I haven't blogged in a while as have been just a little busy working nights for Uncle Rupert and then looking after HP during the day.
I will however, have more time soon as from January 2011 Harry will be doing a couple of days a week in childcare at our local beautifully designed though oddly impractical neighborhood centre/library.
This was going to be a blog on the whole agonising over childcare thing, but I got distracted.
As many of you might know I have a mind that can tend to get caught up running mental calculations of really pointless things.
To illustrate whenever I am on a long distance drive and I pass a sign indicating the distance to a town I cannot help but almost instantly do an estimation of distance divided by speed and then determine an approximate time I'll reach said town giving myself a little mental high five when I get it right. Every town. The whole drive. It's sad, it's odd, I concede it's a little rainmanesque. But I can't help myself. It's compulsive.
And so it was that I was out walking with the boy earlier today and I got to thinking about the phrase 'not enough room to swing a cat'.
As has been pointed out by a friend of mine the place we currently live in is rather small.
A bedsit I believe he called it.
It's not that small, rather a genuine one bedroom apartment would be a fairer description.
In New York it would be called a 2 bedroom flex as any room which does not have plumbing, and within which even the most rudimentary of sleeping arrangements can be made, is fair game as a 'flex' bedroom in the argot of real estate agents.
'Almost a 3 bedroom flex' I thought as there's also a little enclosed balcony. Too little I figured. Even for a New York agent, I mean you couldn't swing a cat in there it's that small.
And so my erratic, though I prefer to think of it as peripatetic, mind took a detour from musing about foreign estate agents in a city I've never lived in and came to be thinking about what it would take to swing a cat and in particular the amount of room required to do so.
Now picture a cat, any cat.
Pick that cat up by its tail and begin to swing it around - in your mind please do not actually pick up a real cat.
For those of you with feline sensitivities feel free to picture a cartoon cat. Garfield for example (And here's a further aside - I'm a dog person - but always found it hard to root against Garfield as he tormented poor Odie. I'm not sure if it was because Odie was so willfully stupid that you felt he kind of brought it on himself or if it was a natural desire to root for the hero of the book that had me grudgingly cheering on a cat over a dog whenever I read the cartoons. Who knows. I'll think on it more and perhaps scrape another blog out of that).
Back to the swinging cat. Now as you swing the cat centrifugal force will do its thing and the little moggie will begin to stretch out.
Quite a ways if you get some speed up.
So you've got the length of your arm, the length of the cat - tail, body, outstretched arms and flailing paws. That would have to be a good metre and a half from your body once you got going right?
So assuming you can keep well centred you'd be covering a circle with a diameter of 3 metres and a radius of 1.5 metres.
Now if my sixth class maths has not evaded me the area our cat is covering would be pi times radius squared or 1.5*1.5*3.14.
That's in excess of 7 square metres or 75 square feet for my American readers (and ain't that strange I've gotten a few hits from over that way, not to mention Mexico, Spain and Russia which is oddly pleasing). It's a pretty fair sized space - in fact over 5 million Hong Kong residents live within less space than that, and you can hire a hotel room that size in Amsterdam for just 44 euro per four hours (thanks Google).
Here's where I left my musings as I'd now arrived home and had more important things to do like change a nappy and play with some blocks but I just thought I'd share.
Keep it in mind for next time someone tells you the space was too small to swing a cat and you too can quickly chip in with 'what less than 7 square metres?'.
ps I'd like to apologise up front for any grammatical, dialetical or mathematical errors. I tend to blog in a rather gonzo unedited style so there's bound to be some mistakes along the way. And I'm too damn lazy to go back and proof check again and again.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
2010 Melbourne Cup preview and tips
Hi guys,
Well I've agonised over this long enough. If I don't post it now I'll just start second guessing myself.
You'll notice I haven't bothered reviewing the whole field and have only looked at those I thought had a real chance at winning. So of course if I were you I'd just back all those I've left out.
Happy punting.
Rob
Well I've agonised over this long enough. If I don't post it now I'll just start second guessing myself.
You'll notice I haven't bothered reviewing the whole field and have only looked at those I thought had a real chance at winning. So of course if I were you I'd just back all those I've left out.
Happy punting.
Rob
My cheats guide to the 2010 Melbourne Cup and field.
Executive Summary:
First of all for those not interested in wading through an opus on distance, weather, track and form for each of the favoured runners my top five are:
Harris Tweed
So You Think
Shocking
Manighar
Descarado
The favourite So You Think is at very short odds and no matter how good he is I’m not backing a horse in the Cup at under 5/1. Shocking has blown out in the odds due to a bad barrier draw, he still can win it from there but it hurts him. So take them in a trifecta and look for an each way value bet.
I can make a strong argument for any of the top five, Shocking is all class, So You Think is a freak, Manighar the best of the imports (just ahead of Americain) and Descarado ticks all the boxes as he’s a Caulfield Cup winning horse that is built to stay and loves the wet. That leaves Harris Tweed a tough in form stayer who has proven he can run the two miles and likes a wet track. At 21/1 he is great value and tops my list on that basis.
My Guide:
For anyone with five minutes to spare here’s a little bit of information setting the scene for this year’s race and a preview of the top runners with my assessment of their chances. Happy punting.
Setting the scene:
The Melbourne Cup is Australia’s premier staying race. It’s run at Flemington over 3,200 metres and is a quality handicap. Flemington is a big wide track with a long straight. The surface is somewhat of a concern as it suffered an infection of cockchafer beetles in May. The resulting damage to the root system has led to heavy criticism of the track with some likening running there to running on sand. With up to 50 mm of rain forecast before Tuesday and the turf problems the chances of the mudlarks will be greatly enhanced. Southern Hemisphere distance races are more of a sit and sprint as opposed to true staying affair but even ‘sitting’ at 50 km/h for 2,400 metres and then sprinting uphill for the next 800 metres takes a real stayer. Throw in the very wet conditions and the root damage and it will take a tough dour stayer to win this race.
Runners:
Here’s my take on what I’ve identified as the top chances in the race, my tips and my bet selections below.
1. Shocking, Barrier (24), Odds 8/1 - Won last year so can clearly handle the distance and he loves the track. Add to that he has been in fantastic form all preparation with fast finishes in the Turnbull and the Caulfield Cup which were exactly what you would want from a horse being set to run two miles. However, he is carrying 6 kg more than last year and this years field is stronger than last years was. Is he 6 kg better? Probably. Drew the absolute outside barrier which hurts. It’s not fatal as he proved last year when he won from a similar draw. However, he did that carrying no weight and this year he’s got to carry the top weight. I still think he’s a real chance – but the gloss is off him somewhat.
2. Campanologist, Barrier (19), Odds 71/1 - as my good friend Captain Dourpants says ‘this one has a hint of Crime Scene (the high priced blowout who ran second last year) about it.’ Not an out and out stayer rather a 2,400 metre horse who will try and stretch to the two miles. Hasn’t got fantastic wet track form with just the one win from three starts and has drawn a wide barrier which may force him to settle worse than mid-field. Still is some chance a place at generous odds.
3. So You Think, Barrier (3), Odds 7/2 - The best horse in Australia. Has won every race this preparation and treated his opponents with contempt in the process. Only query is that he has never run past 2,000 metres. Is bred to stay and he’s trained by the master in JB Cummings, but 7/2 is too skinny when he’s unproven over the distance. His form to date has to be respected but I can’t take odds of under 5/1 in a staying race where there is such a massive question mark over his capacity to run out the race. The history of the Cup is littered with great horses that looked the winner at the 2,400 metre mark and then failed to go the whole way. He might prove me wrong and that is why he goes in the trifecta tips but you're crazy to take 3/1 when horses which can stay such as Shocking and Harris Tweed are going at 3 to 7 times that.
4. Zipping, Barrier (16), Odds 35/1 - marvellous old nine year old still at the top of his game as his second place to SYT in this year’s Cox Plate showed. He also took out the form race of the spring in the Turnbull Stakes (beating Shocking and Shoot Out). Perhaps some query over the full 2 miles and has already had two cracks at the MC running 9th in 2008 and 4th in 2006. You bet against this champion at your peril, he’s unlikely to win but will be in my trifecta as a place.
5. Illustrious Blue, Barrier (9), odds 51/1 – a two mile specialist with two wins from two starts. No real wet track form to speak of and has not raced in Australia since arriving. Gets services of three time Cups winning Jockey Glen Boss which helps but can’t have him without seeing him.
6. Mr Medici, Barrier (5), Odds 41/1 - if it were dry I wouldn’t even look at this stayer from Hong Kong. However the heavy track brings him right into contention. He ran a fighting sixth in the Caulfield Cup and while he’s never won past 2,400 metres he seems to have the dour nature required to stay the two miles. A big odds place chance thanks to the wet conditions.
7. Shoot Out, Barrier (17), Odds 35/1 - Won the Randwick Guineas in March and then the Derby (2400 metres - beating Descarado) in April and people started to get very excited about this High Chapparal gelding. Has looked every inch the stayer with his fine place runs in the Turnbull Stakes and Cox Plate. To top it all off has not missed a place in slow conditions. His stable are super confident as are his connections - mind you they’d want to be seeing as how they paid $2.2 million for him (makes So You Think’s purchase price of $110,000 look good doesn’t it?). A genuine chance so I think the $35/1 is rather generous- even if he only runs a place you’re still getting almost 10/1.
