Cold pursuit

Life is full of coincidences.  Yesterday I found myself reflecting back on the early days when Tony and I first became more involved than being just mere best mates.  Reflecting on the time period when we were between being best mates and then becoming intense sweethearts.

Then later in the day when on my PC checking emails and Facebook I noted this post in Facebook that Tony’s niece has put up. 

                             

The two occurrences, my reflections earlier in the day, and the posting had close, uncanny links.

It was yesterday morning when I was driving along Auckland’s waterfront that I passed a cyclist who for one nano-second looked very much like Tony.  Thank goodness it was only a nano-second as when I took a second look realised this person was nothing like Tony at all, it was actually the cycling gear he was wearing that made me think it was Tony.

In those long ago days Tony’s wardrobe was less that attractive with his cycling and sporting wardrobe looking more like leftovers from Steptoe’s throw outs and yesterday’s cyclist must have delved into Tony’s  box of Steptoe’s leftover clothes as the cycle attire he was in so reminded me of Tony in the pre-Verna days.    

                                   

I chuckled to myself over the comparison between this cyclist and Tony as it did take me back some twenty plus years ago and reminded me of a cycle ride Tony took in those early days of our ‘romantic’ courtship when, to his mind, love would conquer everything, even hypothermia.

Tony and I had been friends, enemies, then best friends over a ten year period prior to our becoming romantically involved.  Once romance entered into our relationship it seemed to put a whole new drive and incentive for Tony to ensure that he never let any opportunity for us to be together be determined by outside influences.

I was to spend a weekend in Thames with friends one cold and wet September weekend, a weekend that Tony felt he could not let pass without being in my company.  At that point in time he was a solo father to his two sons but that particular weekend both his boys were staying over at their mother’s home thus leaving Tony totally solo at their home.  For some reason Tony’s car was out of order and between his being on his own, with his near new sweetheart in Thames and his sons away for two nights, he could not bear the idea of not making the most of this free and available solo time and not being able to spend it with moi.

But with no car and me being a long way away it would seem very much in the too hard basket to fathom how he could make the distance between us closer.  Well, Tony, being Tony, and resourceful as any tom cat on heat, he decided he would cycle his way down to the Thames coast to be with the lady who had been absorbed into his love struck heart. 

He telephoned me the night before to let me know of his intention to cycle to where I was  – it must be recalled that cell phones were not the norm in those days – and despite my misgivings about the weather forecast being foreboding, he insisted that weather was not an obstacle in his pursuance of me, where ever I may be, so I was not to fret and he would leave in the early hours and should arrive at my door around lunch time.

I recall being somewhat bemused and somewhat flattered that someone would even contemplate going to such lengths to seek my company.  After all, I was staying with elderly friends and any concept of weekend consummation would certainly not be in order that weekend, which he clearly knew as well.  Hence the feeling of flattery on my part as he was going to all that trouble for only my company, and not any fringe benefits.  How could one not be flattered!

It turned out that the following morning was a horrid, wet morning.  A cold Septembers day with a high level of wind chill factor.  And it would be a morning that Tony’s tom cat drive would almost be his undoing as his usual good planning and preparation for such a major undertaking on a bicycle had gone out the door as quickly as he did that morning.

 

Tony set off on his bicycle in the morning dark and in the morning rain and headed south along the Great South Road, through the southern suburbs of Manukau, through Drury, Ramarama and over the Bombay Hills.  In the wet, in the cold.  With very little on:  cycling shorts, a cycle shirt, a thin rain parker and little else. 

There is a truckers café along State Highway 27, The Pink Pig.  At some time during mid morning the two ladies who owned and ran The Pink Pig looked up from their food counter as the café door opened and saw one small, very wet, very shivering, very numbed, very blue cyclist clod, clod across their café floor in his cycle shoes, wet thin clothes and little else.  This wet, sodden man, lips gone blue with cold, dropping pools of water onto the floor at each step, stopped and stood shivering at the counter front and attempted to stammer out some incoherent words.  After several attempts at being understood this man eventually had the two ladies realise this sad and wet little man in front of them was imploring them for a cup of hot tea.  But he then followed that request up by telling them he had no money.

