Reality Check

One never really knows how others perceive them.

Whilst working at my new, soon-to-be-lived-in place at Conifer Grove last week one of the resident neighbours living to one side of my property came a calling to introduce himself and his son.

My property is at the end of a short cul-de-sac which has the advantage of a good deal of circular sealed roadway in front of the property which even has a central parking area in the turn around point which creates a perfect play area in the street for young boys and footballs.

I had seen my neighbours son, who would be about eleven years old, playing with his football in the street during the school holiday days, with another young lad who appeared to also live in a property on the other side of the round about.

Seeing these lads play in the street, with balls big and small, using it as a running circuit and general play area was both entertaining and reassuring.  Entertaining as some of their conversation were loud and were bemusing in their content.  And reassuring because it showed that despite the general trend, there are still some streets in Auckland that have some children enjoying real play and outdoors.   And also reassuring that not all children find it necessary to be entertained at all times by indoor games of the electronic kind. 

It was nice to have the neighbour call and introduce himself and his son and we had a short conversation regarding who the other young boy was that was his son's friend.

Thus, each day I was working around my property I would pause and enjoy watching the boys play and whenever the ball came flying over the fence to my property the lads would run across, apologise for their directionally challenged kicks and they would retrieve said ball and continue with their game.

    

Late in the afternoon one day last week I was gardening in my front yard when the boys arrived home from school and within ten minutes were back out in the street kicking their football around.  On this afternoon they were joined by another young lad.  This third boy I had not seen before and within a few minutes he came up and introduced himself, told me his name, spelled it for me without my asking, and informed me he lived in the next street and often came to play with his mates.

Was somewhat charmed by this lad's open chattiness and his wanting to make a point of introducing himself - an unusual characteristic in city kids of this era who generally seem fully disinterested in anyone other than their peers.  What a delightful, smart kid, I thought to myself.

Their game of football and point scoring became very animated, loud and enjoyable, for them and for me as I continued with my weeding in the front garden and listening to their fun.

Inevitably the ball was kicked in my direction, landing close to, or almost on myself where I was on all fours pulling at weeds. They would apologise each time for the nuisance, I would pick the ball up and toss it back and we would all continue on with what we were doing.

After the third time of this happening the chatty, new lad heaved a loud and animated sigh of exasperation over their inability to keep the ball within their play area.

"Hey you guys,"  he said, "stop kicking the ball over there, that old lady's trying to get her gardening done."

In that one instance, I realised, I had been given a personalised reality check.

   

I need some Councilling

  

It's been a while since last visiting my blog.  Life has been busy.

But I wish I had begun a chronological diary a few months ago of my present journey I'm presently on of selling, purchasing and organising everything to do with buying and selling one property to the purchasing of another.

One could wonder what would be interesting in the standard sale and purchase of a home, or homes.  There isn't much really.  It's merely the fact that whenever I, me, do anything there always seems to be some added stories, sojourns or hallucinogenic -type incidences which become either classic humour or elongated dramas that later are latterly looked upon with good humour.

So I thought I'd return to logging some of the many and minor incidences of my personal home relocation journey, to remind me why I hope to never have to do it again.

I shall jump several stories - to go straight to one that has 'bothered' me due to the present Auckland Council by-elections that keep regurgitating my experiences in my short-term memory banks.  There is a prologue, but it is not in this scribe - it may come later.

This story begins only 3 weeks ago.  And it's all about our wonderful AUCKLAND CITY COUNCIL and is one of several illuminating experiences I have recently had with council dealings. 

Whilst I was still living here, at No 8, I had been fortunate to be able to purchase a small brick and tile two-bedroom unit in South Auckland.  Conifer Grove in Takanini.

I had signed a conditional Sale & Purchase Agreement on the conditions that I had a building inspection and obtain a LIM report from our Auckland City Council.  LIM report being a Land Information Memorandum - it is supposed to give one all the information necessary to view before purchasing a property - plans, concerns, features, characteristics, sewerage, drainage ....... you get the picture.

No problem with building inspection, no problem with LIM report, once I had paid the high valued dollars for it.  But is a must.  One wonders how many LIMs are ordered in one week, how many $'s revenue they must create.  But that's of little relevance here.

Building report and LIM OK, the sale went ahead.

The property is nearly forty years old and has had little done to it since the owners had moved in those forty years ago.  I had some weeks before I would be moving from No 8 to this property so it seemed an ideal time to organise a few trades people to tackle some 'minor'  changes and alterations to the property timely enough for me to move in. 

Seemed a reasonable thought. 

First job, move some plumbing.  Second job - prior to the plumber being able to come and assess the job I was informed by both advisors and plumber that I would require a drainage plan which, if not in the LIM report I already had purchased from Council, would be held in the Council.

No, there was no drainage report or plan on the LIM report, so I thought a quick telephone call to Council will, or could, have one obtained and emailed through to me.

Seems a reasonable thought.

Of course, one realises Council is a big place, a big office, with lots of big wigs, and little ones.  So it would be a small matter of one phone call with the anticipation of having a bucket load of patience whilst navigating the answering system that Council provides .....  "Press 1 if you are seeking to pay your rates.  Press 2 if you have a  .....  Press 3 if you require  ...."  

Then " Press 246 if you require an operator to speak to."

I pressed button number 246.

"Welcome to Auckland Council, you are speaking with Jean."

 

Hello Jean, says I, as I note down her name as experience has taught me, always note down the names of anyone you talk to about any matter relating to yourself - you may need that name reference in future, especially if they stuff things up, which would never happen here, but I noted her name anyway.  "I have recently purchased a new property in South Auckland and to enable a plumber to do any plumbing renovations am required to obtain a drainage plan for my property.  Can you assist me with this?"

"I am certain I can," says Jean.  "But sometimes they are on a LIM report, would you like to obtain a LIM report?"  

"No," says I, "I have already paid for and received a LIM report but there is nothing about drainage on it."

"Well you would need to come into a Council office to obtain a drainage plan."

"Can I not have the drainage plan emailed to me,"  I ask..