8. Americain, Barrier (12), Odds 12/1 - the first of the imports in the betting. He’s a Northern hemisphere stayer but has had a run here winning the Geelong Cup. It was a strong field (not Caulfield Cup strong but strong nonetheless) and he sat off the pace a little and then burst through to win in the final 200 metres. A nice Cups trial. Connections opted to not race him on Mackinnon Stakes day which is surprising but then he’s a proven stayer having won out to 3km overseas so they probably don’t feel the need to knock the edges off him prior to the big one. A live chance that can handle the wet and will definitely be in my trifecta.
11. Descarado, Barrier (1), Odds 14/1 - I was very keen on this guy following his Caulfield Cup win, and still am to an extent, but having watched that race a few more times I’ve gone from red hot to simmering. He got a dream track (wet - this guy is a swimmer), dream run and dream bias (nothing was winning other than the first three round the bend) and just held off a fast finishing Shocking who got none of the above. Add to that the weight penalty for winning the Caulfield Cup and out of that race Shocking, Manighar and Harris Tweed seem the better favoured. Regardless the Caulfield Cup is the best form lead up race to the Cup and you ignore the winner of it at your peril. Add to this the predicted heavy rain and you’d be mad not to consider him a serious chance. I will have a little each way at 13/1 and he ranks highly in my trifecta considerations.
12. Harris Tweed, Barrier (13), Odds 21/1 - Harris Tweed ran fifth to Shocking in last years Melbourne Cup and meets him 4.5 kg better off this year. Often maligned as a plodding wet tracker I rate him much higher than that. He runs in top flight races and averages a place at least 40% of the time. So here you have a professional, tough stayer, who is in form, can run the distance and handles a wet track well. At almost 20/1! I can make arguments for all of my top four but none better than this guy and he’s great value. Go each way and you’ll still get better 6/1 a place (and in my opinion this is one of the runners most over the odds. I got on at 23/1 and wouldn’t be surprised to see him jump at 15/1 or lower).
13. Manighar, Barrier (20), Odds 18/1 - the second foreign horse in this list. His trainer Luca Cumani (trainer of second place getter Bauer in 2008) knows how to bring a horse to Australia and get it to run well. He ran a fast closing second to Americain over 3km earlier this year so can get the distance, and then franked that with a very nice fifth in the Caulfield Cup. By all reports he pulled up a treat after the race, has been eating well and working beautifully. Not much wet track form though handled the bog track at Caulfield as well as anything that day so I don’t think this rain will hurt him. He was a 13/1 chance until he drew the carpark in the barrier draw. As with Shocking above this hurts but isn’t a killer blow by any means – in fact the extra 5/1 just makes him more attractive in my mind.
15. Monaco Consul, Barrier (14), Odds 21/1 - won the Victoria Derby last year, and hasn’t won a race in the twelve months since. Did run a smart third in the Caulfield Cup, and at the risk of repeating myself, Caulfield Cup form is good form for the Melbourne Cup. Plus the track has been absolutely soaked and this guy loves it wet. A place chance.
16. Profound Beauty, Barrier (22), Odds 21/1 – An imported mare that ran a creditable fifth in the Melbourne Cup in 2008 so we know she can run the distance and can handle the long trip to Australia. Trained by master trainer Dermot Weld (who already has two cups to his name) she was in brilliant form before entering quarantine for the Cup with wins over 2800 metres and 2400 metres and a fine second in the Group One Irish St Leger. But I always want to see an import run in Australia before risking it. Drew a bad gate and I’m going to risk her.
19. Holberg, Barrier (10), Odds 23/1 – the second of the Darley runners and winner of the 3,200 metre Group 3 Queen Vase last year. The stable are very upbeat about his chances with the light weight but he has no wet form at all and hasn’t had a race in Australia. I’ll risk him.
20. Precedence, Barrier (15), Odds 18/1 - Bart’s second entry in the Cup. Had two good wins in the JRA Cup (2040 metres) and the Cathay Pacific Cup (2500 metres) and he has a win and a second from 2 starts at Flemington. Oddly Bart has declined to have him run on the Saturday before the Cup and 11 of Bart’s 12 winners have all run in either the Lexus or Mackinnon the Saturday prior to the Cup so that worries me. A further worry is that while he can clearly stay he has been staying in the second tier races against second tier opposition. Leave him out.
24. Maluckyday, Barrier (6), Odds 11/1 - got into the final field with a minimum weight following a very comfortable win in the Lexus. That’s the same form line as last years winner Shocking. However, Shocking had won the Group 3 Herbert Power in his lead up preparation in 2009 whereas Maluckyday has come out of much weaker company. 11/1 is a bit short for a horse looking to win the Melbourne Cup in only its ninth start, but that being said winning form is good form and with a light weight and the form Jockey of the spring on his back he has to be considered for a place in your trifecta.
Wrapping up:
Shocking/So You Think are in great form but are far too short in the odds to have a straight go on. Manighar has form and distance on his side if he was a Southern Hemisphere horse would be a 7/1 shot. I like Harris Tweed, like him a whole lot more at 21/1. I then had Descarado, Americain and Shoot Out all on the same level. But the heavy track has forced a bit of a change with Descarado getting lifted up into my top tier.
Bets -
If you’ve got $50 to play with I’d spend it this way:
(a) $20 on Harris Tweed. Ten bucks each way would net you $250 if he wins and you’d at least get back $60 if he runs a place, and
(b) $30 on a boxed trifecta - I’ve got my top five anchoring the trifecta, added two to run second and another six to come third. That’s 300 combinations. For $30 you really should be cheering right through to the end and if the right ones get up you’ll collect 10% of the total divvy (which has not been below $1,000 the last ten years and paid about $9,000 last year).
Trifecta selections are:
For first - (#1)Shocking/ (#3) So You Think/ (#13) Manighar/ (#12) Harris Tweed/ (#11) Descarado
For second - all of the above plus (#8) Americain/ (#7)Shoot Out
For third - all of the above plus (#4) Zipping/ (#24) Maluckyday/ (#15) Monaco Consul/ (#6) Mr Medici/ (#2) Campanologist
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Preliminary Cup thoughts...and the early value runners
Preliminary Melbourne Cup review
Here’s an early review of the favoured runners in the Cup.
I’ll do a more in-depth look at all the runners and my thoughts on their chances following the Mackinnon, Lexus and barrier draw this Saturday. But I reckon there’s a couple that look good for a fixed odds bet before the weekend as their odds can only go down.
Shocking (9/2) - deserved Cups favourite. Won last year so can handle the distance and loves the track. Add to that he has been in fantastic form all preparation. However, is carrying 6 kilos more than last year and this years field is stronger than last years was. Is he 6 kilos better? Probably, but he’s not twice as good and 6 kilos better and the bookies are only offering half the odds he ran at last year. He was a 9/1 bet last year so I’m not going to be having any money on him at 9/2 even if he’s the horse most likely to win. At that price leave him for the trifectas.
So You Think (11/2) - the bookies wound him in tight after getting handed their arses on Cox Plate day. Too tight. Punters started to query whether SYT is Phar Lap rolled into Carbine rolled into the Diva and when no money came he was wound out to the slightly more generous odds of 11/2. Still no value here. Make no mistake this is the best horse I have ever seen run. Better than Sunline, better than Northerly, better than Makybe Diva, he’s still really only a three year old (while he’s listed as a four year old but trust me he’s not blown out four candles yet) and has won two cox plates. He’s already a WFA legend and if his owners let him keep running (he’s an entire with a very lucrative stud career ahead of him so they’d be desperately scared of him breaking down in a race) he will dominate pretty much any race he runs - with one proviso. That race should probably not be much past a mile and a quarter, mile and a half if he gets it run his own way. He was awesome winning the Cox this year, imperious even. But he did look to be struggling in the last 100 metres; I don’t know that he’ll get the 3200. He’s trained by the master in JB Cummings and owned by Dato and those two know more about horses than all us mug punters put together; but don’t forget that while Bart has won 12 Cups he’s had 78 runners, so he’s had plenty that haven’t collected the bickies too. Again at these odds I’d leave this fella for your multiples.
Americain (11/1) - the first of the imports in the betting. First up let me say I’m usually not much of a fan of the imports. It’s almost impossible to compare their form to ours here as overseas staying races are run so differently. But that being said I’m not dead set against them especially where, as with this French stayer, they have run in Australia. Americain won the Geelong Cup on 20 October (it was my son’s first birthday and I was the proud doting father glued to a horse race int he middle of the party - but what can you do it's a key lead up race) in a pretty impressive performance. He was trapped back a little when the sprint came and was forced to push through a tight gap, something foreign horses, used to their smaller fields, can be reluctant to do. Didn’t worry the horse a jot - he drove through and found the line well. The Geelong Cup has been a popular warm up run for the imports in the last decade with Bauer running a nose second in the MC following his win in 2008 and Crime Scene, Media Puzzle, and She’s Archie also using it as a tune up. I’m not in love, but I’m not dropping him yet. Let’s see how he runs on Saturday.
Descarado (13/1) - here’s one value tip at this stage. He won the 2010 Caulfield Cup beating Shocking and that’s good form (though he was aided by a sweet ride, a ridiculous track bias that day which made winning impossible for anything other than the first 3 around the bend and a bog track - this boy is a swimmer). Is not proven over the 2 miles but in my opinion you don’t need to be an out and out stayer to win the Cup. I’ll settle for a horse that can run the mile and a half and look strong over the final furlong of that race. And that’s exactly what Descarado did in the Caulfield. Gai is giving him one last hit out in the Mackinnon if he doesn’t fall over there and draws a barrier anything inside of about 15 I’d expect him to run in single figures on Tuesday. This might be one worth having a little fixed odds flutter on before the weekend.