Tony had left his home in Mt Eden, with a back pack on his back with spare clothes which had become totally sodden as the back pack was not waterproof, thus meaning they were impotent items of clothing that could help warm his body up; and he had packed or taken no spare food and more importantly, no money. 

Fortunately the cold, wet and hypothermic cyclist happened to arrive at the only café along the many miles of Highway 27 that had two compassionate, middle aged women who took the poor soul to one side, gave him a towel to dry himself, hot cups of tea and even a hot meat pie on his promise that he would return another day to repay them for their financial loss.

With no way of being able to contact me where ever I was in Thames – he had not taken my phone number with him either – his only real thought was to get his body out of its hypothermic state before he could actually remount his trusty, purple Vitas bicycle and continue on his way to seek out his sweetheart.  Problem was that two hours later he was still shivering and in no fit state to rely on his bicycle to get him to his destination, and it was still raining.

In the meantime, back down in Thames, the lunch time hour eventually passed and there was no sign of any cyclist heading down the road towards her temporary place of residence, and she was becoming worried.

Some three hours after he first clod, clod, clod through the café door, the rain had stopped, his body had returned to normal temperature, he had downed many more cups of free tea, one more meat pie, a sausage roll and a big, sticky bun, all of which had turned this half dead zombie back to a real, warm blooded man and he was ready to head out into the world and continue on with his crusade to sit beside his future wife.

She, in the meantime, decided it was time to go, seek and find for fear of something dreadful having happened to this suitor who had shown no hesitancy in this opportunity of his to spend time with her.

He mounted his bike and headed south.  She got in her car and headed north to seek him out.

Forty-five minutes later she arrived at the bottom of the Bombay Hills, fretting greatly and totally unaware of where her male pursuer was;  and he was heading merrily in the other direction toward the Thames coast, happily filled to the brim with tea, pie, sausage rolls and sticky buns.  They had clearly missed one another in their quest to find one another.

Over two hours later, fraught with stress over what could possibly have happened to him, and planning to call out all emergency services, she returned to her temporary accommodation in Thames.  As she pulled into the driveway she looks up at the home of her friends to see the said suitor sitting on the front terrace of the house, sipping tea and eating chocolate biscuits.  He had arrived some thirty minutes earlier, met her host and hostess,  been given warm towels, a hot shower and the loan of clean, dry clothes,  and now imbibing on yet another cup of hot tea with chocolate biscuits.

Needless to say, the relief at seeing him overcame any previous questions she had in her mind as to whether this man’s intentions towards her were frivolous, ambivalent or doubtful.  There was no doubt she had before her one special person who would go to great lengths to be in her company.  This was certainly going to be one very special relationship.

It was Tony’s niece in England who coincidentally posted the saying above.  I have no idea why Helen would have posted the piece but am sure she would like to know the coincidental timing of her posting and how it relates to her uncle. 

I know - The right man will pursue you.  Actively.  He won’t leave you wondering whether he’s into you or not.  

Back To The Past While In The Future, With Friends

Who says that one should never look back to the past? 

Whoever that was must have had much to be regretful, sorry and ashamed about as well as being a plunderer of the future with no respect to learning from the past.

The Maori have a proverb that says one cannot plan for the future without looking back to the past and learning from it. 

As I am on this journey of going back to the future I am finding reflections of the past are a large part of making the future.  Indeed, I have spent the past twelve months dwelling on the past that was and reflecting on the great loss I now have in my future that made so much of my past blissfully happy.

As a result of the many months of soulful reflection on what once was, reflecting on the past, I now feel that moving forward is happening with a little more optimism of looking further to the future.  At least, I am telling myself that all the time, as rather like the paragraphs above, repetition can consolidate the thoughts.

Anyway, looking back to the past has meant it has been a corker few days these past days. A corker few days of reflecting on the past but on this occasion not reflecting back over the past twenty years but reflecting way, way back to the past, to the long ago nostalgia of childhood memories. 

