9:52 a.m., Boylston T stop. We are losing. Badly. So with growing impatience, we rush aboard a crammed outbound Green Line train. Gavin begins to shout. "Excuse me!" he bellows. The car falls silent. "We need to find 30 green benches in Boston by a gold plaque! Anyone know where that is?"

For a second, it’s completely quiet. "Did you try the Public Garden?" a faint voice proffers. (Another thing: nine out of 10 Bostonians will direct you to the Public Garden when they don’t know the location of an outdoor site.)

"Nah, we already tried it."

"Oh, I know!" yells a young hipster with a courier bag slung across her lap. "By the Charles. On the Esplanade. There’re benches and a plaque there."

10:15 a.m., the Commonwealth Mall. She’s right: a circular bronze plaque flanked by 30 green benches sits beside the Charles River, near the end of Exeter Street. One down, 11 to go, and three hours and 45 minutes left. We read the riddle for Checkpoint 2.

Checkpoint 2 is apparently a likeness of an Argentinean president who was a buddy to Americans. It says so right there on the statue in the Back Bay area.

Sad realization: I can pinpoint the precise location of any Boston pub or club down to the block, but I’m useless when it comes to statues. Nevertheless, I know that copper figures are planted all along the Commonwealth Mall, so we sprint to it. After 15 minutes of misguided searching, we notice a smiling man motioning to a nearby statue. With the sweeping finesse of a Price Is Right model, he uses his right hand to trace the immortalized figure’s outline as a cluster of kids stare assiduously. They look like a tour group, so it occurs to me to ask them about the Argentinean president. Waiting until the guide pauses, I whisper, "Would you know where there’s a statue of an Argentinean president?"

Eyeing my race number flapping in the breeze, the group giggles. "A few blocks down in the direction of Kenmore," the whiskered guide says, pointing. I start to walk away, but before I’ve gone too far, I realize that we’ve stumbled upon a goldmine.

"Would you be willing to answer a few more questions?" I ask, turning back.

"Of course," says the guide, who later introduces himself as John.

Gavin dashes over, brandishing our list of clues. We read them one by one. "In Charlestown, artsy ravens and belted kingfishers, among others, observe the memory of past sacrifices."

"City Square," John replies.

"Checkpoint 9 was established in 1826, serves beer, and is located near the Freedom Trail."

"The Union Oyster House."

"The Weeks Bridge? It’s part of one of our clues."

"Over by Harvard."

Within five minutes, we have answers to six of the remaining 11 checkpoints.

10:45 a.m., still at the Commonwealth Mall. But the one we still don’t have is our next task, Checkpoint 3. Two down, 10 to go, and three hours and 15 minutes remaining.

Checkpoint 3 shares its name with the last two words of the title of this absurd film by a famous filmmaker who plays the clarinet.

Obviously, it’s a Woody Allen movie. Gavin phones his friends and implores them to print out Allen’s filmography. More time than we have to spare elapses. Gavin’s still on the phone. I’m getting impatient. What’s the hold-up?

Evan, Gavin’s roommate, tries to explain. "We went down the list of Woody Allen movies with more than two words, and there are no businesses in town with the last two words." He starts to reel them off. "No ‘York Stories,’ no ‘Murder Mystery,’ no ‘Time Crooks’— "

"Check the phone book for a jewelry store called ‘Jade Scorpion,’ " I suggest.

The clock ticks. No "Jade Scorpion." No "Over Broadway." No "I Love." Nothing.

11:02 a.m., the Public Garden, by the swan boats. Three hours and 10 more checkpoints to go. We’re so clueless, we’ve wandered back to the Public Garden. I see a pack of other competitors who appear to be working together — members of the "serious athletes" arsenal — sweaty, hustling, and darting around like hopped-up bunnies.

"Hi there," I say to one who’s stopped to breathe. "How many have you completed?"

"Eight."

Eight? We really suck.

"We’re stuck on number three, and I was wondering —"

Before I can finish, he runs away. Seriously, he runs away. Like I have cooties. Or the plague.

"Fine. If you want to be a competitive asshole!" I scream after him. Another member of his group pauses and then jogs over to us. He looks older, maybe 50 or 60. I briefly wonder if Gavin could kick his ass.

"Which one do you need?" he wonders politely.

"Three. But have you done number one yet?" He shakes his head. "How about we trade?"

I tell him where that godforsaken plaque is; he tells us that Checkpoint 3 is a Mandarin restaurant by Symphony Hall called Tiger Lily.

So why wasn’t What’s Up, Tiger Lily? on Evan’s list?

Well, it’s a funny thing. Turns out Evan’s printer had cut off everything after "T."

3:03 p.m., another napkin-cluttered table at Atlas Bar & Grill. So yeah, we lost. Miserably. The rest of the day went better — lots of bus-hopping, huffing, puffing, and running — but not well enough to help us complete the race in time: in five hours, we only covered nine checkpoints. But we weren’t the only saps: only 22 of the 125 teams successfully completed the race in the time allotted. Jack, the nice older guy in the Public Garden, made it into the top 10, thanks to our help. The jerk who ran away from me also finished in the top 10, but his team screwed up one of the checkpoints, and they were disqualified.

Such a shame.

Camille Dodero can be reached at cdodero[a]phx.com