I’ve been trying all week to be positive about tomorrow’s marathon, but I keep wondering if I’m doing it right. Of course I’m going to finish, I tell myself. If I take it steadily, I can avoid upsetting my calf. I can beat my Chicago time, and get in under 5 hours. Of course. But this positive thinking lark confuses me sometimes too.
Is thinking positive thoughts the same as really believing something, or are these thoughts just affirmations, self-hypnotising mantras? Faced with a cold reality, am I just slamming my eyes shut, sticking my fingers in my ears and singing loudly?
And discussing it like this is unnerving me further. Have I just shopped myself to me? Or did I know it all along, in which case I’m only really shopping myself to others?
Any idea what I’m on about? Me neither really.
It’s all competing realities. Like this morning, at breakfast, discussing the marathon with an English guy at the next table. I mentioned this website, and he said “oh yes, I’ve seen it.” A startling confrontation between the real and the virtual.
And an hour later, back in our room, something very similar. On the Danish TV news was a live interview with the head of the Copenhagen police, talking about the success of the security operation at yesterday’s royal wedding. As this was on, I wandered over to the window and absent-mindedly looked out. And there, on the other side of the street, outside what I later found out to be Police HQ, was the camera crew and the interview actually taking place. Quite bizarre.
Despite the assurances I’d received from the royal household back in January, we just missed the wedding between Crown Prince Frederik and Tasmanian Mary Donaldson. (They first met in a pub, apparently, which I found strangely reassuring.) We arrived in Copenhagen at about 5pm yesterday, and found the festivities at fever pitch, Scandinavian style. In other words, the streets were empty, but I did see a bus with a small Australian flag flapping from the driver’s window as we went for our inaugural walkabout last night.
The hotel is a scream. The second smallest room I’ve ever stayed in, and certainly the smallest I’ve had to share. Its slogan, Sleep Cheap!, should have warned us. We’re hoping that its amusement value will outlive the inconvenience. On the plus side, the Cab Inn has been open only a week or two so each cubby hole is clean and new, and everything works – apart from the TV which hasn’t had satellite plumbed in yet. We have bunk beds, and naturally, I drew the short straw. Even more naturally, no straws were actually drawn. It was bad enough getting up there last night. God help me tomorrow night when a marathon and a quantity of celebratory Carlsberg have to be factored in. This may be my last ever entry here…
We were up late today, but managed to make breakfast just in time. It was the usual, rather ascetic, Scandinavian style spread: Bread, teas, cheese (goats), oats, ham, jam, cakes, flakes, a fish dish and fruit to boot. Not everyone’s cuppa, but breadaholics like me are happy.
Today was expo day. After breakfast, we walked to the station and caught a bus to the northern part of the city where we followed the crowds to the ice skating stadium. Within minutes I’d picked up my race number, teeshirt, champion chip and goodie bag. No one at any point asked me to pay any money, and I could easily have walked off without paying the 400 krone (£40). Karma. That’s what made me return to pay. I need all the help I can get, and 400 krone worth of good karma has to be a worthwhile investment.
I’d hoped to meet up with some of the Brits at the expo who would, I was told, be rallying under a Runners World banner, but I saw no banner. Instead I did the usual expo things: collect a load of drinks, gels, sports bars and garments – not because I needed or even really wanted them, but because they were cheap.
The rest of the afternoon was spent unwisely. When I should have been in the hotel room with my feet up, I was instead trekking round the city from gallery to museum to cathedral. All wonderfully educational, but to wear yourself out like this the day before a marathon is not a good idea. Best discovery of the day was learning that boghandel is Danish for bookshop.
Just gone midnight, and despite the kitsch magnet drawing me to the Eurovision Song Contest on the telly, I really must get to bed.
