Tick tock!

So Ben has gone into "holiday training". He's riding his bike loads, swimming during his lunch breaks, and wearing in his new skateboard like a bucketful of gnar. Also, he is doing loads of writing, which is spectacular - I think that me being away most nights selling t-shirts helps.

Yes, it's me, the disappointment you've all been waiting for. I'm 8 songs behind, the band never played in Bathurst (and now the Buckleys have moved to Scone, so the challenge is kind of moot anyway), schools were harder things to infiltrate than first thought, I still don't have my licence, and I somehow never made it on TV.

I guess priorities changed. I still blame the pure evil that was my former workplace for this spiral of desperation and general chaos, although I wholeheartedly know that leaving was the best decision I could have made. I also blame the car for shaking any faith I had in my driving abilities and for taking all our money. Putting more energy back into the band was another factor that veered me off course for a while and took any spare change left behind the couch.

BUT ALL IS NOT LOST! There are still 62 days left. That's two whole months! That's more than 8 weeks! Loads of time...

I am still hoping to:
- Complete the Coast Track. In winter. It's going to be awful and I might get cold and cry. But it will also be a bit beautiful and maybe we will sit around a bonfire and roast marshmallows and that would be nice.
- Finish the harbour walks. According to Wikipedia, "the perimeter of the estuary is 317kms". Stupid giant harbour! If this was any other harbour I'd have seen it all by now!
- Get my break dance skillz.
- Finish my scrapbook.
- Do my Yeats artwork (I was originally planning to use a digital medium, but then I remembered I suck at that. I'm going old skool and buying me a canvas).
- Cook Heath a lasagne.

And the fundraising ball (or at least, as close as I can get to it)!! All I'm saying is, keep Friday 22nd July free, people. What better way to cap off a whole year than by celebrating the hell out of it for a good cause?

As for the in-betweens, well, we'll see how we get on. I can't afford to take a weekend trail ride, but I will take another horseriding lesson. A couple of times, it was almost like the band nearly was about to consider making a video clip. Now it's really happening, but it won't be finished in time to count. We'll have finished filming it, but editing... not so much. I've not joined a local theatre group and performed in a Shakespearean play - but I have been employed at Australia's most well regarded Shakespeare company. I can't help but think that must count for something. It has been great to be reminded of how much I dig the Bard.

I'm now secure in the knowledge that I'm employed at least until we leave for the holiday, so I can relax a little and get to meditating on all this again. Or just plain meditating.

Meditation in more ways than one

In the interest of keeping on top of my blogging, here is one. I sweep the contents of my desk with my eyes, looking for inspiration. They waver on a half-eaten candy cane. Sugar for breakfast? Sure.

Another office refurbishment, another anxious search for a new meditation pod. They have built some curiously titled “shoosh rooms” and while I’m not entirely sure of their true purpose, I am hijacking one every day at 11am and sitting in the dark. Concentration, or lack of it, is a difficult thing to achieve just now. My success sort of works on a swinging scale. More often than not I’m avoiding the audio, such as the binaural recordings, and trying to just take myself out of the space I’m in, mentally. Focussing on the shapes that float in front of my closed eyes, or the steady beeping of a crane. Then from a corner of my brain, a little face pokes into view and goes ‘hey, I wonder how Carla’s baby is going?’ or ‘I should check that lottery ticket, I’m probably sitting on half a million’ or ‘one day Bear Grylls is going to eat something poisonous and die’. And I humour it for a moment, not realising it’s an evil trick on myself. Then I’m like “waaait a minute”, and breathe deeper, and focus on that floaty red circle again. For a few seconds, at least.

I think distraction is the real key. It’s like when I’m doing a hard cycle, or if I’m in the swimming pool – swimming is by no means my forte – keeping my mind pre-occupied leaves my body open to do what it’s supposed to do on its own. So I will think about the lottery, or Bear Grylls, and then I’ll be at the other end of the pool. That doesn’t really work with meditation. In times of extreme internal commotion, I have taken to counting, forwards and backwards, without stopping. It sounds loco, but it means all I have room to think about is the numbers. There is a downside in is that it doesn’t always relax me, even if I am breathing deeply, however I like to think of it as a type of a cerebral spring clean. It’s also why I enjoy logic puzzles so much.

I also did my first pasta bake on Wednesday night, under Ben’s supervision. He was multi-tasking, working on his bike in the kitchen at the same time. There is something reassuring and warm about this domesticity we have created. Sometimes we long for a place we no longer have to pay rent on, large enough for a dog, and three kids, and one of us earns enough that the other can stay home and perpetuate the domestic wonder. But other times we are stoked just looking at our retro coffee table/radiogram that we scored on eBay and the glorious red fruit bowl we’ve been hunting down for 6 months, and eat pasta bake, and listen to episodes of This American Life. It is necessary to meditate on these things, rather than waste energy with the other 7.5 hours of the day. It is a shame to waste anything, really, but particularly energy.