"No, you need to attend a Council office physically and they will do it for you there.  There will be a small charge for the copying of the report for you." 

"Why do I have to physically go in? OK, I understand the small charge, I just thought you or someone there would be able to access the file for the address and be able to email it through, I could easily pay by direct debit or credit card over the phone."

"No, it's Council policy, you actually have to physically go to Council to get such things done, we don't do this over email or the phone."

Oh, I thought.  I can get medical files over email or the phone, buy cars and houses over email or the phone, order passports and marriage certificates by email or on the phone, I can pay my Council fines and rates over email or the phone, I ordered my LIM report over the phone, wonder why Council doesn't have a system whereby one can obtain a mere drainage plan for a little house in South Auckland over email or the phone?

Bother.  That's a trip into the Council offices in town and I've been there, done that a few times before when endeavouring to obtain information relating to the sale of this property.  That was a time consuming, tear jerking (literally) experience when I last went in there so did not have any desire to relive those experiences again.

But, seems there was no option but to pull my britches up and drive that journey into their offices in the central city once more.  Besides, this was all about my new place of residence, be it temporary, so it was up and onward and this request for a mere drainage report was a far more simple and straight forward one that my earlier request had been - the one that had reduced me to tears.

Next morning, it was bright and sunny, fortunately, I drove myself in my Big Van into the Graham Street, central city offices.  After carefully parking in one of only six car park spaces they make available for general public; parking my Big Van in small spaces is not an easy task and for these Council ones the spaces are limited, narrow and at angle parking, making it rather difficult for those of us who drive anything bigger than an old lady's shopping cart.  But I've become very adept at it now and have learnt never to go early morning as that's when all the tradesmen and property developing project managers go, in their enormous Toyota Ranger wagons or flash 4-wheel drive vehicles which literally take up every millimetre of width of their car park and usually extend well beyond the marked length, making squeezing mine past and in any space as a mission on metal conjuring, if indeed there happens to be one available.

I parked Big Van and walked the 27 steps up and into the public reception.  I know the reception well by now and therefore am able to avoid the queue at the general public reception desk and go straight into the reception area where anything building, LIM, property or land reporting or information seeking is done.

There are usually only two reception people there, as there were this day, but not only were both clearly highly involved in deep research investigation with their 'clients'  but there were three other groups of people waiting in line to be assisted before I would be.  And they all were clasping rolls of plans, sketches and files that showed their requests would also be long, involved and time consuming. 

Over to the right of reception are desks with computers which I had previously analysed were used by the general public to be able to access information on property files that could then be researched and then downloaded for printing.

But to get to use one of these PCs one has to get a reception person to key in access for you, so I would have to resign myself to waiting an inordinate amount of time to be able to access, view and find my drainage plan.

Time passed, a good twenty minutes and the queue had not reduced as the two fortunate 'clients', or 'customers' as Council management have instructed anyone in these offices to call us, were clearly going to be a good, long period more - with those and the three other waiting 'clients' in front of me I would need some more patience.  That's the stuff I have so much of...

I had noticed a third Council staff member lurking around the edges and even helping two of those general public using the PCs.  This person looked knowledgeable and informative with those she was speaking to, so when she walked passed I hailed her and said, "I'm just needing to access a drainage plan for my property, am I able to do so on one of those spare PCs you have there?"

"Yes, certainly," she says.  My little computerised-heart jumps a silent "Hurrah". 

"I just need to know the address of your property."

"It's in South Auckland,"  says I.

"South Auckland," says she, "it's in Manukau then is it?."

 

Well, thinks I, Manukau is South Auckland.  "Yes," I respond.  "Does that matter?"

"Well yes," she says, "if it's in Manukau you will have to go to the Manukau offices to get this information, we don't have it in these offices."

"But, I rang your call centre this morning and Jean, the woman I spoke to, told me I had to come into here.  And Manukau is now Auckland City, don't you have all the information for all your city properties accessed here?"

For the unknown, Auckland used to have 4 cities in the Auckland area - in 2010 all cities were amalgamated and the four cities become one city, one council, one mayor, one local body jurisdiction and laws. Manukau once was one city, but it's now just another suburban area of Auckland City.

So therefore my rational that all the city files would be amalgamated and accessible by all Council offices did not seem to be an unreasonable assumption.

"Well, not really, not yet.  All Manukau property files are still out at the old Manukau City offices," the Council employee says.

"But everything is computerised, can you not access the files in the Manukau office from here?" says I.

"Well, I know it seems we should be able to, but no, you have to go to our Manukau office to do that," she responded.

"That's crazy," I said, to deaf ears.  "I find it hard to believe you guys don't have a centralised and linked in system for your properties.  Is it possible you can ring from here and access that file, or that mere drainage plan for me?"

She shrugged. "No, we wouldn't be able to do that I'm afraid."  And shrugged again.

Grrrummppp.

So I returned to my Big Van. And could not get into it due to some overlarge Range Rover having swung into the car park next to my driver's door, it was so wide and had parked so badly that I had to access my driver's seat by entering via the passenger door. Dick!

Then began the long and tedious 50 minute journey from the city offices onto the Southern Motorway and out to the Manukau offices of Auckland Council.  It was mid-day and the mid-day motorway traffic made the 30 minute journey into 50.  Ah well, I had purposely made no other commitments for the afternoon so time was one thing I had plenty of, I thought.  A deep breath, a shrug of the shoulders let me 'let it go' that the very Council who advocates so much for so many future voters, still has not been able to centralise mainstream office information sharing.

Anyone who knows the old Manukau City area well will know the entire area has been a hive of constant change over the past many years.  Roads appear and disappear almost overnight and new, gigantic buildings suddenly appear next to ones that didn't exist last week.

I spent 30 years of my life living in various areas of Manukau so probably know it reasonably well, therefore knew where the old Manukau office building was so was not concerned about my ability to locate it among the monolith-type buildings I knew had recently sprung up on all the new development arounds around it.

