Sunday afternoons after a long run

They’re hard, these Sunday arvo’s, when you’ve had a long run in the morning.

I can imagine they might be quite enjoyable under some circumstances. I’m thinking of a few hours spent slumped on the couch dozing in front of the football. Otherwise, I can think of a few half-decent pubs with beer gardens I wouldn’t mind patronising for an afternoon.

Sadly, family-men with little kids don’t get the chance for such luxuries. For me, running 27km up hill and down dale IS the luxury.

That was the early hours of the morning taken care of. Since then, there has been back-breaking toil de-weedifying the vegie patch, and at the same time attempting to prevent child number 1 putting the dog’s lead on child number 2 and feeding his ice-cream to the dog.

Ah well, such is life.

On the plus side, I did manage to get my hair cut yesterday, with no hurt feelings. I’m not sure it’s the greatest example of the hair-dresser’s art, but she didn’t have great material to work with.

Running
As I said before, the long run today was 27km, which is basically from my house down to Warrandyte and back, via Croydon. That’s only slightly over 25km, but when I got home I found myself locked out of the house, so I trotted on down to the shops to get the paper and something to drink.

My long runs haven’t been earth-shatteringly fast lately, but they’re steady, and strong, and I finish them feeling “pleasantly fatigued”, which I gather is the done thing, if you’re into the Lydiard thing.

Which reminds me, I’m thinking about a marathon plan for October this year. I’ve been looking up Lydiard, but I’m not sure I’ve mastered the intricacies of the thing. I may have to post about this soon, either here or on one of the two running forums.

a haircut dilemma

If you’ve had the pleasure of meeting me in person, it won’t come as much of a surprise to hear that I don’t spend much time or effort on my hair-style. To be perfectly honest, I don’t so much have a “hair-style” as just “hair”.

My idea of a perfect haircut is the type they give you when you join the army (at least in the movies): number 1 clippers all over, and all done in under a minute, with no discussion.

However, as this tends to get a little cold on winter mornings, I usually go for a bit more hair, but not much.

When I decide I need a haircut, I usually go to this one place in a local shopping centre. It’s cheap, and I usually don’t leave looking like the elephant man’s bastard child.

But things have changed!

It’s the kind of place where you sit on a bench to wait in line with the other suckers, and when it’s your turn, you get whichever of the hair-dressers next comes free. There’s one hair-dresser who’s really good, one who’s average and one who is a complete cretin. Lately, every time I go there, I end up with the cretin, and walk out feeling deeply ashamed, go home straight away and put on a hat.

My lovely w. would no doubt just ask to see the good barber, but I would be far too embarrassed to do that. Surely to do that would be to set step over some invisible line, and reveal oneself as a selfish oaf who carers nothing for hair-dresser etiquette or simple human decency.

So, what to do?

movember

Don’t get me wrong, I know men’s health is a bit of a black hole, particularly around depression. I’m all for improving it. I just wish they had have chosen some other gimmick rather than Movember.

The world is not ready for my ugly mug plus facial fuzz. Frankly neither am I. It itches. The guys at work and all signing up enthusiastically, even those already sporting goatees. I may have to respectfully sit this one out.

Plus, I hate their website. It looks like a slightly cleaned up version of myspace.

Running
17km on Wednesday night. Nothing yesterday, just 300 pushups.

15km this morning in my new pair of shoes (yet more Brooks Adrenalines). It was rather a good run – I finished it strong and fast and wishing I could keep going for at least another 10k. I did it in 63 minutes, including the time spent waiting at traffic lights. So not bad.

54km this week so far. 84km if you include Sunday’s long run. All good!

for men

I wrote the other day, somewhat scathingly, about people needing instructions on packets of crumpets (People are stupid)

The general thrust of the post was that instructions on packaging didn’t need to be quite so literal and direct.

I take it back. I reverse my position.

