The wind rattled against the window, rousing me again. Then Tash said goodbye. I heard the clip-clop of her heels going downstairs on her way out to the real world. I pulled myself up and loped into the bathroom. Went through the routine, then pulled on my running gear. Well, I don't have running gear as such. Not like the over-zealous, over-walleted cats you see sometimes, I don't have the lithe Lycra, or even the Nike Air singlet or shorts, just a cheap pair of Spalding shorts, think I got them from Big W, and a long-sleeve white top that an Asian student who once boarded with me and my ex left behind, and over that, an authentic, now faded, Beatles tee. Authentic in that I bought it when I was in Liverpool back in 1998. That was during the fifteen minutes I spent away from the Caven Club and the hectic bars of Mathew Street where the pub owners would all have their stories of near-greatness. "We entered a music competition, a skiffle-guitar night. In our heat was John Lennon and his Quarrymen group. We were disappointed to finish third, but looking back, that wasn't such a bad result... The Quarrymen finished fifth!"
So, shoes aside, I had on about $30 worth of clothing. And even if I was one of the lucky souls who leaked money from every orifice what was the point in buying expensive just to sweat in? No-one looks their best when they're running. In fact, the grimace on most people's faces is anything but attractive. The spittle at the sides of their mouths, the crimson cheeks, the hair matted with sweat. When I ran the 14.2km Run for the Kids two weeks ago I wrenched my t-shirt afterwards and the Murray River was rejuvenated.
I do own a good pair of shoes, though. A pair of asics from none other than Leo Russell sports in Preston. Great range, great prices, a very 'healthy' feel to the place. And they have a very tasty pie shop across the road, just to balance things out.
Downstairs to the kitchen. Banana milkshake. Mr Cow stared up at me, I told him he would have to wait until I got back. Into my station wagon, lightly cursed Tash, sugar-coatingly, when I saw my empty cigarette lighter holder which meant she had the iPod dock. Triple J had to do as I drove to the Maribyrnong. The radio presenters, par for the course for breakfast radio, talked about nothing in particular, and my thoughts slipped back to last night when we visited Coburg Pentridge to see a Chopper impersonator. It was bone-achingly cold in there. A few bellow laughs though. Think I counted a hundred f-bombs in the first ten minutes.
I stopped on Maribyrnong Road for some petrol. The price hadn't gone down since Easter weekend. Did that mean the economy was going up? I didn't want to think about it too much, my head hurt when I did that. Some tall, muscular dude with a 1995 undercut (perhaps he was honouring a bet) and wearing lycra pants was filling up his Beamer. I looked away as I filled up. A few minutes later I paid the Egyptian man behind the counter who never smiles, then got back in the car. The needle on the petrol meter sprung to life.
I arrived at the river. Parked the car, pulled my headphones out, put them in the iPod, stretched half-heartedly, then got going. The iPod was on shuffle. I was keen to listen to a few of the 460 new songs a friend had burnt for me a few nights ago. The first song was "Everybody's got something to hide except for me and my monkey", off The Beatles' 'White Album'. John Lennon in fine form. That first kilometre flashed by, the river glistening. Second up was some Gnarls Barkley crud that I'd continually told myself to delete, so my rhythm was hampered for a few seconds as unlockled it and skipped to the next song. It was Faker's 'Hurricane', a song that I never tire of. It copped a pounding even before the great upload earlier in the week. I went up a gear. Even Johnny Cash's 'Danny Boy' didn't slow me down... until the vocal started. I think I was the only person running and weeping along the river at the same time. That song gets me almost every time, particularly when someone as honest and fragile as the ailing Cash was at the time he sang it. I had to slow down a bit to find 'Yellow Submarine' and then got bored with it as I realised I heard it only on the weekend and too much Yellow Submarine is like sharing the LSD Ringo and the boys were obviously on when they recorded it back in 1967. The last kilometre or two was a mishmash of different artists, none that seemed to fit the vibe of that very moment. I had it unlocked, fidgeting with it. It's typical of iPods, the more songs you have, the more restless you get. You never hear one song in its entirety. Having navigated the river, I arrived back at the car, stetched half-heartedly again, then got in and drove off.
The supermarket was next. I was tempted for a coffee at one of the cafes on Puckle Street but thought the cold air might give me a chill after my run. Yes, very soft. Safeway was a hive of activity. I even saw one woman jostle another out of the way for the last loaf of Helga's, on special for $3.29. The woman who missed out was almost in tears. A few minutes later a staff member loaded up the bread display again. Not much else happened. I queued up. The woman in front of me had homebrand bread, baked beans, cheese, cordial. Homebrand hair gel for her husband. 'Select' brand air freshener. And a sixteen-box of Ferrero Rocher, which were $1.50 off the normal price but still six times more expensive than the cheaper varieties. I imagined her saying to herself 'Can't eat that Select brand... it's too thick." And it is too, like stuffing a brick into your mouth, I know where you are coming from, sister. I picked up the Herald Sun, read Bruce Matthews' artice about Heath Shaw not apologising to umpire Vozzo for tapping him on the shoulder. Yesterday there was more on the 'Chickengate' scandal. It's almost enough to make me start reading the paper from front to back from now on. It was my turn to be served when I realised the self service area, only a metre away, was deserted. I could have slipped through there in half the time. The automated voice spoke, a monotone woman's voice. The checkout lady shook her head. "It's doing my head in". I nodded, got in my car, and drove home.
I had breakfast. Mr Cow was in fine form. Then I sat down at my desk, still in my running gear, picked up one of Tash's tops and draped it over my legs for warmth and sat down to write about my morning, as a way of 'warming up' for the day. My red-inked manuscript piled on the desk awaiting more mark ups and squiggles. Two hours later, could have been more, and here I am now. Time for a shower, then lunch. Ham salad sandwich. Leg ham, seven dollars a kilo.
One more thing, what's with Etihad stadium? I'll just go on calling it Telstra Dome, thanks very much. By the time my brain will be conditioned to say 'Etihad' some other huge corporate will have bought it out.
No comments:
Post a Comment