Thus I felt most pleased with self when exited the motorway and drove directly to the old Manukau City buildings that are now hugely sign posted as 'Auckland Council'.

Straight to the building, now a car park.  They must surely have similar parks to their city ones, short-term parking for people doing just as I am, seeking information that means they will not be in the offices long and therefore out and gone for their next 'client'  to utilise?

Seems a reasonable thought.  Silly me.

This was not a case of me not wanting to walk a distance to the office, it was a case of me presuming an obvious - that there would be Council car parks available to public.

Wrong.

Another ten minutes was spent, stupidly driving around in circles seeking such, with no successful outcome.  I gave up looking so I drove to the major Westfield shopping centre, parked, and walked the short distance to the main office.

Enter the office to main reception. 

"Hello, can you tell me where or who I see to help me get a drainage report for my property please?"

"Certainly," she says.  "But you are in the wrong building, you have to go to another building a block away.  Just exit this one, look right, cross the road and another block over is a pink building, it is in that."

So   .....  I breathe ... and I walks to the pink building.

There is a counter with a sign over it indicating that I am finally in the right place, with the right reception where they could get for me the right information.

Seems a reasonable thought.

Went to counter. Was a lovely young chap.  "Kia ora,"  says I, for he was Maori and I enjoy that greeting far more than the standard 'Hello'.

  

"Kia ora ma'am, how can I help you?" 

"I am wanting a drainage plan for a property I have just purchased, it is in Conifer Grove."

"I can help you with that," he says, "If you give me the address then take a seat over there I will find the file and you will be able to access all the information on the Property File on one of our computers over there.  So just take a seat and I'll be with you once I find your file."

I take a seat.  I wander my eyes over the office and its people.  Not unlike any other council office one sits in.  Same building decor, same council furniture, same people, same environs, same conversations overheard, let's hope not the same outcome.

Some ten minutes later I had viewed everything the office had to possibly hold my attention any longer when the lovely (he was particularly good looking) man comes over and says, "Sorry to take so long, but for some reason I could not find the files for your address so I had to go and speak to a colleague to ask for help.  And he tells me, we don't hold your files here, that you will have to go to the Papakura offices to access that information."

"What!" says I.  "You're kidding me, aren't you?"

"No," he says, "Conifer Grove is in Takanini and Takanini came under the umbrella of the old Papakura Council so all the property files for Takanini are held there."

"But I've just been to your city Council offices earlier this morning and the lady there told me I had to come here and now you are saying I have to drive to Papakura offices.  This is crazy, surely the council can integrate its system so information is accessible from whatever office you are at."

"Unfortunately not," says he. "I am very sorry and understand how you feel and why, this happens all the time, but I cannot do anything for you today."

As a ratepayer  I am beginning to understand why so many ratepayers get very angry when mayors and councillors have morning teas, lunches,  go on overseas trips, drive in chauffeured or late model council cars - when all this rate payer wanted was a piece of A4 paper with a copy of my drainage plan on it.

I walked the distance back to the shopping mall and my Big Van.  I exited the car park and eventually re-entered the Southern Motorway and headed south on State Highway 1.  

Naturally karma has it that I encountered a major traffic hold up due to extensive motorway 'realignment'; jammed in between giant trucks only inches away from my driver's and passenger door is never a situation enhancing calm and peace and allowing one's anxiety to lesson.  I was very relieved to finally exit the motorway sometime later, almost drove right past my well drained property at Conifer Grove, and endeavouring to practise the calming Yoga mantras I had learnt some years ago eventually had the Big Van pull up outside the AUCKLAND CITY Papakura office.  And bingo!  Available free car parking spaces.

Entered my third Auckland Council office for the day, by now almost mid-afternoon - having traversed some exceptional mileage from my home in Mt Albert earlier in the day, to the central city council buildings, to South Auckland council buildings, now to deeper South Auckland council buildings just to obtain a copy of my drainage plan.

Lovely lady behind counter, but only the one and already in deep conversation with another ratepayer. No problem I thought, I'll take a seat and wait until she has completed her task with my fellow ratepayer. Only there were no seats.  Well there were seats, six of them, but all of the seats were taken up by men who were clearly known to one another and all holding folders and in deep discussion over something to do with the apartment blocks they were working on.

Not one of them stood for this waiting 'client'.  They all saw me standing but continued with their most important conversation as though they were in the boardroom and we public around them should not be there.

I stood, and waited.  And waited.  I tuned out of the Boardroom Meeting beside me and tuned into the discussion with the receptionist and 'client', my fellow ratepayer.

It was someone discussing a drainage plan!

Seems reasonable.

Eventually they finished so I walked up to my third Council person for the day and asked, "I have been sent here by the Manukau office, after being sent there by the Auckland office to obtain a copy of the drainage plan for my property in Conifer Grove in Takanini.  Are you able to help be with this."

"Yes I certainly can," she kindly responded, "give me the address and I will go find the file for you." 

I did, "Take a seat," she said, "I won't be long."

She obviously was not aware of the board meeting going on, as it still was. I stood.

Some five to six minutes passed and by this point in time every minute seemed an hour to me.

She returns, I walk back to the counter.

"I hate to have to tell you this," she says, "but I can't get you that information because the file for your property has been transferred to the Auckland office."

What!!??!!

"Yes, I'm afraid they were transferred to the Auckland office last week and I now don't have access to them."

"I cannot believe what I am hearing!  I went to the Auckland Council office this morning, they sent me to the Manukau office, I went there and they sent me to this office, and now you are telling me to go back to the Auckland office?"

"Yes, I'm so sorry, but there is nothing I can do.  They should have known those files were there and should never have sent you to Manukau in the first place anyway." 

I couldn't give a stuff.

It seems unreasonable to me.

And with that shall end my diatribe....  because the next chapter is just as long ... and that was two weeks ago but I do not wish this to be an encyclopedic volume of Council experiences.  

If you have yet to vote at this present Council by-election - nothing or no one you vote for is going to help this ratepayer, or any ratepayer for that matter, eventually get their hands on a drainage plan.