Manighar (13/1) - the Cumanis know how to bring a horse to Australia and get it to run well, so regardless of an absence of winning Australian form he has to be respected. Was set for the Cup following a slashing second to Americain over 3000 metres in which he looked to be going far the better and likely would have won with another furlong (which by a happy coincidence is the MC distance). Then backed it up with a solid sixth in the Caulfield Cup. So distance - check. Handles Aussie conditions - check. Trainer knows how to get a horse to run here - check. Training down the house - check. Might be the other one to have a little go at each way prior to Saturday.
That’ll do for now until we know the final field the barrier draw and have had a look at the two warm up races on Saturday at which I’ll blather on about the entire field.
Here’s an early review of the favoured runners in the Cup.
I’ll do a more in-depth look at all the runners and my thoughts on their chances following the Mackinnon, Lexus and barrier draw this Saturday. But I reckon there’s a couple that look good for a fixed odds bet before the weekend as their odds can only go down.
Shocking (9/2) - deserved Cups favourite. Won last year so can handle the distance and loves the track. Add to that he has been in fantastic form all preparation. However, is carrying 6 kilos more than last year and this years field is stronger than last years was. Is he 6 kilos better? Probably, but he’s not twice as good and 6 kilos better and the bookies are only offering half the odds he ran at last year. He was a 9/1 bet last year so I’m not going to be having any money on him at 9/2 even if he’s the horse most likely to win. At that price leave him for the trifectas.
So You Think (11/2) - the bookies wound him in tight after getting handed their arses on Cox Plate day. Too tight. Punters started to query whether SYT is Phar Lap rolled into Carbine rolled into the Diva and when no money came he was wound out to the slightly more generous odds of 11/2. Still no value here. Make no mistake this is the best horse I have ever seen run. Better than Sunline, better than Northerly, better than Makybe Diva, he’s still really only a three year old (while he’s listed as a four year old but trust me he’s not blown out four candles yet) and has won two cox plates. He’s already a WFA legend and if his owners let him keep running (he’s an entire with a very lucrative stud career ahead of him so they’d be desperately scared of him breaking down in a race) he will dominate pretty much any race he runs - with one proviso. That race should probably not be much past a mile and a quarter, mile and a half if he gets it run his own way. He was awesome winning the Cox this year, imperious even. But he did look to be struggling in the last 100 metres; I don’t know that he’ll get the 3200. He’s trained by the master in JB Cummings and owned by Dato and those two know more about horses than all us mug punters put together; but don’t forget that while Bart has won 12 Cups he’s had 78 runners, so he’s had plenty that haven’t collected the bickies too. Again at these odds I’d leave this fella for your multiples.
Americain (11/1) - the first of the imports in the betting. First up let me say I’m usually not much of a fan of the imports. It’s almost impossible to compare their form to ours here as overseas staying races are run so differently. But that being said I’m not dead set against them especially where, as with this French stayer, they have run in Australia. Americain won the Geelong Cup on 20 October (it was my son’s first birthday and I was the proud doting father glued to a horse race int he middle of the party - but what can you do it's a key lead up race) in a pretty impressive performance. He was trapped back a little when the sprint came and was forced to push through a tight gap, something foreign horses, used to their smaller fields, can be reluctant to do. Didn’t worry the horse a jot - he drove through and found the line well. The Geelong Cup has been a popular warm up run for the imports in the last decade with Bauer running a nose second in the MC following his win in 2008 and Crime Scene, Media Puzzle, and She’s Archie also using it as a tune up. I’m not in love, but I’m not dropping him yet. Let’s see how he runs on Saturday.
Descarado (13/1) - here’s one value tip at this stage. He won the 2010 Caulfield Cup beating Shocking and that’s good form (though he was aided by a sweet ride, a ridiculous track bias that day which made winning impossible for anything other than the first 3 around the bend and a bog track - this boy is a swimmer). Is not proven over the 2 miles but in my opinion you don’t need to be an out and out stayer to win the Cup. I’ll settle for a horse that can run the mile and a half and look strong over the final furlong of that race. And that’s exactly what Descarado did in the Caulfield. Gai is giving him one last hit out in the Mackinnon if he doesn’t fall over there and draws a barrier anything inside of about 15 I’d expect him to run in single figures on Tuesday. This might be one worth having a little fixed odds flutter on before the weekend.
Manighar (13/1) - the Cumanis know how to bring a horse to Australia and get it to run well, so regardless of an absence of winning Australian form he has to be respected. Was set for the Cup following a slashing second to Americain over 3000 metres in which he looked to be going far the better and likely would have won with another furlong (which by a happy coincidence is the MC distance). Then backed it up with a solid sixth in the Caulfield Cup. So distance - check. Handles Aussie conditions - check. Trainer knows how to get a horse to run here - check. Training down the house - check. Might be the other one to have a little go at each way prior to Saturday.
That’ll do for now until we know the final field the barrier draw and have had a look at the two warm up races on Saturday at which I’ll blather on about the entire field.
Monday, October 11, 2010
My marathon - an idiot's guide to how not to run 42km
Hold your hand out from around belly button. The distance from your hand down to the ground is, give or take, a metre.
Now picture 42,194 more metres stacked up on top of that.
Cover that distance and you've done a marathon.
It's one twentieth the distance from Melbourne to Sydney, three times the city to surf, 138462 feet. It's a long bloody way.
I'd never run anything like it before.
I had run a half. Did okay too - came in just on two hours. Therefore I told myself in the lead up to the full that this was good preperation. Twenty one kilometres is a big run, ergo if I can do that I could do the bigger run of forty two kilometres.
Well I now know I could but trust me a half is not proper preparation for a full.
Because it is the sheer grinding immensity of the full distance that only really strikes you as you get into the second half of it.
Let me illustrate by outlining the mental games I played. The first was breaking the course into chunks. For example at the two km (excuse the shorthand or I'll get sick of typing kilometre all the time) I told myself I only had 21/22nds to go. At the 5km mark I'd one almost an eighth of the whole thing and then I hit my two favourite markers the 6 and the 7.
See I'd been looking forward to these because I'd worked out earlier (at around the 4km if you're wondering) that at the 6km mark I would have done fully 1/7th of the total but at the 7km mark I would have done 1/6th the total. A significant advance in just 1000 metres.
But all this playing with numbers goes out the window when you hit half way. From here on in I stopped congratulating myself with each km and working out kooky little ways to make the next km go by faster.
That all seemed a little pointless when I looked back over how hard I had worked, how many steps I had taken and how much it had cost me only to realise I had to do the whole amount all over again.
I began to ignore the ultimate goal and target more obtainable goals. From 20km all I focused on was getting to 25km. From 25km it was all bout the 30km marker.
Those five hurt and it was during those five that I came closest to giving up. Especially the 28km point. Because it was when I saw that marker that I calculated that I had now covered 2 city to surfs end on end.
Idiot.
You see I then realised that regardless of how far I'd come I still had another whole city to surf to go. All the pain I was in could be halved and then added on.
Oh and a couple of hundred metres after working that out I told myself I really should factor in an allowance for distance travelled - eg that the last third would hurt more than the first two thirds and so a simple half and add wouldn't work (I finally decided on a forty percent uplift to the original 50% and came to a conclusion that the final third would leave me hurting about 70% as much again as I already did).
Nerdy idiot.
But then 'just' two kilometres along I was joined by Ros (with HP in the backpack) and the 500 metres or so the walked with me gave me a massive boost.
The remaining twelve kms was a mix of grinding pain and grim determination.
The crowd were great; though I was sorely tempted to tell people that - yes 7 kilometres to go out of 42 total is 'nearly there' but no it is not close. Seven km is a good jog for most people and when it comes on top of 35km already traveled it's fucking agony so while I appreciate your sentiment I'm not 100% with you on how you choose to express it. Luckily I was too tired to be so mean to people who were just trying to help.
Anyway cover those remaining seven kilometres I did and by the time I got to the MCG I was a little delirious, very very sore, and just quietly I was gut bustingly proud of myself.
I did it last Sunday.
It took me five hours and twenty four minutes.
I can still hardly walk but I'll be back to do another one and I'll smash five hours when I do.
Lastly if I may be so bold as to give some tips to anyone considering giving a marathon a go they'd be:
1. Do your first one on your own. It really is a journey of discovery and on your own you can take it at your own pace and fight your own battles.
2. Have a great support crew - if I hadn't had Ros and Harry cheering me on throughout the day I reckon I would have given up
3. pick an 'easy' marathon - Melbourne is relatively flat, big enough to have a good crowd and small enough to not be uncomfortable I heartily recommend it
4. do more training than I did - if nothing else you'll cover the course in less time and that can only be a good thing because,
5. you have to be prepared for a long haul of self inflicted pain, it's a little twee but 'ninety nine percent agony and one percent ecstasy' really does sum the experience up.
Now picture 42,194 more metres stacked up on top of that.
Cover that distance and you've done a marathon.
It's one twentieth the distance from Melbourne to Sydney, three times the city to surf, 138462 feet. It's a long bloody way.
I'd never run anything like it before.
I had run a half. Did okay too - came in just on two hours. Therefore I told myself in the lead up to the full that this was good preperation. Twenty one kilometres is a big run, ergo if I can do that I could do the bigger run of forty two kilometres.
