

11:14 p.m.
Store Count: 157
Good news is that we hit all the locations that close by 11 p.m. Bad news is that I've missed closing time at 96th and Madison by four lousy minutes. After begging and pleading, Jenny the barista accepts my bribe of $80 for a piece of pound cake. If anybody from Starbucks is reading this please don't fire Jenny.
[Editor's Note: A representative from Starbucks personally visited Mark at work last week to give him $80 in cash. No word on Jenny .]

STRANGE BREW Fatigue sets in

12:19 a.m.
Store Count: 165
I'm so out of it, I've lost track of how many stores I've done. [As is turns out, I was so delirious that I didn't realize until days later going through receipts that I actually hit the same store twice on six different occasions.] The cruelest joke would be hitting 165 stores. Suddenly, I'm Sean Astin running down the football field at Notre Dame. I'm Ralph Macchio about to give the crane kick to William Zabka. I'm a madman with toxic levels of caffeine in his bloodstream. This must happen.

2:44 a.m.
Store Count: 170
I don't remember much of the last few hours except that I'm in pain and want to give up. In 16 minutes I'll have been up for 24 hours—think Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man—and I'm in a seriously unhealthy state of mind. Next up is the final location at Broadway and 60th. Please let the Starbucks misery end!

2:56 a.m.
Store Count: 171
It's over! I take my double espresso in hand and have a final, victorious sip. Next to sneaking into Saturday Night Live for an entire year and a half when I was 18 by saying I was a guest of associate producer Michael Shoemaker, this is my biggest accomplishment. My body hurts. I wobble back to the car and we head for my home in Astoria, Queens.

3:17 a.m.
Jonathan, our director, is sick and we pull over so he can yak. A drunk man jumps out from behind a dumpster and shouts, "You can't do that in my neighborhood!" He chases after our car on foot for 50 feet. Maybe he wanted the rest of my double espresso. All he had to do was ask.

3:45 a.m.
I fall into bed and, of course, can't sleep. I open an issue of Us Weekly to find a photo of Britney Spears holding a Starbucks cup.

4:25 a.m.
I'm still awake, staring at the ceiling. I can't believe I pulled it off. Though my body aches, I smile broadly. I think back to the delicious $80 pound cake. I have enough coffee in my bloodstream to last several lifetimes. My stomach churns. I will never do something this stupid again.

To view the video of Mark's adventures, click here.

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Photos: Kristy Leibowitz