The Nostalgia of the 2016 Rotorua Marathon

I have to give a speech in a few weeks time.  I have been asked to give it because I am a woman who has run the 42km marathon distance around Lake Rotorua Marathon for the past 36 years.

I have actually travelled to the town for 37 years to run the marathon but in one of those years, 1999,  the weather was horrendous causing a civil defense emergency to be declared in the town.  Torrential rain had washed away some of the roadway around the course making it too dangerous for runners.  The organisers cancelled the event five minutes before the start time.    

Tony and I were walking to the start line in the horrid rain when athletes began walking back towards us looking glum and forlorn, telling us the marathon had been cancelled.  Over 3,200 people, all wandering back to their cars, hotels and motels despondent and disconsolate about their day of facing their marathon challenge having been cancelled. 

Tony and I looked at one another, feigned shock, and then spontaneously cracked the biggest smiles our faces would stretch to.  We literally jumped for joy.   Hurrah, we don’t have to do the marathon.  Hurrah.

At that time we had completed ample marathons and were never highly enthused about returning to do this event as only weeks before we would have completed our favoured endurance event, the long distance triathlon, Ironman.   Whilst running a marathon some weeks after that appealed to some, we found it more of a nuisance commitment of habit, to others and to a minor degree, to ourselves to ensure we did not rest on our exercising laurels after the Ironman event.  So this year we were being let off the hook. 

We returned to our car, drove to the local Kuirau Park, a wonderland of many big and small pools of hot bubbling water or mud, hissing geysers and little steaming streams.  We happily skipped and jogged all around the park for half an hour, in the rain, relishing the pleasure of running ankle deep in the heated flood waters which had overflowed from all the thermal pools.

That was a good year, 1999.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for the other 36 years the event has occurred without hiccup.
 

For the first twenty years of my doing the event I would run the marathon reasonably seriously for a woman in her twenties, thirties or forties.  But the years and the turmoil of the past eight or nine years have seen a deterioration in the length of time it has taken to circumnavigate the lake; a deterioration due to occurrences, age, body break down and, to some degree, enthusiasm.

Each year over the past four I questioned my reasoning of why I continued to pay good monies to put myself through a difficult few hours.

Then two years ago my son, his partner and their little son moved to Rotorua, meaning I now had family living in the town therefore there seemed to be an added purpose to go to Rotorua.  And along with that purpose I figured anyone can walk 42 kilometres so I may as well spend a good part of the Saturday doing just that.

Last year, 2015, the body suffered so much that I accepted it was time to acknowledge it was failing to work as it used to, and acknowledged it was time to make the conviction to hang up my marathon shoes. 

In the nearly forty years I have been a runner I have completed over 100 marathons and goodness knows how many other events.  This has happened more by accident than by planning.  Life merely went along the course of fitness and activity and fortunately for me it went that way for longer than it has for many.  Thus each year another visit to Rotorua became a habit, a routine, not a goal.

But after last year’s sorry effort I did not enter this year’s event as I had quietly nurtured some concern over my health and sensibilities.  That was until two weeks before the event date.  My health meant that a Pacemaker was fitted into my chest in March, so figured if the bung knees and ankles were not warning enough, having a Pacemaker fitted to keep me alive should certainly seal resolve to become a little more circumspect in my physical decision making

I did not figure on my cardiac surgeon telling me it he considered it perfectly fine to head to Rotorua six weeks later to walk 42km.  When he said that, I shrugged the shoulders and thought, “Oh,” went home and planned another visit to see the grandson.

And how glad I am.

For the first time in many years I enjoyed the marathon.  Time-wise, I think it was the longest time I have taken to do a marathon, but I didn’t care and the day was most pleasant, weather-wise and event-wise.

This is not taking into account that by the time I reached the finish line I had mildly concussed myself somewhere along the 39 kilometre mark by doing a spectacular, flying trip and landing face first onto the concrete pathway.  In all my years of endurance events this was a first. My first major trip and face plant, my first black eye.

Prior to that incident the day had been superb.  A mere concrete splat at 39 kilometres did not ruin my personal enjoyment.  This year’s event awakened me to the glorious years of Rotorua Marathon nostalgia; it gave me six hours of mindful and thankful nostalgic memory recall.  The feel of nostalgia began whilst waiting at the rear of the starting line, with all the other old and slow runners counting down the clock until the starting cannon went.

Standing near were five people who I recognised as having been fellow and competitive runners many years earlier.  They too looked as ripened as I;  one standing in his old fashioned, faded and frayed, almost obscene shorts with a posture resembling an arthritic old man – which he probably is.  Another chap was bubbling and chatting away to anyone around him who would listen that this was his sixteenth Rotorua Marathon and that he had completed his first in 1987.  The other three were interspersed among other runners and walkers and whenever we made eye contact there was the nod of recognition that said, “Hi, good to see you’re still coming back too.”

The starting cannon fired and the familiar walk-jog over the start line and into the event began.  The cheers from the spectators are the same as they were 37 years ago, “Have a good day Bob.”  “Not far now Sue.” “Looking good Mary.”  The inanity of it remains amusing, no matter how many years it continues.  One cannot fault an enthusiastic crowd of spectators.

The first few kilometres of a marathon are always fun, particularly nowadays when the pace of the journey is so slow giving one more time to ponder, eavesdrop into conversations and take in the surrounds.  The natter, the giggles, the excuses for being so far back due to one injury or another, the retold stories of their last several events, the comparing notes of how their training programme had, or had not, gone.  Each year, same conversation, different year.

A real old timer

At the 5 kilometre mark I came across someone who is almost as old an old timer as I.  He is older in age but I do not recall seeing him on the Rotorua Marathon scene in my first few years, so I can always let him know I am ‘longer in the marathon tooth than he’.  (I don’t recall him on the scene in the 1970’s, but I may be incorrect).  It was lovely to see him.  A gentleman who over the years had challenged himself and his body to a myriad of long distance and endurance events that no average runner would contemplate. Indeed, I remember him competing in the run from Wellington to Auckland in 1985, competing against some famous or locally renowned runners (Yiannis Kuros, Ziggy Bauer, Dick Tout).  