Well I now know I could but trust me a half is not proper preparation for a full.
Because it is the sheer grinding immensity of the full distance that only really strikes you as you get into the second half of it.
Let me illustrate by outlining the mental games I played. The first was breaking the course into chunks. For example at the two km (excuse the shorthand or I'll get sick of typing kilometre all the time) I told myself I only had 21/22nds to go. At the 5km mark I'd one almost an eighth of the whole thing and then I hit my two favourite markers the 6 and the 7.
See I'd been looking forward to these because I'd worked out earlier (at around the 4km if you're wondering) that at the 6km mark I would have done fully 1/7th of the total but at the 7km mark I would have done 1/6th the total. A significant advance in just 1000 metres.
But all this playing with numbers goes out the window when you hit half way. From here on in I stopped congratulating myself with each km and working out kooky little ways to make the next km go by faster.
That all seemed a little pointless when I looked back over how hard I had worked, how many steps I had taken and how much it had cost me only to realise I had to do the whole amount all over again.
I began to ignore the ultimate goal and target more obtainable goals. From 20km all I focused on was getting to 25km. From 25km it was all bout the 30km marker.
Those five hurt and it was during those five that I came closest to giving up. Especially the 28km point. Because it was when I saw that marker that I calculated that I had now covered 2 city to surfs end on end.
Idiot.
You see I then realised that regardless of how far I'd come I still had another whole city to surf to go. All the pain I was in could be halved and then added on.
Oh and a couple of hundred metres after working that out I told myself I really should factor in an allowance for distance travelled - eg that the last third would hurt more than the first two thirds and so a simple half and add wouldn't work (I finally decided on a forty percent uplift to the original 50% and came to a conclusion that the final third would leave me hurting about 70% as much again as I already did).
Nerdy idiot.
But then 'just' two kilometres along I was joined by Ros (with HP in the backpack) and the 500 metres or so the walked with me gave me a massive boost.
The remaining twelve kms was a mix of grinding pain and grim determination.
The crowd were great; though I was sorely tempted to tell people that - yes 7 kilometres to go out of 42 total is 'nearly there' but no it is not close. Seven km is a good jog for most people and when it comes on top of 35km already traveled it's fucking agony so while I appreciate your sentiment I'm not 100% with you on how you choose to express it. Luckily I was too tired to be so mean to people who were just trying to help.
Anyway cover those remaining seven kilometres I did and by the time I got to the MCG I was a little delirious, very very sore, and just quietly I was gut bustingly proud of myself.
I did it last Sunday.
It took me five hours and twenty four minutes.
I can still hardly walk but I'll be back to do another one and I'll smash five hours when I do.
Lastly if I may be so bold as to give some tips to anyone considering giving a marathon a go they'd be:
1. Do your first one on your own. It really is a journey of discovery and on your own you can take it at your own pace and fight your own battles.
2. Have a great support crew - if I hadn't had Ros and Harry cheering me on throughout the day I reckon I would have given up
3. pick an 'easy' marathon - Melbourne is relatively flat, big enough to have a good crowd and small enough to not be uncomfortable I heartily recommend it
4. do more training than I did - if nothing else you'll cover the course in less time and that can only be a good thing because,
5. you have to be prepared for a long haul of self inflicted pain, it's a little twee but 'ninety nine percent agony and one percent ecstasy' really does sum the experience up.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What's in a word
The word for today is - marriage.
Google it and you'll see about 586 million pages on the topic within less than one one hundredth of a second (and my isn't Google just a tad smug the way it tells you how gosh darn fast it works).
The first hit is good old Wikipedia which tells me that Marriage is a social and legal institution that creates kinship. And that it does.
With one fell swoop of a pen and an 'I do' on this day nine years ago I had myself a whole 'nother family. Which considering I had spent years coming up with excuses in order to avoid my existing extended kin was a little silly wasn't it. At this point I think it is worth noting that none of those of my existing kin who might be reading this would have been the ones I tried to avoid - you I love.
It's also a public statement of your private commitment. And it's a chance to have a good party where your loved ones, and kin (as aforementioned those two categories may be, and often are, mutually exclusive) get drunk on your account.
So if it's all these things why are so many of my friends and family denied the right to do this by the State simply because the person they wish to marry shares their gender? And why am I denied the chance to get legless and heckle them during speeches (hi Belinda and Damo - forgiven me yet...no I didn't think so).
On any given day it seems a little silly to me, but on this day when I get to proudly declare it's my wedding anniversary it seems like a bloody travesty.
Google it and you'll see about 586 million pages on the topic within less than one one hundredth of a second (and my isn't Google just a tad smug the way it tells you how gosh darn fast it works).
The first hit is good old Wikipedia which tells me that Marriage is a social and legal institution that creates kinship. And that it does.
With one fell swoop of a pen and an 'I do' on this day nine years ago I had myself a whole 'nother family. Which considering I had spent years coming up with excuses in order to avoid my existing extended kin was a little silly wasn't it. At this point I think it is worth noting that none of those of my existing kin who might be reading this would have been the ones I tried to avoid - you I love.
It's also a public statement of your private commitment. And it's a chance to have a good party where your loved ones, and kin (as aforementioned those two categories may be, and often are, mutually exclusive) get drunk on your account.
So if it's all these things why are so many of my friends and family denied the right to do this by the State simply because the person they wish to marry shares their gender? And why am I denied the chance to get legless and heckle them during speeches (hi Belinda and Damo - forgiven me yet...no I didn't think so).
On any given day it seems a little silly to me, but on this day when I get to proudly declare it's my wedding anniversary it seems like a bloody travesty.
Monday, July 12, 2010
How I came to give myself an uppercut
I had a boys night out a couple of weeks ago. I joined a couple of guys I know well, and a few I'd met on occasions, at one of Sydney's best restaurants for a beer and food extravaganza.
On the face of it this would seem to be my natural environment. Good food, good beer, good mates and a break from the nappies. I should have been itching to get there.
But oddly as the big night got closer I began to feel a little uncomfortable, nervous even.
You see the boys were all professionals with white collar jobs in the city.
And I no longer was a member of that club.
Now I'm 'just' a stay at home parent with a part time job. And I worried I'd wouldn't be able to participate in any meaningful way in a how was your day type conversation.
My dinner companions were daily involved in financial matters. They were, for example, in a position to give real insight as to whether the economy was genuinely in a solid recovery.
Whilst I am involved daily in fecal matters. And the only insight I had to provide went to the input of solids leading to rather ugly outgoings (if you've ever changed a toddlers nappies you'll understand where I'm coming from).
I was so worried that I almost canned the whole thing.
Stupid really.
Because looking objectively at my life it's pretty damn good.
I've got a supportive (not to mention ravishingly beautiful) partner who earns enough to allow me to work part time and care for our son full time. I've got a great little fella to look after - though he has been somewhat testing of late and my part time job involves being paid to watch sport. On top of all that I've just received my post tertiary qualification so I've got external validation that I'm not a dolt.
It's a pretty fair life I'm living.
Having given myself pretty much that pep talk (a mental uppercut if you will) I headed off to dinner, had a grand old time and didn't once feel inadequate or short of things to say.
Then after 4 beers I didn't care a jot whether what I had to say interested my companions because I found myself hilarious.
Those feelings of inadequacy were however somewhat of an insight to how some stay at home parents may feel and why some parents who remove themselves from the work force in order to become full time carers may then remove themselves from their old friends and work colleagues and instead surround themselves with other stay at home parents.
Or I could be projecting my own feelings on to others - perhaps some people love nothing more than talking nappies, poo (or poop as some so quaintly put it) and teething. Who knows.
Either way it was an interesting insight into how much value I had (mis)placed in a job title. And perhaps a bit of a wake up call too.
On the face of it this would seem to be my natural environment. Good food, good beer, good mates and a break from the nappies. I should have been itching to get there.
But oddly as the big night got closer I began to feel a little uncomfortable, nervous even.
You see the boys were all professionals with white collar jobs in the city.
And I no longer was a member of that club.
Now I'm 'just' a stay at home parent with a part time job. And I worried I'd wouldn't be able to participate in any meaningful way in a how was your day type conversation.
My dinner companions were daily involved in financial matters. They were, for example, in a position to give real insight as to whether the economy was genuinely in a solid recovery.
Whilst I am involved daily in fecal matters. And the only insight I had to provide went to the input of solids leading to rather ugly outgoings (if you've ever changed a toddlers nappies you'll understand where I'm coming from).
I was so worried that I almost canned the whole thing.
Stupid really.
Because looking objectively at my life it's pretty damn good.
I've got a supportive (not to mention ravishingly beautiful) partner who earns enough to allow me to work part time and care for our son full time. I've got a great little fella to look after - though he has been somewhat testing of late and my part time job involves being paid to watch sport. On top of all that I've just received my post tertiary qualification so I've got external validation that I'm not a dolt.
It's a pretty fair life I'm living.
Having given myself pretty much that pep talk (a mental uppercut if you will) I headed off to dinner, had a grand old time and didn't once feel inadequate or short of things to say.
Then after 4 beers I didn't care a jot whether what I had to say interested my companions because I found myself hilarious.
Those feelings of inadequacy were however somewhat of an insight to how some stay at home parents may feel and why some parents who remove themselves from the work force in order to become full time carers may then remove themselves from their old friends and work colleagues and instead surround themselves with other stay at home parents.