And with that... I'm off to meditate.

Joyful and triumphant

Last Saturday, I did my first public performance with the Glory Bound Groove Train. It was not in a pub, as promised, but a proper Christmas mass (sort of). Leichhardt Community Church held a fundraiser for Cambodian orphans of HIV/AIDS with the coming together of four local congregations of different denominations. It was a small but beautiful church, filled with people, many of whom were performing themselves over the 2-hour long event. The prepatory email from choirleader beforehand noted: "Will it be daggy? -yes. Will it be fun? - daggy IS fun." I enjoyed this sentiment.

Ben got quite anxious in the lead up. Neither of us had spent any real time in a church for a veeery long time, not for anything other than weddings or funerals anyway. I got weirdly excited about it. I've actually never attended a Christmas mass, and this one was going to be mostly carols! I told him he didn't have to come if he was uncomfortable, but he was steadfast, and determined to stay for at least our second stint - the choir sang at three different points during the night.

We had to learn "Prepare Ye The Way of the Lord" on the fly when we arrived. Fortunately it has only one line, and being an alto, my part was the melody which I already knew. After asking for peace on earth and good will to all humanity, the carols began. Such a small but resonant building filled with powerful voices was quite overwhelming. Other performers contributed. There was a bluegrass trio, three precocious brothers playing guitars and belting out self-composed Christmas songs (like Hanson, if they were John Williamson's kids), some soloists. We got up after this to do "Out of The Depths" - a solemn, majestic hymn-like song, "In The Morning" - a more uptempo call-and-response number with the lovely Lisa taking solo position, and "Soon I Will Be Done" - a proper gospel spiritual with hand clapping and a good old "ohhhh" hollered in the middle for good measure. It was magical. Ben said that some people actually walked into the church off the street because they were lured by the singing. As we sang the opening number, I could hear the voices swelling and soaring around the room. Was what I was feeling a response to the music, or to the whole experience? Religion is a touchy issue at best, and having not kept more than a private vigil to it since my Catholic school days, I couldn't help but try to interpret the emotion. However, I've been known to get blubbery listening to the likes of Hot Chip sometimes ('One Life Stand' is actually really powerful, okay??), so I tried to just go with it and not get bogged down in logic for a change.

After that Mic Conway got up and did an insane mix of ukulele, vaudeville, magic tricks and tap dancing. I could not believe my ears when he did a performance piece on an evolutionary race. This really was progressive religion (and thank God for it). I was absolutely entranced by the whole thing and wondered how a guy who had won an ARIA award was now singing "Puttin' on the Ritz" inside a small community church. Brilliant.

More carols followed, more soloists, an offering and a prayer, then we returned to the altar to sing our last two songs: "Trouble in my Way" - another call and response with the basses taking the coveted solo, and finally "Every Time I Feel The Spirit". I was scared our clapping was going to steer us all over the place (rehearsals have been hit and miss) but we kept it together and closed on a high. It was such a fantastic thing to be a part of and I was so proud of us all. Even Ben said he'd enjoyed singing along with the carols.

All that prolonged singing in a range higher than I'm used to made me a bit woozy and I had to go straight home rather than stay for the supper after the show. Ben and Crunk came to collect me and I was fast asleep within about 10 minutes. Must have been all that cleansing of the soul.

Sydney to Gong - the saga

5.20am. That’s what time it was when Ben left the house, in the dark, on Sunday morning. I wished him luck, waved goodbye, and decided to try to get another hour’s worth of sleep before getting ready myself. It didn’t work. We were too buzzy.

I had planned big things for Woodstock the bicycle – he was naked: pannier-less, sans-basket. I thought I could shove a bag with a change of clothes and various other goodies under the pannier rack, but then I freaked out at the last minute, worried that the bag would come flying off and wreak all kinds of havoc. So in the end I went with a bottle of Gatorade and a lightweight jacket, with my ID and some loose change in a coin pouch in the back of my gym pants. We were streamlining. In my mind, I needed all the help I could get and if that meant slightly less wind resistance, then I’d take it.

Woodstock and I met Carly-le and her new bike Lady Bump at Newtown station. Carly was even wearing an orange bike shirt, which for someone who has more than a passing aversion to this colour, was already a spectacular step forward. One small step for lady, one giant leap for lady-kind! We wheeled our way down to Sydney Park and were greeted with our first volunteers, frantically waving their plastic noisemakers and pointing giant foam fingers leading us to the start line. We hadn’t even started and we were getting cheers.

Ben’s group had left the starting line at 6.15am so he was well on his way. Our start time was 8am. We saw the main group surge from under the starting flag while we ate a preparatory Mars Bar, shared a free muffin and pinned our rider numbers on. We also nabbed some free Power Bar Gel Blasts, intense little chewy sweets claiming to be pure energy. We saw two bears on a tandem go by. And then we went under the flag, and were on our way. It was 8.05am.

