Tag: running

A delicious slice of reality.

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“Oh, you want a Power Pat do you,” my dad asks Bubble, one of my folks’ two new cats that I am not at all jealous of. The other, of course, is named Squeak.

A wicked grin spreads across his face as he rubs the cat down with a vigour I’ve see him employ while chopping wood. The feline purrs as if it’s just spotted a milk tanker with a slow leak.

We’ve already giggled with mum about her daggy house-clothes and discussed whether the neighbour a few farms down is buying wood with her pocket money.

It’s hilarious post-sausage-sandwich entertainment.

As I soak up the winter sun, just east of Tamworth, I notice how sweet it is to be home, sitting and laughing with my beautiful parents.

The final few days in Shanghai were impressive with Tsingtao and tequila by night, dumplings and noodles by day.

My local mate from India treated me to the best street food of my trip. I’d wandered aimlessly through the French Concession with some new pals from Denmark and Russia. We’d watched the dancers dance, the kites fly and the musicians fill Fuxing Park with their Oriental tunes.

It was the perfect goodbye to my tumultuous love affair with the Far East.

I was torn at the airport; excited about wrapping my arms around my Nanna, sharing tea with my girlfriends (it’s been a complete boy-fest in China with few female companions) and curious about my new job. But I hated the idea of  myadventure ending.

A well-timed email from my ever-pragmatic mother informed me that I would “come down to earth with a bang when you get back here.” The promise of avocadoes and brie drove me toward the departure gate.

And, it has been splendid.

The sunrise, after my 5am arrival in Sydney, was one of the best I’ve ever seen. It reminded me of Australia’s bountiful offerings. I’m lucky to call this country home.

My Nanna’s hug a few hours later was more warming than a glass of vintage liquor. She squeezed me hard, noting the six kilos I’ve carefully collected on my already-voluptuous frame. “You need to do some shrinking,” she instructed me.

“Aw, c’mon Nanna,” I pleaded with her. “It just shows I’ve had a great time.”

She frowned at me, clearly unmoved by my grin.

“Men love women with curves,” I cried, clearly clutching at straws.

“Not that many,” she laughed at me. I winked at her, delighted by her cheeky company.

I cooked a lamb roast, ate my (enhanced) body weight in salad and we looked at photos, lazing around like well-fed pandas.

Coming home ain’t so bad, I thought.

The dollar issue is a sore point, but my finances are so sorry I’ll just skim over that briefly. The cost of a bottle of milk is the equivalent of a night’s accommodation in China. That roughly equates to about 6 beers.

The Australian political landscape is also a sorry sight.

But, what Australia lacks in political smarts, it makes up for in the deli section. I decided to continue my train affair, broadening my rail horizons with a ride to Tamworth. It was the perfect time to catch up on some cheese-eating with my old pal Costello blue.

I luxuriated in the stark open paddocks with Dorothea Mackellar ringing in my ears. The contrasts to the obsessively-cultivated Chinese landscapes were fascinating. The stretching plains screamed to me that I was home.

My cheese-cravings were obsolete by the time I hugged Ma and Pa at the station, tears brushing at the corners of our eyes.

The detox plans I’d cleverly crafted a few nights ago flew out the window as I took in the contents of my parents’ cellar. We sat by the fire talking and laughing, as Dad’s queries about my trip became increasingly inquisitive. Luckily, my honest answers impressed my mischievous father.

Today, we cleaned and chilled, happy just to be back together. Ma even attached her halo and did my washing! I called a few mates and went for a jog. Pa and I rode bikes around the lucerne paddock and made plans to go fishing tomorrow, after our Mexican feast.

Now, as I sit in front of the fire at my folks’ pad with a glass of Pinot and Dad vigorously patting the cat, China feels like a hazy memory. That bang my Mum predicted I’d face – I’m determined to brush past it, my resilience honed after 10 weeks on the road.

The next adventure is about to begin. And, I’m certain there will be another adventure after that.

Reality: it’s what you make it.

It’s a Runner’s thing.

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There is no greater feeling than running along decked out in exercise gear, huffing and puffing, perspiration beading off your eyebrows and encountering someone with a pizza box in their hands. The self-righteousness is palpable.

Of course, if you were the dude with the pizza you’d be thinking the runner was absolute meathead.

I believe there are two types of people in the world: those who run and those who do not.

Fortunately I am both of those people. On Saturdays I hang out at the hot chip shop during the day and the pizza parlour by night. It’s a blissful, hedonistic existence.

Then, on Sundays I like to drive down to the Kangaroo Point cliffs on the Brisbane River and join all the other suckers looking for non-existent parking slots. It’s hilarious watching all the runners drive around like fools, ready to hit the pavement, but unable to find a place to covertly stow away their SUV.

It’s like watching flower girls and page boys trying to scrape confetti off the pavement and shove it back in the box. Oh the irony – you can run anywhere, you know?

It’s doubly hilarious for the person walking past with an aromatic pizza.

But, of course, that sucker is probably going to end up feeling a little bloated and will miss out on the legendary Runner’s High.

And you really do have to join the Running Fraternity, which, I’m afraid, does mean you’ll have to join all the other rabbits looking for parks on a Sunday, to understand the elusive High.

You’ll probably have to start using throwaway phrases such as ‘oh yeah I went for a light jog yesterday. I’m nursing an injury. My fifth metatarsal is twinging again, so I’m trying to limit myself to about 9 kilometres.’

And then you can start forking out some serious coin to wake up offensively early on a Sunday and run along the bitumen with your Running Friends.

I know all of that sounds a tad foolish, and frankly that’s because you are going to look a fool at some stage in your Running Career, but it will be worth it. The Runner’s High is better than drugs. Or so I’ve heard from some of my more rebellious Running Pals.

