I'm a Bit Green

 

As you know, I am presently in the UK and travelling always has one comparing apples with oranges when it comes to the differences other countries have with us in Godzone down under.

There have been many.  From the foods in the UK, to the supermarkets, food, cars, housing and prices, interest rates, Pommie habits, restaurants, pubs, governments, transport, weather!, dogs, cyclists … the list can go on. 

However, on this trip one of the standout comparisons has been related to green issues.  Farming issues, food supply issues, recycling issues, pollutions issues, vegetarian/vegan/carnivorous issues – and general air-that-we-breath environmental issues.

Any topic of environment is an enormous topic – with hundreds of sub-topics – far, far too many for this mere minion to spout views on.  But for today’s purpose I want to share with you my thoughts on just one aspect that has taken my focus for the almost four decades I have travelled here.

That’s renewable energy.

Yes, it sounds a boring topic.  And it is.  But too bad.

You see, in 1985 I visited North Wales for the first time and when my hosts took me walking to the top of a beautiful Welsh hill range to see the view they had long ago boasted of – their village nestled on the coast line of the North Sea in the Atlantic – we reached the summit look out point and I looked out seaward to take in the glorious vista of the Welsh coastline.

Well, what should have been glorious vista was blotted by the sight of oil rigs – rigs way out there on the ocean horizon.  Great big, smoke billowing structures.  It horrified me.  Yet to my UK friends oil rigs on the ocean’s horizon had been the norm for some decades, they didn’t ever notice them.  Besides, I was in Wales after all, the country of slate and coal mines where environments had been massacred for centuries.  They were somewhat surprised at my naïve reaction to seeing only the rigs and not the beauty of the coastline.

Twenty years later in the early 2000s I walked up the same hills to the same view and was confronted not by the oil rigs I was expecting to see but by the insane ugliness of ocean installed wind turbines - mile upon mile upon mile of wind turbines sitting out in that North Sea.  Neat rows and rows of them – perpendicular rows – parallel rows – this way – and that way.  Row upon row.  Mile upon mile.

Visual graffiti – on our natural world.

Now, I know the world has to look at alternative options of resources.  And I know that wind turbines are now infiltrating our own eco systems in various parts of New Zealand – one trip from Palmerston North to Wellington educates one on that - and I know that to environmentalists and even those not really into the environmental med-care see turbines as a ‘reasonable’ alternative to the environmental issues that coal and gas burning is doing to New Zealand ozone and to the global warming issues of the world.

But no matter how much I try to analyse it I cannot accept the ugliness, the environmental noise and the environmental impact these power source structures are giving us.

Then last week I took a train journey from the north of England to London.  It’s a journey I have done many, many times over the years – and have loved.  The train (electric) is fast, efficient and takes one through glorious English countryside – looking out the train window one is treated to views of pastoral England, of canals with their pretty canal boats channelling through the many locks.  One enjoys the quick glimpses of the pretty and historic villages, the castles, the rolling hills with three- to four-hundred-year-old stone walls.

And now, that same countryside has great big, ugly wind turbines on the hillside horizons, for mile after mile.  And added to that – on the fields below are acre upon acre …  of solar panels.  All low lying to the ground.  Hundreds of metres long, row after row after row – field after field after field of them.

Not quite the visual pollution of the wind turbines, but certainly green spaces taking up valuable land space that now cannot have any other use.

Yes – outwardly it seems the UK is doing its bit toward greenhouse gases by installing these power generating mechanisms.  But.  At what cost? 

I wanted to learn that turbines and solar panel had nothing but positive outcomes for all that would far outweigh my negative attitude towards them.

Greatest thoughts to me was that if one had to have such ugly structures on the landscapes why not build them so many miles out to sea that the public did not have them in eyeshot?

Since first seeing the oil rigs those decades ago, and then latterly the wind turbines, and learning of oil rigs and turbines in New Zealand my interest in them escalated substantially.  I recall researching wind turbine information in the British papers on subsequent visits here and collected quite a bit of information that the average person would never have been told about them.  Some good and some not so good – dependent on who wrote the articles and for whom.  One interesting fact was that British farmers were receiving government funded subsidies in the 80’s, 90’s and early 2000’s for each turbine on their land.  At one point a large turbine was returning up to 40,000 British pounds per turbine to a farmer.  Subsidies are not a factor today – but no need to as the farmers made their fortunes in those early turbine days.

Nowadays the farmers do receive rental payments for the land the turbines sit on. 

As is the case with solar panel fields.  Farmers receive a substantial rental fee from the UK government for the area usage that solar paneling takes. 

Easier life for the farmers than the daily chore of going out early mornings to round up and milk the cows.

