Life as usual and how to get a word out of your 15 year old

Hello Possums. I’m back at work. I love it! My quiet, spacious office overlooks a park where students sit on the grass and laugh at lunchtimes. I had a morning cuppa with G (the mature and interesting young man I have written about, who has become a treasured coffee date friend). For lunch I have picked up a large mixed salad from the cafe next door and am eating it as I write. Work is quiet at the moment. I am focussing on transcription of interviews and classroom audio tapes – a time consuming exercise. It sounds boring but because I will be analysing these transcripts at a later date for my study, it is actually very interesting to me. I just wish my shoulders didn’t get sore holding the typing position for long spells. If it weren’t for this I would just plow through it. As it is, I need to take a break every hour at least. You may be surprised that blogging is a break under these conditions. But I sit differently whilst blogging, a relaxed posture possibly. This is my second day back. Yesterday I rode my bike in. Riding in after the holidays is always a good test of fitness. To my surprise I did the ride easily. The jogs along the beach and the occasional pump class at the local YMCA seem to have kept me strong. I tested out my new digital speedo thingy that I got for Christmas. I now know that the round trip is 29km and my maximum speed was 52 km/h. I used to say those digital speedo gadgets were not for me. I refused to install one on my bike. I used to say I didn’t get why people cared about their trip stats and emphasized that it was a boy thing to do. But I went on Around the Bay last year and was thrilled to hear the speeds we reached coming down off Mt Martha. And when the hub said, “what do you want for Christmas?”. I said, “one of those digital trip meter thingys for my bike”. Riding always puts me in a good mood. When I got home, I changed onto my bathers and tied two kayaks onto the roof of my car. My slalom lessons with Rosie had begun for the year as well. I was still hot from my ride, but both of us appreciated being on the water because it had been the hottest day in awhile and also quite humid. I had done a little paddling over summer and I was very pleased that my slalom technique was still okay. Our session with our new coach was fun. When I got home, after a quick shower to wash off the Yarra water I went straight into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Kathleen arrived home from karate. How was your first day at you new shool, I asked her. Okay, she replied. I thought that was all I was going to get out of her. She looked hot from karate, and she was probably too tired to recount her day. I left it at that. Later, when she had set herself up on the kitchen table to do some homework, and Sally was sitting at the bench doing a bit of window art, I felt a surge of happiness which came out of me like this: I stepped out from behind the bench, threw my hands in the air like a victory gesture (you know like the gymnasts do when they’ve done their routine) and said, “I’d just like to announce that I’ve had a really good day”. “Yeah, right”, said Kathleen only half raising her head. “Yep”, I continued, “I rode my bike in and blitzed it. Then canoeing was really fun. I haven’t slipped back on my technique at all and I reckon it was my best session ever”. Kathleen raised her head to look at me then and smiled, “I had a really good time in drama today”, she said. And this is how my conversation with her about her first day at her new school began. I am happy to report that she loves it. She even thinks her maths teacher is good! (If you know Kathleen you will know the significance of this!).

I’ll keep it, thanks.

It might be forty-three years old but it still works really well. It hasn’t had much sleep lately. It had two nights where it didn’t get to bed this week earlier than 1.30am: once because it was getting science equipment ready for classes the next day, and once socializing. It has had three mornings where it had to be up before 6am, twice for work and once for fun. Yesterday it rode one hundred kilometers in thirty-four degree heat (celcius). It sat on a push bike for four and a half hours without getting saddle sore, pedaled for that time without cramping and rested on the drop handle bars (tucking down out of the strong head wind) for most of that time too, without getting stiff or numb. It kept on breathing and pushing those pedals up hill or on the flat, and it hung on down the hills even when the bike was traveling at fifty-two kilometers an hour. It still looks okay in a frock. Here it is at The Oaks. Its wearing a brown dress from Rome and heels from Florence that I bought for it on our recent trip to Europe.

 

It is still pretty flexible and dances well enough to not be shy about getting up in front of any crowd. It can still learn new things. And I can’t forget the things its done for me in the past. It gave birth to four babies, who are developing into four wonderful human beings. They like to give it hugs. It sort of does everything I need it to do, so even though its forty-three I think I’ll keep it. Thanks.

Interrupted. Agitated. Almost Eradicated.

Oh Possums, I read Ian McEwan’s novel, Saturday. It spans the Saturday of a surgeon’s life and it reminded me of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, and also of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Why? Because I appreciated the writer’s attempt to narrate a character’s stream of consciousness; a tricky narrative style that all three of these writers achieve convincingly, but differently.