If there was one thing we didn’t want to do, it was burn out early. Neither of us had ridden anywhere even close to 90km in one sitting before, so our mantra became “slow and steady finishes the race”. Most of the roads at the start were segregated by witches hats, so I felt pretty safe, and since we’d left after the main 8am rush we didn’t have the problem of being stuck within a cluster of cyclists (or a ‘peloton’ as I learnt the collective term is for such a group). This had actually been one of my main concerns – being trapped in a pack and having to keep up with them for fear of causing an accident. Fortunately we had long stretches of road to ourselves and were overtaken by many more pelotons as we continued to the first stop at a leisurely pace.

The bike track along Brighton-le-Sands was a pretty cool. To our left was Botany Bay and on the other side of that was the airport, complete with 747s magnificently cruising in over the water. We decided to take some photos while we still looked ‘fresh’.

There were 8 pit stops along the way, and we checked in at the first one to adjust our seats (mine had slipped down to a level where I could just about lick my knees). 14kms down and we’d not even broken a sweat. However it was 16kms to the next one at Loftus Oval and I was quite relieved to see that one appear. We restocked on fluids and muffins (much tastier than expected). I’d received a text from Ben saying he’d made it past Waterfall and the 10kms after that were awful. We tried not to pay too much attention to it.

We passed the third checkpoint, Engadine, where the 58km riders were joining us. “Carly-le,” I said, “We could have started from here!” We continued all the way to Waterfall where we did a quick refill of our water bottles and pushed on. Carly saw an ambulance with a woman inside looking a little worse for wear. We tried not to pay too much attention to that either.

I thought Ben had his checkpoints confused, because after Waterfall it got breathtakingly grand. We were in the National Park now and had a super awesome downhill ride for what felt like an eternity. Dappled sun through the forest canopy, whipbirds cheering us on, just a few other bikes dotted on the road, no cars. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done. It was like a scene from some triumphant coming-of-age film. I felt like whooping and hollering and the wind whistled past like one long joyous high five. (I later found out that Ben’s group had been escorted down this section due to a quite serious accident halfway down. That, combined with being in a tight huddle of cyclists, made the experience not quite as enjoyable for him). It was also somewhere along this section that we hit the 45km mark. Halfway!

The next checkpoint after Waterfall was the National Park lunch stop. We had told ourselves we’d stop there and get a sausage, and that was quite a motivating factor once the wonderful decline started turning in the opposite direction. “Just after this next hill,” we encouraged each other. After what felt like a long time, and halfway up a particularly long and winding incline, Carly turned to me and said, very calmly, “Dee dee… where are the sausages?”

You can only imagine how disappointed we were when we made it to the checkpoint and they HAD RUN OUT OF SAUSAGES. Overall this event was extremely well organised, but the lack of sausages was a bit traumatic. Yes it was almost 12pm by this point, but it wasn’t like there wasn’t anyone behind us… we had to settle for a couple more muffins instead and Carly sampled some coffee. We had a little rest there and chomped up some more gel bursts before heading back onto the hill. Still 39km to go.

What we didn’t realise at this time was that we were halfway up Bald Hill – the toughest part of the course. Not knowing this was inadvertently an excellent strategy. It was reassuring to see how slowly everyone was taking off after the lunch stop, and we were all pedalling uphill but still with enough energy left to briefly converse with each other. There was an amazing man who had a buggy attached to the back of his bicycle, pulling along his wife who suffered from MS. We rode with them for a while. We also saw a surprising number of tandems and a few younger children putting in the hard yards. We even saw the bears again. We were so rejuvenated after the beautiful ride through the national park and the lunch stop that we didn’t seem to recognise we were in the middle of the difficult bit. We started overtaking people on these hills. We were machines!

Just as we started to tire of going uphill, a vast sky appeared. Otford Lookout greeted us, with 30kms to go.


This was the last time that Carly and I stopped. We were surprised at how well we were holding up, but we also could see Wollongong far in the distance. And the hardest bit was over (theoretically).

At the top of Bald Hill, we could see down into Stanwell Park and the Grand Pacific Drive ahead of us. Due to the steepness of the hill, we were escorted by police motorcycle down into the town, but at greater speed than expected. Going downhill is fun. The views were gorgeous and the beach smelt wonderful. Going over the Sea Cliff Bridge was fricking amazing too. Hello Pacific Ocean.

The last 20kms, while not terribly challenging terrain, was tough on tired legs. The hills were small but heaved with effort. Scarborough was the one place where we were forced to dismount, three quarters of the way up a sharp ascent. I made the mistake of trying to stand and pedal. It was my downfall (not literally. I am happy to say we made it through the entire ride accident-free). As we went by Scarborough Hotel, we observed a large number of bikes locked up outside. Turns out that many seasoned riders use this as an un-posted pit stop for a hard-earned beer. We pulled up at some traffic lights later and one of the policemen asked if we’d stopped there. We hadn’t, but some others in our pack had, and asked “you haven’t brought your breathalizer, have you?” In keeping with the spirit of the thing, the policeman patted his pockets and replied “nah, don’t think I’ve got it on me today”.

