On the advice of a dear friend and a devoted music enthusiast, I decided to wear a step counter to this year’s annual Loco Dice b2b Marco Carola marathon at Club Space. #Locarola is one of the most notorious soirees of WMC, with the Dusseldorf and Napoli techno gods known to pound out sets upwards of 18 hours in the famed Miami institution.
I lasted from 1 AM to just after 1 PM. And the distance covered via techno two-step in that 12-hour stretch? An impressive 16 miles. Who ever said that partying was bad for your health?
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On that note, allow me to share my demented, raved-out version of a runner’s diary from throughout evening (and morning).
0 mi—I’m up and running on the Space Terrace with a few of my mates. Doesn’t get any better than this. Jamie Jones may have dibs on the Paradise moniker, but this is where it’s really at.
3.2 mi—We’re being tossed around like rag dolls. Doesn’t matter which spot we post up at or what crevice we cool off in, every position seems to be the one spot everyone is passing through. How does this always happen?
4 mi—A pal has acquired a four-letter substance that shall not be named and that we will not be doing.
4.1 mi—We’re pouring whatever we aren’t doing into a beer… Down it goes and up we start.
4.8—Oh man.
5.3 mi—Marco and the Dice-man are finally in the mix. Loco loves playing an imaginary set of drums behind the decks. Marco likes to privately conduct. We liken them to a bandleader and a maestro.
6.7 mi—Carlo Lio is hanging out on the floor. I’ve now met the guy in Toronto, New York, Miami previously, Barcelona and Ibiza. Each time I have made the same “hometown T.O. boys” comment, each time he has received me warmly and each time he has had zero recognition of who I am. I need to fix that.
7 mi—Looking up the Miami weather report to see when the sun rises. I’m losing energy but I am on a mission to ride this thing out.
8 mi—The sun is out just past 7 AM. This is when magic happens on the Space Terrace.
8.1 mi—Another beer with more of that stuff we’re not doing.
9.3 mi—We’re pulling all the stops to make Marco smile. We don’t think it has ever been done to Mr. Poker Face. My friend is holding a BPM hat right in front of his field of vision. We manage to get the tiniest smirk, probably to shut us up.
11.9 mi—There is a distinct lack of fog cannon tonight. They’ve hit it maybe once, twice tops, but they’ve teased it endlessly. What the fuck? Now what’s supposed to set our Instagram videos apart? And for that matter, where is the notorious Space train horn?
12.1 mi—$29 for an afternoon mimosa. We’ve ordered two. We don’t have that kind of cash if we do, it is a sweaty wad of ones, which is always the case when using US bills.
12.3—Cheers to the guy who covered that. Must have been some good stuff he was on.
14.4 mi—Lots of techno heroes in the booth just right of the stage. I can spot Victor Calderone, Nick Curly, tINI, Chris Liebing, Paul Ritch and more. As my buddy says, “They aren’t here because they are Marco’s friends… they are here because they want to be him.” I can’t dispute that.
16 mi—To leave Space, you need to exit from some back stairs that dump you into a rear alleyway. Some treatment after all the money we’ve dropped. The daylight is much harsher than it was on the Terrace. A homeless man now surfaces, claiming he doesn’t want money but only wants to get us a cab. We are pretty convinced he does not work for Space.
17 mi—Still walking and still no cabs. This sucks. This icy freelance cab coordinator is still following us too. Big shock: now he requests some money. A cab finally arrives after a 30-minute wait and we tip the guy for his not-so-immaculate service.
17.5 mi—Pacing around the balcony at our condo. Whatever I didn’t take earlier is really questionable. Feel like I could dance another 16 miles.
17.5 mi—Still on the balcony but I haven’t moved a muscle. A text comes my way at 5 PM telling me that Marco and Dice are still playing. They’ve been at it for 14 hours now. Gross.
17.5 mi—Yeah, I’m finished.
