There's this hill...

It's a big hill, a mountain actually, looming over Hobart town in Tasmania. It's called Mount Wellington, it stands about 4000 feet tall and I'm going to run all the way from sea level to its pinnacle where children play in the snow and pelt hapless runners with ice balls.

The race is called the Point to Pinnacle, a convenient half marathon from sea level to summit. Yup there's easier half marathons out there, and considering this is my first ever race (I've not run more than 13km and race day is looming!) it may have been smart to enter the Ronald McDonnald bounce-around-the-flowerbed-for-five-minutes race instead. But where's the fun in that, and besides, I'm barred from hamburgers, chippies, pizza, cake and deep fried gerbils until I rid myself of the "hey I swallowed a bowling ball" physique. The way I see it, darts players, truckies and hairy wrestlers (you know, the really bad dudes with lots of hair, sweat and wobbly bits) rarely trot up mountains, but Kalahari Bushmen, Amazonian warriors and...er...runners, do. I don't know how I'll do it, and in all reality the bowling ball will no doubt cling on for dear life, but I do know that I will do it. It's just a hill...what could possibly happen?