It is quiet in the tent. It's all about concentration now. Determination. Pig-headedness. Visualization. It's the test after all the preparation. Like a marathon. The results of the training more than the race itself. This is when I find out whether I did it right.
I've been playing this scene over and over in my mind for weeks now. I was expecting the nausea, the fast-beathing heart, the anxiety. I am thankful I have no headache. I take deep breaths, try to calm myself. My lungs are still clear of liquid, this is excellent, no pulmonary oedema. I try to think clearly. I repeat poems in my mind. And latin declinations. I can think. This is also excellent. No cerebreal oedema. Jaime looks at me, slightly concerned. I probably look like I am pooing in my sleeping bag, in a very concentrated way. I smile at him and he relaxes, hands my my cup of tea. I take it, drink small sips, close my eyes, visualize myself arriving at the cross, the wind whipping us around.
Eating is difficult. I repeat Pierre's (our trainer's) advice before an important race, which essentially goes something like: " Eat! I don't give a shit if you're not hungry! I don't care if you feel like throwing up! If you eat, even if you throw up after, at least your body will have had the time to get some nutrients in, you need it for the race! Eat!" (somehow though, he makes it all sound very caring. Also, it sounds a great deal nicer in French). So I eat grimly, lips pressed tight together. Oatmeal. I can't stomach anything else, and this, at least, is energy-dense.
We hear noises from the other tents. Quique and his two clients, who I have not yet seen and am not sure exist, as they are never out of the tent. Shum and Jackman over on the other side. They talk in rapid Cantonese, we hear bits of it in between hails of wind. We learn that Shum is not feeling well, and will not be joining us. I hadn't seen him since our arrivel in the mid-afternoon the day before, he never left the tent. I clench my teeth. I want up. I breathe deeply again.
We finish the preparations. It is the first time we set out in the pre-sun cold, we need to be wearing lots of clothes. We are leaving with our duvet jackets, but I have my goretex and fleece to change into later, when it gets warmer. If it does. I stick toe warmers to my socks. Dig out the booth insoles I always sleep with to keep them warm and dry for mornings. Pull my goretex pants on top of my double layer of thick fleece pants and thermal underwear. Tie my mitts to my wrists, in case I need to take them off, so they don't get blown away by the wind. You lose a mitt you lose a hand, so the saying goes. Check that I have water, gels, jelly beans, chocolate, dried fruit. It will be a miracle if I can actually stomach eating during the day, I feel like shit. But I was expecting to feel like shit, it's ok. I've felt like shit before. I've run through feeling like shit before. It passes. Once you're into the rhythm, once you've settled into your groove, it passes. It's eight hours. In eight hours, we'll be laughing at the top, taking quick pictures. I won't think about the hours down, I'll think about that when the time comes. Eight hours to the top, when I'll be taking out the flag that Ryan gave me to fly at the top, the flag with a message.
Lito checks that we have enough liquids. A thermos full of hot tea. A bottle of juice which is warm but will start getting cold soon enough. Wearing the proper clothes. "Lista, nena?" Si, as ready as I'll ever be.
We step out into the disappearing night. Venus, still bright. The first star to appear in this incredible sky. The last to leave us.
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