We were looking for markers telling us how far we had to go, and each time seemed like it was lying. “That definitely felt like longer than 5kms.” My right knee decided to complain very loudly at around the 20km mark. We passed 15kms, 13kms, then finally 10kms. We had made it to Wollongong. Traffic lights kicked in and stopping became the enemy – red lights meant a dismount and violent cramping. I tried to push with my good leg and keep the other one moving but without the pressure.

Then, a bike path, and people waving, and lovely volunteers yelling encouragement as we neared the end. Stuart Park - 1 km! I could barely believe it. Then we saw the Finish banner – what an amazing sight. Determined to finish strong, we both pedalled up the path – and then were waved onto the grass towards the finish line which was a horrible swampy mess. It felt so cruel to have to crawl through this quagmire in the final 10 metres and all I could think of was “don’t fall off now… please don’t fall off now…” Fortunately, neither of us did. According to my watch (which was later discovered to have gained 20 minutes during the course of the journey… strange), we arrived at 3.55pm. 6 hours and 50 minutes of cycling. We were still amazed. Did we just do that?

Mission accomplished

Just so you know, we all made it to Wollongong yesterday. I had planned to take some video footage at various stops but freaked out at the last minute and realised I had nowhere to keep my camera while riding, so I will have to share a few photos from Carly's camera phone later. I will write a proper post when I'm not still so sore and tired (and hideously sunburnt), but the good news is, we made it the whole 90kms and were still smiling at the end of it. I was telling people it took us 6 hours 50 minutes but that was before I realised that my kinetic watch had somehow sped itself up by 20mins during the course of the ride. Weird. So, we did it in somewhere between 6hrs 30mins and 6hrs 50mins, including stops. Ben did it in something like 4 hours, because he is an incredible freak.

I'm so proud of us! And collectively we raised $1700 for MS. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday, really.

And that was the weekend.

On Saturday morning, I woke up quietly buzzing. Wow! We’re going horseriding! And we’re driving there in our new car! And we’re going to hang out with Jaimi! Our lesson had been bumped forward to 1pm which meant more time to check out Jaimi’s hood and still fit in a well-deserved BBQ afterwards. I tried to piece together a suitable wardrobe, aware that my yoga pants were perhaps not quite as fashionable as I’d led myself to believe but wearing them anyway, and got out a notepad to plot a route northwards. It’s an easy journey but as only passenger and chief navigator I take my job very seriously.

We left late in the morning hoping the weather would hold out. I was secretly studying Ben manoeuvring the manual and chanting “2 to 3… 3 to 4…” in my head as the gears shifted. Then the oil light came on. And then the engine died. And then the power steering cut out. All this while we were going quite fast along Parramatta Road. Fortunately Crunk had enough steam and Ben had enough wits about him to idle into a side street without causing too much chaos. We knew there was nothing wrong with the oil – a new filter had been put in the day before. This is the second time this had occurred, but the first since we’d sold a kidney to pay for repairs. Ben got the car started again and we elected to head home rather than challenge the volatile teenaged wreck with our lives. The horses weren’t going anywhere (well, not out of the valley anyway).

So the car still sucks, and no horses – double whammy.

On the plus side, it freed up our afternoon to go and crash Carla’s birthday non-party. We fitted in a BBQ after all, just before a massive thunderstorm ripped through north Sydney, all lovely and humid.

The rain continued the next morning and almost washed out our gig. They cancelled all the acts right up to us and just told us to “sit tight”. I gave up and went to bed with my Danny Wallace book, but then it cleared enough for them to get the gear onstage, so I had to get my shit together. Thank goodness for that. It was only 3 songs, but it was such a treat to play on a stage with enough room for me to jump around on when usually we are trying to avoid giving each other concussions with our instruments.

Bike maths

It took me 35 minutes to ride into work this morning – new personal best. Self esteem win. I did however have another high flying business jerk dangerously cut me off on Abercrombie St at whom I yelled the C word very loudly, so I’m also glad I didn’t get arrested. Ben’s got some new App on his phone that tracks his journeys and gives him a reading of his average speed, distance travelled, etc. It’s pretty cool and significantly cheaper than buying one of those fangled bike computers. Yesterday he did 9.94 kms in 27.14 mins, so that’s looking like just over 4 hours to get down to Wollongong. A worthy target. Me, I guess I’m averaging out at around 40 minutes for 8.2kms, so that brings me in at the slightly less impressive time of 7.3 hours. Ben leaves at 6.30am so as expected will probably be frolicking in the ocean or gorging on French toast well before 11am. I leave at 8am so I’ll be lucky to arrive before 4pm. Yikes. Carly has tried to alleviate my concerns by reminding me that she doesn’t even own a bike yet... but I'm not sure if it's working.

