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.  

Council Rules

I had my first first-hand one-on-one encounter with my local council last week.  That being the Auckland City Council.

Be warned.  The greater part of this diatribe is a rant.

Requiring some official council documentation I made my first ever, intrepid journey to their Graham Street offices in the city.

Apparently that which I would be requesting was to be straight forward and hassle-free.  It would cost me a small amount of dollars – dependent on how fast I wanted to have the information – but c est la vi,  that was not at all unexpected.

I was advised to drive behind their building where there would be free car parking for anyone wanting a short visit.  That part was a surprise.  Free parking at council? This same council that has placed huge increases on any parking anywhere in the city?  To find I could go into their offices and park for nothing was a pleasant surprise.

As per the instructions given I drove around the side of their building and parked.  As I did I noted there was a very obvious council designated motor cycle parking area, clearly provided for the many council staff members who chose to commute via the two-wheeled motorised transport rather than drive their cars into the city each day.

How noble of council to provide for these environmental thinking staff members.

It is quite a long designated motor cycle space, maybe ten metres, clearly marked with yellow lines.  

Pictured below you can see the area and motorcycles described.

This photo above is was not taken on the day but taken from a Google Map shot.  The first thing I noticed last Monday was the amount of motor bikes and cycles parked in the designated area.  Commendable, I thought, to those good thinking staff members who chose that form of commuter transport. 

The next thing I could not help notice were the two large tow trucks parked adjacent to the area with three tow-truck-driver-esk fellows pushing motor cycles up ramps at the back of their trucks, loading cycles side by side onto tow truck decks.

As I drove slowly past, I paused, curious as to what was happening.  Surely there could not be so many broken down motor cycles requiring towing to away to a garage for repairs?  I looked again.  Both trucks had cycles on the decks and two of the men were quickly pushing another up.  Then I realised they were actually towing away cycles that had been just outside the yellow painted area, those parked at each end of the designated motor cycle parking areas due to the parking area being tightly filled by the 15 or so other cyclists who had clearly got into the office really early that morning and filled up the spaces available.

Now this may seem to make sense to some, indeed, I can hear the reactions of the reactionaries - "Well, they were parked illegally, they shouldn't be parked there.  If we parked our cars there we would be towed, why shouldn't they.  Just because they're motor cyclists doesn't mean they shouldn't be towed too."  

Fair enough.

But, for purposes of this article, I have screen dumped some Google Maps snap shots of the very motor cycle park (thank you again Google Maps).   You will see that at each end of the designated parking area are two to three metres of area that do not intrude into any other space designated for anything else;  it is not space that is designated for anything, nor is it blocking any entrance way, nor blocking any pedestrian way.  It’s just blank space.  Which makes one wonder why council would not just paint a few more yellow lines along the area to increase the 'formal' area for their own motor cycle driving staff to use.

On this particular Monday when I was there motor cyclists had parked at each end of that designed area.

If you see the picture below you will see only two parked on the left outside the yellow marked area.  On Monday that space was filled with little scooters.

This photo above shows 2 more at the other end, On Monday there were 3 more parked there.

Not one of the excess motor cycles or bikes were intruding into any space, in any way, that was detrimental to the landscape, the drive/road way, the pedestrian way, the car parking way. They were spaces conscientiously being utilised by conscientious council staff members who no doubt were inside the big building, conscientiously beavering away at their conscientious tedious council work.

And while they were being so conscientious these 3 tow truck drivers, contracted by the Auckland City Council, the employers of the conscientious council staff, were rushing as fast as they could to uplift every two-wheeled vehicle that was not parked in the yellow, designated area before any of the owners of said bikes could rush out and claim back their bike or scooter.

These two truck drivers were working at a furious 100% effort to get as many motor bikes, cycles and scooters onto the backs of their trucks before someone inside that building would send out an SOS to their workmates about their commuter vehicles being towed by their employer's contractors.

How nasty is that for an environment to work in. Subjective statement.  When your employer not only does not make available enough spaces for those conscientious scooter riding employees – but then call in the nasties to make their council working lives more miserable by having their precious work commuter vehicles towed.

And I have friends who work for council, and like their jobs. Clearly they are the ones who do not park their scooters in this area.

….. believe it or not  …. Non of this relates to my own experience with Council.

So back to me and my personal experience.

Getting a Property CD.

I needed a ‘Property CD’.  This is a CD council can provide with all information held by them on the address in which I live. 

