Ironman - Was supposed to be on in Taupo today .. it wasn't, Covid put paid to that

And just by coincidence I was going through some old computer files today and found an article Mr J wrote on 14 March 2012 - a few days after the horrid weather Ironman day - when the event was moved to the Sunday and was run as a half distance event.  

And 4 years after he was given the 10 to 12 week to live diagnosis.  The article is not for the faint hearted, but makes some nice Ironman references.  I have pasted it below.

For those Ironmen who think they are doing it tough by having it postponed this year, this reminded me of what 'tough' and 'Ironman' is:

Hole in Head

 

On or about the 15 Feb 2012, the infected hole in my head was getting worse so we decided a visit to the hospital was needed. As we have done in the past this meant a visit to A & E where we seem to get a fast track service.  In no time at all I was admitted to a ward and examined by a large group of learned medical staff. There was a group from the infectious diseases; they took blood samples from the hole. Then there was the surgical team who discussed when the infection may have gone, finally a group of eager students all furiously taking notes.  After all note taking and discussion it was agreed that I should have another MRI. 

 

It was decided that a Scan was needed for up to date information so off I went to the scan machine. On my return the medical committee, as we now called it, met and with due regard to my history of Ironman told me that I could be released to go and do the Ironman and to return  the week following when they would deal to the hole. It was suggested that the surgeons would open up the hole, remove some infected bone and replace with a glass fibre plug. Meanwhile the Bugs group would arrange to intravenous drip me with an antibiotic for several weeks.

 

With all this buzzing around in my head we were discharged and set off home to prepare for our trip to Taupo. The days just flashed by and in no time at all we were doing the final pack and setting off for the big Lake. We arranged to be there on the Wed so that we could prepare for the 1^st time ironman presentation. This year Verna was to do it with me and in the past we have been very successful as duel presenters, especially since I am getting forgetful these days. As the time went by our friends turned up. There was Jason and Becky, Merle and Peter, Annie and Murray, Doug and Gaye, Danny and Glenn, Peter and Natasha and Grant. Doing the Ironman were the following: Becky, Annie, Doug, Grant, Verna & Tony.

 

Our 1^st timers presentation was scheduled for 1pm on Thursday, it was attended by at least 450 and the gold coin collection for CFS was at least that. I have to say that with Verna presenting with me I was so much more relaxed and we both enjoyed the experience as did all the attendees.

 

Thursday evening was the Pasta function and most of our group attended. It was a packed house and there were more people seated than the function hall ever had before. An excellent presentation by the local iwi set the scene for the evening and as usual, the food never did run out. The role down for completed NZ Ironman was held and Mike Reilly called me up on stage as I had an announcement to make.  I wanted to tell as many people as I could that this was my last Ironman, I was retiring.  There were a number of reasons for this decision but most important was the continued stress and anxiety I was causing for my darling wife and our families and friends. What a wonderful 28 years I have had though and the many wonderful people we have met, I would not have changed this for anything.

 

Friday arrived so soon, as did the weather forecasts. Not good, in fact they were terrible. Gale, force winds, rain and very cold. This Ironman was prepared with a contingency plan. If the weather did not improve they would defer the event to Sunday and half the distances. Sat 4am weather still terrible so plans in place for a Sunday race. As it turned out the organisation was superb. All volunteers turned up and the whole event went without a hitch. It should be noted that NZ Civil Defence declined to give permission for the event to go ahead on the Saturday

Sunday it was.  Whilst all our team gave their best at the event, and I was very proud of their stoic attitudes, I chose to take a more sedate approach to the day. I wanted to enjoy my last Ironman. I took the opportunity to stop at aid stations and thank the volunteers.  I even did what I have always wanted to do.  Running back along the Lake Front, there is a small bar by a boat hire. Every year I have run past there is always someone in there with a cold bottle of Heineken. This year, on my return to the finish, I arranged to have a cold beer myself. Managed about a third and it was nectar.

 

How nice it was to be finished in daylight. Meant we could all get our stuff and go home for a communal meal and wine. All that was left was packing, meeting for breakfast and off home to the inevitable unpacking and pile of laundry.

 

We returned to the A&E on Tuesday morning and discovered that communication was not as good as it had been. Waited 8 Hours until they found a bed and then arrange for all the various surgeons to be on deck.

Since then I get prodded and tested every two hours until it was my turn to go to the operating theatre. When I came out in ICU my head was dressed in a giant turban.  It was the most disturbed night I have ever had, what with being awoken every two hours I was unable to go to sleep or do No. 2's. The following morning the surgical team arrived and explained what they have done.   

Tracing the infected bone tissue and the scull festering, the team had removed it all, the whole scalp, lifted it, cleaned out all the mess and dead bone, turned the scalp around, put it back on backwards and sewn it up covering the big gaps in my head.

 

The purpose of this communication is not to continue about my problems but more to recognise the amazing efforts put in by Verna.

 

Some years ago we were feeling very, very happy and contented with our lives. We had what we considered a wonderful life. I love my wife.  And importantly we were surrounded our many friends. Verna was being very successful with her small Auckland company doing so well and I was feeling very settled within Telecom developing the future split of the group.

In between living and being happy with our life and work, we were continuing with our fun times of training together and this year we decided to train a little more seriously, Verna wanted to podium.  She told me she was tired of my being up there, it was her turn. Which was funny because she had podiumed a few times but I knew she was just trying to motivate me.  I do need it.  We were happy.

Then, completely without warning, I developed a tumor in my brain.  This affected our lives substantially.  With a very urgent operation for removal it was found the tumour was a Grade 5. The progress from there you would all have read about. What has not been said has been the contribution made by Verna.

 

 And there I will leave it - it's an article about Tony, not me.

 

Answering the question, 'Where did I come from' ?

 

On my October travels to the South Island this year, on a clear, sunny day I walked through the sand hills south of Riverton, west of Bluff, to one of the most southern lookout points of the South Island. 