Or I could be projecting my own feelings on to others - perhaps some people love nothing more than talking nappies, poo (or poop as some so quaintly put it) and teething. Who knows.
Either way it was an interesting insight into how much value I had (mis)placed in a job title. And perhaps a bit of a wake up call too.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A hairy with Harry
Just one of the reasons I love living in the Slurry is Theo's.
Theo, from Thessaloniki, is the local barber and somewhat of a Surry Hills institution. The walls are lined with alternating photos of ancient Greece and not so ancient bikini clad models. The radio is always on, and always tuned to 2CH Easy 1170 'Sydney's easy listening station' (Elvis, Lulu and Dean Martin feature highly in the playlist). And in the corner there's usually a couple of old greek fogeys who seem to use Theo's as a sort of club house and refuge from their wives during the day.
No appointments are made, no bookings kept. One simply rocks up, takes note of your place in the line and steps up as appropriate. While waiting one might flick through one of the 'gentleman's magazines' or just kick back and rock out to 2CH. There is no idle banter to interrupt the music. Words are not needed at Theo's.
Theo doesn't ask what you would like done today - he has one cut. Like it or leave. No one asks the price. It's $15. It might change one day. But I doubt it as such a change would require each customer be made aware of the new price and all this talk would interrupt the zen like nature of the place.
And the zazen of Theo's should not be interrupted lightly.
That is why I had a great deal of trepidation about taking HP with me for a haircut today. As unless he is sleeping Harry doesn't usually sit quietly for long periods of time without something to entertain him. But I was told, in no uncertain terms, that a haircut was required and today was the day.
The experience started poorly. I arrived with the entourage, tied the dog up out the front and muscled the pram inside. Theo is not effusive but I'm enough of a regular to garner a welcoming grunt. Usually.
Today I got a look like I'd just brought an ET in for a short back and sides. If looks could talk his fairly screamed 'what are you doing with the child? The child should be with the mother. At home. Or anywhere. Just not in my shop.'
But Ros had spoken. The hair must be cut. Today. So I persisted.
We were third in line and Harry was pretty relaxed. He seemed to be enjoying the new sights and sounds and I'm not sure if it was his calm nature or just the melodic radio in the background but I started to relax, started to believe this might all go smoothly.
Time ticked by, the radio played on and soon enough it was my turn. Into the pram with Harry and into the chair for me.
At this point things could have taken a considerable step for the worse. Harry wasn't thrilled with me disappearing and had no qualms about letting us know. But up stepped Old Fogey 1. Clearly a grandfather of many years standing he reached into the pram pulled Harry out and he and Harry began talking. I have no idea of the topic. OF1 was talking in Greek and Harry in Goo Gaa. But they both seemed to enjoy it.
When Harry showed signs of diminishing interest, well began yelling to tell the truth, Old Fogey 2, clearly less expert in matters toddler but very enthusiastic, produced the largest set of keys I've ever seen and jangled them madly in Harry's face. It stopped the yelling but Theo wasn't happy with the racket and a couple of harshly muttered words of Greek were enough to get the keys pocketed.
Into the breach stepped Old Fogey 3 who began reading his magazine to Harry. It was an FHM magazine featuring Jennifer Love Hewitt. I'm not sure that Harry was following the story but he paid rapt attention to the pictures. So much so that he proceed to rip the pages out of the magazine.
Theo was finishing up now, and I was preparing myself to be politely asked not to return. But Theo's classier than that. He just quietly murmured 'Your little boy had fun...so did my boys'.
Theo, from Thessaloniki, is the local barber and somewhat of a Surry Hills institution. The walls are lined with alternating photos of ancient Greece and not so ancient bikini clad models. The radio is always on, and always tuned to 2CH Easy 1170 'Sydney's easy listening station' (Elvis, Lulu and Dean Martin feature highly in the playlist). And in the corner there's usually a couple of old greek fogeys who seem to use Theo's as a sort of club house and refuge from their wives during the day.
No appointments are made, no bookings kept. One simply rocks up, takes note of your place in the line and steps up as appropriate. While waiting one might flick through one of the 'gentleman's magazines' or just kick back and rock out to 2CH. There is no idle banter to interrupt the music. Words are not needed at Theo's.
Theo doesn't ask what you would like done today - he has one cut. Like it or leave. No one asks the price. It's $15. It might change one day. But I doubt it as such a change would require each customer be made aware of the new price and all this talk would interrupt the zen like nature of the place.
And the zazen of Theo's should not be interrupted lightly.
That is why I had a great deal of trepidation about taking HP with me for a haircut today. As unless he is sleeping Harry doesn't usually sit quietly for long periods of time without something to entertain him. But I was told, in no uncertain terms, that a haircut was required and today was the day.
The experience started poorly. I arrived with the entourage, tied the dog up out the front and muscled the pram inside. Theo is not effusive but I'm enough of a regular to garner a welcoming grunt. Usually.
Today I got a look like I'd just brought an ET in for a short back and sides. If looks could talk his fairly screamed 'what are you doing with the child? The child should be with the mother. At home. Or anywhere. Just not in my shop.'
But Ros had spoken. The hair must be cut. Today. So I persisted.
We were third in line and Harry was pretty relaxed. He seemed to be enjoying the new sights and sounds and I'm not sure if it was his calm nature or just the melodic radio in the background but I started to relax, started to believe this might all go smoothly.
Time ticked by, the radio played on and soon enough it was my turn. Into the pram with Harry and into the chair for me.
At this point things could have taken a considerable step for the worse. Harry wasn't thrilled with me disappearing and had no qualms about letting us know. But up stepped Old Fogey 1. Clearly a grandfather of many years standing he reached into the pram pulled Harry out and he and Harry began talking. I have no idea of the topic. OF1 was talking in Greek and Harry in Goo Gaa. But they both seemed to enjoy it.
When Harry showed signs of diminishing interest, well began yelling to tell the truth, Old Fogey 2, clearly less expert in matters toddler but very enthusiastic, produced the largest set of keys I've ever seen and jangled them madly in Harry's face. It stopped the yelling but Theo wasn't happy with the racket and a couple of harshly muttered words of Greek were enough to get the keys pocketed.
Into the breach stepped Old Fogey 3 who began reading his magazine to Harry. It was an FHM magazine featuring Jennifer Love Hewitt. I'm not sure that Harry was following the story but he paid rapt attention to the pictures. So much so that he proceed to rip the pages out of the magazine.
Theo was finishing up now, and I was preparing myself to be politely asked not to return. But Theo's classier than that. He just quietly murmured 'Your little boy had fun...so did my boys'.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Swim time
Harry had his first swim class this week. And, in true Harry style, took it all in his stride.
I don't mean to come across as one of those doting parents who claim that their little bundle of joy is a Jose Mouriho, eg 'The Special One', after all it was just a swimming lesson in which the most significant challenge posed was having to listen to dad try to sing along to nursery rhymes while bounce him about in a heated hydrotherapy pool. But really, the kid does seem quite unflappable in most situations.
In this he takes solely after his mum. Rather than drop his bundle and have a sook (a method of 'dealing' which his father is known to favour), Harry applies the Wehrmann approach of implacable determination and quiet fortitude.
I on the other hand was a bundle of nerves. I was clearly the most out of shape parent in the pool (the iceberg technique of keeping 90% of my bulk under water is an excellent coping mechanism) but I was also one of only two dads in the group - and at least the other guy knew all the words to 'ring a ring a rosy'.
But thankfully Harry was a star and I was able to bask in his reflected glory. Pour water over his face and he gurgled with joy, flop him off the edge and he'd reach straight back for the wall (as opposed to one little munchkin that went a little Jacques Cousteau on us) and put him on his back and drag him along and those chubby wee thighs went kick, kick, kick.
Look out Thorpie.
I know there are bigger challenge to come, and for those we will both look to the measured guidance of his mum, but in the meantime I'm already practicing my ten second grabs for the Channel Seven cameras.
You know the ones.
Little junior has just won his third Olympic medal for Australia and the camera pans to the proud parents in the stands. The reporter joins said proud parents and asks 'How does he do it Mr Sutherland'.
And I'll reply 'Well a lot of hard work and determination obviously Laurie, but I'll be honest, I did lead the Bronte under 10s Nippers to victory in the Eastern Suburbs Surf Carnival so I suppose genetics had a fair bit to do with it too'.
I don't mean to come across as one of those doting parents who claim that their little bundle of joy is a Jose Mouriho, eg 'The Special One', after all it was just a swimming lesson in which the most significant challenge posed was having to listen to dad try to sing along to nursery rhymes while bounce him about in a heated hydrotherapy pool. But really, the kid does seem quite unflappable in most situations.
In this he takes solely after his mum. Rather than drop his bundle and have a sook (a method of 'dealing' which his father is known to favour), Harry applies the Wehrmann approach of implacable determination and quiet fortitude.
I on the other hand was a bundle of nerves. I was clearly the most out of shape parent in the pool (the iceberg technique of keeping 90% of my bulk under water is an excellent coping mechanism) but I was also one of only two dads in the group - and at least the other guy knew all the words to 'ring a ring a rosy'.
But thankfully Harry was a star and I was able to bask in his reflected glory. Pour water over his face and he gurgled with joy, flop him off the edge and he'd reach straight back for the wall (as opposed to one little munchkin that went a little Jacques Cousteau on us) and put him on his back and drag him along and those chubby wee thighs went kick, kick, kick.
Look out Thorpie.