Other factors that stand out: One ocean bound wind turbine requires 900 tons of steel, 2,500 tons of concrete and 45 tons of nonrecyclable plastic.  Google it.  I have.  Steel and concrete and nonrecyclable plastics that are sourced, made, manufactured somewhere in the world – in foundries that burn gases and oils for manufacturing; slave labour – particularly for any lithium that are often used in solar panels (but that’s another topic all together!).

Wind turbines, have a life span of 20 to 25 years.  That steel, that concrete that nonrecylable plastics – what happens to it?  It’s dismantled and whilst the steel can be recycled a great amount of it is taken to … land fill.  And EVERY blade on a wind turbine is NON recyclable as it is made up with resin/plastic componentry rendering them totally unreusable.

I found a great BBC article yesterday showing photos of a wind turbine blade grave yard.  Huge, huge, deep, deep landfills.

And solar power panels.  What is their life span?  25 years.  So all these fields of panels I saw on my train trip will have to be disposed of in 25 years.  Can they be reused?  No.  It will all go to landfill.

There are toxic materials inside the solar cells.  It is cheaper for suppliers to discard them in landfills.  Where their toxic metals can leech out into the environment.

Look – I’m being very general in my comments – but rest assured, I have sat for hours over the years and especially these past few days reading various articles on the positive and negatives of both wind turbines and solar cells – but despite all the varying views from the manufacturers, the green environmentalists, the politicians, the marketers – there is no way of denying there is – OR WILL be major issues when it comes to disposal of these products – the very things that are manufactured to save our environment.

I am placated to some degree that we in New Zealand have hydro damns and geothermal resources that we are still developing.  Long may they continue.  But our country is going enthusiastically down the line of wind turbines and solar.

Of course, nuclear is the one power resource many of the Brits and Americans say we will have to eventually succumb to.  That sends me off on another tangent altogether. 

Britain has 11 operational nuclear reactors – supplying Brits with power – it churns my insides out.  May it never be a New Zealand option.

And the end product of nuclear radioactive waste – goes to landfill!

I’m not professing to have any solutions – if I did I’d be a multi-billionaire – but us switching to these renewable energy resources is not as simple as many are making it out to be.  Often quite the opposite.  There is a cost.

I am quite concerned a good number of Kiwis are not aware of these simple facts.  Support alternative options of power source, but don’t do it without educating oneself on all the pros and cons. 

Even if a little research has one or two rethink their own power needs - maybe if it stops one person of complaining about cyclists getting on bikes and riding to work instead of driving.  Maybe if one or two more people cycled or walked instead of driving that motor car – gas fueled or electric.  If some got rid of the electric heated that spa pool, spend less time on that play station, pc or motor boat.  Hang the washing out on a line instead of using the dryer.

 

And think – if someone rode their bicycle twice – it would count as recycling.

 

We all have to do our bit for the environment. And there are many ways we can save energy.  Lately I’ve been using the couch.

Party Political Broadcast

 

This is not a party political broadcast.

But read it anyway!

 

Being here in the UK it has been interesting waking every morning, making a cuppa and catching up with the New Zealand newspapers on my pc.

Of course, it’s evening time in New Zealand when I am reading the papers, not that that is relevant to anything, but always makes me feel quite weird that I am living in a Tardis time machine and living in my own past.

I confess that the NZ newspaper headlines over the past few weeks has made for deeply depressing reading first thing in my morning.

Gang violence.  Drive by shootings. Gang utu. Bodies found. Murder investigations.  Murder convictions.  Police shootings. Grandmother killed.  Manslaughter.  Drug deaths. Drug rings.  Sex convictions.

It’s all rather appalling, depressing and even embarrassing to read from afar.  Guess in some ways I should be pleased to be away from it all. 

I know of some who will say, ‘then don’t read it’.  Because I know those who won’t read anything they’d rather not know about.  I confess to doing so with many articles on the Russian invasion of the Ukraine.  But I do go back later and ensure I am up to date with the reality there.  It is stupid to bury one’s head in the sand and avoiding acknowledging and learning what is happening in the world around you.  That’s with anything negative that one does not wish to learn about.  It does not make for an informed, balanced you.

There are none more ignorant than those who want to be ignorant.

So at 6 a.m. my time this morning I made my cuppa and began reading latest NZ Herald online issue.  And there was one rather different headline today that took my initial attention.

In fact, there were two rather different but similar headlines in the papers I have read today.  One in the NZ paper and one in a British paper today that had me simmer a little.

I shall address the NZ Herald headline first:

 ‘First-home buyers face potential $1000 monthly rise in mortgage payments’.

I have been following a number of such articles this year as it does relate to factors facing my immediate family.  One son is having to re-mortgage his family home and the other is mortgaging for the first time.  Hence these financial articles hit a personal nerve of mine.  So much so I find them almost as repugnant reading as the other negative, crime-ridden headlines.