It was a lovely warm day, blue skies with Persil white clouds above.  The ocean beneath the sandhills was a deep azure blue with mild rippling waves.  I stood on the mound for some time and looked across the glorious blue water to the horizon and the unmistakable shape of Stewart Island.  An island many of my fellow New Zealanders have never set foot on. 

Not far from where I was standing there was a handsome, middle aged couple who were also enjoying the warmth of the day and admiring the awesome scene in front of us.  The lady turned to me and asked, “Have you ever been to Stewart Island?” 

“Yes,” I replied, “twice.”

“We went once,” she said, “not a lot there though.  Once was enough.” 

Part of my soul sunk a little at the comment, ‘not a lot there’.  I held my tongue as from my perspective it’s a glorious independent little island that has held onto its semi-isolation feel yet has kept up with all the modernisation that anyone needs when going there for a holiday.

I have not explored all of the island.  I will, one day.  I will return and with some good fortune may even be able to share this special place with others.

My first visit was many years ago;  Mr J and I planned to go visit merely to tick it off our ‘to do’ list of places in New Zealand we have been.  Stewart Island was one of only a few left on the list.

It was not until we had driven from Auckland to Wellington and spent a night’s rest with my little sister and her partner in their Wellington home that I learnt there was more to our trip of going to the island than to just ‘tick it off’ and say, “been there, done that.”

On learning of our plan to visit the island sister Tina casually mentioned that I should take a trip to the island's museum as she had been told there was information about the area our great-great grandfather and his wife had lived. 

Somewhere in my many decades of adulthood I had completely forgotten there had been any family ties with Stewart Island.

The moment she mentioned it the recollection neurons in my brain began to regurgitate the stories from my father about our family links to that land.  That sometime in the early 1800’s his great-grandfather and his family had lived, or more descriptively, survived living on Stewart Island.  My father had told me of how his great-grandfather, William Cook, who in the early 1820’s was living in Korerareka (now known as Russell) in the Bay of Islands with his wife Tiraha and their first born son, George, when he had been erroneously persuaded into sailing from that glorious area of the Bay of Islands and move temporarily to Stewart Island to begin building a 100 ton ship for future trading uses between New Zealand and Australia.

At that stage William Cook was well settled in the Bay of Islands, more by accident than by planning. In New Zealand in those early pre-settler times of 1818-1819 he had visited the Bay of Islands on ships from Sydney which were sailing to New Zealand to drop off sealers and whalers and to trade goods with the Northland Maori tribes – the usual cargo returning to Sydney being products of the whalers and sealers and timber for ship building and flax for the manufacture of rope.

On one such journey William had become very ill in Kororareka and the ship’s captain decided to not delay the ship’s return to Sydney so left William in the Bay of Islands in the care of the local missionaries.  William recovered, decided he would remain in the area and very soon had taken as his wife a whangai niece of Tamati Waka Nene, her name being Tiraha Papa Harakeke.  Tiraha being of Ngapuhi and Kapotai descent.  Tamati Waka Nene, being a noble Maori chief in the area meant the union of the two individuals was one of respectability to both the tangata whenua and the local missionaries and Europeans.  Indeed, I have learnt this was the first official interracial marriage between the Europeans and Maoris in New Zealand.  Married by Henry Williams in the Anglican church on the Paihia waterfront.

Within a short time the first born came along, to be eventually followed by twelve others over the next two decades.  As was common in those times, two did not survive.

William, a Battle of Waterloo veteran, was an Englishman who had departed Portsmouth, Great Britain in a ship bound for Australia, carrying prisoners who became the original Europeons of that land. 

Over the many decades, indeed it is now two centuries, there have been many descendants of William and Tiraha’s who believed that William was a direct descendant of James Cook, the unique explorer who had spent many journeys to New Zealand, naming many sites and mapping out the country.  It was in 1769 that James Cook first visited and when one looks at the navigational maps he so adeptly drew it makes one realise what a highly skilled and clever man he was.

Who would not want to be a descendant of such a renown explorer?

I visited the Russell Museum archives five years ago, accompanied by my older brother who had already spent some hours scouring through the amazing amount of historical records of the original Cook family.  Even among these papers there were notes relating to the family link to James Cook.  However, being the cynic I am, unless we had DNA from Cook, or written form of the gene tree, then I find it more fanciful than accurate of there being a direct link.

James Cook sailed from Portsmouth when departing for his trips to the Pacific, but he grew up in the northern areas of England.   When he was murdered in the Pacific he left behind a wife and two children who were living somewhere in England at that time.  Whilst we know William Cook departed the UK via Portsmouth, we can find no record of where William Cook’s childhood was spent or anything of his parentage.

Therefore, I shall claim no link to James Cook but proudly put my hand up when asked about William and Tiraha.

Once William had recovered from his illness that found him domicile in Korerareka he earned his living working as a carpenter working mostly on the many ships that came into the Bay of Islands and required repairs.  Indeed, the ship from which he sailed from Sydney on has his occupation listed as ‘shipwright’.  Shipwright being their term for carpenter, ships carpenter. 

Many of the ships coming to New Zealand at that time were carrying sealers and whalers to be left along various parts of New Zealand’s coastlines to capture and kill seals and whales for the by products they proffered.  Within a few years the sons of William turned to whaling as their main occupation. 

It was whaling that eventually put that particular Cook family forever into the country’s history books.  William and his sons had worked as carpenters in Korerareka but had also become skilled whalers.  It was three of William and Tiraha’s grandsons (George, William & Herbert) who, in 1893 established their whaling operations on the Raukaumangamanga peninsular in the Whangamumu Harbour.  The beautiful Whangamumu Harbour can easily be seen when walking the Cape Brett walk beginning north of Russell. 