Coincidence created and recreated some wonderful moments to actually ponder on the past, on nostalgia and on reflecting this week.

Coincidence had it that I was invited to stay at night at friends’ home this week, a very old friend and her warm and gorgeous husband.  She could, and would, be considered old in both terms of age and friendship;  she is one year older than me (hah, how I love mentioning that), and old in terms of our friendship.  I first met her when our family moved from a country town into the big smoke of Auckland city, sometime in the late 1950’s; our family moved into the house next door to her family, therefore that makes us really good old friends.

She and her husband now live in Mangawhai, living the lifestyle many dream of – at a beachside village where life can be as busy or as quiet as one wishes it to be.

This invitation to stay with them has been a long standing invitation which we made into a firm plan last week.  Coincidence then had it that our tutor (or lecturer, never quite know what she is or what to call her) at the writing course I am now attending had informed us that we would be given a task of writing about our childhood this past Wednesday evening.

Whenever I think childhood nowadays I instantly think of the friend mentioned above and another one of the then neighbourhood kids with whom we had all reignited our friendship some ten or twelve years ago.  It so happened that the street we lived in had a number of families with many children yet as far as I can recall the real central figures in the street in those times were centred around the three of us. 

Knowing I had to write something about my childhood I messaged these two friends earlier this week and asked them for their own prompts of what childhood meant to them.  I received back a couple of enjoyable paragraphs from each which instantly threw me all the more back to those times as if emerging from a time machine and was once again on Netherton Street where we played, and played and played.

I had some horrid incidences happen to me in my childhood, yet when I reflect back to those years between being a five year old to a fourteen year old, the instant emotion within is one of happiness, and play.  Play was all that matter.  There was no other major feature or factor of importance in my life growing up except who I was going to play with, when I was going to play with them and what was it we were going to play.  And it was all outside.  We were never allowed to play inside our homes.  That just was not done, not to be contemplated; children were to be seen playing outside and thereby give the parents some peaceful hours. 

Play was either in any one of our front or back yards, or more often on the street where bikes were ridden, trolleys were made and tennis was played.  Then there was all that skipping, and hop-scotch, and French skipping.  Cowboys and Indians featured a lot, with real pop-guns and those guns with the suction darts.  Those lead knuckle bones, the marbles. Blind man's bluff, and of course, bull rush.

                                 

The greatest childhood punishment for me was not the hidings I used to get, but it was any occasion when I was forbidden to be allowed outside to play.  I was a most miserable child if I could not play with the neighbourhood kids.  As an adult I often reflected that perhaps my focus on childhood playing was unusual, that others must have been more serious children that I, that surely no one else grew up with little else to focus on than playing.

Well, it seems I was probably incorrect when thinking I was unique.  This has been borne out by the paragraphs the other two forwarded on.  Their recollection about summed up my own, so will paste them here.

The first is from Dene, the skinny boy from across the road.  Dene was one year young than me, thus two years younger than Linda.  This put me in the primo position of having more play time with each of them at different times as with Linda being two years older than Dene, childhood sophistication meant he was just that too much of a little kid for her to play with all the time, but perfect for me – with the bonus I could boss him because I was one year older.  Besides, Linda had two other brothers and two other sisters to fill her playtime up with whenever I was not around to intervene.

Dene recalls:

Very much a working class group of families. No pretentions. Families fed from the railways, waterfront, New Zealand Post Office, The Herald etc.  While most kids got on well there was still the 'favoured group' or cliché at any particular time, that also constantly changed.

Kids having fun without the expensive items, maybe a bike that was put together from parts or a tennis racket, or even two pegs jammed together to make a gun. Wimbledon in the street, Eden Park on the front lawn and an Olympic running track around the block.

