I couldn't sleep at all last night,
Just a-thinking of you.
Baby things weren't right.
Well I was tossing and turnin',
Turnin' and tossing,
Tossing and turnin' all night.
Bobby Lewis
The one thing a runner needs going into a difficult race under-prepared is a good night’s sleep. So much for that. Sharing a room with SP has its drawbacks but even I can’t blame the big man for the strange goings on at number 151 Patrick Street last night. Things went bump, that much is certain. Following a delicious pre-race meal of barbecued lamb chops, fresh cooked pasta and avocado salad washed down with bowls of fresh fruit and Coopers Pale Ale, Team RC retired early. By one am at least four of us had visited the smallest room in the house, stirred by an unidentifiable presence. The ghost of races past, or a prescient spirit warning of the troubles ahead? No matter. I spent the next four hours huddled over my iPhone under the bedclothes following Mighty Rooks updates on Twitter, an
exciting yet ultimately frustrating goal-less draw against Wingate and Finchley. The last time I behaved in this way I was trying to tune in to Emperor Rosko on a dodgy wireless whilst trying not to wake my brother in the next bed.
As day broke through the thin cotton curtains I gave up the struggle and got up to brew coffee. Graham was already awake, moving a good deal better than a man with that much webbing strapped across his lower back might reasonably expect. This was good news. The house had been on tenterhooks since our arrival in Tasmania, waiting to see if our genial host and meticulous event planner would make it to the start line.
Breakfast had become a massive part of my race strategy. With barely half the required miles banked and following a race circuit reconnaissance that drew more than one ‘bloody hell’ from our assembly I'd decided my best bet was to eat my way up the mountain. I kicked off with a bowl of microwaved porridge oats. As the viscous mixture bubbled and popped behind the glass my thoughts turned to Paris in 2006 and Moyleman’s hilarious attempts to feed us. Porridge everywhere, Moylebird, Kader and I in fits of raucous, slightly-too-loud laughter. ‘I need your help today old friend, to drag my fat arse up this bloody mountain’. I added chopped bananas, honey and cold milk, inhaled that and followed on with toast (one slice Vegemite, one honey), similarly despatched along with half a carafe of fresh coffee and a generous helping of Chia fresca. Now that oughta do it.
One by one the gladiators emerged from their cots. It became apparent we’d all had lousy nights, no doubt the shadow of Mount Doom, visible from our dining room window, loomed large in our collective subconscious. Nervous chatter ensued. The main thing was MLCMan was feeling better than he had in days and would definitely join us at the start. That was the best possible news and as we sipped coffee gazing out over the sleepy suburb our spirits, our hopes, could not have been higher.
