A Small Group Of Carb-Loaders

Eight days before I left Perth, I was standing in Catalano’s Vic Park, waiting for a small group of carb-loaders.

That was the line I posted with the first photo, and it still feels about right. By then HAA had become serious in all the obvious ways: the Heart Foundation connection, the support crew, the route, the fundraising, the sponsors, the media possibilities, and the very real date on the calendar. But the pasta night was not serious in a solemn way. It was warm. It was noisy. It was a room full of people eating, laughing, donating, talking, and helping me feel that this ridiculous thing had people around it.

I had been trying to put the night together as a pre-departure pasta party and fundraiser. In the planning version, it had all the ingredients of an event: tickets, dinner, entertainment, activities, guest speakers, raffle or auction prizes, and collection boxes for the Heart Foundation. It sat at the end of Heart Week and doubled as a farewell party for HAA2015.

That sounds organised, which is not entirely untrue. It also sounds more polished than it probably felt from the inside.

The final weeks before departure were full of loose threads. Some were huge, like support crew and logistics. Some were small until they were suddenly urgent, like food, gear, collection boxes, and whether enough people would show up to make a fundraising dinner feel like a dinner rather than one bloke with too much pasta and a nervous laugh.

Then people came.

That is the bit that matters. The photos are not beautifully composed. They are restaurant-light selfies from a slightly chaotic room, and that is why I like them. Heads are turned. People are mid-conversation. Someone is waving. Plates and glasses are scattered across the tables. I am half in the bottom of the frame, grinning because the room has filled up and the night has become real.

There was fundraising, yes. That mattered. By this point the charity layer of HAA had become part of how people understood what I was doing. The Heart Foundation gave the crossing a public purpose that made sense to other people, and it gave supporters a practical way to help.

But the deeper thing that night was not only money.

It was the feeling of being surrounded.

When you are about to attempt something much larger than anything you have done before, encouragement becomes practical. It is not just a nice mood. It gets into your body a bit. It tells the doubtful part of your brain that other people have seen the same impossible-looking thing and decided to lean toward it rather than away from it.

I needed that. I do not think I would have said it that plainly at the time, but I needed it. HAA was big and public by then, which meant there was excitement, but also pressure. People had donated. People had shared posts. People had offered support. Ben and Ols were about to give months of their lives to keep the thing moving. In eight days I had to stand at Canning River parkrun and actually begin.

For one evening, though, it was pasta, friends, supporters, laughter, and the simple pleasure of a good night.

At 10pm I posted that it had been a great night. I thanked everyone who came, and everyone who had wanted to be there but could not make it. Then the practical world came straight back in: I still had to get home, make sure I was organised for Run Director duties at parkrun in the morning, and maybe get some sleep.

That little ending says a lot about the final week before departure. There was the crossing coming, and there was ordinary life still tapping me on the shoulder. A fundraiser dinner one night. parkrun responsibility the next morning. A half marathon two days later. A campervan still to collect. Food still to organise. Nerves still to manage.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, one excellent night at Catalano’s Vic Park reminded me that I was not heading into that final week on my own.

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