Food at all the other houses was always better than home. Boys were boys and girls were girls and there was not thought of the other 'sex' at that stage. Fathers worked from daylight to dark and mothers brought up the kids. Veges were delivered from the back of a truck and the butcher delivered the meat on Friday wrapped in brown paper. Milk came in glass bottles with tinfoil tops and was put in the letter box at night. The lawns were cut on Saturdays and everyone looked after and was proud of their little plot. Hells bells talk about the rambling of an old man!

He thought he was rambling, I consider it charming reflections.

Then Linda sent through her piece of her reflections.  Just as charming:

 

We were free and happy children, allowed to walk to school, shock horror. Verna - remember our bike trips up to Mt Albert and Mt Roskill? - a few swings and then bike back home. Such freedom.  Brown as berries, hair flowing in the wind.

Remember the time we gave cheek to some lads and they chased us on their bikes and we took refuge with some people working in their front yard till the boys lost interest, and we carried on biking home. Remember the floods with the heavy rain, and we all went down to Valonia Street to paddle or make rafts. You said on one occasion that you weren't allowed to go down there that day and you did it anyway, went home to get your smack, had the requisite time in your room then went straight back to play at the Hunt's next door. All worth it!!

Running and rolling down our steep front yards. One time when doing that you broke your arm! And there was the make believe play acting of 'Clint Kincaid' with hideouts up the old wattle tree, and cowboys and Indians with complicated story lines supplied by little bossy friend. Xx

                                        

These ramblings, as Dene called them, ignited such a full memory recollection of life between five and fourteen.  It certainly was a most wonderful childhood and has confirmed we were lucky enough to grow up during one of the best eras in this country.  We played from dawn to dusk and only went back home at meal times.  We would walk or ride for miles and explore whatever looked exciting at the time, including the flooded Oakley Creek and building sites with bulldozers. 

Ah, looking back to the past and reigniting that joy of living when you were a child is good and positive time spent .  We can learn from looking back.  We can learn to from our childhood.  Learn not take things so seriously.  Learn that the more you play the happier you are.  It’s a simple recipe for happiness.  Play. 

This reflecting back and philosophising on childhood and the past has now given me the great grown up dilemma of the now, the present. I am in great quandary.  I don't want to take myself seriously.  My dilemma is ....  who am I going to play with tomorrow?  And will their mother let them come out and play?  What shall we play?  Oh, decisions, decisions …..

                                         

I ain't no Eleanor Catton

I like this going back to the future.  

It is having some up sides.

Today I am feeling like a lucky girl.

Somethings are going my way.  

Instead of winning $23 on Lotto, it was $30.  That was a nice surprise when I went to claim my winnings this morning.  But that is not what I am really feeling ‘lucky’ about.

And lucky is not the appropriate word either.  It is more that I can think that maybe, just maybe, I am good at some things.  Writing being one.

Not writing in terms of the literary Booker Prize award winning Luminaries – good heavens – I can certainly write that many words on any topic I am interested in, that is real or historical, but I do not have a strong right brain function that can create fiction, in any form.  Nor do I enjoy anything fictional.  My book shelves here are full of history books, biographies, autobiographies and pictorials.  To attempt to write 700 pages of fiction has to be admired but not envied, from my point of view.  

This person is a boring, factual, logical, reasoning left brained person.  Take me to a fictional sci-fi movie and I will fall asleep within minutes of the opening scene.  Actually, all sci-fi is fictional Verna.  So, take me to Noddy in Wonderland and I will fall asleep within minutes of that opening scene.  Take me to Into Thin Air, Black Hawk Down, My Left Foot, A Beautiful Mind or any other movie based on fact and the attention span will keep me wide eyed through any overlong, overly stretched movie.  Which explains why I never got past the first Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings books and movies.

To me it is easy to sit here at this PC and fluidly bang out something within minutes, at any time, under most circumstances on a topic that is real, true; or maybe really stretched truth. 

This brings me to why I felt lucky, or rewarded. 

In January I received an email about an 8 week Wednesday evening work shop memoir writing course to be held at the Michael King Writers’ Centre. The Michael King Writers’ Centre is one of a kind in New Zealand: there are no other writers’ centres like this anywhere else in the country.  The centre is a lovely old historic house, sited high on the slopes of Mt Victoria in Devonport and is there to support New Zealand writers and to promote the development of high quality New Zealand writing.  Some very austere writers have been in residence there.