This particular whaling station had quickly become renown for being the only one in the world that caught whales with nets, as opposed to spearing, and this station became Northland’s longest successful operational station, with three generations of Cook descendants manning it until approximately the late 1930’s. 

Meanwhile, from William and Tiraha, and their ten children and the next two centuries, the Cook family begat and grew considerably, exponentially. 

And here I am.  A proud Cook member. 

I’ll now link back to Stewart Island.  In 1826 William and Tiraha, plus seven other ‘carpenters’ and their wives from Kororareka were talked into sailing to Stewart Island by a ship’s Captain, William Stewart, to build a 100 ton boat for future whales and traders.  Captain Stewart had promised them he would take them there to settle, leaving them with six months of supplies and would return to Sydney to stock up on further supplies and return within six months.  He agreed to do this until the 100 ton boat was completed.  The group would then be sailed back to the Bay of Islands. 

William and Tiraha and their then only child, George, sailed with their compatriots to Stewart Island to carry out their agreed contract.  In April 1826 Stewart sailed them into the area which is now known as Cook's Arm.  Cook's Arm has for many years been mistakenly thought was named after Captain James Cook.  Not so.  It is  is named after the William Cook family and clearly obvious as the whole harbour area is known as Shipbuilders Cove.  

Captain Stewart who took them to the island bid farewell to them with the promise of returning with supplies, departed, never to return.  Indeed, he ended up in a Sydney jail, on what we would now call fraud charges.

There is a written account from 1825 from a John Boultbee who had sailed a ship into the area these abandoned families were in but stated ‘unfortunately we were unable to assist them’.

Boultbee wrote in his 1825 journal, “We found a shipwright named Cook and 8 men and 9 women from the Bay of Islands.  They had been greatly distressed for food and we were unfortunately unable to assist them.  Cook had engaged with the Captain Stewart at the Bay of Island to go to Pegasus to build a vessel of 100 tons burthen.  The party commenced working and sawing planks and had got the ship’s timbers all ready.  No relief came and when I came across them they were 12 months without seeing or hearing of Stewart.  The people had to look out, as well as they could, for such as they could get to eat – cockles, muscles & fern root.  The men looked lean and haggard but the women stood hunger well, and the fern root seemed to keep them in as plump a condition as if they had the best food to live upon.  It is remarkable how the New Zealanders (Maoris) can stand hunger.  I have seen them for 2 days with scarcely any thing to eat, and still retain their good humour.  Not so the Europeans, they invariably grow clamorous and quarrelsome. 

Cook has children; his eldest boy could write and spoke English very perfectly.” 

Boultbee had to leave William, Tiraha and their settlers but returned some months later and found they were living “most wretchedly” 

They had abandoned work on the 100 ton boat and begun work on a smaller craft of about “25 tons” to take them home to the Bay of Islands.  “They had no iron nails so used wooden pegs instead and the women has set to work cheerfully to make mats for sails and ropes of flax.”

In 1829 the group of settlers were asked to construct buildings and boats for the whaling station in an area now known as Preservation Inland.  This they did, returning to their original place to work on their schooner.

It wasn’t until sometime after 1833 that Cook and others finally completed their schooner (which ended up with it's own history) and departed Port Pegasus to return to the Bay of Islands.  From those original Cooks came the renown Bay of Islands Whangamumu Whaling Station.

I knew most of the history of the Cooks and Bay of Islands and the whaling station, but little of the above connection to Stewart Island. – despite recalling my father telling me William, Tiraha and others had been swindled into going to Stewart Island it seems I never absorbed the reasons why or any other facts.  Indeed, when my sister Tina reminded me of the link she too had little recollection of these facts but had been told by a friend of hers of the local museum in Oban, on Stewart Island that had a photo of our great, great grandfather.  Wow, thought I, how fascinating, the weird connection of travelling to Stewart Island and on the way accidentally learning things I never knew of those I descended from.

Tony and I arrived at Stewart Island after choosing to fly into the area rather than take the ferry boat.  We had been informed by others that the boat trip is regularly an upside-down affair with most trips having passengers vomiting over the sides, suffering from awful sea sickness.  We chose to go the more expensive, but less turbulent way.

How wrong that was.

The planes from Invercargill to Stewart Island are small and seemingly held together with zip ties and loose rivets.  The flight is only 15 to 20 minutes, but the same winds that create the horrendous waves for the ferries also create horrendous drops and turbulence for the very small aeroplanes above.  I thought I was going to die.  I thought it might be less painful to actually make myself die by jumping out of the emergency exit mid flight.  I was terrified.  The one hour ferry ride of vomiting seemed a far, far more pleasant option.

That aside, we landed at the Oban airstrip and were taken to the town. 

Whilst we waited for our accommodation to be ready we walked the few streets of Oban and came across the local café, a rustic café.  We enjoyed a superb coffee and toasted sandwich and noted the only other customer in the establishment.  Clearly a local resident, a man in his 30’s who spent his breakfast time concentrating on reading the mainland newspapers the aeroplane had delivered to the town.

As we rose to leave the café the newspaper reading gentleman passed polite pleasantries on where had we travelled from, why were we here and other usual general chit-chat quips we Kiwis so often exchange.

Tony informed the man we were staying only 3 days and were wanting to find the local museum as we had been informed there could be information there on some forefather of mine who had been reported as living there in the previous century.

The café man asked if we knew the name of the forefather, “Cook,” said Tony, “William Cook.”

With that the man reeled quite a conversation in telling me all he knew about William Cook, his wife, his family, his fellow shipbuilders, what they had been doing there, how, and where their actual living site was on the island – accessible by boat only.  I was enthralled.  Here we were, only just arrived on the island and the second person we meet (the first being the café owner) gives me all this information about my family history that I never knew about.   Turns out he was not a born local, had moved there some years earlier but enjoyed absorbing Stewart Island history and was well aware of Cook, Cooks Cove and their life there.

