Running out of time

It’s sobering to think that in one small block of raclette, all the hard work and exercise I have done over the last week will be obliterated. It’s almost enough to tempt me to pack my trainers. Have I got the running bug? Well, frankly, no, but there were just a few moments on Sunday just gone, as I shuffled along the streets of the Emerald City, where I felt as high as a kite (probably oxygen deprivation but what the heck, it felt good!)

Saturday was warm up day, warmed up by an early morning drive to Sydney, arriving for a healthy brunch of, er, healthy sourdough topped with muscle making spinach and prosciutto and asparagus and poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. Followed by a healthy walk with much healthier people along the coastline from Coogee to Bronte. Healthy sized waves whipped up by a swell, making it a swell time for cliff huggers and intrepid surfers. Warm and sunny and not unlike summer, is there really anywhere better than Sydney on such a day?





The warm up warmed up further in the evening, as I made it under that famous old glitzy harbour and popped out in the north shore for carb-loading dinner and one or two carb-loaded beers with dear friends. Inspirational bedtime stories sending me off to the land of Olympian dreams.

The next morning, Sunday, and reality hit as I clamped safety pins and C52157 to my top. Slightly nervous, hydrated but dry mouthed, energy preserved thanks to a kindly drop off beside the harbour bridge. A melee of lycra and hats and ipod leads assembled for what seemed like ages, tucked towards the back of 20,000 people and finally, at about 9:40 on a warming spring day, movement.



Mercifully it wasn’t long until the movement had moved itself onto the old coat hanger itself. Striding along in lane 3, looking up at the flags perched high atop, a sudden re-acquaintance with a tingling feeling I felt some 10 years before on catching my first glimpse of this very bridge. Down (oh joy, down) the Cahill Expressway, running alongside Circular Quay, the joy tempered by the turn onto the gentle but long climb of Macquarie Street. Time for a walk and some fluorescent blue liquid. The slowest kilometre of them all.

But then, the comeback kid strikes again! A prolonged stretch along to the sublimely gorgeous Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, but no sitting down here; merely a pit stop to rid myself of that blue juice. A sense of the end now not far, propelling my legs ever quicker, the reserve in the bank being cashed, the people now lining the streets and, turning the corner, the Opera House welcoming me to the finish line. No matter how much you may dislike running, just try keeping a huge grin off your face and a tingle out of your spine.

Somewhat infuriatingly but also rather quite miraculously, a time of 60 minutes and 7 seconds went against my name. Clearly that training and preparation had worked pretty well. I’m not sure if it was the hollandaise sauce or the beers or perhaps the inspirational story of the Gingerbread Man, but I was pretty chuffed with that. A worthy celebration of beers and sandwiches and chilled out Eastern suburb happiness followed and I really started to sense the commencement of holiday heaven. Just a few blips to go over, a few bumps in the road, and we’ll be on the final straight.

Drawing back the curtains

Well, thankfully Australia now has a government and what a relief as people were just walking around like zombies not knowing what to do with themselves. The public servants especially were milling around without direction or purpose, though quite amazingly there seems to have been no change evident there. More monumental was the shift in paradigm from Winter to Spring and – finally – the riddance, I hope, of my horrible little cold. So much so, that I felt able – if not willing – to exercise again, clocking up a few metres in preparation for the 9,000 next week. I should be running again this afternoon, but instead find myself writing this blog, putting it off for as long as possible.



With less than two weeks to go until I visit Europe again, part of me is a bit sad to miss out on the warming of the weather, the greening of the trees and the transition to shorts. However, the thought of leaving for a while, scoffing my face on cheese and cream teas and pork pie and lasagne and roast dinner etc etc etc, and then returning straight into shorts and BBQ-land is somewhat appealing. Much more somewhat appealing than running.

So, with my last real free day until the trip, apart from trying to squeeze in a few kilometres of mind-numbing bone-jarring movement, I happily spent a couple of hours down among the blooms of Floriade, Canberra’s very own celebration of spring. So here’s just a few pictures captured in glorious technicolour for you to dwell on. Next week, something less pleasant and serene and beautiful.

Inner City Pressure

As I write this it has been a whole two weeks where Australia has been without a government yet somehow quite amazingly things have functioned and worked and actually been okay. Who would have thought, huh? Personally, life would have been somewhat enlivened by complete anarchy and tribal warfare breaking out between The No Boat Banana Republic and The Smugly Progressive Latte States of Australia. Alas, all we have is a man in a big hat, a few dodgy sums and the odd barrel of pork to work things out.

Back in the real world, dare I say, Spring has been springing, the wattle bursting from the seams, the blossom erupting just over the last week and a jolly Canberra high of 19 degrees causing celebration in the byways of Bruce. As we inch out of winter, it is cruelly letting go with one last shebang, dispersing snotty noses and sore throats across the capital and into my own letterbox. It is widely appreciated that males are severely more prone to this affliction, causing regular moans, cursed mutterings and bitter resentment.

I shouldn’t blame Canberra on this most debilitating of illnesses though. The real culprit is the woman in the GPS in the hire car in Melbourne who clearly didn’t like it when I ignored her pleas to do a u-turn, hacking out a few coughs in between her orders to stop me in my tracks. Yes, Melbourne, capital of the Smugly Progressive Latte States of Australia, so a place I naturally fit in. Though this time I kind of found it annoying. Partly that was to do with driving around the arse end of places. With an annoying GPS woman barking out orders at me. I also missed out on the substantial doses of coffee and cake I was hoping for. Blame it on the Government. Oh, what Government?

Sunday afternoon in Melbourne gave me a pre-work opportunity to enjoy the city as much as I could in my old man grumpy pants mood. I headed to Brighton, predictably a bayside suburb with beach huts but, unlike it’s rather camp English counterpart, possessing something approaching sand. Promenade walking was the order of the day, quite substantial in length in the end, and deserving of a burger in the milk bar on the way back. I like milk bars. They seem very Melbourne. Halfway between a greasy spoon and a grocery store. Selling random assortments of food and, yes, I would hazard a guess, milk. To me they encapsulate the spirit and flavour of fried potato scallops with a good sprinkling of salt.





Driving back into the city was fun as I attempted to navigate my way to a car park so that I could have the privilege of paying extortionate fees for leaving the car there overnight. I think possibly the parking fees were more expensive than the little car, bless it. By now fading and ready for a late afternoon nap, the only way out of this was to hunt out a prime spot for a macchiato and perhaps a little sweet treat. I found it and also found a rather fine sweet treat which I must look out for again, if I can remember its name.

Fuelled up, I decided to go all monochrome in that way you sometimes do in an attempt to be all urban cool like.







In black and white or colour, it was nice to amble for a while without GPS girl as the city turned dark. Down by the Yarra, a montage of photographers appeared to be congregating; there was hardly room to move for tripods. For my part I took very few tripod-less photos, though was given an overwhelmingly excited reaction after agreeing to take a picture for some Asian tourists. Anyone would have thought they had been turned down by hundreds of passers-by already before I relented. Still, it was very cute.

Monday morning dawned in colour though black and white seemed to be more in keeping with the labours of the day. Quite randomly I found myself following in the footsteps of the current, for now, maybe for not much longer, Prime Minister. With half hour to spare in her electorate of Altona I dined at a cafe where Julia and partner had a coffee the day after the election revealed Australia was unsure about redheads. And then strolled along that pier where no doubt Julia muttered a few quiet drawling swear words to Tim. Thank goodness, there was no Leader of the Opposition swanning around on the beach in his togs, spotting pesky terrorist filled boats. That would have made me even more ill!