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.
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.
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