Today’s headline reminded me that a year ago the average interest rate was 3.3%.  At todays market it averages 4.63%.  Of course the rates are dependent on the term of the loans.  But the change in interest rates does mean that a borrower could now be paying around $1,000+ a month MORE than a year ago. 

It seems so very numbing.

In saying that, I do keep reminding those who will listen that as a young mother with one baby my husband and I purchased our first house and were paying an 18.5% interest rate – and that we felt good about due to many of our friends having to pay over 20%. 

On top of that, many, and if I recall correctly, including my husband and I, also had a second mortgage to enable us to get into our first ever subdivisional square-boxed, fibrolite, tin roofed home.  At that same high interest rate. 

The past few years have had me ride that roller coaster ride my sons have had in endeavouring to purchase their first homes.  Yes, prices of homes have risen exorbitantly high.  Yet mortgage rates had been getting lower and lower. 

Housing and getting the new generation into houses has been a major topic of general conversation for those past same years. 

Newspapers, financiers, builders, government officials have highlighted and headlined the difficulties the Gen X, Y, Z or whatever the younger generation is now called have had and are having in getting themselves into their first homes.

I am not going to go anywhere near the argument many have heard me spout before – about life and expectations now as opposed to the 18-24% generation of interest payers I was in.  It’s a blog or speech many have already heard.

But what has always been highlighted in my mind when these conversations come up is the lack of government assistance to those who desperately want and need to get into their own homes.

This government, and the previous, have and do rant on about the difficulties of young couples and families in being able to afford homes that are rising in value by the hour.

Yet they are doing and have done nothing about it. 

Apart from the good old Winston’s Kiwisaver scheme, there is no other government, or socialistic assistance or encouragement for these desperately search and striving families to be able to secure their own roofs over their heads.

Why not?  And thank God for Winston!

So.

Think back to post Second World War years, post depression times.

In 1936 the government of the time renamed a mortgage arm they already had in place to The State Advances Corporation. 

The State Advances Corporation was a government mortgage scheme initially set up to aid ex-servicemen and their families into their own homes.  At that time the government mortgage had an interest rate of 3%.

Over the years State Advances Corporation evolved to include any civilians on small incomes to gain a government 3% loan enabling them to purchase a house.  It was still at a 3% interest rate in the early 1960’s when the market interest rates were between 4.5 to 5.5%.  It was government assistance for those who needed it to buy their first homes.

At that time there was also something called Child Benefit (or Family Benefit) where all families with children were given a weekly government benefit for each child they had.    

Should the family still not have enough equity and mortgage available to get into their own home, the government would allow the family to ‘capitalise’ the family benefit to add yet more assistance in financing their new home.

This is exactly how my parents purchased their first ever home in 1968 in Mangere Central.  They used the government loan assistance, plus capitalised the family benefit they were getting for me and my younger sister.

Many people with families who had been unable to save enough to bridge the gap between the cost of a house and the loan limit were actually able to obtain a house.  And those families who were slow savers no longer had to wait.

So.

Why, if the government/governments who profess to really care and worry about their ever increasing number of homeless or those who cannot afford to buy their own homes not establish exactly what the governments of the 1930’s did?

They already pay monies out to those on low incomes to assist with rent.  And low income families do received a Working for Families grant.  So why not use these payments as the system used to do?

ASSIST PEOPLE NOW into getting into their own homes.

Instead of it being payments literally going into a bottomless pit, make it payments that goes into roofs over their heads. 

And this brings me to the second newspaper headline in today’s paper that caught my attention.  This time in a British paper, The Times.

              ‘Johnson to let benefit claimants buy homes’.

Hurrah!  Exactly what I’ve been discussing above.

Boris has come up with this brilliant idea.  An idea that our post-war New Zealand government initiated and successfully implemented.  For decades.

The Labour government of 1936.

Michael Joseph Savage was the NZ Prime Minister.  The infamous (and I say that with the greatest of respect) Finance Minister, Sir Walter Nash. 

Those men and that government – and I repeat and remind you, it was a Labour government – set New Zealanders on the road to home ownership by establishing the State Advances Corporation; and also the Labour government who put Family Benefit into action.  (If you really knew your NZ political history you could say it was a government back in 1885, long before Labour & National parties existed, that initiated something that eventually evolved into Family Benefit).

Boris is saying in today’s newspapers that he thinks lower paid workers should be able to use their housing benefits their government already gives them to pay their present rents, and use them to buy homes. 

Boris wants to change the rules so people can use welfare payments to get mortgages.  Is this a new world thought!?  No.  New Zealand USED to do it.