I know there are bigger challenge to come, and for those we will both look to the measured guidance of his mum, but in the meantime I'm already practicing my ten second grabs for the Channel Seven cameras.
You know the ones.
Little junior has just won his third Olympic medal for Australia and the camera pans to the proud parents in the stands. The reporter joins said proud parents and asks 'How does he do it Mr Sutherland'.
And I'll reply 'Well a lot of hard work and determination obviously Laurie, but I'll be honest, I did lead the Bronte under 10s Nippers to victory in the Eastern Suburbs Surf Carnival so I suppose genetics had a fair bit to do with it too'.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Taking a punt
It's been a while since my last blog. I think I largely got caught up in the mundane task of keeping Harry happy.
And as I got better at it I think the job lost some of the mystique it originally held. The simple task of running your life on anothers timetable became so everyday, so commonplace, that I figured I would need something bigger, something more profound, to bother my reader with as a blog topic.
And tonight that topic came to me in a moment of clarity - punting.
I've been a punter from way back. Both my grandmothers were punters, though vastly diferent types. My grandmother on my dad's side, Francis, she was a mathematical whizz. She used to go to the races and out bookie the bookies. She was that good, that quick, that she could sum up a number of bookies boards in a flash, run the numbers and see an opportunity in their books. Done right it means no matter the result you can't lose. You only win small percentages per race - but you win.
I never knew her as a punter, apparently she gave it away when she and granddad stopped running their cash business, a garage. She never talked about it much, but when pressed she told me it was when they stopped running the garage she realised how much they were betting on any given race. I doubt that. She was a canny woman, one of the smartest I've ever known, and I'm sure she knew where the book stood at any given moment. There must have been a reason but I never got it out of her.
My grandma on my mum's side, Marie, she was a totally different kind of punter. She followed horses, trainers, jockeys (Mark DeMontfort was the second love of her life after Granddad) and she followed whatever hunch took her superstitious Irish soul. And damn it, she used to win too.
Whenever she took me out to Rosehill as a youngster we would invariably spend a fair while in the collect queue. For her. My picks - my nags - were often still running when we moved over to join the queue.
It was from grandma that I picked up the real racing bug.
The track is a special place. It has its own timetable, its own rhythm and its own language. Despite my mother's best efforts I never got into theatre, opera or the symphony. The track held more than enough drama for me. When school sport allowed, and I could get away, I would make my way to Royal Randwick for the Saturday races.
Mum would put my bets on of a Friday evening (though from about 13 onwards the guys running the TAB at fiveways would let me put my bets after the last race had run so long as I was subtle, and quick about it). I'd then make my way up to Oxford St, through Centennial Park and on to the track.
Once there I'd load up on as much junk food as I could afford from the remains of my pocket money and make my way to the Queen Elizabeth stand. Always the same stand and always the same seat.
In hindsight I think I got moderately special treatment from the attendants. At the time I thought nothing of it, but they must have found the fat little kid sitting up in the stands smacking his bum, yelling himself hoarse and ripping up his fifty cent TAB tickets in dismay their own special form of theater.
But like any true punter I didn't let constant defeat bring me down. Who could? After all if there wasn't the next race there was always next week. I'm not a practicing Catholic (though in deference to the grandparents I was baptised) and my personal redemption did not lie in the repair of divine honour, it lie in the next race.
I've matured a little now. I still whack my arse and yell myself hoarse, I still rip up too many tickets. But I don't chase my losses, I try not to 're-invest' my winnings and Marie's sage words 'don't bet on the last race it's just for the bookies' have finally taken root.
How does this relate to daddy day care? I don't know. Maybe Harry will be as much of a punter as I was an opera fan. I hope not though, I hope he too embraces the mystery of the track, the majesty of the punt - and that oh so special feeling of beating the bookie.
And as I got better at it I think the job lost some of the mystique it originally held. The simple task of running your life on anothers timetable became so everyday, so commonplace, that I figured I would need something bigger, something more profound, to bother my reader with as a blog topic.
And tonight that topic came to me in a moment of clarity - punting.
I've been a punter from way back. Both my grandmothers were punters, though vastly diferent types. My grandmother on my dad's side, Francis, she was a mathematical whizz. She used to go to the races and out bookie the bookies. She was that good, that quick, that she could sum up a number of bookies boards in a flash, run the numbers and see an opportunity in their books. Done right it means no matter the result you can't lose. You only win small percentages per race - but you win.
I never knew her as a punter, apparently she gave it away when she and granddad stopped running their cash business, a garage. She never talked about it much, but when pressed she told me it was when they stopped running the garage she realised how much they were betting on any given race. I doubt that. She was a canny woman, one of the smartest I've ever known, and I'm sure she knew where the book stood at any given moment. There must have been a reason but I never got it out of her.
My grandma on my mum's side, Marie, she was a totally different kind of punter. She followed horses, trainers, jockeys (Mark DeMontfort was the second love of her life after Granddad) and she followed whatever hunch took her superstitious Irish soul. And damn it, she used to win too.
Whenever she took me out to Rosehill as a youngster we would invariably spend a fair while in the collect queue. For her. My picks - my nags - were often still running when we moved over to join the queue.
It was from grandma that I picked up the real racing bug.
The track is a special place. It has its own timetable, its own rhythm and its own language. Despite my mother's best efforts I never got into theatre, opera or the symphony. The track held more than enough drama for me. When school sport allowed, and I could get away, I would make my way to Royal Randwick for the Saturday races.
Mum would put my bets on of a Friday evening (though from about 13 onwards the guys running the TAB at fiveways would let me put my bets after the last race had run so long as I was subtle, and quick about it). I'd then make my way up to Oxford St, through Centennial Park and on to the track.
Once there I'd load up on as much junk food as I could afford from the remains of my pocket money and make my way to the Queen Elizabeth stand. Always the same stand and always the same seat.
In hindsight I think I got moderately special treatment from the attendants. At the time I thought nothing of it, but they must have found the fat little kid sitting up in the stands smacking his bum, yelling himself hoarse and ripping up his fifty cent TAB tickets in dismay their own special form of theater.
But like any true punter I didn't let constant defeat bring me down. Who could? After all if there wasn't the next race there was always next week. I'm not a practicing Catholic (though in deference to the grandparents I was baptised) and my personal redemption did not lie in the repair of divine honour, it lie in the next race.
I've matured a little now. I still whack my arse and yell myself hoarse, I still rip up too many tickets. But I don't chase my losses, I try not to 're-invest' my winnings and Marie's sage words 'don't bet on the last race it's just for the bookies' have finally taken root.
How does this relate to daddy day care? I don't know. Maybe Harry will be as much of a punter as I was an opera fan. I hope not though, I hope he too embraces the mystery of the track, the majesty of the punt - and that oh so special feeling of beating the bookie.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Chomping down
As some of you will know I have been 'blessed' with rather unique digits. My fingers are - too put it in the Bruce McAveney vernacular - 'special'.
I have what is known in the medical fraternity as quasi clubbing. This means that as my chubby little fingers reach their terminus they flatten and spread.
In less cultured company my 'affliction' leads me to be referred to as hobbit hands.
True clubbing is quite rare and it seems that doctors are taught to look out for this when seeing patients as it is often a symptom of congentive lung disease. As a result whenever I go to see a doctor, no matter the reason for my visit, my fingers will invariably draw their attention. Now if I had true clubbing, and the corresponding lung illness, I would find the eagle eyes of the medical profession to be a boon. However, as a quasi clubber this unwanted attention just ends up being annoying.
For example playing rugby at school I had my share of injuries. Once my hand slipped into a scrum machine just as we packed down. This resulted in three fingers getting caught in the springs. And my coach, mistaking my screams of agony as an indication of willingness to go hard, exhorted the boys behind me to 'drop, squeeze and drive'. It was only when I dropped, to my knees, that they stopped, and my mangled fingers came clear.
Feeling a little sore and sorry I was more than a little miffed when having reached the medical practice for repair (three needles per finger and then a tweezer job to pluck the shattered nails out of the pads in case you were wondering) the doctor was so intrigued by my hands that he called all the other doctors into the room. Not to fix me up, but rather to have a gander at my fingers and a lengthy discussion as to whether I should be whisked off for a chest x-ray.
Were I born on the other side of the world hands such as mine might make me truly special, as opposed to speeeshial. In Holland for example, should a hole appear in the dike it would be my time to shine. My broad, flattened fingers would fill twice the gap of those of you with fine elfin appendages.
I think it no measure of hubris to suggest I may have gone on to become a national treasure there.
But luck would have it that I was born down under, where, other than as a training tool for junior medicos, my fingers have seemingly served little purpose other than as a source of endless frustration when dealing with those pesky little keyboards on mobile phones.
All this changed last week when our little bundle of joy started to teethe.
In order to minimise the pain of having his teeth come through Harry will jam anything his chubby (correctly formed) hands can shove into his mouth, and then chomp down with copious quantities of drool and a contented gurgle.
And my fingers appear to be have the perfect combination of shape, consistency and availability. As a result a good part of my day is now spent with a four month old baby locked onto my hand chewing away with gay abandon.
And while I will never receive the Order of the Orange-Nassau for saving the kingdom of the Netherlands from a watery grave, the look of unalloyed joy that Harry shares with me while he munches on my 'claws' makes all the frustration when texting, and the annoyance at the doctors, well worth while.
I have what is known in the medical fraternity as quasi clubbing. This means that as my chubby little fingers reach their terminus they flatten and spread.