As I was riding my bike home from work, I pondered this writing style and tried to capture my own stream of consciousness. But alass, like Heisenbergs principal of uncertainty, the moment I tried to pin thoughts down they fled and morphed. I tried to be nonchalant and catch myself in the act of thinking, but what I ended up doing was thinking about what I had been thinking. I began a sort of retrospective reconstruction…

Oh yes, when I rode past the high school I noticed the young man on the skateboard wearing those low down trousers in the way-too-low crotch style, and I started to sing the song ‘Why?’ by Annie Lennox because I was wondering why young men wore that stupid style, which I refer to as poo catchers (I don’t know why, does anyone else use that term?). And then I thought that well maybe its supposed to be a statement about manhood. It just hangs down that far and so the trouser crotch has to accommodate. I imagined this scenario and quickly realised that there would be no need for the distance if undies were worn, and decided that the design could be to enable freedom from underwear. I tried to think of lyrics to the tune of ‘Why?’ that expressed my new theories about low-crotch trousers.

… when I was suddenly interrupted by an idiot driver, who let their idiot offspring open the passenger door of their car whilst stopping at a set of lights. The door swung over the bike lane that I was careering along at a fair pace, giving me no time at all to think. I braked and swerved automatically. I missed the door by a hair. I didn’t have time to even get scared, but in the split second that the heat was off (that frozen second where both parties register shock) I reflexively uttered an expletive. Quite loudly. It was obvious that I was agitated by the tone of my voice.

Oh for God’s sake!

Afterwards, I thought. Golly, Oh for God’s sake! Is that all I was able to come up with when pressed? Those words could have been the last thing I uttered, and it was Oh for God’s sake!

Clearly an Expletives Coach is desperately required. Apply within.

And then I started to think that I shouldn’t have left a cheeky comment on Miss Melancholy’s post about getting old… You know you’re getting old when the only expletive you can come up with on a near-death experience is Oh for God’s sake…

Its spring and cyclists are everywhere in Melbourne.

Well Possums, I’m officially in training now. Like last year, I have signed up for Around the Bay in a Day. This is a huge Bicycle Victoria event. Thousands of cyclists participate. Last year I found it thrilling to be part of such a huge event. Heading off in amongst the throngs of other cyclists had a quality of excitement about it that is hard to describe.

I’ve been riding my bike in to uni. It was sunny today but there was a freezing southerly wind blowing. I had been fooled by the sunny appearance of the morning and had only worn riding shorts and Tshirt. It took two hills before I really warmed up, and even then my fingers poking out of my fingerless gloves stayed frozen for most of the trip.

I mentioned this to a young woman I was sitting next to in my morning class. She agreed about the wind and told me that she also rode in today. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick, black, stretchy band.

I don’t know where I’d be without this, she said.

What do you use it for?

She popped it on her head. Ah, ear warmers!

Yep, and when I warm up, I just pull it down like this, she said modeling the action of pulling it down to her neck.

The ride to uni is a 30km round trip for me – good for general fitness but I really need to start thinking about doing a couple of long rides in the lead up to the event.

I’m part of the uni team and we have official team jerseys, which I think is pretty cool. Last year there were about 200 riders in the team. The jersey made it easy to recognise other team members and I enjoyed riding with various members along the way.

After my morning class, I went to pick up this year’s jersey at the uni bike shop. I walked into the shop and said, hi can I pick up my around the bay jersey here?

Can you? the guy behind the counter retorted with an ambiguous grin.

Well, I thought I could…

He smiled, name? I gave him my name. ID. I gave him my drivers license and he remarked pointedly about the photo, with not a small hint of sarcasm: Oh great hair cut!

Um yeah, well that isn’t a great shot, I said sheepishly.

He ticked my name off the list. We have a problem, he said, you’re down here for a medium and I think you’re a small.

Oh, um well it doesn’t matter if its a bit loose, said I.

Yes it does, he said seriously and he began to explain the physics of riding jersey design. So try the small on, he said handing one across to me.

What right here?

Yeah, just over your Tshirt.

OK.

See, you’re a small, young Bindi Nestor! He said this smugly and quite cheekily I thought because I’m not young and he was probably about my age too.

Once that was settled, he was on for a bit of a chat. He started explaining his philosophy to me about running the training rides for the uni team. His main focus was on riding etiquette and team building and he explained his strategies for achieving these aims in detail. I had been looking at the training ride dates and was intending to get to at least one of them.

I was thinking of doing the training ride last Sunday but I was too busy, I confessed, the weather was great, it would have been magnificent!

Nah, it was crap – huge head wind, he corrected me. Our conversation was drawn to a close by the arrival of some more customers into the shop.

Well, I might see you at the next one, I said as I turned to go. He waved, but was already attending his new customers.

