Ocsober. Just kidding.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Ocsober? Really??

Look, I do know quite a few people who take the occasional month off the booze. Some of then even do it regularly, like, every year. Some of them are even my friends. It's not something I would choose to do myself, even though I'm pretty sure it can be done. I routinely take several days off the booze with no ill effects, but a whole month is just way too much unnecessary denial for me.

Why am I even mentioning this? Well only because I wanted to start an October thread whilst I have a quiet moment (sitting alongside a very nice glass of Scotch too, by the way), and because (as you've probably guessed) I didn't actually run today, so I have no run to write of. Coming off the dreaded night shifts and having to pack my bags to fly to Adelaide for a funeral tomorrow has left me short of time and disinclined to venture outdoors in running togs, which, I hasten to add, are already packed in my suitcase. I'll be in Adelaide four days all up, and will be a little disappointed if I can't squeeze in some sort of run in that time. But I ain't promising, because after the funeral there is a wake, and the next day is grand final day, and then we're celebrating my youngest son's 25th birthday and ... well, I'm sure you get my drift.

Never mind, things seem to be picking up a little around here at the moment, what with Stillwaddler's re-emergence, and the resultant reappearance of the mighty El Gordo as well, it's all quite exciting. Who knows, maybe even Sweder will pick up the pen again and run amok (so to speak) with his prose. I'd like to think so, anyhow.

OK, a mere couple of hours sleep awaits, before emerging at 4 a.m., not to run, but to catch the first very early train to the airport at 4:39 a.m.  It's odd how I can routinely arise at that time to go running, but to willingly awake at that hour to catch a train to the airport just seems ... wrong. Inhuman, even.

Merde!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The Run's End - A Funeral.

I like funerals. It’s a funny thing to say. It’s a bit like saying ‘I like natural disasters’, which is also true for me. That’s not to say the events or their consequences are anything to be enjoyed or celebrated, but they do have a way of bringing out the best in people and it’s this sense of community that appeals to me. At times of natural, or even man-made disaster, people pull together in surprising and heart-warming ways to make things better, and that’s a truly great thing to experience.

Similarly, funerals have a way of bringing out the better nature of the mourners, which allows us to honour the deceased person’s life. I know this is a tricky moral dilemma for some who see funerals as bordering on hypocrisy. It’s true that like a job reference, a funeral focuses on a few highlighted positive aspects and completely ignores the negatives about a person. But no-one is perfect, and in death I like to think there is little wrong with celebrating the sunnier side of a person’s character.

The funeral we attended was one of the most interesting I’ve ever been too. The deceased was a genuine ‘rough diamond’ – a heart of gold encased in a scarred and troubled working man’s visage who died way too soon, on the wrong side of fifty. Many of the mourners were of a similar type. Some arrived clearly already half tanked and one or two even drank openly during the service. Whilst it might seem disrespectful, I suspect in their own eyes it was far from being so.

The truly surprising thing was how well some of those people spoke. And others, too traumatised to speak, had written brief but eloquent words of praise for their deceased friend. The number of mourners also was a huge surprise, being one of the largest funerals I think I’ve attended. Even more surprising, nearly everyone also attended the actual burial following the commemoration service.

It was also the only funeral I’ve attended where the sole choice of music played was AC/DC, and we left the chapel to the cranked strains of ‘Highway To Hell’, simultaneously both appropriate and ironic, although given the deceased's name of 'Burns' perhaps less ironic than it seemed at the time. I’ve noticed over the years that funerals nowadays are more likely to feature rock and even some metal than ‘Nearer My God To Thee’, but this was taking it to whole new level.

As you might guess, the wake was a monster. A confirmed Jim Beam and Coke man, friends and family honoured his choice with a seemingly endless supply of the stuff. All I can say is that I have never drunk so much bourbon in a single night before, and I am stupendously glad I didn’t mix my drinks as it took two full days to recover, and was manageable only for that fact of sticking to the Jim Beam alone.