Running alongside this gentleman, Gary Regtein, at the back of the field made for pleasant company, off and on, through the next thirty-five kilometres of the event.

Despite my falling and almost knocking myself out at the 39 kilometre mark, I finished the event with Gary crossing the finish line behind me; but that was only because he had his own personal dramas of major leg cramps at the 40 kilometre mark which had him stopped for some time whilst trying to uncramp the legs.  The mere fact he actually finished more astonishing.  He had recently celebrated his 80^th birthday!  How humbling is that?  I am but a mere teenager by comparison.

  

I took this photo whilst running with Gary - my camera was my favourite nutrition on this day.

When I met him at five kilometres we enjoyed chatting and relating old stories among which he kindly reminded me of how he always considered my Tony a hero and how it was Tony who helped him with his training for Ironman in Auckland in the 1980’s.  I still tingle with pleasure when folk retell their personal Tony stories to me.  It’s lovely.

Wayne from Hamilton

A toilet stop had Gary run on ahead of me and as I was about to resume jogging on I noted a spectator who has been a part of my life for almost thirty years.  But only part of my life on one day of the year.  Rotorua Marathon day.  This man lives in another city to me and we first met along the very roadway I was now on those thirty years ago when we ran alongside one another and initiated a conversation.  I cannot recall who ever beat who to the finish line, it was of no matter.  What did matter was meeting up again the next year for our running paces were so exacting that it never failed we would end up running together and chatting convivially as though we had seen each other only yesterday.  Last year he was suffering as much as I, as he had an injury, or had been ill prior to the event which meant why he was at the back of the field where I was. So we met again.

It has was always been nice to still see him annually so it was sad to see him as a spectator this year.  I stopped to chat and he explained his daughter was in hospital which meant he had driven from his home town to Rotorua for a few hours to at least have a taste of his annual event, be it as a non-participant.  Had I not seen him and realised he had not been on the course that day, there would be been a harking worry as to why not.  I look forward to him being in the event next year.  Wayne is his name; I have never known his surname.

Hacker

Then the non-musical sound of ‘Hacker’ echoed through the hills.  Hacker, aka Bruce Lindsay, is yet another old time runner (not quite the age of Gary and probably less than mine) who thirty years ago ran a reasonable marathon time whilst stopping intermittently along the course to bellow out a note on an old, dented bugle he carried with him.  He was a member of the Hash House Harriers, renown for the running plus drinking abilities and even in his thirties Hacker managed to do both those activities well, whilst blowing a non-tuneful note on his bugle. 

So it was with nostalgia that Gary and I chuckled at the memories Hackers blast took us back on.  I ran alongside Hacker for a wee while and heard yet again, for probably the sixth year running, how he had this particular injury that meant he could no longer run or train for the marathon.  He forgets he has seen me at this event each year for the past four or five and has told me about that injury each year as his reason for being so far at the back of the field.  Methinks maybe he should get it sorted out after all this while, but he's a male and we all know how scared men are of doctors.  Also, it seems many men do have problems accepting the fact that they are actually getting older and that it is the aging factor which has us at the back of the field.  Sure, the injuries are real, but that they are due to age is also real.  Neverthemind, it was dose of fond nostalgia to have Hacker back blowing that same old bugle and on track with us yet again. 

Interestingly, tucked in behind Bruce (Hacker) is another not-quite-such-an-old-timer, but getting up there, Tony Dragecivich

The Hash

Meeting up with him each year reminds me of the Hash House Harriers, that very old, internationally established, social running club that has a history of mid-week after work running – always from and to a local liquor establishment where the greatest challenge used to be who could consume the greater amount of beer after a run than the other man could.

Tony belonged to Hash House Harriers, as did Hacker.  That is where the two first met.  And the Hash House Harrier club used to be a permanent fixture on the sidelines of the Rotorua Marathon course, at the top of the rise as one ran through the north end of the Ngongataha township.  

Sadly, there no longer is the collection of eclectic Hash souls on that hill – for whom Hacker used to always receive a resounding cheer, some cans of beer, and a roar as he ran on blowing that bugle.   

Whilst they no longer come down for the event I still look over to that spot, just in case one or two of the Hash group ever return.  For the past four years they haven’t.

Ngongataha

Ngongataha, such a familiar piece of road, the final piece of flat running before the hilly section of the course.  One year in the early 1990’s  I ran along this stretch of road and saw a familiar face standing and watching.  He knew I ran the marathon each year and it seemed to me he must have been purposely there watching for when I ran through the town.  It was someone with whom I had a short but sweet association with some twenty years earlier.  It was as corny as it reads, our eyes met, we nodded to each other both with a look of warm, fleeting memories, and that is the last time I have ever seen him.  But each year since I still look at that same spot, just in case he ever returned.  He never has.

Selwyn

Over the other side of the Ngongataha hill one comes down into a little valley flat which I never run past anymore without thinking about kindly, old Selwyn.  Selwyn was once a member of the YMCA Health Club, and had been for many years before deciding to move from his St Heliers home in Auckland to reside in the countryside by Lake Rotorua.  Selwyn was a tall, quiet, shy man.  It took a couple of years but eventually Selwyn’s shy reserve melted and we enjoyed many idle chats over the reception counter. I discovered a charming gentleman, widowed some years earlier; a clever man, his vocation as a specialised engineer meant he had accumulated enough money to retire early and enjoy his three times a week, mid-morning visit to the gym.  When Selwyn decided to move away from Auckland to live with his niece and her family near Rotorua many of us from the YMCA were sad to see him go.  But come marathon day each year Selwyn would walk down to the end of his farm driveway, lean on the gate and wait until I came into view.  I always stopped, we would share an awkward hug and I’d be off, knowing I would see him again next the year. 

Then one year I ran down the hill towards Selwyn’s spot and there was no Selwyn.  It bothered me.  It bothered me greatly.  Why was he not there?  Something had to have happened for him to not be there.