                    

Reading about this series of workshops created some interest in my right brain, but mentally noted it looked a bit high-brow and for real writers, so deleted the email.  Plus, there was a cost to the course so precluded any concept of looking further into it.  

Two weeks later the email arrived in my box again so I read it for interest sake and then pondered for several days whether or not to apply.  It was being run by a reasonably well known (in writers’circles) University of Auckland English lecturer and renown writer in her own right.  Pondered for a few more days before enquiring if the applications had closed, told no, so sent an application in.  Was emailed back to be told there were only nine places on the course, they had already received a number of applications but they would forward on my application if I could submit something I had already written that was no more than 500 words.

Well, for some the task of writing 500 words would be difficult.  For me, writing only 500 words is difficult.

As son Danny often reminds me, “I’d read your stuff Mum, if it wasn’t always so long.”  With the emphasis on the word ‘long’.  It is fair to say that Danny is not my Number One fan.

I did not have time to sit and write something new or innovative so scoured my blog files until I found the one and only blog article that was close to 600 words.  It was one of the more boring blogs, which is why they all end up longer, to make them non-boring.  Deleted a few words off it until I got it down to 507, and then sent it off.

In the midst of my East Coast/Poverty Bay meanderings I received a text to tell me I had been one of the nine accepted on the course.  And to send the money through.

Was bemused, yet flattered.  Then my left brain told me there were probably only nine applications but it also told my right brain that I would go to the workshops anyway. 

Last night was the first of the 8 workshops.

I am now more bemused, more flattered.  The other people on the course are real writers.  Some have had works published.  Some are writer-poets.  Most appear very academic. 

In her opening half hour spiel the tutor let us know how “privileged” she felt to be working with people with such writing skill and talent.  How there were many applications and we were the best of those submitted. We were informed this is the first “Master class” in memoir writing she or anyone had ever taken.  We are apparently most fortunate to be working in this austere writers retreat centre and would be taken on a journey of writing development to help us evolve and expand our writing techniques and mastery.

I was all the more bemused and all the more flattered.

We were given writing exercises.  We wrote.  When one writes one then has to read it back to the rest in the workshop.  They were all very good.

It would seem I held it up there with the rest.  My style is certainly not ‘academic’ but clearly there must be something in it that is worthwhile, otherwise I would never have been accepted on the course.  And nothing I wrote appeared any more or less fitting than anyone else’s. We were all very different, all very absorbing.

At the end of the evening I walked to the ferry with one of the others on the course.  She has had two poetry books and two children’s books published and about to publish her third poetry book.  I delighted in the fact that I was not in awe of her.  She is interesting, as are the other 7 on the course, I shall learn a lot from each one.  And will enjoy the ‘journey of writing development’. 

The journey home had me feel less bemused and flattered and more self-congratulatory on the fact I had actually forwarded the application in the first place and ended up in this prodigious situation.  

Almost skipped home in the dark from the train station, in good stead.  Was looking forward to a nice slice of beautiful cake and a cup of tea.  Cake I had left at home for my running friends to share and enjoy.  It was a very large cake.  I knew they would leave me a large slice to enjoy over my cuppa, particularly after the love and caring I had taken over it.

Walked into the kitchen and saw the minutest slither of what could have once been part of a giant cake on the plate.  The width of the cake fork was wider than the slice.  

When I am a resident writer in the Michael King Writers’ Centre I shall write about that lot.  

        

I am looking for a flatmate

I am looking for a flatmate.  

Well, flatmate doesn’t quite seem the right word to use here.  This place isn’t a flat.  So perhaps ‘house mate’ would be more appropriate.  But then that sounds as though I am seeking someone to become an ‘in house’ mate, ie: something other than a flatmate.  And I don’t want that.

