You’ll know when it’s your time

My brain and my body both knew I would be racing tonight, and conspired to make sure I slept in late this morning to get enough rest. It was a shame I had to get up before this sleep was complete; I shambled off to work, so dazed that I couldn’t see straight, and for the first few hours at the office my eyes weren’t pointing in the same direction.

Eventually this wore off, and luckily not many people were at their desks this morning, so there were no witnesses to my discombobulation. By mid afternoon I was approaching competence or at least some semblance of it, just in time to go home and have a pre-race nap.

And then the storm came in, and rain crashed against the windows of our flat and Singapore did a good job of looking like it was going to be washed away. I dozed for a bit, woke up and pit my head out the door, and then, like Puxatawney Pete in Groundhog Day, my wife would tell me to go back to sleep and I’d retreat to bed again.

I’m not comparing my wife to Bill Murray. That would be a very silly thing to do. A very silly thing to marry, come to think of it.

Having had quite not enough sleep, I banged around the flat for a bit, eating as many carbohydrates as I could sink down my body, and farting uncontrollably. Horrendous, sulphurous emissions that were so bad I had to leave the room. It’s not often that you can be disgusted by yourself, but now I feel guilty for all the people I’ll be running with tonight. That is if I’m not forcibly expelled from Singapore for these noxious emissions.

An hour and a quarter until the race starts, and I’m writing about farting. Truly this is the life of an athlete.

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