The UK has 30 BILLION pounds a year in benefits to its citizens helping them pay rent.  Why not use it to pay a mortgage? 

The article – it’s truly interesting – it’s almost replicated in what our previous governments used to do.

Goodness knows how many billions of NZ dollars the Kiwi taxpayers pay in rental allowances to beneficiaries and those on low incomes.  PLUS the Working For Families benefit is pays to the low income households.

Look – you may think this reads as a political party broadcast for the Labour Party.  By a stalwart.

It is far from that.  I’m criticising this present Labour government for NOT doing it. 

And nor has the opposition parties come up with anything remotely aligned to helping those trying to get into new homes.

This blog is a call for many or all of you to – think about it.

Why hasn’t this government, the one who has campaigned on helping those that need help, actually done something real, something substantial to help those who are now falling further and further back on the list of possible home stability?

I stew on how much money has been literally wasted these past years on inane, vague schemes and systems that are put into place to help but a few of our disassociated members of our society.

And stew all the more when I read almost buried articles on nepotism among our government head where family members have been awarded tens of thousands of dollars for vague schemes and ideas that we will never see a defined outcome.

Want to get the homeless and low income earners and families into homes? Stop political point scoring on issues that should be down on the list – and address one of the most important ones.

Labour Party.  National Party.  Green Party.  Maori Party.  Act Party.  Whatever Other Party.

Help the growing percentage of your constituents who feel so helplessly helpless in being able to get their own roofs over their heads.  Do something like the 1930's, 1940's, 1950's, 1960's governments did - helping Kiwis.

               

Kick That Bucket .... list

Don’t ever tell me about your bucket list. 

Ever!

Kick your bucket list!

I absolutely loathe the term ‘bucket list’.

It bugs me hugely. 

I hear folk using that term so often.  Its connotation is contagious, death-defying.

What it literally means is one consciously sits and writes down a list of things to do BEFORE YOU DIE!! 

Before you kick the bucket!

For goodness sake, why on earth would you be preparing for death by writing your ‘bucket list’??

Want to write a list of things you want to do, then do it NOW, before you even begin to thing of dying. 

Why wait until you know you are going to die before writing a ‘bucket list’?

I’ve heard folk in their 20s and 30s talking about “… it’s on my bucket list…”  For heaven’s sake. Don’t you know what that connotation means?  You’re anticipating your death already?

Oh what a positive outlook to have in your 20’s and 30’s….

I’ve had folk tell me recently, ‘it’s great you’re doing things on your bucket list’. 

What bollocks.

BOLLOCKS, BOLLOCKS, BOLLOCKS.

If I ever had a bucket list how would anyone know what would be on the list. I'm not doing things on my 'bucket list'.

Sure, I have things I’d love to do.  Or aspire to do.  BUT THEY ARE NOT ON MY ‘BUCKET LIST’!

They are on my, 'gee, that would be good to do' list.

The term ‘bucket list’ became popular due to the movie with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.  The movie about 2 men who had terminal cancer, were soon to die, so wrote their ‘bucket list’.

I went to that movie.  I left that movie feeling hugely depressed.  Felt I should go home and slit my throat.  That phrase - I found it morbid, ghoulish, depressing, pessimistic and … deadly. 

It was one movie I NEVER recommended anyone see. 

Why go to a movie to remind you that you are going to die, so write a list?

If you must write a list of things you want and have always wanted to do – well, do so.  WRITE A LIST!  NOW.  And call it ‘A list of things I’d like to do’. 

Or ‘Things to Do’  Or, ‘My next goals’.  Or …  name it anything POSITIVE. 

Like ‘Anything is possible TO THE WILLING MIND’.   

If you want to go to Outer Mongolia, go to Outer Mongolia.  If you want parachute out of a plane, parachute out of a plane.  But don’t ask me, it’s not on my ‘want to dos’.  And never will be.  If you want to try NZ’s Got Talent, audition.  If you want to dance naked on a beach, do it. But make sure it’s pitch dark and no police, or me, are about.

If you want to try eating 12 Double Whoppers in one go – do it – but ask me to help…

And for goodness sake.  Why wait until you are going to die before doing what you want to do.  Do it.  Now.  Or, plan to do it now.  Whether it will be 4 days away or 4 decades – if you feel the need, plan it now.

As an aside.  In my life I have had many buckets.  At the moment I know I have a red one, a white one, a blue one, another blue one, another white one.  And a grey collapsible one (which is useless – it collapses all the time). Indeed, I have lots of buckets.  When my mind pictures those buckets all I can see is all the work they have had me endure when using them.  Washing.  Gardening. Mixing concrete. Mixing compost.  Worm-post.  Slime-post. Flushing out stinking, blocked drains.  Cat poo.  Dog poo. Horse poo (thought it was good for the garden, it’s not).  Chicken poo.  Chicken poo pallets.  Work!  Dirty work!

