mechanics

I know it’s not the most masculine thing to say, at least in this country, but I’m really not that into cars.

Start a conversation with me about V6 engines and you’ll see my eyes quickly glaze over. There are people out there who are passionately either Ford or Holden people, and who will willingly drive up to Bathurst to sit around for a weekend watching hotted-up sedans drive around in circles for 10 hours straight. But as far as I’m concerned they’re a whole different species to me. I find them interesting, but only to the extent I find neanderthals interesting. It’s good to know they exist, but I have no desire to spend time with them.

Cars are just a means of getting from A to B. Sure some are faster than others; some are bigger; some more red; some make Jeremy Clarkson excited: at the end of the day they’re just cars. They’re just going to spend 80% of their lives driving at 25kph in heavy traffic on Hoddle Street.

So, I wasn’t too excited about taking the car for a service today. Especially not as the (relatively) new car is serviced at the dealership. I won’t say which type of car it is: let’s just say it rhymes with “golden”.

Aside for the fact I have to drive a bit out of my way and then catch a train on a different line where people are subtly unfamiliar, I resent the attitudes of the “golden” service staff. They strut around in their branded polo shirts tucked in to their slacks, with short-back and sides haircuts, acting as if they’re incredibly important. They’re also quite condescending, which irritates me, coming as it does from people who are basically sales staff.

No matter when you go in there, your car always turns out to “need” half a dozen special treatments, all of which cost big bucks. If you say no to any of these treatments, they say “that’s fine” but with pursed lips, as if it’s anything but fine and, what’s more, they suspect you of cruelty to small children and animals.

Next time I go in there, I’m going to say “Listen. Here’s the key. Just make sure the thing starts and stops in reasonable time, and make sure it’s not going to explode. I’ll be back at 5pm. And don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

I’m pretty sure I can work in some 4 letter words in there, but I might want to keep it civil.

Running
After picking the car up, I zoomed down to Croydon Athletics track and did some track work in the gloaming. 4 x 1200 with a 400m float between each set. With warm up and cool-down laps it worked out around 8km. The reps were: 4:33 – 4:33 – 4:37 – 4:36.

The third one was the usual third rep slow-down. The last lap felt fluid and fast, but actually wasn’t. Still, it was a good workout, especially given I didn’t let the float laps get too slow.

tough

As I wrote last week, it turns out Mitsubishi Magnas weren’t designed to be driven in reverse across 2 lanes of traffic at high speed and then smashed into trees.

Bloody cheap modern manufacturing. They just don’t make cars like they used to.

I’m picking up the new car this afternoon. Let’s hope it is a little tougher.

To be on the safe side, I’m not intending to try the reverse into trees trick again and I’ll be trying to make sure spiders stay away, at least when the lovely wife is driving.

Running
I was way tired last night, having been up early on Wednesday and Thursday to watch the Champions League semi-finals. Unfortunately, the marathon program said a mid-week long run was on the cards, and what the program wants, the program gets.

So, off I set at around 8pm for a 20km slog. It’s simply not possible to map out a 20km route near me that is reasonably well provided with street lighting and tolerably flat. The route I chose was well-lit for about 19km, but I spent between kms 2 and 3 pretty much blinded by the high-beams from oncoming traffic and striding forward into a black void.

Also, the hills. There’s a particular stretch of Canterbury Road that runs from Heatherdale road up to Mitcham Road. I’m not a big fan of that bit, let me tell you. It just seems to go on for unnatural length of time.

Aside from the black void and the mountains, it was a fairly good run. Here it is on mapmyrun.com.

April stats
I ended up running 375km for April, which was pretty strong for me. There were 24 running days and 6 rest days. There were 4 runs over 28km.

I’ve noticed improved fitness. I’m coping with the training a lot better and running with more fluency.

Next month will be the heaviest of the marathon program. I’d imagine 400km is possible.

1,000 miles per hour

No, that’s not me bragging about my running, I’m talking about a new car the Brits are talking about building. The “Bloodhound SSC” will go to 1,000 miles per hour, 250 faster than the current record. That’s about 1600kph, or enough to get to Syndey in 30 minutes.

