seeing eye to eye

My legs and I often disagree, most notably when I thought it’d be a good idea to run 30km up at Maroondah Dam in 2008. My legs, sensibly, thought I’d lost the plot and refused to go ahead with it.

I don’t blame them. If I were them, I’d be extremely wary of me at the best of times. I’m liable to take them out in all weather and, without warning, insist they run for two hours without stopping.

But today, this morning, my legs and I were of one mind. We were both tired.

Last night I fell asleep on the couch, about half way through Law and Order. I remember some poor woman being beaten up by her husband, the cops were helping out, then some glamourous ADA got involved, but after then: sweet oblivion.

The SW lasted right through to 5am, when my blasted body clock woke me up. I was still exhausted, and my legs had hot molten lead flowing through every vein. Not nice.

The 5am run was cancelled.

I did run later on – about 7:30 in the city, but it was a near run thing. In fact, the whole run was completed solely on will-power (sheer bloody-mindedness).

It wasn’t my greatest run – 13km in an hour, but it did include 6 reps of the Anderson Street hill. I’m happy I did it, or rather, I’m happy it’s done.

Tomorrow’s a day off.

cuppla days off

A long-ish weekend is in the offing, starting tomorrow. It’s not the queen’s birthday, nor Prince Phillip’s as far as I’m aware; the JH clan are taking off into the wild blue yonder on a family driving holiday.

“How can you afford that?” I hear you ask.

Yes, what with petrol costing slightly more than 18 carat gold it would be cheaper to move Merimbula here. Sadly, the lovely w. didn’t go for that idea, so a drive it is, followed by an unpleasant interview with the credit card company.

Still, at least I won’t be at work. I keep having those days when you print off your calendar in the morning and see meetings from 9 to 5 non-stop.

Running
Well, not exactly non-stop. I managed to take some time off to have a quick jaunt around the tan at lunch-time. One jaunt and 8 trips up and down Anderson Street, for my sins.

Heart attack
No, not me. Do you really think I’d be blogging if I’d had a heart attack? Actually, I might, but I wouldn’t leave it to last.

I am referring to a guy at work who had a bit of a coronary while running. I don’t want to mention his name, so I’ll just call him Luke. Oops. Anyway, it turns out Luke who, by the way is a strapping 36 year-old, about 7 foot 3 with spiky blond hair and a rather showy taste in suits; he looks like if he missed out on a spot in the team for Beijing he’d seriously consider appealing to the court of arbitration for sport.

Where was I? Oh yes.

Luke – super fit guy, boxer, rower, young-ish, runs 40km/week in his sleep – he was running hard up-hill reps one day earlier this year when he started to feel a bit faint. Before he knew it, one of the pipes in his chest was bursting, blood was flooding into bits where blood should not flood and he was keeling over, preparatory to waking up in the emergency ward.

Scary eh?

Still, he’s okay now, or so he tells me. Either way, I’m not going to make him tag along in the Anderson street direction any time soon.

the big issues

It has come to my attention that a grammatical error of fearsome proportions is being inflicted on the good people of Melbourne at present. I refer, of course, to those signs you see on the backs of rubbish trucks at work:

Constantly stopping

Spot the problem? The truck is constantly stopping: it never actually stops trying to stop. You would think when the driver fires up the engine and kicks it into gear, the truck is starting. Also, once the truck actually comes to a stop, perhaps at the end of a shift, then it has stopped stopping and is now stopped. However, if we are to believe the sign, that never happens!

That would be awkward. Imagine those poor rubbish truck drivers, doomed to roam the streets like some manky Flying Dutchman, piloting a craft that is unceasingly attempting to come to rest, but never quite able to stop.

Even the old Flying D managed to come to shore once every seven years or so. If my memory serves me, he then dashed around the local blue-light discos or the Scandinavian equivalent, madly attempting to pull a girlfriend.

Anyway, back to the rubbish-problem, it could all be resolved by replacing the word “Constantly” with “Frequently”.

“Frequently stopping” isn’t that better? I think we can mark that problem “solved”. Tomorrow, I’ll look into Aboriginal reconciliation, the Israel/Palestinian problem and global warming.

Running
13km this fine morning, including another shot at Anderson street.

Update
I’ve just read this, apparently according to Germaine Greer, who should know:

Now that you can buy them, bosoms are over.
From the Guardian.

Damn. I quite liked them.

RIP Anderson Street hill

Yes, you read it correctly: the Anderson Street hill, dreaded foe to generations of runners, cherished challenge and friend to many, it is no more. It is an ex-hill.

After the frankly stupendous display of hill running I completed this morning, the “hill” is over. It has been humiliated by my raw hill-running power. Not once, not twice, not thrice (you can see where I’m going with this) but 7 times. After such a convincing display, it can no longer be considered a challenge, and must hang its head in shame.

Under the Hill registration Act 1982 Anderson street will hereby be renamed Anderson Street “rise” or “bump”.

Sources close to Anderson Street say negotiations are in progress over a last-minute rescue plan, whereby the street would retain hill status in return for re-badging itself “Henderson Hill”, in honour of, well, me.

Running
As you may have guessed, a hill session this morning. 7 reps of the hill plus a long-ish warm up and cool down.