So why magicalise a bucket? 

It’s shite.  Literally

Conclusion

Should I ‘kick the bucket’ today, tomorrow or next week I will go knowing that whenever an opportunity has cropped up and there was a possibility or feasibility that I could do it, I have done it. 

This year a perfect example.  Another go at parasailing, despite knowing I hate heights.  Walked the Kepler, cause the opportunity came up.  Rewalked the Tongariro Crossing, despite vowing never to do it again, but the opportunity came up.

Climbed Mt Snowdon.  Cause the opportunity came up. Got here to Wales and the UK, because if I worked it right it could be feasible – despite obstacles.  Next I knew, I was with my mates in Nice.  Monarco.  Cannes.  Because it was a window of opportunity.  I grabbed it.   Nowt to do with buckets.  Or bucket lists.

Actually, if I think of all my life of buckets – the most vivid is those buckets of poo’d nappies by sons gave me back in the 70’s.  In the days when we had real nappies – and had to soak the poo off.

Told you, buckets go with shit ….

Thinking of climbing a mountain soon ....  

It tickles my fancy

Humour is no joke.

Over the past couple of years, indeed, since Covid hit the world, I began posting inane quotes, jokes and comic illustrations that had tickled my sense of humour.

We were undergoing a world crisis that could only have been something we see in fictional sci-fi movies.

Those first few month of Covid truly had most of the world’s population feeling shell-shocked, helpless, stressed, anxious, fearful, angry, disbelieving, protective …  so many emotions, so many based on not totally knowing or having predictions of the future. 

So nothing better than a good old laugh.

At least, that’s what I thought. 

I love laughter.  I love laughing.  I love movies or TV shows that make me laugh.  And I love one liner quips that bring an instant laugh.  Or giggle.

Despite many of you denying it – you’ve loved my comic quips and quotes.  And I’ve loved the comic, sometimes droll, often sighing quips that have come back.

Nothing wrong with a good laugh.

Did you know that laughing burns calories?  True.

Just 10 to 15 minutes of laughing a day can burn up to 40 calories – hence I try to laugh more than 15 minutes a day.  Despite some days finding it a bit of a challenge. 

Reality is when you see someone else laughing it almost always puts a smile on your own dial.  That’s the brain reacting.  Even just hearing a good bout of laughter has your brain making you smile.

I’m not sure if I should mention this, but scientists have proven that monkeys AND rats laugh.  We all knew monkeys did, but rats?  True though.  I read it somewhere on the internet – so it’s true. 

So I love it when I know I can make someone laugh.

That is why I have had a continual flow of one liners posted on FB.  If one person smiles at the inanity of it, then I have succeeded.

I am at my happiest when I have others over for dinner and around the dining table are reels of laughing throughout the meal.  Warm fuzzies abound. 

And we all have a varying sense of humour – that we all know – I cannot stand watching comics who unnecessarily use the f….. or other fowl words they consider makes a good comic.

My sense of humour is wider than most.  And despite Big Son’s ever going sighs at my attempt to humour him, I know he really does enjoy my quips on FB – especially the more inane ones.  Cause despite his denying it – he’s got the same sense of humour as humour is genetic.  There is a gene we all have that creates our appreciation of laughter.  You’ve got it son!  And I so vividly remember you laughing as a tiny wee baby ….. 

Since travelling to the UK there has been a break in my posting the comic quips.  Never fear, I feel the need to return to it.  Helped by a random visit to a random wee village in The Peak District this week, I discovered my own Tardis!

Couldn't believe my good fortune

Look, see …..  if you want to know more, check out the FB posts in the next few days.

Not only was I already in a happy place, walking over some of the most beautiful countryside in England - but someone in a tiny village has a sense of humour just like mine.

A phone box, covered in laugh out loud quips .....

My quips will be back .....

And now for Eileen

It is no coincidence or convenience that I have begun my blog project by writing about the likes of Dot.

In life friends come and go.  But good memories always remain.

The sadness about life and people passing on is many of their classic stories go with them, forever forgotten.  I'd like to think I can keep some stories still alive - to me the Dot ones were magic - yet there we many more of her I could share. Not enough room or time.

Not all blogs will be about people.

And yes, some blogs will eventually, be short.  Meanwhile I cannot move on to other topics and shorter blogs before sharing some classic moments about my champion marathon and Ironman friend.

And now for Eileen 

My old mate, Eileen. 

She’s still alive! 

And even at her now 84 years I can see her outlasting many of her mates who are decades younger. I first met Eileen in 1977. 