This was an unrealistic, almost illusory situation.

We enquired how we could get to the area those settlers had set up their homes in and the man informed us of the local tour boat who could accommodate such a trip.

The next day we motored, just Tony and I, plus the 3 crew on the tour boat, to Shipbuilders Cove, to Cooks Arm. 

I was still somewhat enamoured with what was happening.  So many times in our lives we have almost surreal events, this was one very big one for me.  How opportune for me to have all this happening.

Later that day we returned to our motel accommodation and sitting on a table in the motel room was a book, Stewart Island Explored, with a specific chapter ear marked, Chapter 5, The Shipbuilders’ Colony which had a photo of William and Tiraha.  I enquired with the motel’s owner how it had come to be in our room.  She informed me a local she knew had popped in earlier in the day and asked if it could be left for me to ‘borrow’ and read.  She gave me the man’s name and email address, he being our café acquaintance. 

I read the book, learnt my forebearers Stewart Island history, returned it to the man, purchased a copy from the local museum and have it sitting beside me now. 

So on that day in October, when the lady enquired if I had ever visited the island and then proclaimed “.. not a lot to do there.  Once was enough,” I smiled, said nothing and thought how nice it is for me to have such valuable family history in this country of ours and how I will visit again, maybe one day with my own off spring, and walk them through the trials and tribulations their great, great, great grandparents had on Stewart Island. 

Photos of Tiraha & William

Cooks Arm, Stewart Island

Whangamumu Whaling Station, Bay of Island.

Here ends the history lesson.

I worked at the YMCA

                           

Actually, the Village People have no relation to this script, but felt it may capture the attention of some individuals who could share a few quirky stories that emanated from the YMCA in the 'olden' days - ie: when the Village People were around.

I posted a smart comment on Facebook last week about being on a run here in Waikiki with my running mate when he ran ahead of me, I took a sharp right-hand turn and left him to his own run.  It’s a thing we used to do with our weekly Wednesday OWR (Once Were Runners) runs – if someone ran ahead of whoever was leading the run, then we’d quickly do a left or right turn and leave them out in their running oasis without their knowing the rest of us had long gone on in another direction.

Was the best, most punitive and easiest of way of letting whoever that individual was know they were a prat;  no one cared how fast they could run, we were running for the social factor, not for the show-off-I’m-so-good factor.

The Facebook item gendered a response from a friend who years ago was a ‘pack leader’ of a Sunday YMCA running group.  I’m going back decades now, into the 1980’s.  This friend reminded me of an individual who had truly got up Pack Leader’s nose on a number of occasions by frequently running ahead of his pack, showing all and sundry what a complete wally he was.

My FB post thence began a FB Messenger tryst between myself, my friend the Pack Leader and one other renown and amazing club runner, now living in London, who I knew would enjoy our reminisces of that particular wally.  Let’s call him ‘Wally’. 

Between me in Waikiki, Pack Leader in Auckland, and Amazing Runner in London (female, and then a mother of 5 school-age children, worked full time and was still able to become a national running champ) we had a chuckle over dalliances other than running ahead of Pack Leader that we remember that particular Wally for.  Nothing nicer than enjoying some old time giggles, with other old timers, of old characters.

Then bugger me days, the very next morning as I lay reposed in bed in Waikiki with my mobile phone catching up on New Zealand news media articles I find a headline article about our Wally.  The 1980’s were decades ago yet only yesterday we were tossing notes via the ether about him almost 40 years later, enjoying the sharing, perhaps berating, but true stories about Wally and then the man is headlined in the next day's NZ Herald.

https://www.nzherald.co.nz/business/news/article.cfm?c_id=3&objectid=12246026&fbclid=IwAR0-2j59kwTbUCKGzSY6p4TRDUpWC7nQg8Ivn2kcH3hJAiXObqvsm1LtwdA

Victims of serial fraudster tell of losing their life savings in luxury car ruse

2 Jul, 2019 9:02pm

 4 minutes to read

What a co-incidence.  

Shan’t go into the stories we were sharing – they were all true, but don’t wish to go into any future litigation proceedings that could occur to prove them.  Indeed, names in this script have been changed in case such a situation does occur.  

Suffice to say that the three of us judgmental ones were feeling justified in regurgitating old done and dusted grievances the man gave us those many years ago, be they of a lesser degree than the poor sods in the NZ Herald article.

What the newspaper article, the reminisces of Wally and those times did do to me for the rest of the day was give me pop-up memories of that era and some of the really interesting and bemusing characters we had around us in our YMCA fitness circles in the early 1980’s.

It was the era of the ‘jogging’ boom.  Marathons were the in thing, the activity so many wanted to be part of.  With the boom of the jogging craze the management and fitness instructors from the Y set up the YMCA Marathon Club, a club that became the central and biggest running club in the country to train anyone and everyone who had the desire to run a marathon.  Consequently there were many interesting characters. 

Like the well-built, very well stacked male pack leader who wore the shortest of red running shorts, even for those times, and gave the women much to discuss over the bleachers in the changing rooms after and before each Sunday run.

Like the head turning good looking, charming, wealthy character, with a bronzed body to suit, who drove to the Y every Sunday in his smart, white, soft topped, 2-door sports car (not a common sight in the 80’s); he introduce himself to every new woman member of the club, whether a less than attractive individual, or a real stunner and say the same thing to them all, “Hello, my name is Rob Cook and you’re going to like me.” 

And they did!  They couldn’t help but do.  He was a charming, smiling, wealthy smooth talker and with his blonde hair and wide blue eyes he woo’d them totally.  It was always fun watching him bewitch them all by this professional, good looking, good talking lawyer.

Then there was the magnificently handsome looking couple who were stylish runners.  Everyone enjoyed their running company and some of us enjoyed their social company, even going away to marathon events around the country with them.  He was later goaled for life, having murdered her and cut her body into pieces and put in a green wheelie bin.