Sometime later I learnt that Selwyn had died during the previous year; his niece would not have known who I was so I was not informed.  No longer would Selwyn be there, leaning on the gate, waving; but somehow he still is.  While I still walk, jog or even drive pass that driveway Selwyn will always be there.

It was along this section of road I linked up with Gary again and we jogged easily along the roadside side by side again. We passed our rhythmical strides by recalling some of the more interesting characters who had run this marathon with us sometime in the long past - real characters that stood out for us by their memorable personalities or personality quirks.

Oh yes, there had been many of the well known and famous ones, but it was the quirky ones that we so enjoyed.  Hacker being high up on our list of enjoyable characters who we hope will run on forever.

The Coalman

There was Joe the Coalman.  Little, stocky, strongly build Joe.  A truly interesting Maori gentleman who found his calling in doing marathons whilst carrying a large sack of coal on his shoulder.

I do not know how many marathons Joe did with the sack of coal on his shoulder, but certainly at least three at Rotorua and two other Auckland marathons.

He was an independent soul.  I would be out training for the marathon with twenty or so other runners on a Sunday morning along the Auckland waterfront and inevitably there would be Joe the Coalman, on his own, in the middle of his training run, with his bag of coal on his shoulder.  I never knew whether that bag, or that coal, was ever changed – it always looked liked the same old bag of coal. 

I do not know whatever happened to Joe, but he was in his forties then, in the mid 1980’s so I can only imagine that he’s somewhere delivering bags of coal to his fellow runners who have gone to their fields of eternity where old marathon runners go.

Cy with the white bobbie socks

Up there with Joe the Coalman will be Cy McLoughlin.  Cy was a wonderful Maori man with a long history of good sporting success.  Cy was over six feet tall, very, very lean and always ran with long, white socks pulled up and over his long, lean legs.  He lived in Mt Eden, on Dominion Road, so Cy was a regular sight for Aucklanders, doing his long distance training around the many Auckland streets.

Cy had been a Maori All Black in his young years, and in his fifties and sixties he still competed strongly all forms of running events as well as in Maori and Masters tennis championships.  I do remember him telling me that the year I was born was the year he and another Maori lady won the National New Zealand Maori Tennis Association combined championships.  That was in 1952.  And here he was in the 1980’s running marathons in creditable times.  Indeed, Cy still holds the records for men over 65 at the New Plymouth Mountain to Surf marathon – he ran it in 1982 in 2 hours, 59 minutes and 16 seconds. 

Cy was a true gentleman and in those early years one felt almost privileged to ever be running alongside him, on a training run or in an event.  

When he passed away New Zealand lost a quiet, achieving legend.  His home of many years is now a dental surgery.

Ailsa

Cy passed away not long after the renowned Ailsa Forbes.  Ailsa loved competing at Rotorua Marathon.  She inevitably would win her age group and return to Auckland with medals, cups and awards for her athletic achievements.   Petite and beguiling Ailsa.  Ailsa began running in her late sixties and was truly the ‘lady’ of running.  Known as ‘The Running Gran’, I cannot recall how many marathons Ailsa ran, but all of them she ran with impeccable make up and a pair of pantyhose under her running shorts and socks. 

Ailsa truly threw herself into her athletics.  It was almost a second career for this lovely widowed lady.  She travelled the world competing in Masters track and field events, marathons, half marathons and cross country events.  To look at her one would never dream she even owned a pair of trainers – she had the appearance of a genteel, refined, elderly lady who would spend her spare time knitting booties for the needy children. 

Athletics and marathon running was good for Ailsa. As she aged more she become all the more competitive in race walking and this ended up taking her on even more world trips to compete in World Masters championships in race walking.

Ailsa featured in any photo she could get into.  She did enjoy any media notoriety her newly found sport gave her and was even snapped by a photographer when she was lucky enough to shake the hand of the Pope when in Rome to walk that marathon.

Mere age made Ailsa a legend for she was running reasonable marathon times in her late seventies and early eighties when she was hit by a taxi while cycling home from her job at a childcare centre in Auckland.  How outstanding was she as a role model!

Mad Mike

Somewhere I have a photo of Mad Mike.  He must be pushing seventy by now, but is clearly fighting the aging battle by continuing to run Rotorua Marathon in a pair of pink Speedos, with his long, thinning grey hair flowing and some weird sheepskin arrangement of a drink bladder on his back.  Once upon a time Mad Mike, dressed in this manner (always with pink somewhere), would churn out a three hour marathon.  This year, and the last two years, I have seen this unmistakable figure at the back of the field and he was certainly making himself known to those around him this time.  I heard his voice before I saw him.  The Speedos still look the vintage of those he wore thirty years ago; perhaps he purchased a job lot at that time.  Not the finest looking sight, however one must give this character merit for still hanging in there, still not letting age defy the gravity of those Speedos.  How can one fault a character like that!

He’s a Rotorua legend, along with ….

Bernie

During the event this year both Gary and I commented that neither of us had sighted the infamous female runner, Bernie Portenski.  Bernie is an amazing runner and is a legend in the marathon and athletic running world.  A Wellingtonian, Bernie is a year older than myself, but has been running marathons a good two or more hours quicker than I.  My recollection has it that she had held, and still holds numerous national records for races from 10 kilometre, to half marathon, to marathon events.  I am sure she still holds the New Plymouth marathon record winning time for a women, having done it in her fastest time when she was in her forties, somewhere close to two and a half hours.  Bernie has competed internationally and was selected to represent New Zealand at the Barcelona Olympics at the age of 40, before being denied the team position by Athletics NZ who reneged and posted a younger person into the team.  She still holds world records for the 5000m and 10,000m for the 60-64 year old age group.

Bernie is always recognizable by her slender figure which is usually adorned with brief shorts, cut off running tops and gloves.  If I had her figure, I would wear the same.