The other day

Like my meeting Dot, meeting Eileen was also in the women’s YMCA changing rooms. Not with the YMCA running club this time but the ‘Businessmen’s Health Club’ which was, and still is, set up in the basement of central Auckland's inner city YMCA buildings in Pitt Street. 

There weren’t too many fitness centres, or ‘health clubs’ as they were commonly known then, in the country in the 60’s and early 70’s. Well not ones that catered for men plus women. The old establishments such as The Atrium Club and The Northern Club were well established but truly chauvinistically male only. In the late 60’s New Zealand’s renown athlete opened his Les Mills gym – a gym catering for both men and women - which had the YMCA and its Businessmen’s Health Centre management contemplate adding female membership to the male dominated centre at the Young Men’s Christian Association. 

However the women were not to be highly visible to the male membership so a small, adjacent dungeon room was kitted out for where women could workout and Jazzercize well away from the sights of the ‘business men’. 

In 1975 I ran my first ever running event, the Auckland Round the Bays 11 kilometres from downtown Auckland to St Heliers beach. It was at the after event social tent I met an attractive women with a ‘die for’ body who had completed the run in a much quicker time than I who told me it was due to her belonging to the YMCA fitness centre as they had inspirational gym instructors. She suggested said go along and join. 

So I did. And there were encouraging and inspirational gym instructors there who gave the gym an addictive energy, especially for the new trend of 'jogging'.  

Thus it was in those women’s changing rooms I first heard the lightly sing-song lilt of the Welsh accent. 

A short, stocky women in her early 40’s – in a pair of tight fitting running shorts and tight fitting sports singlet; this woman was obviously known to all members in the gym and seemed to be a person of interest to all those in the changing rooms. 

Within a matter of months I too was donned in a pair of tight fitting running shorts and tight fitting sports singlets, cringe worthy fashion now, and was running the central streets and parks of Auckland city training for my first ever half marathon with this short, stocky, Welsh woman and her other running friends. 

Our training was interesting. Across the road from the gym is Myers Park and the fitness instructors had drawn up a large coloured map of the park’s footpaths to show how we would easily train for Round the Bays by running these loops. Which, if one knows the park, means running up several flights of stairs, up steep asphalt pathways, down steep ones, in and out of the local drunks and vagabonds, around the statue of David, up the steps to St Kevin's Arcade, around the old, now historic Auckland Kindergarten building then straight up the side of the park into Vincent Street. Running and training in the park meant us women did not initially have to toss ourselves out onto the Auckland streets where truck drivers, construction workers, rubbish men, all sundry males who stopped their work, stare, wolf whistle, call out and basically embarrass and belittle these self-conscious women in their 20’s, 30’s and for Eileen who was in her 40’s – Eileen was the oldest, by some years. Thus these times and days began my now 45 year friendship with Eileen. 

Now, like Dot, Eileen was/is a bit of a character and one that people warmed to due to her enthusiasm to talk to anyone and convince many they were more physically competent than they probably really were. And she had good reason to seem convincing, for at 45 she had completed her first marathon run and had returned to the Businessmen’s Health Club on the week after as a mini-hero for what many had condescendingly pondered impossible. 

A whole book could be written on the subject of Eileen in those days. But I am going to focus on two non-running stories of Eileen’s that will forever be etched in my mind and now hopefully yours. 

The two of them

Eileen and her husband, Gerald, had moved to New Zealand in the 1970’s on a 6 monthly basis, returning to Wales every New Zealand winter. Their reason for this is a really interesting one, involving the first warehousing system of running efficient supermarkets in New Zealand. Anyone remember 3 Guys? Gerald was a 3 Guy. 

Must not Segway though. Their coming out to NZ was solely due to Gerald and his business interest with Albert Gubay to set up NZ's first major warehousing supermarket, 3 Guys. They lived in New Zealand for some of the year then returned to their home base in North Wales for the rest of the year before returning to their New Zealand home a few months later. 

In Wales they lived in a modest bungalow in a quiet village. Eileen had become an icon in her village – she had joined their local athletic club, ran all over the Welsh countryside with them, ran marathons, then later began to ride a bike, buy a wetsuit and become an Ironman athlete. 

With Gerald & Eileen spending their New Zealand winters in Wales and returning for the New Zealand summer, it was perfect for Eileen and her athletic interests.

When in Wales it was the tradition of Gerald and Eileen to have family around on Sunday afternoons when Eileen would wait on the relatives with tea and cakes, food and beverages. One Sunday Eileen had had enough of being the one tending others and the two of them decided to let the family arrive but they would go driving in the Welsh countryside, find a quaint tea house that were dotted all throughout the country lanes and enjoy a quiet cup of tea and cake, just the two of them.