I joined the Fraternity a few years ago when another member recruited me to run the City to Surf in Sydney. It is a beautiful and exciting run starting in Sydney’s luscious city parks, running through the red light district, King’s Cross, and past the exclusive Rose Bay, which is breathtaking, and then along the headland to Bondi Beach.

The famous Heartbreak Hill in the middle of the run separates the city from the beach. It’s 2 kilometres you will not forget. I still recall Daft Punk dragging me up with Robot Rock. Plus, the hill is sponsored by RSVP and what is not to love about signs that tell you “you’re so hot right now,” as you’re about to collapse? Not even a dead pig is that sexy.

Residents on the track get into the spirit, too. Some will form rock bands to spur you on. Others will come outside and clap in a rather lame manner. That’s still nice.

And it’s only 14 kilometres. An easy trot, at least for a Runner.

Since my first City to Surf, my Running Career has spanned a few more fun runs, another City to Surf and a half marathon, one of my proudest achievements.

Now, when I come across a particularly difficult task, such as peeling potatoes with a left-handed peeler, I think to myself “I did that bloody half marathon, so I can peel these cheeky spuds.” Sure, I may have had to pay 90 bucks for the pleasure of waking up at 4am to run along an empty highway, but it’s that feeling of accomplishment I remember.

After the half marathon the crew I ran with joined together is a Runner’s Celebration. We indulged in an all-you-can-eat feast at Sizzler.

And that is how easy it is to slide between the dude with the pizza and the chick in lycra.

 

 

What’s in a flatmate?

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There’s nothing quite like being busted by your flatmates.

It’s their mirth that I fear most.

Tonight, for example, I was on my way home from a run that was more ambitious than I had intended. My energy was lagging and I desperately wanted to slow my aching limbs and stroll along at a more sedate pace. But, somewhat miraculously, my motivation did not lag.

I wanted to keep running so badly that I began punching the air. The movement impelled me and I picked up speed rather easily. You see, I had seen a shirtless fit dude doing similar running punches on the path a few days earlier and thought that may be my ticket to a flat stomach.

It was a great sprint to the bubbler, the punches keeping me going like the boost you get when a musician pumps out their best song at the end of a gig. It kept me kicking.

I was aware I looked like a lunatic, madly punching the air as I screamed along the pavement, sweating and panting.

I made it to the bubbler and then went on my merry way.

Later, as I was strolling back from the supermarket, (yes, I am one of those people that loves to extend my post-exercise glow and stench through Coles) Shorn Lowry sends me a sneaky little text.

“Pen were u running listening 2 eye of the tiger, I saw u punching the air.”

Oh, the cheek. Luckily, he already thinks I am crackers.

“Rage against the machine,” I reply.

The incident got me thinking about the relationship we forge in share-houses.

Some flatmates are dire. There is the sort you wouldn’t want to be placed next to at a spacious restaurant, yet there you are showering in the same recess. Watching them empty your shampoo bottle and secretly stealing away their cheese in the dead of night is tiring a charade.

Those folk are not the ones we like to share a wall with.

The ones that can cook and enjoy cleaning, they are the real winners in this contest.

It is enormously pleasant to wake in the morning and find a steaming cup of tea sitting by your bed. Once you are cool about them sneaking in and watching you sleep in your birthday suit, it’s a lovely gesture.

I have been thinking recently about the evolution of strangers and friends shacking up together and sharing fridge space.

Is share-housing a new phenomenon? Did the cave men shack up with the cave kids from down the gully?

Is it common in countries where there is a greater focus on family? Or is it mostly country kids, trying to get by in the harsh big cities, who are lucky enough to know about flatmates?

At last count, I have lived with 23 people. That does not include boyfriend’s flatties, who often fall into the flatmate category, by default.

Of those 23, some become very special. It is easy to forge a friendship, for when you share a house great intimacies are carried through the walls. Also, your buddy in the room next door is likely to catch you running like an idiot. And then tease you about it, which is certainly the way to my heart.

The saying goes that you don’t really know a person until you live with them. It’s true, I reckon.

The friendships are as solid as my eternal love for Ben Harper. And Johnny Depp, gosh he was fabulous in the Rum Diary.

It’s a different friendship to the way you interact with mates from school or work, or lovers even.

I believe living with people is one of the most honest pursuits we have in this society. Try hiding diarrhoea in a house where the bathroom adjoins the living room. It’s a disgusting home truth.

Your flatties, they know who is dossing in your bed on a rainy Sunday. They know, at most times, how much liquid income you have, give or take. They probably know about most of your allergies and a few of your fears. Your doctor should ask your roomies how many units of alcohol you consume a week, if they want an honest answer.

A good roommate knows your parents by first names and the relationship status of your siblings. Often childhood pets are mentioned over dinner.

Flatmates will figure out fairly quickly if you have nudity tendencies, a penchant for wearing dirty clothes, take drugs or, God forbid, if you have a secret Shakira habit.

And recently I heard about a beautiful Spanish girl that had an intervention forced upon her by some cranky house buddies. The early-morning Shakira was too much. There were tears.

It’s the kooky little habits that make the relationship so honest, I reckon.

A good flatmate will enrich your life. They see in you what you sometimes miss in yourself. That can be creepy and weird, but it’s enlightening.

And the fun you can have playing Jenga, sliding around in your socks on the polished floor, destroying each other with the Super Soaker and, more generally, teasing each other about eccentricities; that fun is boundless.

Flatmates, I reckon, are like teapots. A crappy one will spill stuff everywhere without a consideration. And you will hate it for ruining your moment-of-pure-unadulterated-bliss cuppa. That teapot can do no right and should be swiftly taken to Vinnies for some other sucker to suffer.

A good teapot, however, will pour you a sweet brew when you’re nursing a broken toe. It will worm its way into your heart.