Someone said call it a ‘Boarder’, but don’t like that either.  A ‘boarder’ sounds more like someone who moves in and expects me to play the role of Mum, or Aunt.  I don’t want that either.

Someone else said to go seek out foreign language students as there are numerous study institutes looking for places for them.  But that means I would have to provide breakfast and dinner.  I don’t want that either. I am too busy.  And hardly here at those regular times.

I want a flatmate.  It’s all part of living in the future.

I have a spare room, a bedroom filled with bed and furniture and I want to fill it.  With someone.  Someone who has a job, isn’t a student, isn’t under the age of 35, isn’t a smoker, and is in a profession of full time employment.

I placed an ad in Trade Me four days ago and so far have had 4 responses.  Even though I stated was looking for someone 35 plus, the first two applicants were 28 and 33.  Even though the advertisement stated I was seeking a ‘professional’ person (ie: employed), both those first ones were students.  And the next two didn’t thrill me with their short two or three sentences in relation to their spelling, grammar or terminologies. 

Is it too hard to expect there to be people out there who are ‘mature’ and in employment to be seeking a ‘flat mate’ position of residence?

And why do I want them over 35?  Cause I am old.  Well not really old, but too old to call a ‘flatmate’.  And Mariska who lives down stairs is … well …. she’s not  … not exactly young either.

So the person has to feel comfortable having this aging, recreational ‘professional’ living under the same roof, with her ‘aging, amateur recreational friends’ popping in and out.

And clearly the ‘flatmate’ has to be working as I’m charging reasonable dollars for this person to live here.  A student can’t afford that. I am not over charging as checked out all the other Mt Albert houses seeking flatmates, some, with super duper houses, but with 3, 4 or 5 other flatmates, were charging $260 per week.  I am seeking $195.00.  Plus a third share of expenses.

So.  If you know of anyone, male or female, who wants to live close to town.  Close to bus and trains.  Close to St Lukes.  Close to supermarkets.  Close to restaurants, cafes, parks.  Close to three gyms.  Close to city.  Close to motorways.  Close to local movie theatres.  Close to zoo and Eden Park (the two are closely aligned, aren’t they?).  And doesn’t mind 1.5 cats.  

And doesn't mind living with a person who likes to swim, bike, run, gym (ie: they'd probably high tail it if they were dormant, pizza eating TV addicts. Well, I hope they would.  Don't want them either).

But someone who would like a really superb and amazing ‘flatmate’-come–ladylady/person.  Get them to contact me will you.

And tell them I look like,

                           

Not:                  

      

Athletes: To be, or not to be, a friend

Have just dropped off the little orange bicycle to Ben-the-Bike-Man’s place.

The bike that rode Tony so stolidly through his last five Ironman races.  The bike that decided it was not going to make my Ironman day an easy one.  The bike that protested at having my Khyber Pass on its seat (check the Cockney dictionary for that one). There in lays a story for another time.

                                            

Dropping the bike off reminded me of how fortunate we all are.

Ben, his side kick Owen, and I chatted about the Ironman event, about people and their achievements, about training in general, about life in general; it was all very pleasant standing out in the cool sunshine and having the time to reflect and enjoy.  It was yet another moment in time when I was made to reflect how fortunate we all are, most particularly myself. 

I regard these two as warm friends now.  Tony always had a soft spot for Ben, he saw in Ben someone genuine, accepting yet still stoic in his own beliefs. For me, if Tony liked someone, I would too, not matter what I really thought of the person – for Tony’s sake I would like them.  I digress.

The direction I wish to go is in the direction of saying how fortunate I, and we, have been to have some lovely friends.  And I am all the more fortunate to have so many friends. 

This was related back to me last week when I returned home.  There were some flowers awaiting my return.  There were some lovely notes, cards, emails and texts.  I had a flow of visitors through the house – some armed with their guaranteed entry pass of a latte, one with a bag of passionfruit (a favourite of mine, next to fejoias), others with the always welcomed hug.