I laughed as I walked back to my office after these two encounters with cyclists. I don’t know why. I just think its funny how sometimes your days have themes about them. Weirdly, I felt like I was a member of some sort of underground cycling community.

As I was riding home a cyclist traveling in the other direction, who was decked out in lime green and white matching riding gear, had the classic massive thighs and toned upper body, smiled and nodded a greeting to me. I returned the gesture. There is something in the air. Cyclists are out in force, and Melbourne is buzzing with it.

Cruising

Hello Possums. Did you know that cycling is the new golf? That’s right! It is. All you need to do to verify this trend is to pop down to the St Kilda Esplanade (The Espy, as we Melbournians refer to it) or cruise Beach Rd on a Sunday morning.

Yesterday (note that it is already Monday in Australia) a girlfriend and I joined the throngs of other cyclists for a mid-morning cruise of Beach Road, starting at the Espy near Luna Park. Its an excellent place to cycle because there is a double lane all the way and the cars on a Sunday know to leave the left-hand lane free for cyclists. We went down to Mentone, had a latte at a beach front cafe, and back. This was a neat two-hour stint.

We cycled side-by-side, but there were lots and lots of other cyclists in much larger packs cruising in both directions. The sheer volume of cyclists created a buzz of excitement, almost as exciting as being part of Around-The-Bay-In-A-Day, that I went in for the first time last November.

As we rode, the sun gently shining on our backs, the view of the bay ever-changing as we rounded another bend or pumped our way up and over another rise, we talked. Both of similar ages, but with different family circumstances, we are always surprised at how our lives seem to be running in parallel. Mid-life crisis issues, or whatever you wish to call them, seem to affect everyone once they reach their early forties. Why is that?

A reoccurring theme is appearing in many of these chats I’m having with women friends lately: Why, as we age, do women get more interesting and men get more boring? Women are taking on new challenges and changing. All men seem to want is consistency. This, as you can imagine, can create tension in a long term relationship. One partner is “hello world” and the other partner is “all I want to do is relax in front of the telly”.

Sound tracks

Hello Possums. Thanks to Mr Zhizou, I can’t get this song out of my head:

Stranded at the drive-in

Branded, a fool

What will they say Monday at school?

Sandy, oh baby, I’m in misery

We made a start, now where apart, there’s nothing left for me… (from the Grease soundtrack).

I was singing it all the way in to uni on Thursday on my bike, and my mind started to wander…

John Travolta was the sexiest thing on two legs when he was young. I loved the way he danced in this movie, and the passion in his voice. Maybe its the Italian thing, I don’t know. My first boyfriend at the age of 15 was an Italian lad of 17. He used to place my hand on his heart to show me that when he was close to me his heart beat faster. He was quite a dancer too. It lasted 18 months; purely platonic, possums – we were young. The only other people who have come close to John Travolta (in Grease) for me are Patrick Swayzee in Dirty Dancing and Mathew McFayden as Mr Darcey (Collin Firth fans will disagree).

I love the Grease sound track. If I’m at a party and ‘You’re the one that I want’ comes on, you will find me on the dance floor with any male willing to play the role of Danny, shaking my shoulders on the backward step, and doing the finger wagging on the forward approach, just like you’re supposed to.

I only found out recently that John had starred in the Broadway version of the movie when he was a young lad of around 17, long before the movie was made. I would have loved to have seen him perform it live… yes, you’re right, probably better that I didn’t. I’d have ended up as a groupy – not good for my dignity.

Mr Zhisou used the first line from the drive-in song, with slight word changes to start his post Personal Attacks. It set the mood for his post perfectly. Those of you who remember the emotion John Travolta put into that line will agree.

Music is a powerful way to express human emotion. I was overwhelmed the first time I went to the opera. I was given a freebie ticket to Madame Butterfly by a muso friend, not knowing what to expect. At the end of the show my face was red and puffy, and my eyes were mere slits. My friend, who had been playing in the show, just burst out laughing when she saw the state I was in. I had been totally choked up through the whole of the second half. Such a tragic, tragic tale, Possums. He took her baby… I couldn’t understand the lyrics. It was the music that moved me.

The passion in the song ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’ seemed to sum up my feelings at the End of the World, and I penned a little verse to that tune:

Don’t cry for my guinea pigs, Argentina,

The truth is, the tart reset in Cathy’s fridge.

But the real tragedy is the fire devastation;

Round the clock work for fire fighters.

We’ve kept our distance.

Yes, well, I’ve been told not to give up my day job with delusions of song-writing ability. (Thanks, Micka).

Other great movie sound tracks:

Pulp Fiction…

Thelma and Louise…