Prior to my becoming a member of the marathon club I was already a fitness centre member of the YMCA Businessmen’s’ Health Club, now known plainly as the Y Fitness Centre.  Indeed, I do believe Wally was a member of that club too before becoming a marathon runner.  At the time he and his wife were the cleaners of the YMCA facilities, she was a lovely lady, always felt sorry for her.  But that’s another story.

Some of the characters of the Businessmen’s Health Club were real characters.  I remember one of the instructors, Max Telford, became an international long distance runner and at the time had run from Auckland to Wellington in 5 days, run through Death Valley in the Grand Canyon and back in temperatures around 55 celsius, and lived – ran from Anchorage to Nova Scotia in some ridiculous time, over 8,000 kilometres and goodness knows how many other beyond the imagination long distance feats.  He was an interesting, skinny, wiry man.  I think he may still hold that Death Valley record to this day.  I’ll Google it sometime.

We were in awe of the man whilst at the same time thinking he was a bit of a ‘nutter’.  We thought that each time we saw him exit the gym sauna, having trained in there for long hours by jogging up and down the 3 high wooden steps in the heat as training for Death Valley.

                                                      

There was the sweetest, most delightful character who was a well known sailor in New Zealand, D’arcy Whiting.  D’arcy, very small of stature (maybe 5’4”) who would regale us with wonderful sailing stories as he was a real character in the NZ sailing world.  D'arcy had served in WW2 and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel and had many stories to regale over a morning cuppa after his gym work out. 

My favourite D'arcy story was a non-sailing one, when his lovely wife, Mollie, had given birth to their first child.  In those days men were not allow anywhere near the birth, nor anywhere near the mother outside of the rigid visiting hours at the hospitals.  One night away from Mollie was too much for D’arcy so, no doubt lubed by some form of sailing liquor, decided he wanted to visit his wife and new baby.  Under the cover of darkness D’arcy scaled the fences, walls and roof of what was then (I think) National Women’s Hospital in the old army barracks in Cornwall Park – now well gone – crawled as quiet as he could in his somewhat inebriated state over the roof and through a window into Mollie's room, taking with him flowers.  He got to see both Mary and baby and stayed until dawn.  I cannot recall whether he exited the same way he entered or not. 

                                               

As a byline: the baby he went to visit is now a well known Auckland sailor and Councillor, Penny Whiting.

Sunbeds were the new thing at fitness centres in the 80’s.  But they weren’t the lie-down, close the lid sunbeds of latter years.  They were cubicles with 4 long vertical suntubes (similar to those normal fluorescent tubes used for lighting) in each corner, a person went in, stood upright, naked (or semi-naked) with a mask to cover the eyes while the bright sun lamps scorched the body to well cooked (we knew nothing of the cancers caused by sunbeds in those days).  For the vertically challenged tanners the Y had put a small wooden box in the cubicle for those individuals to stand on.  The cubicles had a swing door, saloon-type ones, so that from the outside one could see the bottom half of the legs of the sun tanner, or the wooden box with feet on them. 

At the other end of the women’s changing room, directly opposite the sun cubicle a set of stairs led downstairs to a storeroom.  One day, having been downstairs I was walking slowly up the stairs, turned my head in the direction of the sun cubicle to see the glorious sight a what was clearly a naked, elderly female gym member enjoying the rays of the sun lamps.  I knew it was an elderly lady, I could tell, as she was sitting on the wooden box, facing the saloon door, legs wide open and body in a reposed position for the sun lamps to tan every nook and cranny of her anatomy.  She clearly had not thought about the viewing potential for those coming up the wooden staircase opposite.

Never could I look at, let alone talk to, that individual without having that momentary sight come to mind. 

She was actually a sweet lady who would have been mortified.

And I did go move my gym bag and gear and placed them strategically in front of the cubicle door to give her the privacy she unwittingly did not have - and to not scare the bejesus out of others.

It was about this time when the changing room had been exceptionally busy with women in all states of dress and undress wandering from showers, to mirrors, to lockers, to bags … and even to sun rooms.  In those days modesty in the changing rooms was not a problem – nakedness abound, no matter what the shape the body was in.  I was sitting on the bleachers and looked up to the wall above the wooden staircase and notice something that seemed odd.  The YMCA was an old building – above the fitness centre was the main stadium where sports and concerts were held.  I knew that somewhere on the other side of that wall was another staircase leading to toilets that serviced the stadium. 

What I noted, quite high up on the wall in the changing room were small one inch holes, six of them.   Curiosity had me pull a bleach to the wall, stand on it on tip toes and try to figure out whether these holes were perhaps for ventilation, or what.  I could not quite reach them but could see they had been there for some time. For what purpose?  I wouldn’t allow my curiosity to die and took myself upstairs to the stadium and then down the flight of stairs which were directly behind our women’s changing rooms.  It happened to be stairs to the men’s toilets for stadium goers.  Half way down the stairs I looked up above me and saw a dark ledge, tunnel like, that I had never noticed before.  It was access to air conditioning ducts.  It was too high for me to reach, let alone climb up to but was obviously an access for tradesmen should the air conditioning require work.  My suspicions were justified.

Straight to the CEO’s office who initially dismissed my query as probably being alarmist.  I wouldn’t let it settle. He called the building’s caretaker and the three of us went down to check it out, caretaker with ladder under arm.  We held the ladder, he climbed.  He returned with a blanket and some towels.  Seems someone, some time ago, had made themselves a lovely little, cosy hide away, with peep holes into the ladies changing rooms - they would have had a blast, or several thousands, by the time his secret cubby hole was exposed.

It didn’t take much for the three of us to deduce who it would have been – but short of DNA-ing the blanket we had no proof.  Needless to say, that individual, who was not an official employee of the Y, was not to been seen in the YMCA corridors again.

