Ocsober. Just kidding.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I have a very clear memory of a time when as a child I had some illness or other which caused me to sleep through the day. I awoke in the early evening and could hear the sounds of the family doing typical family things at that time; eating dinner, discussing the day’s events, watching the TV news and so on. It was getting dark and a wave of immense sadness hit me to know I had missed a whole day, with life somehow just passing me by.

Waking up in the afternoon after a night shift is somewhat similar. Having worked pretty much in isolation through the night, I go home as everyone else is starting their day and then awake to find much of the day has already gone. It’s a wretched feeling, compounded by the physical debilitation of a circadian cycle destroyed by the irregular hours.
 
This morning in particular was an odd experience at the end of my night's duties. Being a Sunday I had assumed when I arrived at Central Station around 6:20 a.m. that it would be largely empty and the train ride home quiet. I was therefore quite shocked to discover the station and the arriving trains completely full of cyclists. I had forgotten that today was the day of the annual Sydney Spring cycling event. Similar to the Sydney Running festival which is held a month earlier, this is a series of cycling events of varying lengths and starting times which all cross the Sydney Harbour Bridge, this being the one day of the year when cyclists are permitted to cross the bridge on the main roadway.
 
With all of Sydney’s trains being double-decked carriages, there is only a small area at the doors where cyclists can ride with their bikes. This didn’t stop a grand total of thirteen bikes being crammed into the end of the carriage which I managed to enter, and that included a Goodies-style triplet, along with its three riders. This further reminded me that today was also the morning of the Melbourne Marathon, and that simultaneously as Sydney cyclists were smugly taking over  the city’s trains and roadways, Melbourne runners would be preparing to take over Melbourne’s streets in their annual event. 
 
On top of the usual end-of-night-shift exhaustion, this additional realisation that there are countless thousands of excited and nervous people embarking on a significant and challenging adventure leaves me feeling as if the loneliness of the long distance runner is a mere trifle compared to the loneliness of the night shift worker. Or at least, it would feel that way if this crushing exhaustion didn’t leave me emotionally, intellectually and physically near-comatose. And I know it’s not just me that feels this – even through my exhaustion I can see it pretty clearly in the small group of blank, emotionless, pale faces of the other night workers also travelling home by train and staring blankly at the sea of excited, chattering, lycra-clad, bike-wielding athletes who have invaded our suffering.
 
The tsunami of cyclists finally alight at the underground North Sydney station. Normally busy with suits, this part of the city being densely populated with office towers, this morning it is pure bedlam as the entanglement of confused lycra and be-spoked machines attempt to find the appropriate exit into the daylight above. Their departure at least quietens my train and we settle in for the trip home, but each station we stop at is filled with ever more cyclists, all heading into North Sydney and the start of their ride.
 
Eventually I arrive at my station where I watch a mother struggle to carry both her bike and that of her very young daughter up the station steps, a slight panic about her movements as they are apparently running late. A small group of scurrying cyclists behind them seem to indicate they are not alone. I also scurry, but in the opposite direction, keen to escape this air of enthusiasm and find my bed.
 
This I do, and I awake some hours later to the now familiar funk of disappointment I began this passage with – that combination of having missed a large chunk of the day and the odd feeling of exhaustion; for despite sleeping well, the breaking of the circadian rhythm still leaves you with a feeling not unlike jetlag that continues for days. Today though it is further compounded with the knowledge that all those cyclists and the Melbourne marathoners have all done something very special, and I slept through the lot of it.
 
It is however a beautiful day, and sitting outside a little while later with two agreeable cups of Jane’s excellent caramel coffee and some sunshine elevating my dopamine levels once again, I feel a little better.
 
I should be out running, but it is so hard to find motivation when feeling like this that I don’t. We have just hosted a good friend of mine for a few days who, following a brutal battle with cancer cycled all the way from Melbourne to Sydney (950 kilometres) raising funds for kids with cancer. We discussed a great many things during his stay with us but just at this moment one thing he said especially resonates: as I struggle with the feeling of guilt at opting out of even a short run, I remember him saying “if it isn’t fun, don’t do it”, the wisdom of which is just at that moment simple enough to impact on my befuddlement. Quite clearly, at this point going out for a run would be somewhat less than fun, and so I stay put, drinking coffee and soaking up the sunshine.
 