According to the lady behind the Property CD desk, I could have a CD produced within 5 working days for $53.95, or have it produced instantly whilst I wait for $103.95, or have it produced within 4 hours for $83.95.

OK, methinks, that’s all fair enough.   Do I want to wait for 5 working days?  Nah, cause experience of other government-type offices reminds me that would probably end up being 6-7 working days.  Do I need it instantly?  Nah, I can wait for the 4 hour CD.  So I pays me monies of $83.95 for the 4 hour CD.  On paying the funds I asked, how do I know when it is done and ready for collection.  “Someone will telephone you,” I was told.  Fair enough.

By that time it was 12.20 pm.  Four hours after that would be 4.20 pm.  Fair enough.  It’s only a ten minute drive from my house to the council building, so that gives me forty minutes to get there and pick the $83.95 CD up before the council’s 5pm closing time. 

I leave and head home and wait for the 4.20 pm telephone call.

It doesn’t come. 

At 4.45 I realise time is running out for me to get in there and pick up the CD.

I pick up my mobile phone and call the council.  I get put on the hold programme.  At 4.50 I am still on hold.  And clearly will never make it to the Graeme Street, motor-cycle-tow-truck-administration building before their 5 pm closure.  I hang up.

Meanwhile, no phone call on the home phone ever comes.

Oh well, that’s yet another learning experience about dealing with ‘Council’.

Next day, I’ve prearranged commitments until 12 noon.  But at no time from 8 a.m. (when council buildings open to the public) until 1 pm do I receive a phone call to let me know my 4 hour CD is available for collection.

Post 1pm that next day I drive myself into that same building and head to the same counter.  (Note: there were no scooters or motor cycles parked outside those yellow lines.  Just two great big, empty spaces with nothingness in them.)

I ask for my Property CD, the receptionist heads off to a back office and comes out with the CD.  It’s been there, awaiting my collection, since yesterday.  Seems no one felt the sense of commitment, agreement or righteousness to give me the expected telephone call.

Do I get a refund or something in return for the non-compliance of the contract I paid $83.95 for, I asked.  No, I was told.   It was up to me to be back in 4 hours to collect it, even though the very same receptionist was the one who had told me the day before that I would be telephoned to let me know it was available for collection.

Well.  Council. 

And they wonder why they get bad press.

And this just adds to it.

I leave the office with my envelope with the CD in it and head home.  On the way out I am yet again bemused by council road signage I had seen the day before; painted on the tarmac outside their building.  

There it was – the notice on the road beside the big council building – ‘BEWARE OF PEDESTRIAN’.  It sent shivers down my spine.  Clearly there was a pedestrian out there that we were being warn about, a pedestrian who was to be feared. No doubt an Arnie Schwarzenegger, or Charles Bronson, or Bruce Willis type character - who had been waiting since eternity for a Property CD to be completed and ten decades later still waiting in the wings of the council car park building, hiding, prowling, waiting to unleash all their pent up council torment and anger - onto the walking, general public.

Or perhaps he'd had his 50cc scooter towed one day!  

On both visits to this council building I saw this frightening warning and both times planted the foot hard on the accelerator and flew out of that car park area like there was no tomorrow.

With a heavy sense of anxiety and relief I drove away from those council building with the lifelong hope that I never need to return for fear of tow truck drivers, uncalled calls and fearsome pedestrians.

And that, is my Monday rant.

The Tony Jackson Ironman Scholarship

Got a surprising emotional lift at opening Facebook yesterday.  There it was, the Kellogg’s Nutrigrain Ironman New Zealand notification of opening the applications for the 2017 Tony Jackson Ironman Scholarship.

I knew it was about to be up on their website and Facebook page at some time but was still taken aback and excited to see it there, yet again, for some individual to have the pleasure of giving more purpose in their endeavour to achieve making the start line of Ironman in Taupo next year.

Ironman New Zealand initiated the scholarship scheme in 2014 to acknowledge the commitment and services Tony gave to their sport, their organisation and the many, many athletes and administrators involved in all of their events.

It was a true privilege to know they thought so highly of him.  And a superb tribute to the special man he was.  I have no doubts he will be gloating with much self-satisfaction up there in Heaven, knowing he has been acknowledge so.

In the past two years two individuals have been the recipients of the scholarship.  Two amazing, incredibly strong and self empowering individuals.  Both who have achieved, without question, and by achieving have motivated others that “nothing is impossible to the willing mind”. 

I have gained immense value personally from knowing and meeting these individuals and can honestly say they have affected my own life by their integrity and staunchness. 