It’s the 22nd, and I need to record my 2 songs. Jacob’s is entitled “Tiny Mantis” and is about distracting myself from bigger issues by watching the wildlife directly outside my window. Bart’s is entitled “The Ballad of the Substandard Cyclist” and is rather self-explanatory. To be honest, neither of them are 100% complete, but I was kind of hoping that if I pointed behind you and yelled “hey look at that really interesting thing over there!” nobody will notice.

Oh yeah, and we’re playing at Marrickville Festival on Sunday for a blazing hot 20 minutes. Come and be amazed! And also, make yourself sick on gozleme. But mostly be amazed.

Blowholes and buses

I've only had one so far, so I don't have much for a point of comparison, but Wedding Anniversarys seem to be pretty great. Happy 1st year, Ben Husband Pask! We had a little getaway down the south coast where we discovered that the Little Blowhole is more excellent than the Big Blowhole, coastal walking tracks are not greatly signposted, the Vietnamese restaurant is top class, and if you keep your eyes peeled on the ocean for long enough, you might even spot an unexpected and beautiful pod of whales. Good times.

Some interesting outcomes arose from the weekend, one being that Cityrail thoughtfully chose to have track work on the day we travelled down and consequently made our journey 4 hours long rather than 2. We were made to get off the train at Waterfall and take a rail replacement bus to Wollongong. Buses obviously travel less by rail and more by road. The road that is going to become more familiar to us in a few weeks time when we are pedalling feverishly along it (or potentially, when I am dragging my bike along the side of it). Needless to say, it was a little daunting. Even Ben felt a lump in his throat.

Secondly, we are officially tired of public transport. We have done our time with buses and trains, and even hire cars with their stranglehold of garage opening/closing hours, forcing us to drive through the loathsomeness that is East Sydney. The decision was planted and swiftly germinated into a hulking great oak - we're going to purchase a car. True story.

Speed blogging

I have decided I would like to have Louis Theroux over for dinner. And a drink or seven. He seems like a charming individual, although I fear that Ben and I are a little less interesting than the weirdos he usually finds himself hanging out with.

As work descends into absolute chaos again, I am finding the gap widening between things I have to say and the time allocated to saying them. Here’s a brief rundown:

- Ben and I went to the south coast for our 1st wedding anniversary. We saw whales, completely by accident. It was awesome.
- I got another postcard. It’s dangerous.
- I went to my second gospel choir practice. It sounded pretty.
- I have not been riding my bike, because I suck. Must get back on tomorrow.
- I finished reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. … I can’t even think of what to say about this.

I have many more things to say on all of the above subjects but for now this will have to do. Come to the Sly Fox tomorrow night if you want to talk to me about them in person. Dusker are onstage at 9.30pm.

Serious Folk

Well, our excitement about horseriding was short-lived… looks like we’re not going this weekend after all. Sad face. The scary part is that we don’t have another opportunity for a whole month. Time is a stealthy thing. I must remember to keep an eye on it.

Today is my third day riding to work in a row. Wowee. I used to only be able to ride one day, then take a recovery day before riding again, but Woodstock makes a world of difference with her new comfy springy seat and my butt doesn’t hate me at all any more! Ben mapped out a new route consisting mostly of bike paths, so even though it’s an extra 1.5kms or so, it’s a lot less traffic-heavy and goes through some lovely spots – past Café Bones to see all the precious doggies on their morning play date; over Anzac Bridge with a view of the harbour just as the mist is rising over the city. It’s a shame my head was melting as we crossed it. Bike paths through the suburbs are wonderful; commuter bike paths – while also wonderful in their own way – are traditionally full of commuters. It’s strange, I don’t feel pressure from other cyclists or from cars on quiet streets. But on these streamlined paths, the cyclists are Serious Folk, with lycra and millions of gears. I mean, I'm sure they're nice people, but it ends up having the same effect on me as regular traffic. I start to panic. “I’m slow and I suck… I can’t breathe… They’re judging me…”

Anyway. I’m glad I had Ben with me, and he was, as ever, extremely patient with my huffing and puffing up mediocre hills and getting onto the footpath on scary roads. I had to stop on the bridge and take my helmet off. I felt like there was nothing left but hot water where my head should have been. I felt ashamed.

My crapness scares me, mostly. This morning’s ride was the equivalent of only a mere 9th of the way to Wollongong. I’m trying really hard. Really I am. Don't get me wrong, I'm really pleased to have done that ride this morning. I just hope I get better at it soon.

Cycling: a commentary

Sometimes I wonder if I just try to convince myself that I enjoy cycling. Closer to the truth is probably that I just enjoy spending that time with Ben, in whatever form it takes. Hence, cycling on my own is always distinctly less fun. I know the first statement isn’t true: leisurely, scenic cycling is a real joy to me. But the city. Shudder. Oh the city. Here's a blow-by-blow of my morning ride:

8.10am

Grumpy. I was supposed to have left 10 minutes ago and I still have to pack everything from my regular bag into the pannier bag, plus I forgot the map that I printed out for myself yesterday. The kitchen smells like butter and I don’t have any ambulance insurance. Did I pack pain killers? I need to pack pain killers.