A day after I returned home I commented to someone about the inability I had in progressing with unpacking and tidying due to the flow of friends who had come knocking and was adequately reprimanded and told (not in these words, but this is what they meant), “Pull your head in. You’re lucky to have so many people that care.” Was an appropriately timed growling.  And timed to be given just as there came another knock at the front door. It was an effective scolding.

The next morning I rose early to head out for a run, with the knowledge that this day too would have a progression of folk knock at the door and thereby delay any further progress around the house.  What a great decision heading out for an early run was.  Auckland had the biggest, brightest, reddest morning sky that I can ever recall seeing in my life.  It was truly magnificent and seemed to last for so very long.

I know others were up and about that morning as there were attempts at capturing the sky on cameras and put on Facebook. But no camera actually captured the enormity or the beauty of the sky that morning.  Despite the fact it was a forewarning of what was to come; one could not help but be in awe at nature’s beauty.  Could not help but feel a lift in the spirits.  I know I did, as I ended up flogging the pavements for the next two hours, on a high from witnessing such a spectacular sight.

The run, if it could be called that, gave me more little lifts as came across three people enroute that I knew.  Three nice people who gave me an excuse to stop and chat to before heading in opposite directions on our merry way.

And merry it was.  For I arrived home to find a delightful slice of Lemon Meringue Pie sitting on my door step, just waiting to be savoured.  It was.  How kind.

Ironman is over now, I don’t have to watch what I eat – as everyone knows I don’t.

So heading into the future has been rewarded by the positivity of how lucky I am.  PLUS, I won $23 at Lotto on Saturday night.  Not bad for a $20 investment!

As to the future.  I have spent many months wondering how I am to financially survive over the next many years.  Professional coaching would have to be the most rewarding employ I have ever had (aside from Exclusively Auckland).  It certainly can be the most frustrating employ for much of the time.  But the rewards in the people reward is beyond a dollar value.  Seeing people grow, people glow and people achieve is the best reward this coach can have. 

But of course the almighty dollar does have to be taken into consideration and it has been clear to me that coaching will never be a feasible manner of sustaining myself, the home and all life expenses.  That is unless I change my whole direction, concept and manner of coaching.  That would mean no real hands on, no real individual programming, no real coach-athlete one-on-one, no real coach-athlete bonding.  I see it in so many of the fellow pro coaches.  Dollar value is first, individual is second.  That is not a criticism, that is a fact.  Everyone has to make a living to live; coaches are no different from the mechanic, the baker or the accountant.  All have to make a profit to survive. 

Coaching in the manner I coach does not show any profit.  Therefore sometime ago realised that whilst it is my greatest interest I would have to eventually face reality and search for a ‘real job’.  Which I shall do, soon.  But I will still coach.  Maybe on a slightly different basis, only slightly, for I cannot give individuals the same amount of individual time I have done in previous years, future individuals may have to be a little more self-sustaining and self-motivated for me to be able to maintain my own life balance.  Like other athletes with other coaches are.

But I realise and accept that it is me who will have to restrain myself.  Therein lays the difficulty.  I feel for people in any endeavours they do and consequently become too involved, to my detriment.  I cannot help it – it is because most become my friends and we all want our friends to do well, feel good, achieve their goals. 

Which brings me back to the beginning, on how fortunate I am, and most of us are, to have made firm friends throughout all our years of life; friends that we have shared much with and who value the relationship.  So many athletes I have coached have become warm friends. Many I have coached were friends before I became coach.  Most are the other way round.  Life is like Facebook.  It is your choice to join, your choice to make more friends. You can turn friends down whenever you like. Delete friends whenever you want.  The best ones you keep.  There are many in my ‘best ones’ who I met through coaching.  There is something about the long, hard perseverance and training in Ironman  that cannot help but bond coach and athlete, and athlete to fellow athlete.  It certainly is an unusual and unique bond.  I would not like to stop making those new bonds.  I just have to do it a little differently in future.  As one of my wise advisers said to me, “Stop being so nice.”

So - caution – if anyone wants me to coach them in future, I'll still be their friend – they just have to learn - to harden up!