However, this feeling of guilt doesn’t entirely leave me. Yesterday I had some stabbing pain in my right metatarsal as well as some arthritic pain in my toes of the same foot, which at times had left me hobbling slightly. Now I know from bitter previous experience that this is an early warning indicator and that I need to get moving again or the pain will simply worsen. More than one medical expert has warned me that eventually these problems will become permanently debilitating if I don’t keep them moving. And so I struggle with the feeling that my self-pitying whining about working the night shift is no valid excuse and rigorous activity must resume.
 
Worse still, as I sit there in the sun I read the weekend papers which are full of items about people with genuinely serious issues: Syria, Sudan, Palestine, and even here in Australia where asylum seekers are being mistreated in ways which I’m ashamed to say makes Australia a significant abuser of basic human rights. In a supposedly enlightened, affluent democratic society, we somehow have it totally wrong. So wrong in fact that we arrest and prosecute doctors and social workers who report the abuse of which I speak in the detention centres where legitimate asylum seekers are being mistreated with no recourse to the law whatsoever. Those who report this abuse are even arrested for their trouble. As one doctor told it, if he fails to report sexual and physical abuse of a patient in Australia, he is breaking the law, but in the detention centres, he breaks the law if he does report it.
 
So I’m left with an overwhelming feeling of responsibility. If I can’t do much to help the millions of people genuinely suffering in this world, I can at least appreciate the good fortune and good health I enjoy which (let’s face it) is purely a matter of luck in being born in a happier environment than a great many other people who suffer cruelty and disease through absolutely no fault of their own. And that means taking good care of my body and postponing the inevitable by hitting the streets and actually getting some exercise. By the time I feel well enough to even consider running however it is getting late and I decide I need to move a fridge (which is after all, a form of exercise) rather than lace up the runners. This will take some time as I have to empty one fridge, move it, clean it and shift a second fridge from next door into position next to the slightly repositioned first one, and have this all done as well as preparing for work and eating some dinner before I need to leave for the next night shift. This of course is all very uninteresting and makes for dull storytelling, but for the fact that I run short of time and have to really rush, getting the job 90% done, then cramming some food down my gullet and racing off to catch my train, which I succeed in doing, only to realise as the train pulls out of the station that I’ve caught the wrong one. This isn’t so serious – it goes where I need it to go, but it’s fifteen minutes earlier than the one I should have caught, which makes all my rushing around like a panicked madman to get things done look extremely silly. Such is life on night shift.
 
So anyway, now I have another first world dilemma. I don’t want to arrive at work early (heaven forbid) so decide instead to leave the train at Wynyard station, the first city stop which gives me a delightful walk to work through Darling Harbour. However it does mean having to really hoof it to make it there in time. This I do, and to my pleasant surprise find it quite invigorating, if not a little sweaty on what is a warm and slightly muggy evening. The bars and restaurants are surprisingly packed for a Sunday night, and as usual I struggle a little with the call of the Sirens; the sights and smells of a happy crowd enjoying the refreshments and entertainment on offer harbour-side. Even the band massacring “Smoke On The Water” at the open-air bar near the IMAX cinema brought a smile, although I do hope they have a listen to Deep Purple's live rendition on “Made In Japan” – that’s how it should be played, boys. 
 
I arrive at work sweaty, but happy. As a work-out perhaps it was even a little better than a short jog, and my previously painful feet seem quite happy for the effort made. It’s not a bad way to start a night shift, and perhaps after all it is an acceptable compromise. The insanity of rotating shift work makes training for a major race such as a marathon a gigantic struggle, but I need to get my head into gear and sort it out. This is the season for making the adjustments and finding a schedule that works. Since the death of my treadmill I haven’t really found a pattern that suits. The treadmill was convenient and simple, but it isn’t half as effective as hitting the streets, the hills of which where I live add a dimension I need if I am ever to run another major distance event.
 
One thing I do intend to do to make these choices easier is to run a few kilometres to and maybe from work perhaps one or two days per week, at least when I am on the early shift. The run from Milson’s Point on the northern side of Sydney Harbour Bridge, across the bridge, through the historic Rocks district then down to the water and along the Barangaroo waterfront and Darling Harbour to work I feel sure is one of the great urban runs on the planet. I am mad for not having seriously considered this before. It shall be done.
 
Let’s see if we don’t.
 
Deja vu?