Reflection of self. Back after a run. Geilston Bay, Tasmania. Ah, the Point to Pinnacle. The name alone conjures images of an epic quest, doesn't it? A half marathon that, quite literally, takes you up a mountain. It's not so much a race as a rite of passage for those of us who have a penchant for... well, let's call it "creative self-destruction." Let's dive into the logistical nightmares. First on the list: chafing. Yes, the age-old nemesis of all who dare to run further than their driveway. Picture it: a nether region, chafed to the consistency of sandpaper, rubbing mercilessly against sweat-soaked shorts. It's like grating a brick of Parmesan on a rusty cheese grater. An image to savour, I know. And then there's the sweat. Oh, the sweat. It pours from my cap like a relentless waterfall, blinding me with its saltiness. I start to feel like a tragic hero from a Greek myth—Sisyphus with a side of sodium. Each droplet is a sharp, stinging reminder th...