With Gerald driving along the hedgerow lanes and Eileen navigating they saw a hopeful gatepost sign and driveway – “this one looks good,” says Eileen and Gerald points their brand new and polished Mercedes Benz up the beautifully manicured sweeping stony driveway to the front steps of the grand old two-story stone house. 

“You go in Eileen and I’ll park the car,” says Gerald as he indicates to where other vehicles were parked alongside the driveway. Eileen walks up the grand stairs and enters through the grand doorway to the entrance of the tea rooms. 

“Ah,” thinks Eileen, this looks perfect as her eyes scan the beautifully decorated Tudor home with the lushness one expects of a high tea reception house. Over to one side was a charmingly set dining table, laid out with silver tea set, Dorchester tea cups and even the 3-teired cake stand. 

Sitting at the table were four women in their mid 40’s supping their cups of tea.

As Eileen entered and contently look around for a table to sit at the four heads turned her way. On seeing Eileen approvingly scan the room one of the ladies enquired, “Can I help you?” To which Eileen replied, “Yes please, my husband is parking the car and we'd like to have afternoon tea for two.” There is a momentary pause. 

“This is a private house, I am the owner, these are my guests,” says the woman. Eileen looks, then looks again, scans the room again and realises, there are no other tables, this IS a private house, this is not a tea house. 

Just as reality dawns on her Gerald enters through the door, all set for his afternoon tea and cakes. Eileen blusters some form of apology to the lady, spins on her heels, grabs a stunned Gerald by the arm and rushes him out of the door ….. 

In later years they took me past the beautiful house and yes, it did have a sign on the roadside, with the name of the house - it sort of looked like a tea house sign. 

Gerald - the short one.  

Gerald 

In his younger days he was a bit of an Arthur Daley was our Gerald. 

In his early married years he was dubiously buying and selling carpets to local folk in surrounding Welsh villages. He drove a battered, old van with a sliding side door and had taken out the passenger seat to enable him to fit more of his long carpets rolls in the van. 

One busy day he was heading to a village on a carpet delivery errand when Eileen decided she would go along for the ride. It meant Gerald had to temporarily put the passenger seat back into the van - and Eileen grabbed her knitting and happily knitted away while Gerald drove through the country lanes and villages. 

They came to one village and Gerald, who was known to have a heavy foot on the accelerator pedal, approached the village roundabout a good few kilometres an hour faster than the road signs indicated. As he drove into the four-road intersecting roundabout at speed the passenger sliding door instantly slid open and as Gerald continued to accelerate through the intersections out of the van popped Eileen, still sitting on the unsecured passenger seat, still knitting, and landing upright in the middle of the roundabout. 

The unplanned maneuver happened so quickly Eileen had not comprehended what had happened, nor had the eye boggling drivers and passengers of the on coming vehicles, those who saw before them a woman, sitting on a car seat, in the middle of the roundabout, knitting, as though it was the norm in this little village. 

It was not until Gerald exited the roundabout that he turned to look at the open sliding door and realised Eileen, and seat, were missing …. 

Fortunately it was in the 1960’s, not a lot of heavy duty traffic in the 60’s. 

Gerald, getting his priorities right, firstly checked his carpets were still safely in the van then went to retrieve his knitting wife and her seat – and delivered his carpets.

This is a replica of Gerald's van

Nostalgia photo below

Early 1980's - Eileen in middle.

As an epilogue - Eileen ended up running many marathons and in her prime was turning out sub 3hr 30 marathons.  She was one of the early age group New Zealand women to complete the NZ Ironman in the days when it was held on one of the toughest courses - the Auckland course.  She was 54 when she did her first Ironman.

A true legend of those times.

Blog: 3       Of the project 

Continued from my previous blog:

More lovely Dottie memories 

The tattooed lady

Over the years Dot had completed a few marathons overseas after travelling with fellow club members.  We were always bemused with her travels overseas while her husband John remained at home looking after the dog and the cat. 

I recall finishing a Sunday run at the club and going into the ladies changing room for my post run shower.  Among the many full, half or totally unclothed members in the changing room was Dot.  My gear was on the bench next to hers and she walked out of the shower room to the bench without anything covering her body and as she turned I noted a couple of tattoos on Dot’s somewhat dropped buttocks.  “Dot,” I said, “you’ve got a tattoo on your butt!” 

“Yes,” she replied with a proud grin, “it’s a four leaf clover. I got it done after I did the Dublin marathon.  And this other tattoo on my bottom is an apple which I got done after I did the New York marathon.”

Somewhat between shocked and bemused I said, “What does John think about them?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know.  I never let him see me naked!”