In the end, it served to reinforce my belief that funerals are good things. Like a long distance run, they can be tough to endure, but you come out the other end a better person for the experience. And whilst the funeral isn’t about you of course, you still learn a lot about yourself as well as the deceased and the other mourners.

We returned to Sydney in time for an early heatwave which has disrupted the running schedule still further. But the weather will improve soon, and I’ve now more reason than ever to celebrate my good health by keeping it so with some regular exercise, and perhaps a little less Jim Beam. Well, I say that, but last night a birthday celebration yielded way too much beer and wine again, which makes me wonder how committed I am to this running business.

No, run I must. And I will.



 

[glaconman]

Lt. Col. Frank Slade: Clear them little bottles off. And when I get off the phone here, call up Hyman and tell him I want it wall to wall with John Daniels.

Charlie Simms: Don't you mean Jack Daniels?

Lt. Col. Frank Slade: He may be Jack to you son, but when you've known him as long as I have... that's a joke, son.

[Sweder]

I liked that piece a lot.
Agreed, eulogies at funerals can appear a little late.
'If only he/ she were here to see/ hear this' etc and so forth.
We should remember that the fond recollections and anecdotes are not for those gone but those gathered, a balm to sooth the pain of loss.

Oh, and by the way

   

[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?
 
 
 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Here we go - the last day of October. What a shitty month it has been, with virtually nil running and yet it finishes with an injury. For the last two weeks I've had a flaring of arthritis in my left big toe which has me limping with pain, and any attempt at running is rewarded only with laser beams of agony. The pain is now slowly subsiding (I think - maybe I'm just becoming accustomed to it), but the awkward gait that results from all this has further resulted in a strained left calf. So here I am, hobbling around as if I've just run a marathon when in fact I've run not at all, my clothes have shrunk and I'm feeling frustrated and flabby. 

November though; that's going to be the month. Oh yes, just you wait and see.

This time...

[Charliecat5]

November though; that's going to be the month. Oh yes, just you wait and see.

This time...

Let's set a target - a bit of peer pressure.  I'm not suggesting anything daft, but what about a minimum of 40 miles - 10 miles a week?  It will get us out there and back into the groove.  Or back into the pub.  Either way it's a result 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

November though; that's going to be the month. Oh yes, just you wait and see.

This time...

Let's set a target - a bit of peer pressure.  I'm not suggesting anything daft, but what about a minimum of 40 miles - 10 miles a week?  It will get us out there and back into the groove.  Or back into the pub.  Either way it's a result 

Dashed good idea, CC5. Just as soon as my foot health is restored (better yesterday and again today, so here's hoping), I'll be into it. 10mi / 16km per week sounds like a reasonable start.

It's Govember.

[Charliecat5]

November though; that's going to be the month. Oh yes, just you wait and see.

This time...

Let's set a target - a bit of peer pressure.  I'm not suggesting anything daft, but what about a minimum of 40 miles - 10 miles a week?  It will get us out there and back into the groove.  Or back into the pub.  Either way it's a result 

Dashed good idea, CC5. Just as soon as my foot health is restored (better yesterday and again today, so here's hoping), I'll be into it. 10mi / 16km per week sounds like a reasonable start.

It's Govember.

Total for Govember so far: 10:54 miles.  How you getting on?  

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

November though; that's going to be the month. Oh yes, just you wait and see.

This time...

Let's set a target - a bit of peer pressure.  I'm not suggesting anything daft, but what about a minimum of 40 miles - 10 miles a week?  It will get us out there and back into the groove.  Or back into the pub.  Either way it's a result 

Dashed good idea, CC5. Just as soon as my foot health is restored (better yesterday and again today, so here's hoping), I'll be into it. 10mi / 16km per week sounds like a reasonable start.

It's Govember.

Total for Govember so far: 10:54 miles.  How you getting on?  

Not quite that far, CC5. The foot is still painful to walk on, and running is extremely painful, so my mileage is a little lower than yours. About ten a half miles short.