Here it is: (or at least an artist’s impression)

It looks good, and would probably impress the chicks down Chapel Street. Still, I don’t imagine it would be much use on Hoddle Street in rush hour.

temper

Even if you did happen to have the misfortune to be a regular reader of this journal you may not have realised that I am a blogger of somewhat volcanic passions.

One likes to keep these things on the down-low, in order to preserve the overall atmosphere of civilised discourse.

The truth is, beneath this urbane exterior, lurks something like Mr Jekyll, or was it Dr Hyde? The nasty one, I mean. Scratch the surface and it’s pure red hot sauce.

The past 7 days, and today in particular, have more than scratched: they’ve gouged a hole where no hole was before.

7 days without running. 7 days feeling like my chest was in a vice. I’m losing it, I tell you.

Today was the culmination, or perhaps a better word would be “nadir”, of all this – mainly because it was my turn to take the family chariot in for its regular check-up.

Mechanic
Imagine, if you will, self at the counter, attempting to explain the car’s present malady to the mechanic.

“It has some sort of pox or sickness in the electrics” I say, to be greeted with dumb blank stares. “The flickery thing at the back, she’s stopped flickering”.

“Ah, okay. Leave it to me” he says. Ah, that’s a relief!

“It’ll be an hour, I’ll call you when it’s done.”

Great. Now, to kill an hour in Lilydale.

I’ve never spent much time in Lilydale, for one reason or another. I’ve long been a big of a fan of the lake and I’ve driven through the place a number of times to get to other places. Also, I’m told there’s something called “Lilydale toppings” which sounds super.

The place, however, ain’t that great. I was there for three hours, and that was more than enough. The only growth industry I could see, judging by the shops in the main street, is unemployment.

I’m sure I’ve missed something. Perhaps the town is not at its best on a Wednesday morning, God knows I’m not.

Anyway, suffice it to say, by the time I made it home I was not in the best of moods. If I had a cat it would have been kicked. I was on the point of scouring the neighbourhood for sleeping felines – even a possum would have done – before cooler heads prevailed.

The good news, from my perspective, is my current dose of man-flu is subsiding. I plan an invigorating trot around the city tomorrow morning. Possibly tomorrow evening may find me in better spirits.

not so grand prix

A rare and uncharacteristic burst of common sense from Melbourne’s “King of Major Events”, Ron Walker:

Maybe it’s, you know, ended its usefulness to the state of Victoria and we should move on,” Mr Walker said of the grand prix yesterday.

I’m not sure how it ever qualified as “useful”, but that’s me. The only thing in its favour as far as I’m concerned is that it gathers all 400,000 of the state’s rev-heads in the one place for an afternoon, allowing the rest of us to pursue more intellectual pursuits un-molested. Like, for example, reading Proust or googling Britney Spears.

Lately it seems even the rev-heads have deserted the “big race”, perhaps to spend more time picking nits from one another’s back hair.

On that basis, and in this case only, big Ron and I are of one mind. Give the bloody thing to Adelaide or whatever hick town with a chip on its shoulder will take it.

Running
12km this lunchtime, including a couple of laps of the tan. I was very nearly run down by the mid-day milers, but survived via quick thinking and unusually fleet feet.

I must learn to cool down. I don’t do warm-up well, but the cool down is worse. I have a tendency to get all excited within sight of the end of a run and fang it as fast as my fangs can fang. As a consequence I spend the next three quarters of an hour sweating profusely and leaving unsightly puddles under my desk.

It’s uncalled for.

Mustn’t get dressed in the dark
Hmm, yes, fairly straightforward, this. I managed to get dressed in the dark this morning but with my underwear inside out. I made it until lunch-time before realising.

Also, my work shirt looks to have been washed with something green. I didn’t notice that until morning tea, by which time it was too late. It begs the question – why didn’t I notice when I was ironing the blasted thing?

Note to self: don’t get dressed in the dark.