8.15ish-am

Ben waves me off happily and I try to shake off an impending sense of doom.

8.20am

The chanting begins: “Down means up and up means down”. I have even more trouble with bike gears than car gears and can never remember how mine work, so I have to instruct myself whenever I’m going up a hill. “Up means down” takes longer than it should to process and my fingers eventually fumble the gear downwards. I try not to flinch when they make the awful crunching noise that means I’ve got it wrong. I swear. Lots.

8.22am

Giant scary roundabout. As this is my first day back on the bike, I don’t even attempt this. I get off and trot over to the footpath. I spot another cyclist turning left down Old Canterbury Rd on the footpath, and this makes me feel like less of a loser.

8.25am

Still waiting at traffic lights. Yawn.

8.30am

Must avoid the horror of Railway Terrace at all costs. Slightly disorientated between Lewisham and Petersham, I cross some roads with awkward self-consciousness, follow a street name I recognise and hope for the best. To my relief this takes me to Petersham Park swimming pool and everything becomes familiar again.

8.32am

I run out of gears trying to get up the hill to Crystal Street. Damn it.

8.35am

Bike paths! Quiet, tree-lined, traffic-free, wonderful bike paths. I heart ye. You make my journey so much less terrifying and stressful.

8.40am

My old hood: Stanmore. I glance at my watch in disbelief. It took me 25 minutes just to get to Stanmore?? Wow, that’s depressing. But at least it’s all familiar territory from here. Please, please get easier.

8.45am

I go up Trade St rather than Bedford St, because Ben says it is easier than Albermarle which has always been my Achilles Heel. I manage that ok but then realise I have to turn onto Albermarle Street anyway, just halfway up. Foiled! Stupid Albermarle Street. I swear some more.

8.47am

Camperdown Park! Puppies! Open space! The world is a nice place again. I see 2 French Bulldogs, and a Schnauzer with a red collar on that I briefly consider putting in my basket before pedalling away furiously. I don’t, though. Then I cross over into Prospect Street, and a lady on a Vespa lets me pass, smiles and says “Nice bike!” Thank God for Newtown.

8.50am

My favourite part of the whole ride is down Campbell Street, along the back of North Newtown Public School. I want to send my non-existent kids to North Newtown Public for no other reason than it is the best street to ride my bike down.

8.51am

Onto King St, down through Darlington, and in the home straight. It’s mostly downhill and I can breathe again.

8.54am

I am scared of the city end of Abercrombie Street, so I move onto the footpath until the traffic moves through. A taxi driver beeps like a moron; I’m not sure if it is at me. I was indicating right so he can just shut up. I mutter some colourful language at him.

8.56am

The new development of ‘Central Park’ looks interesting from here.

8.58am

I’m at the work garage, with 2 minutes to spare. Shame it takes me 10 minutes to get organised afterwards. Lucky I am not one of those people who need to look immaculate before work. I am sweaty and frumpy and my hair is greasy and my face is somewhat beetroot-like. That, I decide, is what I’m working with today, and I’m ok with that.

Eight kilometres isn’t very far, but it is the stopping and starting, combined with my vulnerability for the ascent, that frustrates me. I’ve still got to get home yet, and that generally takes a bit longer because there are more uphills, but at least I don’t have the added pressure of needing to be there before 9am.

So in closing: Yay! I didn’t die! Thank you Woodstock, you chic, overtly-trendy, inner-west bicycle. I know you want flowers and breadsticks in your basket. I know you want me to wear a short sheer dress with black stockings and look nonchalant. But I’m trying to be a bicycle commuter and I’m sorry. Your patience during this transitionary time means the world to me.

My heart, it swells!

I’ve finished Part One of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and am now emotionally committed to it. John Singer, the main protagonist, is a deaf-mute living alone after his best friend Spiros (also a deaf-mute) is put in an asylum. He seems content, big-hearted, steady. The locals take a shine to his quiet charm and soon he is confidante to a diverse group of townspeople – Mick, the daydreaming adolescent girl who hears music in places where there is none (I like her); Dr Copeland, the negro doctor whose intelligence and ambition has estranged him from his family (he means well but ultimately comes off like a bit of a jerk); Biff, the all-work no-play bar owner who no longer loves his wife; and Jake, the tragic drunkard. The heartbreaking part is that Singer sits in his dignified silence, reading the lips of these characters who can’t find solace anywhere else, and never offers anything back to them of himself. Instead, he leaves without warning to visit his committed friend, takes him gifts, and finally releases all his pent-up thoughts and feelings… and Spiros clearly couldn’t care less. It tore me up, man! What a bitch!

Anyway. I’m onto Part 2 and Mick is currently having a great epiphany about her large awkward father and about to throw a party so she can make friends at high school. She’s wearing a dress and that’s weird. I’m nervous for her.

