It seems like less of a good idea now. It's 8.30am in a tent on a football oval, 6km from Dorkbot Central. I sport a chipper hangover, compounded by a brawny and ominous (though, thankfully fairly rain-free) thunderstorm. Emerging from the tent, I spy my mode-of-transport with a small slice of contempt.
I quite like my pushbike, but let's recap: 8.30 am. Thunderstorm. Hangover. 6 kilometres. By bike.
These obstacles fail to dissuade me - a journey of 6 thousand metres begins with a single pedal. About 100 pedals in, however, events take a economic-crisis-bar-chart-like turn.
The tire, it has gone flat. Pretty much mostly completely. Mostly. I cling to the hope that it's not as flat as I imagine, as I do my best to ride on the soft grass - cringing every time I do that "hit a hard spot, and it makes that horrible riding-on-the-rim noise" thing. I weigh up options as I try my best to distribute my weight to the front wheel. Out of grass now, I dismount and walk. A walk would take hours to cover the distance.
It's 9am. Things look grim. I fear the trip has been for naught - and I sense that "hey, that's unfair" feeling. But just then, on the horizon appears a shining light... a service station! Of course! My spirits lift as I run/ride the bike up the road...
...alas, the reprieve is short-lived. The tire deflates quickly - giving me only about 200 metres worth of riding... Let's see, about 4ks to go - that's 4000m/200m = 20 service stations. I need there to be 20 service stations between me and my goal, but no - there is but a handful. With time ever-ticking, and desperation encroaching, I chain up the pushy and break into a hangover-impaired run....
Holy b'jesus. It's hard work. 2ks in - I feel like I'm aging like that guy in 2001: A Space Odyssey and my brain is making the same sounds as the Japanese noise artist was making the night before. The thunderstorms have cleared, and it's bloody hot. I've made it to the main road and now, as luck shines on me like the bloody hot sun does - I am able to catch a bus. A beautiful, air-conditioned bus.
The air-conditioning blows a wave of sense over me, and and whispers in my ear "You don't really know where this thing is, do you..." - I don't... but my friend does, and he has a phone - As I hits send on my text inquiry I notice that I've certainly gone well past where the event might be. Now I start to feel a little disgruntled.
Off again! Another brisk jog back to the centre of town. After checking a couple of the possible venues, a reply to my inquiry comes through: the workshop is at number 175, back up the road I just caught the bus down. Disgruntled-ness has given way to a giggling-annoyed-dispaired-ness. Back towards where I came from... Quite a pace I'm running at now as I follow the street numbers up the road. I get up to 176. Wrong side of the road. I turn around and look across the street: 280. I've gone way too far. And there's my bike.
9.25am - the final countdown
A final sprint - cooled only by the waves of alcohol-filled sweat that began running down my face - must.... make.... WävRüta! I start to view everyone I see in the street as potential competitors for the remaining workshop spots. I contemplate knocking down an old lady in front of me, but that's just because I was still feeling disgruntled. I let her be. I spy the workshop location as my third wind sails me through the doors and onto seat in the hall. Gasping and wheezing, people are chatting and holding circuit boards. I look around - there are a couple of printed circuit boards sitting on the bench. I grab a lovely white one. I'm in! Holding a blank circuit board! Now there is no escape (Besides the door, and a fire exit)! Two people who I passed on the way arrive - and they are the lucky last. Others arrive shortly there after - but they didn't want it bad enough. They didn't have the fire. I feel bad for them for a second or two, but now it is time to build...