In less cultured company my 'affliction' leads me to be referred to as hobbit hands.
True clubbing is quite rare and it seems that doctors are taught to look out for this when seeing patients as it is often a symptom of congentive lung disease. As a result whenever I go to see a doctor, no matter the reason for my visit, my fingers will invariably draw their attention. Now if I had true clubbing, and the corresponding lung illness, I would find the eagle eyes of the medical profession to be a boon. However, as a quasi clubber this unwanted attention just ends up being annoying.
For example playing rugby at school I had my share of injuries. Once my hand slipped into a scrum machine just as we packed down. This resulted in three fingers getting caught in the springs. And my coach, mistaking my screams of agony as an indication of willingness to go hard, exhorted the boys behind me to 'drop, squeeze and drive'. It was only when I dropped, to my knees, that they stopped, and my mangled fingers came clear.
Feeling a little sore and sorry I was more than a little miffed when having reached the medical practice for repair (three needles per finger and then a tweezer job to pluck the shattered nails out of the pads in case you were wondering) the doctor was so intrigued by my hands that he called all the other doctors into the room. Not to fix me up, but rather to have a gander at my fingers and a lengthy discussion as to whether I should be whisked off for a chest x-ray.
Were I born on the other side of the world hands such as mine might make me truly special, as opposed to speeeshial. In Holland for example, should a hole appear in the dike it would be my time to shine. My broad, flattened fingers would fill twice the gap of those of you with fine elfin appendages.
I think it no measure of hubris to suggest I may have gone on to become a national treasure there.
But luck would have it that I was born down under, where, other than as a training tool for junior medicos, my fingers have seemingly served little purpose other than as a source of endless frustration when dealing with those pesky little keyboards on mobile phones.
All this changed last week when our little bundle of joy started to teethe.
In order to minimise the pain of having his teeth come through Harry will jam anything his chubby (correctly formed) hands can shove into his mouth, and then chomp down with copious quantities of drool and a contented gurgle.
And my fingers appear to be have the perfect combination of shape, consistency and availability. As a result a good part of my day is now spent with a four month old baby locked onto my hand chewing away with gay abandon.
And while I will never receive the Order of the Orange-Nassau for saving the kingdom of the Netherlands from a watery grave, the look of unalloyed joy that Harry shares with me while he munches on my 'claws' makes all the frustration when texting, and the annoyance at the doctors, well worth while.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Messing with his mind
As some of you may know, Harry and I have been covering quite a lot of kilometres each week. The wee man in his pram, me pushing it and our trusty 4 legged friend Ichiban by our side. Our first port of call each morning is King Street Wharves where young Harry gets his morning feed and Ros gets her morning cuddles. It's as perfect a symbiotic relationship as you are ever likely to see.
The destination post feeding and cuddle stop depends on the day and the weather. If it's fine we'll cruise on through to Circular Quay, head around past Woolloomooloo and up through the Cross to see what we can see. If it is Thursday we head over to the fishmarkets to see what's fresh take it home and try out a new recipe and if, as lately, the weather isn't kind we hightail it home and catch up on some chores.
In all this walking I have discovered a few inalienable truths:
1. Mothers pushing their prams will never smile at us as we pass, let alone make eye contact,
2. Drunks always smile at us as we pass, even those whose eyes are rolling in the back of their heads at the time,
3. The occupants of Chinatown invariably freak out when a 'crazy' dog gets within 10 metres of them, and lastly,
4. If you are attentive, and perhaps a wee bit nosy, you get to overhear some great stuff.
Last week while waiting for Ros to meet us by the wharf a couple with their toddler in a stroller passed us by. As they neared their child sneezed. The dad, said 'bless you', nothing odd there, but the mother loudly corrected him and insisted that the 'correct' thing to say was 'pardon you'. I'd never heard that before.
This got me to thinking, and a little reminiscing. When I was growing up my father always said 'gesundheit' when we sneezed. And I, being the impressionable type, figured that this was the right thing to say when someone sneezed. I would do so at school, at parties, wherever. In polite company this would usually elicit a confused look, at school the response would be more direct and less polite - rarely I would be asked what synagogue I went to.
Gesundheit, is the Yiddish word for health and is, so says Wikipedia, generally uttered in response to a sneeze by German, Yiddish and some North American English speakers to wish the person good health. There's no mention of the use of the word in Sydney Australia. Nor should there be because from my unscientific test of using the word for 30 some years it's pretty much unheard of.
And so I got thinking that should this lady hold her ground and insist that 'pardon you' was the appropriate response to a sneeze, and from her vehemence I had little doubt that this ground was rock solid, then some other kid was going to grow up uttering an equally odd response when a person within their hearing sneezed.
And as it was a fine day, and a longer walk was permitted, I thought on this some more.
And my conclusion? My conclusion was that this being a parent thingy was going to be serious fun. Because until little Harry is old enough to check his facts on the 'net, and to be taught right from wrong at school, I will have a major role in formulating his ideas of what's is right, what is wrong, what the facts are and how the whole thing works. And he won't know better, he won't know I'm just making this stuff up - or in my father's case that his dad has taught him to act in a way that be right somewhere but is just plain different from what other people do where he lives.
Sure there's the big stuff like teaching Harry that when you see something being done that is wrong you don't stand by, you act. That when someone says something that is hateful or harmful to others you don't let it slide but speak up. I want to teach him these things, just like my parents taught me that by their actions and their words. I don't wish to trivialise the big stuff.
In fact, if I may digress for just a second, I've never forgotten a moment that must have happened when I was only 5 or 6. Mum, Dad my Sister and I were walking down a city street one night quite late (which to a youngster means any time after 8pm I suppose) and a man was screaming and yelling at a woman, right in her face, grabbing her arm. The street was busy and everyone just walked on by. But my Dad stopped and he told the guy off, he said that behaviour was unacceptable, and Mum chimed in too. My Dad wasn't the smallest person on the street, nor the largest, but he was the bravest at the time, and Mum was too. And that moment has always stuck with me, and it always will.
It taught me about not letting stuff slide, about taking responsibility for your community, about doing the right thing. Hopefully I can be a good role model in this regard for Harry. But that's the big stuff. Where I see real fun is the little stuff, the facts on the periphery of what matters if you will.
That people who say they don't like watching sport just haven't watched enough. That your horse really does run faster if you yell at the telly and whip your bum with the form guide. That the umpire can hear you when you yell 'ball' at the television and that the Union Jack isn't in our flag because we are a snivelling colony unwilling to stand on our own two feet, but rather we won the right to put it there having beaten the Poms at every sport they ever invented.
And that was just the stuff I could think of while on our stroll. I have no doubt that with a little care and attention I can have this boy's mind so thoroughly warped by the time the teachers get their hands on him that at least a little of it will stick. We all have to have a dream don't we.
Gesundheit to you all.
The destination post feeding and cuddle stop depends on the day and the weather. If it's fine we'll cruise on through to Circular Quay, head around past Woolloomooloo and up through the Cross to see what we can see. If it is Thursday we head over to the fishmarkets to see what's fresh take it home and try out a new recipe and if, as lately, the weather isn't kind we hightail it home and catch up on some chores.
In all this walking I have discovered a few inalienable truths:
1. Mothers pushing their prams will never smile at us as we pass, let alone make eye contact,
2. Drunks always smile at us as we pass, even those whose eyes are rolling in the back of their heads at the time,
3. The occupants of Chinatown invariably freak out when a 'crazy' dog gets within 10 metres of them, and lastly,
4. If you are attentive, and perhaps a wee bit nosy, you get to overhear some great stuff.
Last week while waiting for Ros to meet us by the wharf a couple with their toddler in a stroller passed us by. As they neared their child sneezed. The dad, said 'bless you', nothing odd there, but the mother loudly corrected him and insisted that the 'correct' thing to say was 'pardon you'. I'd never heard that before.
This got me to thinking, and a little reminiscing. When I was growing up my father always said 'gesundheit' when we sneezed. And I, being the impressionable type, figured that this was the right thing to say when someone sneezed. I would do so at school, at parties, wherever. In polite company this would usually elicit a confused look, at school the response would be more direct and less polite - rarely I would be asked what synagogue I went to.
Gesundheit, is the Yiddish word for health and is, so says Wikipedia, generally uttered in response to a sneeze by German, Yiddish and some North American English speakers to wish the person good health. There's no mention of the use of the word in Sydney Australia. Nor should there be because from my unscientific test of using the word for 30 some years it's pretty much unheard of.
And so I got thinking that should this lady hold her ground and insist that 'pardon you' was the appropriate response to a sneeze, and from her vehemence I had little doubt that this ground was rock solid, then some other kid was going to grow up uttering an equally odd response when a person within their hearing sneezed.
And as it was a fine day, and a longer walk was permitted, I thought on this some more.
And my conclusion? My conclusion was that this being a parent thingy was going to be serious fun. Because until little Harry is old enough to check his facts on the 'net, and to be taught right from wrong at school, I will have a major role in formulating his ideas of what's is right, what is wrong, what the facts are and how the whole thing works. And he won't know better, he won't know I'm just making this stuff up - or in my father's case that his dad has taught him to act in a way that be right somewhere but is just plain different from what other people do where he lives.
Sure there's the big stuff like teaching Harry that when you see something being done that is wrong you don't stand by, you act. That when someone says something that is hateful or harmful to others you don't let it slide but speak up. I want to teach him these things, just like my parents taught me that by their actions and their words. I don't wish to trivialise the big stuff.