Until this year I was the only woman who had completed thirty-six Rotorua marathons.  The next woman behind me on the record books is Bernie, who has done two less than I.  It was always a standing joke with myself and my friends, that perhaps Bernie can still run brilliant three hour plus marathons, while I was struggling to do one in five and a half hours – yet she was still two Rotorua Marathons behind me. 

Thus, it was no joke when we were told later on marathon day that Bernie had not competed this year as she was undergoing treatment for bowel cancer.  A gut wrenching thud to hear.  It was only the year before that Bernie had competed in her first ever Ironman event in Taupo.  She had attended the First Timers’ Seminar I was running – maybe she picked up some tips from me as she found herself on the podium as a place getter in her age group How heartbroken she must have been to not be at the start line this year.   I cross my fingers very hard that this is a mere glitch for that champion warrior woman.

One could go on, but this one will not:

There were so many more faces I saw on this particular day that had their own stories I would have heard over the past 37 years.  So many champions of the unseen.  

No doubt I shall enjoy recalling them next year, when next I come alongside Gary, or Hacker, or whoever else from those eras is still participating – and we can enjoy even more memory recollections of individuals who may not be inspiring but who bring the colour and flavour to an event that has more history than its placegetters. 

Footnote:

When I first ran this marathon my younger son was a mere wee child who came down to watch his mother do her marathon .  This year, that same younger son was around the course once again, supporting his mother.  But this time with his own wee child.

I have run this marathon through at least 2 generations, more likely 3.

Glenn and Anthony at the 36km mark

Foot Fault

Chapter 1 (of 2)

It looks like I have been in the wars.  I haven’t.  The rest of the body certainly has the overall feeling that maybe I have.  Although, to be fair, I have never been to war so cannot compare to the physical pain those men in the wars went through;  but it is a good turn of phrase when we’ve come out of an adventure or period of time when the body has that feeling of been battered beyond its expectations.

No, there was no war.  And there was no husband so I cannot blame it on ‘battered wife’ syndrome.  The last time I had one of these shiners was due to being a ‘battered wife’ but on this occasion I consider it neither appropriate or comedic to blame being the battered wife. 

So that leaves “walking into a door” or falling down a stairwell as other optional causes for my bruised and battered look.  No doubt if a stranger looked upon the face they would n doubt think it was a battered wife; or maybe a case of walking into a door or stair falling. Don’t think I should enlighten them to the real cause.  A mere foot fault. 

I am always proud of personal achievements, be they mine or others.  I feel these photographs are an achievement I can be proud of.  It’s a marathon war wound.  I’m sure Pheidippides may even be proud of me, should he be watching from somewhere up above.

In thirty-six years of running, or walking, or walking & running Rotorua Marathon it is the first time I have come away wearing a badge of acknowledgement of having achieved something.  Be it only a classic foot fault and face plant.

As in all marathons, when one crosses the finish line one is immediately adorned with a ribboned medal around the neck; the organisers seemingly generous gift to us for our parting out the best part of a hundred dollars, or more, to trek one’s way over forty-two kilometres of tarmac that traverses a big lake to only end up finishing at the exact point where one began.  Tarmac that is heavily cambered for most of the kilometres; tarmac that has parts so heavily sealed with big, New Zealand quarry chip and stones that one can feel each individual stone through the thickly padded soles of the most expensive running shoes. 

For those who run fleetingly around the course in a mere two to three hours those stone chips prove to not be a major factor in their day.  The fleet footed are exactly that – they fleetingly turn those footsteps over so quickly, landing ever so briefly each time their foot meets the tarmac, and landing mostly on their fore foot only, that the consciousness of the big chip stone sea is barely felt.  They fly like tippy toeing fairies.

Those of us who carry the metaphoric extra weight of a child, or several children, and whose entire foot lands heavily onto the seal can feel each individual stone on the under sole of our lumbering bodies.  And whilst that body continues to lumber forward each knee joint and hip joint takes the powerful absorption of the lumbering landing.  Hence we lumber even more.

Consequently, whether walking, or jogging, or running, the more kilometres one galumphs the wearier and heavier the leg lifting and lumbering becomes. 

The fast, fairy-like, fleet-footed ones also have the ability to lift those legs a reasonable distance up from the road surface before dropping down for the next stride.  When one is taking considerably longer to get round those forty-two kilometres the steps become shorter and the leg lift lower.    By the time the six hour finishers are traversing those last few kilometres there is barely a half inch lift of the foot from the tarmac.

Consequently it takes only one minor, three-quarter inch lip on a pathway of concrete to have a sixty-five kilometre mass of human bone and tissue become awe inspiringly airborne;  lifting stunningly and gracefully into the air, higher than her conscious body could ever attempt to fly, only to land totally spread eagled, flat, onto the hard concrete footpath.  The best belly flop of any Toyota “bugger” dog.

Within that flight her fast thinking consciousness knew there was no happy ending to the affair, so she jolted the body into rigid landing mode in the vain hope of creating the least possible damage when the grey, hard concrete below was to be met by the ossified, blubbery flesh from above.

This instantly put both aft legs into instantaneous muscle cramping mode; a spontaneous reaction from those wearying calf and hamstring muscles to the abuse they had been forced to undergo over the previous thirty-nine kilometres.  They tensed and retracted themselves as tightly as possible to not only aid their inhabitor’s foreseeable landing, but to also to protect their own patch. 

Or maybe it was their revenge to the labours they had not been permitted to rehearse for.  Their revenge for the expectation that they should be able to undergo the rigours of forty-two, cambered, hilly and stoned kilometres without the opportunity to prepare for this one-off expedition.

Whatever.  By the time the body made its eventual, spread-eagled crash landing on the concrete path they had contracted entirely from the lowest region of the calf muscles to the expansive and deeply embedded buttocks.  In both legs.

Whilst the flight and landing of the airborne human craft was played out in everlasting slow motion the brain had been so frantically messaging out to the body to protect itself that it forgot to let the neck muscles know they too were supposed to have played their part in tightening their efforts to protect the head impacting onto the hard surface below.

They received the message milliseconds too late. The moment of body impact saw the head jolt rapidly forward in the motion of a mallet driving a steel peg into the ground.

