It’s getting to become a bit of a habit – this rising in pitch-blackness thing. I both love and loathe it. The loathe bit’s obvious: sleep is the most precious pleasure known to man, to be savoured and protected at all costs.

On the other hand, when you actually make it out the door, there’s a deliciously secret feeling to it, like you alone own the streets and footpaths. The world slumbers and you walk, god-like, amongst it.

Today, again, I rose early and headed into the city for a tiny run. Sadly, our public transport “system” conspired against me, announcing at 6:50 and 22 seconds that the 6:51am service would not be running. I managed a brief 7.5km but that’s it. I’m not to upset – a small recovery run was probably just what the doctor ordered.

Run for the kids
Last year I had a bit of a whinge or two about this on the grounds that a: the course distance was clearly incorrect and b: what kids were we saving and what? I ran the thing anyway and had a reasonable day out.

This year I’ve entered again, purely out of habit.

Last year I caught Tiger Boy about 200 metres from the finish. This year, a fast improving TB may be a touch more of a challenge. We’ll see.