 

She certainly tri’d

It was in the summer of 2005 when an event organiser had planned a series of women’s only mini-triathlon events, called Special K Women's Tri.  One was to be held at Mission Bay in Auckland.  To encourage some women to ‘give it a go’ (and to support the event organiser) Tony and I offered to coach some of the Y ladies to train for it as their first ever triathlon event. 

Dot was 74 at the time and jumped at the chance, as only Dot could. She had much faith in Tony and I as coaches so considered herself safe in our hands. 

It saw Tony & I at Okahu Bay on Saturday mornings running training sessions.  What a hoot that was. And what an ever-rewarding experience, helping women learn to properly swim and seeing some overcoming their fear of the sea water. The youngest in the group was 20 years old, oldest wasn’t Dot but one other who was 77.  We had them swim in the bay, transition to their bikes, cycle along the waterfront, come back to the bay and transition to the run.

The triathlon event was only a 300 metre swim, a 10 km bike and a 3 km run.  This seemed totally feasible and doable to everyone in the group, including our Dot.

Many had watched Tony & I compete in Ironman events over the years and noted swimming the 3.8 km swim for us Ironmen was always done in wetsuits so most of the ladies deemed it only right that they also wear wetsuits for their 300 metre swim.  Including Dot.

Three days before the event I answered a knock at the front door, it was Dot, full of enthusiasm.  All excited that her grandson had offered his boogie-boarding wetsuit for her to use, she’d tried it on and it fitted, did I think it would be ok for her to use?  I chuckled internally, especially in the knowing that the 300 metre swim was in waist deep water and we would most probably see Dot walking much of that distance anyway; and in our warm Waitemata summer waters any wetsuit would be of no advantage at all to anyone.  But I smiled and said, “Perfect Dot.”  She did seem greatly chuffed at the thought of wearing grandson’s wetsuit.

“But,” she said, “I don’t know what to wear under the wetsuit.” She then went into great detail that she wasn’t sure whether to wear her running bra for all the events, swim/bike/run, or to change bras between the bike and the run.  Or whether to wear her running shorts on the bike or borrow bike shorts from someone then change in transition into her running shorts.  And if she wore bike shorts should she wear knickers under them?  Or not?  Or if she wears either bike shorts or running shorts should she wear them under the wetsuit during the swim, or change into them in transition?  Or should she wear her swimsuit under the wetsuit and use that under her bike gear and run gear? 

Being both bemused and excited for Dot and her enthusiasm, and not wanting to dampen excited spirits in any way I said, “Dot, the swim is short, as is the bike and run so it won’t matter which or what of the choices you are thinking about, they would all work well.” 

“But I’m worried that if I wear my swimsuit for the bike and the run what people will think seeing my boobs bouncing up and down?”  To be fair, Dot always did have a lovely, healthy set of breasts so I understood her thought pattern.

Not wanting to deter Dot or have self-conscience blot her enthusiasm, I said, “Look Dot, it doesn’t matter what you wear under your wetsuit, you could wear nothing and nobody would care or notice, all they care about is seeing you out there, on the course, having a great go and a great time, so relax and do whatever you think you will feel most comfortable in.”

I could see the instant wave of relief fall over Dot’s demeanour.  “Oh thank you Verna, I’m so pleased I came around and talked all this through with you.”  And with that she scurried off to head to grandson’s place to pick up the wetsuit.

Come the morning of the event, Tony and I headed to Mission Bay early and enjoyed helping the twenty-plus women we’d had under our wing set themselves up in the transition.  This was one of a series of a number of women-only triathlon events and we felt so impressed at the numbers, the enthusiasm, the excitement and the adrenaline all these women setting themselves up in transition had.

At 7 a.m. the first of the many waves of women competitors began the event.  Tony and I stood on the sands at Mission Bay watching our various friends enter the water at one end and exit the water at the other then head to bike transition.  There was the 20 year old going, the 34 year old, the 48 year olds, the 56 year olds, somewhere in the many waves was Dot and her 74 years of excitement.  The two of us decided to wait on the beach and watch the waters until the very last wave of competitors entered then finished the swim. 

There were only 4 competitors still in the water when a non-competing friend of ours came running up to with an almost frenzied look on her face, “Oh my God,” she blurts, “you’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.  Over there in the swim to bike transition there’s a women, a really old women, who has come out of the swim in a wetsuit then stripped it off and has absolutely nothing on underneath, she’s completely starkers and taking her time to get her bike gear on!”

Tony and I looked at one another, and in unison, said, once again, “Dot!”

Rest in your happy peace Dot. 

                    Post event photo                    

                    Dot, front row - 2nd on left.    

Others in that row:  Liz, Dot, Mel, Julie

Back Row:   Marion, Flo, Michelle, Lynette, Casey, Barb, Self