Werewolf running

My sister R. maintains here that she has sucked at every sport she has ever tried.

It was disconcerting for me to read that. I always think of her as reasonably athletic, and wonder where that leaves me in the scheme of things. I never sucked at hockey because I never tried, but I sucked majorly at roller-blading, and regularly hurt myself at a running speed considerably slower and designed to cover less distance than R. manages.

I run early in the  mornings because I have dogs, and because I am a fidgety and have trouble sitting down or thinking things through if I don’t take off some of the edge first thing in the morning. I run to think (and to listen to the news, during election years) without the Owl giving me commentary designed to distract and annoy in the background. In summer I run with bare feet because my friend R. and I read Christopher McDougall’s  ‘Born to run’ and immediately fancied ourselves as incipient  Tarahumara runners with less stamina, less alcohol and less propensity to indulge in orgies with our neighbours. In winter I run in vibrams, a t-shirt and mittens, because my thermostat works roughly like those in old Japanese petrol motors. Emmy and Loki tangle me up in their leashes so often that I have a permanent chain-mark on Emmy’s leg, and rope-burn on Loki’s.

My favourite runs are the runs around full moon between summer solstice and autumn equinox. Everything is monochrome, and we can go further through the stripy silver bush and up the hill behind the creek, dry this season, where wide swathes of grass have been cut, and a trail with stubble that is hard on unshod feet snakes across the hillside.  It is the end of May, and this morning we followed the full moon up Herding Yard Creek with our paws all uncovered. Winter is nowhere near.

Personally, I blame Greg Hunt. He’s got goblin ears.

 

The real and the imagined

My friend R. has bought a fish van and become one of those mobile purveyors  of fresh seafood you see in rural Australian towns throughout the hinterland. R  is even fonder of bad puns than I am, and there were lots of suggestions for a witty business name (my personal choice would have been The Road Less Trevallyd), although in the event, the business remains named after the previous owner.

In my head I saw the waiting at the docks as the sunrise painted the sky extraordinary colours; the gentle swell of the waves slapping on a dock made of nothing as crude as concrete, and possibly cobbled together from stones and mud. On more turbulent mornings I envisaged small but hardy storm-tossed boats landing with their riggings askew (I’m not entirely sure what an askew rigging would look like, but in my head that sounded sufficiently nautical).

It turns out that what actually happens is this:

You turn up the first time without any reading material, and sit behind some kind of breeze-block wall. The fish-dealer is late. Your curious friend texts you ‘Are you  meeting the trawler?’ You text back ‘By trawler you mean parking behind the warehouse, don’t you?’

Subsequent meetings on the dock see you reading, with relish, the 2014 Ned Kelly award winner. Or doing paperwork. R. maintains that the paperwork was done in a sailor dive bar drinking rum with some feminist pirates, but I have my doubts.

It’s an election year. Unfortunately, you’ll hear almost as much about ‘small business’ as about that other mythical entity ‘the family’.

The upside of an election year is that you all get to be bored by my thoughts again. I won’t even insult you by asking you to follow me on twitter.