         

Back to the future

Hey, it ain’t all bad with this doleful person. 

I slept last night.  That’s a good sign.  Intermittently, but slept better than I have done for a long time without the aid of sleeping tablets.  So it’s a good day.  It’s a lovely day.  Not too hot, not too cool.  

Have done a seriously steep bush walk this morning, down to a most glorious beach.  Met a full faced tattooed man on the track on the way down.  He was running up.  Quite a feat if you could have seen the narrow, winding and seriously steep track.  I was having trouble going down and wondered at my foolhardiness for doing so and not letting anyone know where I was.  And this solid Maori fellow comes bounding along looking as though he’s in serious training for the coming rugby season.  It was a “phoo-nah” moment.  I was impressed.

Chuckled afterwards though; as am sure that had I not had some native heritage in me and some understanding of things Maori, meeting up with the tattooed man in the middle of the bush with no one around would have scared the bejesus out of any other female pakeha stroller.

He was lovely.  We exchanged a few words.

Down on the beach, there was no one there when I first put foot on sand.  A beautiful coved beach on the other side, the southern side, of Hicks Bay beach.  Wonderful stroll along and minor jog for all of 20 seconds before my body said, “Yeah, nah.”

On the way back along the beach met a local lady, Paula, with her dog.  That was weird.  It’s the East Coast, it’s Ruatoria country, it’s Maori sovereignty country, and Paula who was in her 50’s and clearly tangata whenua, had a Pomeranian dog!

We chatted.  It was nice.  My first real chat with anyone for days.  We chatted for a good half hour.  On this beautiful beach, with no one else except the Pomeranian dog.

Turns out Paula knows someone I know.  Turns out Paula went to Bruce Springstein and is returning for The Rolling Stones.  Turns out her husband is a local crayfisherman.  Turns out lots of other things; we had a delightful half hour.  She told me to stay.  I was tempted.

But. Am leaving Hicks Bay today.  I love this place.  There is almost nothing here but it is full of everything interesting.

Today has a good destination though, going to spend time tonight with a couple of lovely friends so that calling is great as figure it’s time to enjoy other peoples company.  Talking to Paula confirmed that.  Especially special people.  So Whakatane is the destination today. 

Supposed to be home tonight and massaging a fine set of legs.  Am hoping dear friend Shelley can contact Terry today to let him know the beer and hugs, and knuckle in calves will have to be put on hold for a few more days. 

Interesting place Hicks Bay, should have spent one less day on the coast and 1 or 2 more nights here. 

Guess there is a double reason for my finding this place and today brighter than the past few days.  I have travelled the roads that Tony and I never travelled together over the past week.  Walked some walks we never walked together.  Seen some sights we never shared together. But we have both been to Hicks Bay, together.

Not just the two of us, but he, me and Mattie.  Indeed, that will tell some that it must have been a few years ago.  It would have been late January or early February as Tony and I were camping at Te Kaha, on one of our annual 2 week Ironman training weekends somewhere different.  Mattie had come down to train with us and the 3 of us cycled from Te Kaha to Hicks Bay and back.  It was quite a cycle.  Yesterday as I steered the car along the Hicks Bay shore front that the 3 of us had cycled along, I could visualise us and our bikes, stopping at the one and only store in the bay and buying something refreshing for ourselves for our rest stop.  An ice cream each, if I recall correctly.

The visualisation was nice. Not negative.  It felt good.  I had hit the point of the road, the meeting point, the junction where the two of us had travelled together.  It feels like I have done the full circle and it feels good.  And feels right to head home now.  I think I can handle the rest of the roads back to the city over the next couple of days without the forlornness of the past two weeks.

No doubt I will be gobsmacked by the roads we had cycled.  It is jolly hilly up here in this part of the country.  Very big and long hills.  Lots of tail gaiting trucks too.  Big ones. 

Anyway, could ramble for hours on this place and this journey, but figure it’s late morning and time to get off this bar stool in this dark bar, pack the car, head down the tar sealed road and look forward to the future.

I’m coming future.