It might sound weak, but six K’s was more than enough for me, especially as I began to calculate the eggs-per-kilometre ratio that worked for Rocky…considering that it was not working for me. Rocky also completed his run while wearing black Converse sneakers, but I’m simply not that much of a sadist. I thought about running further to the War Memorial but was told that might be a tad disrespectful, especially in the likely situation of needing to barf eggs everywhere. My run would be an easy six kilometres-nothing compared to the 30kms that Rocky was calculated to run-from my apartment to the Philadelphia Museum of Art-esque stairs of Melbourne’s Parliament House. Slamming the fridge shut, I headed downstairs to perform the same quick stretches as Rocky, then took off into the dark streets of Brunswick. The yolk taste was kinda pleasant and breakfasty, though. And oh boy were they gross to ingest, to the point where I had to pinch my nose to get ’em down. My cat glared at me from the bed: fool, her eyes seemed to accuse, before closing for another warm six hours of sleep.Ĭracking out the right amount of raw eggs into a highball glass, I steeled myself not for the taste but the texture of the sloppy yolks.
When the alarm really did ring, I jumped off the bed a bit more enthusiastically than Stallone did and got dressed in my best facsimile of his grey trackies get-up. I kept having dreams in which I was awoken by my alarm, got dressed, gulped back five raw eggs and started running, finally allowing myself to think “hey this isn’t that bad” before realising it was just my nervous brain making shit up.
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