Our Sydney to Gong ride gear arrived yesterday, which is very exciting. Ben is in the first group and has to leave at 6.30am (sucks to be you in the green bib) but I don’t set off until 8am (yay for white bibs). Ben will probably make it to Wollongong before I even get a chance to contemplate the first steep hill; this puts him in good stead to catch me as I stumble over the finish line in a melee of limbs. I had a photo taken with my number and my shirt on, but I look tragic and remarkably pregnant in it, so instead I will put up this photo of me and Husbandito to celebrate the fact we’ve hit 3 years together today. Let’s hear it, folks: awwwwww.

Yap yap yap

So I bought plane tickets to Hobart yesterday, meaning that “Dee’s Mad Bad Dash & Splash” is locked in for the first weekend of February next year. Kat, the harbinger of this challenge, has decreed that Ben is not allowed to come (sorry Ben). This is an adventure for three ladies, and three ladies alone: best friends since leaving their respective regional towns and converging in the university housing of the ‘big city’ back in 2000. In our ten years together, when was the last time we had a road trip, just the three of us? Well, frankly, never. And that’s just ridiculous.

So, we’ll be landing in Tasmania on a Friday morning, travelling to the gloriousness that is sure to be the Dee River, and following it to the wondrous Dee Lagoon. We hope. For all we know, it could be a swamp. Oh, no it’s ok, I just googled it. Apparently a lot of trout fishing goes on there. Sustainable life! High five!

I spoke to Mel on the phone last night and she was all:
“Wow, so we’re really going to Tasmania! It’s actually happening!”
“Of course it’s actually happening,” I said, “Were you not expecting it to?”
“Well… no. You know how we say we’re going to do things, and then they never happen?”
I thought about it. “No. Other people say they’re going to do things, and then they never happen. I actually do things.”

Fortunately, she had to concur this was true. But it was enough to give me steel. I pride myself on the follow through. If my own best friend wasn’t expecting this to come to fruition, does that mean that people aren’t taking me seriously? Because that would kind of explain a few things. I felt resentful. I put my ‘tough little dog’ face on and mentally yapped. I will complete 29 challenges! I WILL! Yap yap yap! Grrrr! Yap yap!

To illustrate this, here is a picture I drew of myself as a tough little dog. I also drew myself as a placid, slightly uncertain dog (above) for the fun of contrast.

Risotto

I love the look on Jeremy's face in the first photo.

All in all, a successful evening... we were left with cheeks sore from smiling and bellies full from eating.

Kitchen epiphany

Cooked dinner for Carla & Jez on Friday night – my first risotto. It mostly went ok, but the rice wasn’t quite cooked even after all the stock had been absorbed, so Ben had to give me a few helpful pointers. He also made some kick-arse garlic bread and we added a salad to boot. And the verdict? They both had seconds and even admitted to being full at the end of it. With Jeremy being quite a strapping young lad and Carla having earned an extra appetite since picking up a uterus hitchhiker, that was an achievement in itself. Win! They’ve got the pictures on their camera so you’ll have to wait for the photos.

I’ve very quickly learnt that recipes aren’t really my bag. I’m one of these people that skims through cookbooks and food websites, kind of scrunches their nose up at everything, and then proceeds to make it up. Cooking is very different to baking, and I grew up clinging to Mum’s metaphorical (and literal) apron waiting for my opportunity to sift flour or stir in the chocolate bits, so I’m ok with baking. And baking requires strict adhesion to recipe. One of the joys I’m discovering with cooking is that I can just make stuff up as I go along, and as long as I don’t do anything too ridiculous, it’ll probably work out. It doesn’t really matter too much how many carrots you put in or how much wine gets added (although I find ‘just a bit more’ to be a good rule), just trust your taste buds. It’s fun.

I also spent an hour cycling around Centennial Park with Carly on Saturday morning. What a fantastic way to start the day! Sunshine, puppies, the wind in your face. We managed four laps and probably could have managed another hour. We took it at leisurely pace, maintained a conversation the whole way around, and it was a lot easier than I remember it being. The only problem was, I was knocked out by a headache in the afternoon, even after taking pre-emptive painkillers. I think I am allergic to endorphins. It sucks. Actually it is because I get "exertion headaches", even though I didn’t feel like I was exerting myself all that much. Stupid exercise. This could pose a problem on the day of the event, but this 'exercise intolerance' feels like such a cop out that I am determined to ignore them. The doctor says 1 in 100 people or so get them but there’s nothing I can do about it that I’m not already doing, so, whatever. Anyway, the moral of the story is, I can cycle for an hour without wanting to die, so that is very exciting news. I think it was about 15km or something, so now I know I can get at least a 6th of the way to Wollongong.