The access was boarded up and the three of us kept smut.  Until now.

One person who will forever remain etched in my brain was an older lady member of the Fitness Centre who spoke with the finest of English accents, having been English born and attended, with honours, Cambridge and Oxford universities studying psychology. She was a physiological psychologist - I had never heard of one before hence it's stayed in my brain.  She was in her 80's and still lectured at Auckland University.  

I drove Betty to her Epsom home one afternoon when she told me she had spent some years in the 1940's (or 50's) researching whether intelligence was declining in New Zealand, as it had been proven the case in England some decades earlier. She was based at Otago University then and tested hundreds of Dunedin school children and had concluded that intelligence had in fact declined over a 1.5 generation.  That fascinated me then.  Imagine her research results in 2019!

Oh, the stories of individuals and people, could go on for encyclopedic volumes … stories that returned to mind due to Pack Leader, Amazing Runner and I swapping messages via the ether. 

Those times were past and have passed … perhaps not a good idea to bring some stories up … after all it was in the ‘Me2’ era, and the pre-stock market crash of the 80’s (which many of the Businessmen’s Health Club were heavily embroiled in); irrespective, thought I’d share a couple that came to mind, in hope it may stir some repeatable memories from others in that era they may care to share.  

Pack Leader, Amazing Runner and self did feel a little immature for regurgitating memories of our miscreant Wally but figure it’s been positive as he took us oldies back into a unique past.

Which reminds me of the Wally who entered the Rotorua Marathon one year, roared off from the start line then finished in a magnificent race time; beat all his fellow running mates hands-down, including his nemesis runner, Amazing Runner.   

One can do that when spotted jumping out of a car 4 kilometres from the finish line.   

                                  

Amazing Runner, in pink, with her rather quick marathoner husband Kelvin, and her sister (also a great fleet-of-foot runner) and self - photo taken this past summer when they returned to NZ for a family visit.

Holidaying Healthily

Time.  It's been an issue with me lately. Not only am I lost in it, but seems I don't have enough of it.

Am on holiday in Hawaii and prior to leaving New Zealand organised me annual service and booked important appointments including going to my physio, podiatrist, doctor, eye specialist, dental hygienist and dentist.  

Actually coffee'd with my physio (it wasn't a real appointment, we just happen to enjoy the same caffeine supplier and catch up there frequently over a flat white) who asked if I was consistently doing an exercise he gave me 18 months ago to fix my reoccurring achilles problem.  "Err, sorta," I responded.  Thence began a lecture lasting some minutes on how was I to expect the keep injuries at bay if I didn't listen to my physio.  I was chastised.

Two days earlier I popped into a local podiatrist to attend to an ingrown nail that was the result of Rotorua Marathon last year (I lost a big toe nail and it's STILL growing back - in-growing back).  She looked at the other two blackened toenails, a result of this year's Rotorua Marathon, shook her head and said, "You really must take better care of your feet."

But I do - they just end up like that cause I'm busy taking care of my body which means my feet get wrecked.  So what do I do? ..... let my body go to pot but have wonderful looking toenails?  

A day or so later came out of the doctors feeling chastised about "you shouldn't worry about enjoying yourself.  Stop worrying and enjoy.". ??  (go figure that one).  I paid my bill and questioned, did I just pay for a medical appointment or a psycho analyst appointment?

I came out of the eye specialists the next the day having been sternly reprimanded for compromising my eye sight by my not taking enough time each day to focus on the well being of my eyes.  With this reprimand I was given a sheet of A4 with instructions of 'Daily Routine for Your Eyes'. 

Two hours later I came out of the dental hygienist feeling scolded for not taking enough time each day with my personal dental care.  But who does! I brush at least twice a day, often 3.  Who flosses EVERY time they clean your teeth?  Who has time to?   I left her rooms with my tail between my legs, again, as that's a regular annual lecture I get.  But hey, my teeth are good - they're damn near all artificial!

I then had a dentist appointment upstairs after the hygienist.  And believe it or not, he didn't growl at me about anything - he was complimentary.  Even my visit to him was complimentary.  After nearly 30 years of going to him, it's seems more of a social visit anyway.  Think he just finds me entertainment.

It's funny being an well matured adult and still feeling like a child from the growling, scolding and reprimands.  

So I flies out of NZ, get here in Hawaii and figure, OK, I've all this free time so I'll make a determined effort, take all the advice on board and ... begin to look after myself.

I'll start by joining the local gym.  Even booked myself with a personal trainer.  Had my first one-on-one session with him. He very professionally took me through an hour's session addressing long term issues I have had with my rota cuff and infamous bad knee.

I've felt quite proud of myself these past many years to still have kept up exercising with broken down body bits.  Still managed an Ironman, or two, and the odd marathon here and there with bung knees, rotars and even a malfunctioning heart.  Didn't wash impressively with the trainer, he didn't say it in so many words, but it was clearly his 'opinion' that I could have done far more to have helped the body - if I had taken the time.

OK, so I don't pre-exercise stretch - I do have tight adductors - I do have tight abductors - I do have tight piriformis - I do have tight hamstrings - I do have tight things I've never heard of.  Just a damn pity my outer skin wasn't tight as everything else!

Decided then and there I am not going to go to my dietologist, psychologist, sleepologist, dermatologist, oncologist, urologist, proctologist, sociologist, ideologist or gynecologist for the rest of my days - bloody expensive tellings off!

I did not let the personal trainers opinion deter me though, for after his scolding I set myself a goal to take time each day to heed everyone's advice. I would take action. 

So I did, as per the advice of all the personal experts above.

Mornings:
5.30 a.m.
Wake bright and early, make self a refreshing Kombucha morning cuppa.  It's going to flush my kidneys, liver and something else of all those dirty toxins I've consumed the previous few days.  I sit comfortably and take some minutes to be mindful of the goodness the refreshing and cleansing drink is giving my body.