An added bonus is the circle of family and friends they have surrounding them, some of who I now consider unique and special individuals that have affected my life. 

The scholarship has had far greater rewards for more people than Ironman New Zealand could ever comprehend.

Seeing the Facebook notification sent the usual sentimental shivers through me as well.  Mourning a great loss does not go away or fade no matter the passage of time, but time does give one opportunities to learn to introduce strategies to work through the void and still keep smiling.  So I smiled big time when I saw this on Facebook. 

On the website there is a 2 minute video, snippets taken from the Sky Television coverage, which sums up what the scholarship is about.  It is worth taking the 2 plus minutes to view.

http://ap.ironman.com/triathlon/events/asiapac/ironman/new-zealand/athletes/tony-jackson-scholarship.aspx#axzz45ZusJN00

Following the notification I received a lovely email from someone I barely know but someone who saw the update and felt compelled to share a lovely, personal story he had of Tony some many years ago, a story relating to how Tony had helped him when in a training pickle.  It was a delight to read the email and I was ever so grateful to have received it and know that yet again there was another incident where he gave someone a lift, a helping hand. 

That person had not know about Tony’s passing until well after it occurred and asked some pertinent questions as to why, what and how he had take the journey to his new residence. 

Rather than pick up the phone and begin a soleful conversation, or sit and write it in an email, I quickly looked back in my files and attached for his interest the speech I gave at the 2014 Ironman Awards Banquet when the scholarship was officially introduced. 

It merely skimmed through Tony’s last years, skipping many a chapter (as that would be the size of an encyclopedia) but I felt it covered off his questions.  He came back to me with an email full of love and caring, and with huge integrity – I was touched. 

So I thought it may be appropriate to reprint it now – not for mournful purposes but to let those who do not know who Tony Jackson is, and why Ironman New Zealand honoured him so. 

Following is the outline of the speech I gave.

Speech for the introduction of Tony Jackson Scholarship at Ironman Awards Dinner, 1 March 2014

Tony Jackson Scholarship

  When Janette from Ironman contacted me last year to moot the concept of a Tony Jackson scholarship I couldn’t have been more supportive.  For all the years that Ironman has been in New Zealand Tony would have helped many very ordinary people complete some extra ordinary feats;  while at the same time managed to achieve being a quiet extra-ordinary person himself.

Tony competed in every single New Zealand Ironman; since the very first one held in Auckland in 1985, until last year 2013, when he was too ill to compete – it was the first New Zealand Ironman Tony had not competed in - Tony passed away exactly seven days after that Ironman.

Tony was a very ordinary, happy man; a man who quietly managed to mentor, encourage, guide, instruct and enthuse every day ordinary people into doing things they had thought impossible to achieve.  Back in the 1980’s, long before Ironman, or Asics or New Balance picked up on the saying, Tony would tell people, “Nothing is impossible” but he always added  …  “to the willing mind.”   Tony lived his life by that motto of his.  And to many, competing in any triathlon, let alone an Ironman seemed a formidably impossible thing to achieve.  Yet Tony would show them that, with a willing mind, it was not. 

Tony was 45 years young when he started and finished that first New Zealand Ironman triathlon in 1985.  It is refreshing when one reads his old diaries and realises how different it was then – their training, their methods – they were real Ironmen in those days.

Tony was never a world beater – but the records do show he could turn out some good times. He qualified for Kona many times, but only went three times – even managing to podium place. 

Not by planning, but more by chance, as the years passed Tony ended up completing every other New Zealand Ironman – and helping others do so;  that is, until December 2007.

At Christmas time 2007 Tony was diagnosed with a brain tumour.  The worst kind of brain tumour one can have.  His Christmas gift was two major brain surgery operations with the outcome of being given the life expectancy of only twelve weeks. 

Ten weeks later, with the thought of only having about two more weeks to live -  and in the middle of his regime of radiotherapy and chemotherapy Tony started and finished his, and New Zealand’s,  24^th New Zealand Ironman. 

Months after that he had to endure a further series of invasive major brain surgery ;  yet, once again, Tony started and finished the 2009 New Zealand Ironman;  the 25^th and even managed a 2^nd place in his age group.

In the months following that Tony had yet more surgery, this time with plastic surgeons who had to remove & lift off his entire scalp, turn it around, replace it and reshape his hairline – he had staples and stitches around his entire head – yet in March 2010, Tony, again, started and finished the New Zealand Ironman, his 26^th.