Yesterday morning, in the shower, I fumbled around the place looking for something to wash my hair. There’s about a million bottles in there, scattered on the ground and in the hanging bit, all of them purchased by the lovely wife. I picked up a likely looking one. It said on the pack, and by the way, the eccentric punctuation is as it appears:

relax & unwind – reposer et detendre – Take a wander through time into a lavender filled field… it’s so easy to leave the path of your day… I honestly want to relax

Yes, but is it shampoo? Is it?

The bottle didn’t seem to say. It smelled nice, but offered no guarantees of results when applied to the hair region.

It turns out it was “aromatherapy body wash”. So – not even proper soap. In fact, it probably boasts about being “soap free”. Which means, to me, that it won’t even get you clean.

What’s the bloody point of that eh? Why can’t these people just say what they mean? If it’s just smelly, girly stuff that serves no purpose, why can’t they say that?

Why not “Pantene overpriced smelly bottle of goo”? Or “Loreal: because you have too much money and not enough self-esteem”?

Anyway, I’ve since found a brand of shampoo that speaks directly to me. It’s “Sunsilk for men”. (Roarrrrrr!!! For Men!!!!) The thing that sold me was the writing on the packet. Again, I quote:

“Removes dirt”

“Dirty head? Detox everyday shampoo”

Now that’s my kind of advertising.

Running
13.75km this lunchtime. It was a touch windy, but not disastrously so.

yum cha and nutrigrain

A combination of a big yum cha lunch and an overly warm office left me feeling somewhat fat and contented yesterday afternoon: so much so that a humorous rant against hairdressers seemed in order.

This was a mistake.

Much like the super-groovy “hair sculptor” who decided she should give me a parabolic fringe (don’t ask), the revenge of the hair-dresser’s guild was again swift and subtle.

Don’t ask how, but somehow they contrived to make me lose my passkey at work, so I ended up locked in the lift-well, forlornly hoping for someone to come and let me out. In the end I was forced to make a humiliating phone call to my boss to come let me out.

Also, I missed the train, meaning I had to stand at Ringwood station for 10 minutes, never a wholly enjoyable experience.

If there are any young men out there starting in life, let this be a lesson to you: never diss hairdressers. They have powers.

Running
After the somewhat dramatic homeward journey, a peaceful run seemed in order. Well, it was a run, but peaceful wasn’t really the word.

I had a strange sensation of being somehow off balance in the first 5ks. ’twas very strange, like my legs were brand new. After then the hills kicked in and I didn’t have time to think about technicalities like swapped-over legs.

I do like hills, strangely. I get all aggro, urging myself onwards with “Feel the burn” type slogans. I’ve even been known to let out an anguished roar, like the sound those kids from Nutri-Grain ads make when someone gives them the wrong cereal.

This is why I run alone. At night.

It worked out to be 14.92, according to mapmyrun. I kinda wish I ran an extra 8 metres. Damnit.

hair

Andrew over at AJH has got me thinking about haircuts.

Oh joy.

There’s nothing I like more than getting my hair cut. No – really; I love it. I don’t know what it is, the decor, the hair all over the floor, the trashy magazines, the conversation (“d’you go anywhere nice for your holidays love?” “No, bugger off”) the people who don’t understand the concept of “just half an inch off”. I could go on and on.

And I will.

I used to try to break the monotony by giving a false name, false job etcetera and bull-shitting my way through the whole awful experience. I found it passed the time nicely pretending to be Barry the builder from Broadmeadows; really into V8 supercars and kick-boxing. Then one day in a “Supercuts” in some outer suburban shopping-centre, I had a sort of epiphany by way of an unexpected reflection in a window, and realised telling porky-pies in a shopping centre was a bit too sad for words.

Now, in summer I just stick to the script – “Number 2, all over. Straight across the back. Thanks”, and a nasty glare that says “don’t even try to make conversation”.

The razor cut has the added benefit of cutting down the daily hair-preparation time to an absolute minimum.

It doesn’t work so well in winter though, when I require a bit more foliage to protect the old boof-head. In winter I just let them cut it any-old-how. It never stays in any one style for longer than 5 minutes anyway, at least not intentionally. So I don’t care.

Incidentally, why do they bother showing you the back of your head? I don’t give a stuff what it looks like – I can’t see it!