I have just demolished a big brekkie of beans on toast topped with a fried egg in preparation for my Big Race Day (the Zurich Silvesterlauf my lovely hubbie entered me into after an ill-conceived tiddly bet back in August).
I gobbled up breakfast despite my nerves about my first ever grown-up ‘Race.’ I’m struggling to call it this as I hate the idea of entering a race I have absolutely no chance of winning. But equally, I cannot just call it a run as it is very different to the regular run I enjoy several times per week – a leisurely few km at a slower than snail’s pace around the local woods.
Talking of which, I awoke at 3.30am this morning with a humungous fear that the starting - pistol? - would go and I would be left behind in a cloud of dust by a giant group of runners going pretty slow (I am in the slowest group today) but still plenty faster than me. That was it – sleep was now evading my attempts and I was wide awake for the next 14 hours until my run started. Aaarggh. The day is stretching out before me like a sloth preparing for an 18 hour nap.