The following summer Tony was still biking, swimming and running, but in January 2011 whilst out cycling with a good Ironman training mate, training for that year’s Ironman, Tony suffered a mini-stroke.  Whilst in Accident and Emergency at Auckland hospital he became paralysed down one side of his body.  I reflect with bemusement the looks on the medics faces when at 11 o’clock  that night, in A&E,  the medics rushing into our little cubicle to find Tony attempting to lean himself on the side of the hospital bed trying to do a Pilates routine that he thought would help to get his paralysed side working again.  Six weeks later in March 2011, Tony started and finished his 27^th New Zealand Ironman.  That was the 4^th Ironman that he completed after having been given only 12 weeks to live , four years earlier.

Two years ago in March 2012 with his willing mind, Tony started and finished what he knew would be his last ever Ironman.  It was his, and Ironman New Zealand’s 28^th.

Throughout all of those 28 years and particularly during the last five years of his own trials, Tony continued to help, and advise, and mentor others who had a goal of doing an Ironman – he proved to them  –..  “..if you have a willing mind, nothing is impossible.”

So last year when Ironman was on here in Taupo, Tony was back in Auckland, very ill in hospital.  But it was a special Ironman for Tony – for our son completed his own first Ironman – for us this was achieving the almost impossible – for no one would ever have expected this son to do an ironman – a drinker, a smoker, a night clubber, a recidivist electric puha smoker – even to Tony this would have seemed impossible – yet the impossible was achieved – our son did it for and because of Tony.

After finishing he returned to Auckland where Tony was in hospice care and presented the medal Tony in his hospital bed during the last ever moments that Tony had roused himself into some form of consciousness.  Tony gripped that medal in his left hand.  And there it stayed.  He died five days later with that medal still in his hand.  I am damned sure he would have arrived at the Pearly Gates and convinced St Peter that he had done his 29^th Ironman.

So this scholarship that Ironman New Zealand has developed comes with real meaning and purpose.  Over his 28 years of Ironmanning, and throughout those last five Ironman years, Tony would have helped, trained, coached, mentored, inspired, assisted and guided many people to achieve not only their first Ironman, but sometimes their 2^nd, 3^rd, 6^th or 10^th Ironman.  Ordinary people, whether 20 or 70; ordinary people, who without his encouragement would never have achieved that personal goal.

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This scholarship is New Zealand Ironman’s way of continuing Tony’s  and their belief to each person out there -  that, like everything in life, including Ironman -  ‘Nothing is impossible to the willing mind’.

These are the special two individuals who were the past two recipients.  Bring on the Tony Jackson scholar for next year!   

“There is nothing noble in being superior to 

your fellow man; true nobility is being superior 

to your former self.”  

Ernest Hemingway

Ironman Reflection.

Someone I know has been reflecting.  Reflecting on her/his sport.  Ironman. And reflecting, why did she/he want to do Ironman.

It's really quite simple.  

People don’t do sport because it’s fun.  Ask any athlete, most of them hate it much of the time, but they couldn’t imagine their life without it.

It’s part of them, the love-hate relationship.  

It’s part of their reason of what they live for.  

The training days;  the good ones, the bad ones, the social get together, the coffees, the warm pies on the rides, the driving to events, the camaraderie with training mates and with complete strangers who are doing the same thing as you.

The equipment, the swim suit, the bike, the shoes, the lake, the sea, the endless washing, the bags of gear, the carbo biscuits, the sticky drinks, the chaffing, the coach.

The training, the aches, the pains, the road rash, the wetsuit chaff, the black toe nails – ah… the badges of honour, almost.

They live for the way they feel when they have a good training day, a good ride, a good swim.   Those days make up for the bad training day, the bad ride, the bad swim.

They live for the day they finally cross the finish line and then think, “I wonder if I had not skipped those nights running in the dark in winter whether I could have shaved that 2 minutes off my damned good finish time!”

They live for how their training mates have become almost a family, a unique and odd sort of family, but family.

And all those countless songs they sing in their head when out training for all those hours.  All those memories that flit across the brain when pedaling those miles.  All those reminder notes that pop into their head when they are on the last hour of their 3 hour runs.

And then of course, they live for enjoying how their body and mind feels.  How they have developed, changed and turned their own special body into one healthy, human machine that they have quietly become quite proud of. 

And the brain, the brain they note has become sharper, lighter and more functional.  It’s that body and that brain which created a whole refreshed, personal soul.  That body, that mind, that spirit.

The spirit that turned the mind, that turned the body.

And the self-respect.  That self-respect – no more nor less than what they earned.

That’s why they do it.