The fridge is full of sandwiches, fresh pasta and scotch eggs. Boyfriend is cross he can't eat it all. It's Mayhem food.
Spare room is full of bags labelled 'Fi's socks' and 'Fi's shorts' and stuff. Bags full of spare chains, tubes, pain killers and baby wipes. Boyfriend amazed that so much stuff is needed. Hopefully it won't be. But it is raining as I write this.
There is something odd here. I race all the time. I love it. It's a chance to get excited, look forward to the weekend, hang out with friends, laugh and chat and collapse on the sofa on a sunday night feeling lovely and warm and exhausted with the drama of it all.
But this feels different. I have never wanted so badly to be part of a something than this. I am excited about lining up next to some of the most incredible cyclists in the world. I am in awe and excited and petrified.
I am just desperate to finish. I can not imagine the feeling of knowing I will finish. I have pulled out of 2 races already this year through injury and illness and I warn you now... if that happens this weekend I will be utterly inconsolable. I want this badly.