It’s 11pm on Friday night, and I am at my friend Audrey’s place on 57th Street in Manhattan, about eight blocks from the marathon finish. Things are pretty good. Nice easy flight, quiet. Full of marathoners. Am actually slightly tired of listening to the gabble.  It’s all up to me now. Executing. Pasta, pasta, pasta. Buying food. Marathon news on TV; the Chilean miner, the weather, the preambles. It’s gonna be a big day.

Time for bed.