5.50 a.m.
Bathroom ablutions.  The Kombucha works.  All those flippin' toxins ...

6.00 a.m.
Remember the eye specialists advice.  Find a hot pack, or hot flannel, lie back on the bed and place over eyes for 30 to 60 seconds.  Remove pack and begin to gently massage each eyelid for 30 seconds.  That's four eyelids, two minutes just for the massaging. 

6.10 a.m.  Fetch yoga mat, spread on floor, put on waterfall and whale calling music and spend a relaxed but painfully concentrated 20 minutes allowing the body to enjoy the stretching and tree poses and downward dogs.  Don't finish yoga off yet, as more to do later.

6.30 a.m. Fetch gym roller and roll the quads, hamstrings, abductors, adductors, piriformis as a pre-run loosening of those leg muscles that support the bung knee.  Do this for 15 minutes.

6.45 a.m.  Finish the yoga/roller stretches off with 10 salutes to the suns, then repose oneself back onto the yoga mat and spend 15 to 20 minutes in a state of mindful meditation.  In peace and quiet.  Focusing of all the things I am grateful for today, in the now, then channeling my thoughts into deep meditation.

7.25 a.m.  After waking self up from the mindfulness sleep (the dribble running out of the corner of the mouth always wakes me); take 5 minutes to down half a litre of purified waters, ideally mixed with spirulina to help the digestive system eradicate all the other toxins the Kombucha didn't do.  Note to self: stop ingesting toxins.

7.30 a.m.  Now it's time to put some clothes on.  Your running gear, for the run you have already prepared for. 

7.35 a.m.  Dive for the lavatory bowl, for the spirulina has successfully hit the toxins.

7.45 a.m.  Walk out skinny from the bathroom.  Lather self with Factor 70 sunscreen lotion.  Head to gangrenous toe.

7.50 a.m.  Head off for the morning 30 minute jog.

8.50 a.m.  Return from run - it takes longer than the 30 minutes scheduled due to aching legs from all the stretching and yoga, the lack of energy from all the toilet movements earlier and it is hot, very hot, running in 30 degrees takes it's toll, walking was more appropriate at times.  Sitting and resting under palm trees was mandatory.

Remember the PT instructors advice, take 30 minutes post run to slowly and gently stretch everything you have just used on the run.  Back stretches, abductors, adductors, butt, hamstrings, neck, shoulders, back ...

9.20 a.m.  Totally dehydrated now - take 10 minutes to cautiously consume 5 full glasses of purified waters.

9.30 a.m.  Now to shower, the long, blissful shower.  Don't forget the loffa, the exfoliation mitt, the facial cleansers, conditioners, shampoos, razor, moisturising soaps.  Wash hair, ensure I use a conditioning treatment that means leaving it in the hair for 10 minutes before rinsing out.  This is good as it gives me time to use the pumice stone to ensure I scrub off all the dried skin on the soles of my feet. 

9.50 a.m.  Dry off body, not forgetting to carefully dry between each little toe, all crooks and nannies and the hair.  Rub body down with the essential oils recommended by someone, and creams for the face, neck, hands and then the special foot creams for the dry skin under your soles and heels.

10.00 a.m.  I have constant sinus.  Utilise the sinus cleansing sprays.  Sort out the health tablets every tells me I should be taking - and cost me over $US100 at Longs Drugs - the tablets that are going to keep me eternally healthy, strong, fit and young. And maybe even tighten my outer skin. Great big green ones, enormous white ones, tiny yellow ones.  Quite a gobful.

10.00 a.m.  Dress. Now, due to taking care of self, and ensuring I maintain self confidence, must not resort to standard attire for the day - attire of pair of shorts, a tank top, jandals, and Farmers Trading Company underwear.  No, for self respect it must be all quality - snazzy skirt, bright and confident and feminine top, designer sandals.

10.10 a.m.  Breakfast.  Low or no gluten or carbs.  Light dairy.  No sugars.  Boringly munch through grains and seeds.  Then swallow that gobful of tablets.

10.30 a.m.  Clean teeth.  Mindfully so.  Top front, top back, front, inside, bottom front, bottom back, front, inside.  Then use that little pointy brush the hygenist gave me, to really scrub in and around those back ones the normal brush cannot get to.  Rinse thoroughly.  Then begin flossing.  Between each tooth.  Taking care to not pull out those nasty fillings I got from not looking after the teeth enough.  Rinse thoroughly.

11.00 a.m. Now go out and enjoy all that free time the day has. 

That is, until sometime in the afternoon when you are due for your next gym appointment.

Meanwhile it is always good to fill one's day with positive experiences.  Museums, art galleries, walks along fields, walks along beaches.  Avoid the busyness of peoples, of crowds, of carbon monoxide city traffic.  Find places of meaning, of positive energy - waterfalls are good.  If cannot find waterfalls make it water fountains.  Find one's zen.

Lunch on celery and kale, linseed, sunflower and chia seeds.  Num, num...   And whatever I do, must not forget to drink 4 litres of purified water throughout this time.

Finding clean bathrooms is not easy, but if well planned prior to leaving house, should be achievable.

Then remember, it's time for the gym.

3 p.m. (for any later would mean there would not be enough evening time to do 'my own thing') 

The gym session the personal trainer set me will take me two hours.  There's the 15 minute cardio warm up.  Then the 20 minutes of stretching for what is about to come.  Stretching, pulling, tugging, lunging, rolling - the shoulders, triceps, biceps, deltoids, upper spin, lower spin, neck, head, abductors, adductors, illiotibial bands, butt, quads, calves, that damn piriformis; not forgetting the upper abs, the lower abs. Then there is the exercises for all the above. Use the bands, the balls, the rollers, the weights, the machines, the poles, the kettlebells ... how I'll look as the incredible hulk will be amazing.