Thankfully a peaked cap and set of purloined sunglasses helped ease the moment of impact by taking the initial greeting of the concrete.

And there it lay.  Face down, tongue licking the concrete.  This stiffly, spread-eagled, rigouress body, jerking uncontrollably on the concrete tarmac with the painful cramping of the lower half of the body.  Unable to move from her agonising state with legs and arms reaching out to all points of the compass, she could clearly be heard making guttural, painful, yet muffled groans of “aaaarrghh…..  aarrrrrghh …..   aaaarrgghhh…” to each exploding muscle spasm.  For eternity.

Now, in all the hundred plus marathons I have run there have been many an incident where an athlete has befallen the fate of cramp.  Or nausea.  Or dizziness.  Or some other unexpected unwellness.  In the true form of sportsmanship, or sportswomanship, one could never consciously walk or run on without stopping to aid the ailing individuals.  There have been many marathons, most particularly Rotorua marathons, when we have come across an athlete in need, either physically or mentally, or even morale-wise, when it is sheer instinct that tells you another of your compatriots is suffering and in need of help.  You instinctively are compelled to stop and help.  It is called being compassionate.  Being empathetic.  Sympathetic.  Caring.  Being human.

Never in my thirty-six years of marathon running, ironmanning or multi-sporting could I, or would I have witnessed either a fall of an athlete, or come across a body splayed face down on the tarmac, or see one lying in any manner on the ground in a jerky, seizure-like form….  and just continued on.

But someone did.

Whilst I was laying on the earth’s concrete crust in excruciating pain, unable to control the continual muscle seizures and was making the low but very audible sounding groans, I specifically remember hearing some footsteps heading in my direction and sensed an immediate relief in knowing help was running in my direction.  As the footstep came closer I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Are you all right?  Are you all right?” 

Wracked with pain, and shock, and still jerking uncontrollably, I could not answer with anything other than “Aaarrgghh…. Aaarrghh..”   I heard one more, “Are you all right,” as the footsteps traversed a mere few inches from my ear drums ….  and then the footsteps continued on.  And on.  Plodding into the distance, quietly fading from any perception of hearing.  She had gone.

Clearly the lady had decided that although there was a possible corpse-in-motion laying on the road, spread-eagled in full body spasm and unable to respond to her enquiries of wellness, that it was just a tad wee inconvenient for her to stop and give aid;  after all she had a marathon to finish.

To any who had medical training this could have very easily been seen as an individual in the throws of a heart attack or seizure.  But that marathon of hers had to be finished and by hook or by crook, no ailing or dying individual was going to stop her achieving it.

It should be noted, that when one is about to achieve a six hour marathon finish, there are not a lot of people out there.  The gaps between athletes are wide, often hundreds of meters between one to the next.  I happened to be in a gap where the only person who would have seen my flying, death throw dive was the lady with the footsteps.  Once she had departed into the tarmac distance, there appeared to be no other athlete in immediate proximity. 

What seemed like eternity but was probably only minutes two spectating passersby came upon my still spread-eagled and writhing body. Two very small ladies of Oriental descent, who clearly spoke no English as in between my still frequent groans of pain I looked up and appealed to their sensibilities to help this ailing athlete out.  They stood and looked and offered no assistance.  I repeated I needed help, “can you help me get up please,” I implored.  Twice.  They eventually got the message.  I rolled onto my back, raised my arms and pleaded they help haul this dead weight up.  They did.  

Once upright, but in a bend over stance, the cramp seizures were able to be controlled and carefully but surely the body began to relinquish the agonizing raptures of muscle bound cramping.  Very soon I was able to stand fully upright. 

It was then I realised my head hurt.  Hand to forehead told me there was a sizable lump, but no blood.  The blood on hands was irritatingly small and minimal.  The cramping would just have to be managed but being upright meant I could analyse the state I was in and have more control of the situation no one else wanted to assess.  The ladies picked up my sunglasses and hat, looked gormlessly at me as though I was a zombie, clearly of no use to me, so I turned and began to stagger forward.  After all, there was only two kilometres to go and I’d made it this far on my thirty-sixth bloody year, I was not going to let one tiny lip of concrete foil what had, until now been quite an unexpectedly pleasant day.

Slowly walking, stiff legged for the next two hundred metres  I came across one of the ‘old timers’ of marathon running.  Someone I had come across much earlier in the day and we had trotted and chatted and reminisced together for some kilometres before coming upon a drink station when one or the other of us had proceeded on without the other; only to meet again further along the course and chat pleasantly until the next aid station.  A man many years my senior who put into perspective that what I was doing was less inane than his doing it at eighty years of age.  A man to be admired.  Will I still be doing this silly business at eighty?  Did I want to?  Can I imagine it?  Nah.

So just ahead of my face-plant position was Gary, having a similar affliction to myself.  Although he had not fallen and was upright and moving forward it was obvious from where I was that Gary was having cramping issues with one of his legs.  I watched him try to move forward with one good leg and the other as rigid and as stiff as a fence post.  He stopped, and rubbed.

I came alongside as he rubbed his cramping hamstring.  I did not do what my fellow lady athlete had done to me, keep moving, I stopped.  This was a markedly different scenario though.  He was upright, compos mentis and moving.  But I knew there was nothing I could do to ease the pain or help the cramps go away.  He knew there was nothing I could do.   I offered him my genuine condolences and we walked a couple of rigid steps.  I looked with frustrated helplessness at his situation.  All my pain was irrelevant.  He was eighty and suffering.  I could do nothing.  He did what all us old, wily and wise heads do, he assured me he would be all right and said he knew he would still make it to the finish line; he instructed me to go on.  I did.  Not because I was more interested in myself and finishing my marathon day, but because I know from experience that in this situation I would have been more of a hindrance to him by staying than by going.  I knew he would make it too.

And I had hoped karma would be that I would catch the cold hearted, individual who left me for dead.  I didn’t.  I do wonder if she’s given any thought since of her actions?  I hope so.