Birds in the trees, toad in the hole

Ben told me I’m not allowed to lie in this blog post, so here’s what happened. We didn’t start at Manly the way we were supposed to. We caught a bus to Spit Bridge, wandered around trying to find the beginning of the trail, then walked the 10km to Manly. It was the perfect day for it – dappled sun through the trees, dogs frolicking in the shallows of every bay, a pack of babybels in our bag for any cheese emergencies. It took us something like 3.5 hours, including a coffee break at Clontarf and various pauses to take in the scenery. I can’t believe I’ve lived in Sydney for 10 years (on and off) and never done the Manly Scenic Walk. It really is quite stunning. We even spotted some new birds, both catching a glimpse and hearing the distinctive call of an Eastern Whipbird, and following a couple of charming little New Holland Honeyeaters.

Typically, we planned rather badly and I’ve decided I will not be attempting another 10km walk until I’ve invested in some more appropriate footwear. Somehow I decided to persevere with the trusty Converse even though I knew they would leave me with the wonderful gift of blisters, which of course, they did. Carrying our own water is probably also another no-brainer. But no matter. It was a lovely day.

We did not, however, follow the instructions. I didn’t start at North Head. At Manly, tired and relieved as the sun started to set, I wondered “What would Danny Wallace do?” I answered myself “He’d force himself to walk the extra 90 minute round trip to the Head and back, blisters and all, and make his long-suffering partner join him, and do it with way too much enthusiasm, in the dark”. Needless to say, I did not follow Danny’s imaginary lead. I know I’m supposed to go in one direction, with each walk taking up where the other left off, and I am already cheating. Is it so bad if I do the extra 45 minute trek to North Head later? I’m still going to pick up from The Spit next time... I’m still going to make it around the whole harbour... My eyes are wide with innocence and longing... Grant me absolution!

We made it home in reasonable time and Ben gave me a lesson in onion gravy while I attempted to make my first ‘Toad in the Hole’. How British of us! It’s basically sausages floating in batter, which I know sounds incredibly appealing, but just go with me on this:

It was nom-worthy. Since it was my first go, I used a recipe, but I think I can probably do it from memory now. Probably.

Charity begins at home?

A Fundraising Ball. For 500 people. 500. People. Ball. Katie G, are you crazy?

I am having multiple anxieties about this particular challenge. Not least of all, I hate balls. I was dragged kicking and screaming to my own debutante. Therefore I know very little about them. Also, 500 people is a seriously huge number. I know somebody who is involved in the operation of one of these for a charity. It’s a masquerade ball that has been running annually for 3 years now. She is part of a huge team inclusive of the 3 major organisers, plus a finance team, plus a bunch of sponsors.... and the most they’ve ever had in attendance is about 400 people. After advertising for a whole year... Yeeeah.

Perhaps this is somehow more viable in smaller towns, such as where both Katie and I grew up. If half the population of the town rallies together for a cause, there’s your 500 immediately. Maybe that’s the trick.

Consensus is, this is by far the most difficult and involving of the challenges, and perhaps the only way of making it happen is to join an already existing committee for such an event. Picking my cause was the easy part: Spina Bifida research. But strangely, googling it didn’t yield a large national organisation for it (not one with a working website, anyway), only state ones. And my state’s site doesn’t look like it has been updated much since 2008. That’s a bit depressing, considering it’s the second most common physical disability in Australia, after Cerebral Palsy. I even established that Spina Bifida Awareness Week is the first week in September, which is soon... but why have I never been aware of this awareness week before? Hmm. I contacted the group to see if there were any events I could get in on.

My third and less pressing anxiety is that I’ve been set three separate fundraising-based challenges, and that is kind of a drain on my well-meaning friends and colleagues. I did speak to Tracey the other week who said something like “mine was only supposed to be a small one!” (bless her) but nevertheless... people can only be so charitable.

The instructions do distinctly call for a ‘Ball’. I’m starting to wonder if a gig counts as a ball. According to Wikipedia, it just needs to be ‘formal dance’ with attendees wearing ‘evening attire’. Perhaps I can get around it that way – by shaking up the original idea of a stuffy old ball. I could hire an indie venue (if there are still any left open) and put on a gig.

Someone (I have forgotten who, so forgive me) also suggested getting around the whole thing on semantics. Like getting a huge beach ball, writing “Fundraising” on it, and throwing it around at a festival. Points for effort, but somehow I’m not sure that idea will fly.

I’m workshopping it.

PS. In other news... just found out they are making 'The Amazing Race - Australia'. Amazing is an understatement. Ben is silently relieved to know that his Britishness makes him ineligible, but Jaimi has stepped up to the plate to be my partner. Seeing as our short-lived imaginary cooking show (called 'The 3-Second Rule') never made it to broadcast anywhere outside our kitchen, this may just be our shot at the so-called Big Time.

2 more postcards

Check me out, I'm on a roll now. Here's a couple more cards I prepared earlier. They'll go out into the big wide world today (or in Ben's case, just upstairs).

TRAYC



BEN



I've also got word of receipt of one of the other cards. It's happening... it begins...