And, must not forget the hip raise exercises the physio scolded me for not doing. 

After session, sauna, shower, exfoliate again, dry, rub lotions all over face and body, dress.

6.00 p.m.  Home, via the health shops and organic supermarkets.  To pick up the greens, oranges, reds in the vege field, the pulses and grains, the organic minute size piece of red meat that must be consumed only once or twice a week.  Otherwise it's the organic, skinless, boneless, small chicken breast.  Or slice of fresh fish - if only it can be guaranteed to be fresh.

Home, before prepping dinner.  Take time to make a soothing camomile or peppermint tea.  Replete from those beverages and pre dinner prep take 20 minutes to spend in mindful mediation. 

6.45 p.m.  Begin dinner prep.

7.00 p.m.  Dinner - pity it is so late, as one is always advised that dinner it better for you if consumed at 5 p.m. 

7.30 p.m. Clear up from dinner - clear up kitchen - do some general housework prep for next day, laundry, preplanning attire and things like that.  To prove you are an organised person with an organised mind.

8.00 p.m. Take a good hour to find something rewarding, uplifting or deep and meaningful to read - goodness for the mind.  Some soulfulness in words.  After all, if the body is cleansed, so should the mind be.  I watch re-runs of Big Bang Theory.

9.30 p.m.  Prep for bed. 

Cleanse face, exfoliate face, use toner, aging skin tightener, moisturises for the aging.  Brush teeth, remember the full routine, front, back, front back, upper, lower, skinny pointy brush, floss. 

10.00 p.m.  Don't forget the eye specialist again - drops into the eyes. Rest and blink.

10.05 p.m.  Don't forget your evening mediation.  Just 15 minutes.  Sit up on bed as lying down to meditate will mean certain sleep.

10.20 p.m.  And remember - we all need at least 8 hours sleep a day.  I'm already behind. 

Ah well, I'll cut some of the free middle of the day time out tomorrow, visit one less museum and begin my evening prep by starting the gym session at 2 p.m. instead of 3 p.m. 

It's such fun looking after ones self when on holiday.  It's good to chill out.  

Lost in Time

"Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today."  Mother Theresa

 

"Today is tomorrow, tomorrow is today, yesterday was today, tomorrow will be today tomorrow ...."  Verna Cook-Jackson

I've been living in tomorrow for a week now and I keep thinking it's still yesterday.

I accept Mother Theresa's wisdom that yesterday is gone, tomorrow has yet to come, we have only today - if only I could remember whether I am in today, or tomorrow, or yesterday.

I wake up each day thinking, ah ... it Friday today, isn't it?  I think so.  Or is it?  Maybe it's Thursday.  Or is it Saturday?  Can't be Thursday, can it?

I am in a calendar blur.
 
You see, about a week ago I flew onto a Pacific island where for me, time should not matter.  I am going to be here for a while on what seems to have become an annual retreat into permanent sunshine, warmth and golden sands; a retreat where not giving a s__it as to whether it's Monday, or Wednesday or Saturday, or whatever day should matter.

But it does to me.   

There is my family back in New Zealand who I want to keep in contact with, but apparently they are not really 'back', but in front.  It's in the future where they are.  The future I have yet to have.  For I am in the past.

Then I have family and 'chums' living in other lands around the world.  Most of them seem to be in the future too, but it's what part of the future that makes it confusing.

When and if I wish to make contact with those folk I have to know what day and what time of the day it is where they are.  Meaning I am constantly looking at the clock here and trying to figure out what time it is in Britain, in Dubai, in Australia, in South Africa.

When I sat down to write this scribe I looked at the clock and it told me it was 10 o'clock here in Hawaii, 10 o'clock in the morning.  I went on Google and found it is 9 o'clock in New Zealand.  But is that's 9 o'clock at the opposite a.m. or p.m. that I am?  Or the same?  And whilst 9 o'clock is an hour behind the 10 o'clock, in New Zealand it is 9 o'clock in front of my 10 o'clock.  A day ahead of my 10 o'clock.

And then there is the UK.  I've figured if it is 10 o'clock here in Hawaii it is 8 o'clock there in the United Kingdom.  But then I have to think is 8 o'clock in the UK the same a.m. or p.m. or is the opposite of the a.m. or p.m. that my 10 o'clock is?  But whilst it is the opposite and 9 o'clock and 8 o'clock is really behind 10 o'clock on any clock, it is actually the 9 o'clock and 8 o'clock ahead of my 10 o'clock.

All of this is not helped by the fact that my mobile phone has not accepted it is in a new time zone - it has always been my reliable source of reference for time anywhere I am in the world and had always been grateful that whenever I travelled the watch would automatically know I am in a different time zone so would automatically change it's time.  But on this trip it hasn't.  Nor did my ultra efficient Garmin training watch.  And when I manually changed that time to the one I am in, it went haywire with it's recording and somewhere I lost 20,000 steps!  (But that's another story.)

It's too damn confusing for me to figure out what o'clock it is where my friends are in Britain, Dubai, Australia or South Africa - but to make matters worse, mine hosts of my Honolulu accommodation are presently on the West Coast of the USA, where they too are living in a different time zone - same country, different time zone - and I've yet to work out whether they are in the past or have gone back to the future.

In New Zealand, whether you live on the East Coast or the West Coast if it is 10 o'clock in the middle of the East Coast and the West Coast it is still 10 o'clock on the East Coast or West Coast.  So it's bloody confusing to figure out what time it is for my US friends if they are in California on the East Coast of the US or New Jersey on the West Coast - to me it's just one land mass as is our North Island and South Island (where the time is the same no matter what o'clock it is) and I forget there is a vast difference in distance on the US land mass and therefore time is different anywhere.   Gobbledegook?  Yeah, it's drivel ....  

Have realised this morning that all I really need to focus on in the here and now, from now on - is what time, in the here and now, is Wine O'Clock?