So when Inge de Bruin talked me into this whole running the City to Surf malarkey, her big selling point was that though we would have to run the whole way it wouldn't matter how fast we went. The point was to finish, times didn't matter. The other night up in King's Park at one of our training sessions she casually mentioned that, "And we just need to make sure we run at a reasonable pace."
A reasonable pace? What does that mean? (She asked in a high and slightly hysterical voice.) I'll tell you what it means: it means a betrayal of the original we-just-want-to-finish spiel, that's what. I told Inge, in a calm voice filled with reason and logic, that if she tried to force the hurry up on me, that it would kill me. That I expected just shuffling along for twelve kilometres would kill me anyway.
"Nonsense," she said. "You'll be on an adrenaline high."
"Only if I take an epipen with me."
There was a bit more back and forth about the original premise of our entry into the race versus this latest push for speed.
The sun was setting by now, and the vast and quiet bushland spread out on each side of us. Inge de Bruin merely smiled beatifically at me and said, "You know, hazelblackberry, it's not too late for you to end up in that shallow bush grave."
What do I care? Now, or in the run in September: the point is, my time is limited.