PHELPS can't be beaten? Pah! Eight golds in one Games? Top it in one day. Fourteen in his career? Give that a damn good shake, too.
Project "Beat Phelps", like all successful Olympic campaigns, is a triumph of planning and preparation. One too many Tsing Taos, a bit of lip, and we're locked in. It seems fitting to start at the pool, not least because there's four gold medals on offer in an hour. Nothing like getting off to a flyer.
At 10.14am, Rebecca Soni upsets Leisel Jones in the 200 breaststroke and we're away. Seven minutes later, Ryan Lochte makes it two. Haven't even raised a sweat. This gold medal business is a breeze.
At 10.45 I get the first sighting of my prey. Phelps looks cool, but I'm stuck outside, having bolted to the loo and left my ticket on the seat. "It is my duty to prevent you from going this way," says a young volunteer who will one day make a fine soldier.
I ignore him - champions allow no obstacle to block their path - and, with craning neck and through a gaggle of cheering Finns (how did I end up in the athletes' viewing area?), I see Phelps touch the wall for his sixth Beijing gold.
But there's more trouble. A swimming schedule that has run like Chinese trains all week - to the second - is somehow five minutes behind. At 11.04, when Libby Trickett should be diving in for the 100 freestyle, Lochte is still standing atop the podium, hand on heart, as Star Spangled Banner drones on. It's 11.11 when Britta Steffen touches out Trickett for my fourth gold, and I'm out the door, sprint 300 metres, and in a taxi by 11.16.
"Beijing shooting range, driver, and step on it!" I'm not sure he comprehends the urgency, but am heartened when he calmly puts on white gloves and swings into the traffic.
The 25-kilometre cab ride costs $10. These athletes are having a laugh saying they need more money. He drops me outside the shooting hall, but almost half a kilometre from the entrance. Another run, a security check, more running, two flights of stairs, much panting. I can hear gunshots now, and burst through the door as Artur Ayvazian of Ukraine raises his rifle triumphantly above his head.
When you're beaten, it's the little things that haunt you. The three cabbies arguing over who would get the fare, the security guard searching my bag for batteries, the cruel twist on the term "slow pool".
I consult the judging panel, and they rule in my favour. As a great man once said: "Victory has not truly been won until the victor acknowledges it." Ayvazian stands as gold No.5.
The women's all around gymnastics final beckons as the bus crawls back to base. The run at the other end this time is even longer ("legs like steel springs", or perhaps steel wool), but I make it in time for America's 16-year-old world champion Shawn Johnson to perform her final routine. She can't draw inspiration from my feats, and the gold goes to Nastia Liukin.
Phelps has spoken of his ability to switch off between events, so I nod off in the Beijing University of Aeronautics and Astronautics gym while waiting for the women's 75-kilogram weightlifting. Woken by screaming Kazakhs, I soon realise weightlifting finals take longer than I'd thought.
My next event won't wait (apparently archery is all over in 15 minutes; what do they do, fire an arrow each at an apple on a kid's head and be done with it?), but I'm committed, and stay until Cao Lei has her final lift at 5.17pm.
Another half-kilometre run (why did I wear sandals?) and minor security breach later, I'm in another taxi. At 5.27 we're in a traffic jam. The drive is listening to Dire Straits, an apt choice; the first arrow flies in 10 minutes.
We're 250 metres from the entrance and can go no further, so it's another run, and that far again once inside, with more stairs to the venue. I burst into the evening sunlight as Viktor Ruban fires his last three arrows, finishing with a 10 to win by one. I'm ailing; one calf is tight, the other knee sore. I think the gout's starting to play up.
Taxi to the judo, and at 7.07pm Wen Tong sends the local crowd bananas with a move that wipes out Maki Tsukada with 13 seconds left. Gold No.9. Cop that, Phelpsy.
More hiccups: the 7.10 bus is actually a 7.30. I turn and start running towards the road when the girl says, "OK, we leave in five minutes." We're in China, and the rule book has just been torn up! This truly is a momentous day.
To the men's team epee, where France is well on top when Jerome Jeannet lunges at his Polish opponent, hits the floor and hurts his wrist. For several minutes it seems he might not be able to go on. I know how he feels.
The final foil is thrust at 8.15pm. France winning 45-29 pales alongside a 10th gold.
To the Bird's Nest, and time to celebrate. An 85-cent beer is sipped as Tomasz Majewski overcomes the burden of a truly frightful headband and puts the shot into orbit for gold No.11.
In a beautiful rhythm now, I cruise through the women's 10,000 metres, cheering Tirunesh Dibaba to the line. But hang on, surely that can't be it? Isn't there a badminton medal up for grabs somewhere? Taekwondo maybe? I'll take trampolining. Anything.
No, it's over. Stranded on 12 gold. It seems they're right: Phelps really is unbeatable.
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