In fact, if I may digress for just a second, I've never forgotten a moment that must have happened when I was only 5 or 6. Mum, Dad my Sister and I were walking down a city street one night quite late (which to a youngster means any time after 8pm I suppose) and a man was screaming and yelling at a woman, right in her face, grabbing her arm. The street was busy and everyone just walked on by. But my Dad stopped and he told the guy off, he said that behaviour was unacceptable, and Mum chimed in too. My Dad wasn't the smallest person on the street, nor the largest, but he was the bravest at the time, and Mum was too. And that moment has always stuck with me, and it always will.
It taught me about not letting stuff slide, about taking responsibility for your community, about doing the right thing. Hopefully I can be a good role model in this regard for Harry. But that's the big stuff. Where I see real fun is the little stuff, the facts on the periphery of what matters if you will.
That people who say they don't like watching sport just haven't watched enough. That your horse really does run faster if you yell at the telly and whip your bum with the form guide. That the umpire can hear you when you yell 'ball' at the television and that the Union Jack isn't in our flag because we are a snivelling colony unwilling to stand on our own two feet, but rather we won the right to put it there having beaten the Poms at every sport they ever invented.
And that was just the stuff I could think of while on our stroll. I have no doubt that with a little care and attention I can have this boy's mind so thoroughly warped by the time the teachers get their hands on him that at least a little of it will stick. We all have to have a dream don't we.
Gesundheit to you all.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Testing times
Having begun at the beginning and moved along to the present, I will, if I may, take a step back in time.
Once Ros had told me she was pregnant, we entered what was, for me anyway, the scariest part of the pregnancy. I think of the period as 'The Testing Times'. Not testing, as in arduous or challenging, in truth I had little to do at this stage, it was literally testing. There was the 12 week scan, another ultrasound soon after that and then the fortnightly trips to the doctor following those. At each of these scans or visits, I feared that my perfect world would be ripped asunder.
I was on tenterhooks the whole time and couldn't help but wonder whether it would just be better to no do these tests at all. Incidentally I love the expression 'to be on tenterhooks', but for years I used to say 'tenderhooks' as I had no idea what a tenterhook was - it's a hook which is arrayed on a tenter which is itself a frame across which newly milled cloth is stretched so that it may dry without shrinking just in case anyone is curious.
Joining Ros at the midwives didn't help relive the tension much either. The midwives had no interest in including me in any conversation, and as I came to realise, little interest in me being there at all.
I'd gone along because I thought that was the thing to do - at least that was what the authors of the baby books told me to do. And having begun reading these books in order to try to better understand what Ros was undergoing, and to get prepared for life after birth, I thought it best to take up their advice.
However, the combination of the useless advice regarding joining your partner at the midwife visits and the exclusive use of the female pronoun to describe both the baby and it's caregiver, led me to conclude that these books weren't really aimed at me. The only book I stuck with was one which described the pregnancy on a week by week basis. And I cheated with that, skipping ahead weeks to get to the 'exciting stuff' much like a child opening extra doors on his advent calendar to get to the extra chocolate.
I then made the mistake of turning to the baby websites in my search for information and descended into a hell of schmaltz, and acronyms, on a truly epic scale. There were pages in which people discussed what lovey huggy names they used when talking to their partners (my favourite being the couple who called each other baby puppy and baby meatball), what method of conception works best (and stunningly not once was the word sex used which made me wonder whether these were adult women or toddlers posting) and of course the never ending source of mirth - baby names.
There were pages and pages of people who listed their potential baby names and then asked for honest feedback. And people who owned up to naming their children Presley Rain and Chais Phoenix would give their opinions. However, providing my thoughts on Cruze Jude and Honor Donna got me booted from these sites so I suppose they didn't want really honest feedback after all.
Having given up on the serious books, been excluded by the medical fraternity and expelled from the bizarre world of mummy websites, I went back to my old friend 'Your pregnancy explained week by week' and promptly jumped ahead to see what was coming in a couple of weeks time.
Once Ros had told me she was pregnant, we entered what was, for me anyway, the scariest part of the pregnancy. I think of the period as 'The Testing Times'. Not testing, as in arduous or challenging, in truth I had little to do at this stage, it was literally testing. There was the 12 week scan, another ultrasound soon after that and then the fortnightly trips to the doctor following those. At each of these scans or visits, I feared that my perfect world would be ripped asunder.
I was on tenterhooks the whole time and couldn't help but wonder whether it would just be better to no do these tests at all. Incidentally I love the expression 'to be on tenterhooks', but for years I used to say 'tenderhooks' as I had no idea what a tenterhook was - it's a hook which is arrayed on a tenter which is itself a frame across which newly milled cloth is stretched so that it may dry without shrinking just in case anyone is curious.
Joining Ros at the midwives didn't help relive the tension much either. The midwives had no interest in including me in any conversation, and as I came to realise, little interest in me being there at all.
I'd gone along because I thought that was the thing to do - at least that was what the authors of the baby books told me to do. And having begun reading these books in order to try to better understand what Ros was undergoing, and to get prepared for life after birth, I thought it best to take up their advice.
However, the combination of the useless advice regarding joining your partner at the midwife visits and the exclusive use of the female pronoun to describe both the baby and it's caregiver, led me to conclude that these books weren't really aimed at me. The only book I stuck with was one which described the pregnancy on a week by week basis. And I cheated with that, skipping ahead weeks to get to the 'exciting stuff' much like a child opening extra doors on his advent calendar to get to the extra chocolate.
I then made the mistake of turning to the baby websites in my search for information and descended into a hell of schmaltz, and acronyms, on a truly epic scale. There were pages in which people discussed what lovey huggy names they used when talking to their partners (my favourite being the couple who called each other baby puppy and baby meatball), what method of conception works best (and stunningly not once was the word sex used which made me wonder whether these were adult women or toddlers posting) and of course the never ending source of mirth - baby names.
There were pages and pages of people who listed their potential baby names and then asked for honest feedback. And people who owned up to naming their children Presley Rain and Chais Phoenix would give their opinions. However, providing my thoughts on Cruze Jude and Honor Donna got me booted from these sites so I suppose they didn't want really honest feedback after all.
Having given up on the serious books, been excluded by the medical fraternity and expelled from the bizarre world of mummy websites, I went back to my old friend 'Your pregnancy explained week by week' and promptly jumped ahead to see what was coming in a couple of weeks time.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
And so it began
I'm going to follow the advice given to the White Rabbit by the King in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I'll begin at the beginning and go on till I come to the end; and then stop.
The beginning was the receipt of the most wonderful, most concise, and most life changing text any man can receive. 'I am pregnant'.
Lots followed. There was the waiting for the test results, the agonising over pram selection, the hurried reading of baby books not to mention the cloyingly saccharine baby websites (more on each in later blogs). Then, then about 8 months later, there was the tap on the shoulder at two in the morning followed by the calm announcement that 'I'm pretty sure I'm in labour'.
Fast forward to 12 weeks later. My wife stoically heads off to work leaving our son Sauce (the wife doesn't like the nickname either) in my fumbling care. The instructions I had received were clear, and with help just a phone call away, the first day went to plan. Feed, change, play, change, sleep, change, feed...ad infinitum. Ten hours later the boss was home, the house was clean, dinner was cooked and most importantly Sauce was still happy.
Day two, well day two didn't quite go to plan. See, having got through the first day unscathed, I figured all our days together would run with such precision. The wee man, however, didn't fancy it. I tried to get him on schedule and the more I tried to make things go to plan the more I upset him. The more upset he became, the more I tried to get things to go to plan - it's a terrible coping mechanism and I don't recommend it to anyone.
Come 2pm I was a mess, Sauce wasn't happy, and I wasn't sure this whole thing was going to work. Near breaking point I called the expert and with her calm guidance threw the plan out the window, gave him a bath, opened some wine - and what do you know everything was copacetic.
From that point on we still have plans, the house is pretty clean, dinner is almost always on the table but my lesson has been learned. There is only one timetable. His.
The beginning was the receipt of the most wonderful, most concise, and most life changing text any man can receive. 'I am pregnant'.
Lots followed. There was the waiting for the test results, the agonising over pram selection, the hurried reading of baby books not to mention the cloyingly saccharine baby websites (more on each in later blogs). Then, then about 8 months later, there was the tap on the shoulder at two in the morning followed by the calm announcement that 'I'm pretty sure I'm in labour'.
Fast forward to 12 weeks later. My wife stoically heads off to work leaving our son Sauce (the wife doesn't like the nickname either) in my fumbling care. The instructions I had received were clear, and with help just a phone call away, the first day went to plan. Feed, change, play, change, sleep, change, feed...ad infinitum. Ten hours later the boss was home, the house was clean, dinner was cooked and most importantly Sauce was still happy.
Day two, well day two didn't quite go to plan. See, having got through the first day unscathed, I figured all our days together would run with such precision. The wee man, however, didn't fancy it. I tried to get him on schedule and the more I tried to make things go to plan the more I upset him. The more upset he became, the more I tried to get things to go to plan - it's a terrible coping mechanism and I don't recommend it to anyone.
Come 2pm I was a mess, Sauce wasn't happy, and I wasn't sure this whole thing was going to work. Near breaking point I called the expert and with her calm guidance threw the plan out the window, gave him a bath, opened some wine - and what do you know everything was copacetic.
From that point on we still have plans, the house is pretty clean, dinner is almost always on the table but my lesson has been learned. There is only one timetable. His.
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