Mind the Gap

Some people have a really odd perception of what two metres looks like. I know being an engineer gives me a little bit of an advantage but everyone knows what two metres looks like don’t they? No? How far is it? Well it’s two metres isn’t it! Like a metre but twice as far. Of if you prefer, and for the record I don’t, 200cm. Still not sure? Well let’s just say is a little bit over six foot. 

And I guess that’s the problem. Although metres are the SI base unit for distance, it can be quite hard to visualise exactly what that looks like on the ground. It shouldn’t be, but I suspect that decades of pampering by the media has made it this way. Anyone who has read the media for any length of time will know that everything has to be converted into media standard units. So distance becomes multiples of football pitches and height is either related to double decker buses, Nelson’s Column or Grey’s Monument adjusting for regional preferences. Time, incidentally, has the SI base unit of seconds - and just a few of those is typically how long I can stomach reading the news before wanting to scream.

So people are being asked to keep at least two metres apart when shopping for food, except for the owner of our local corner shop. He has decided to break from this requirement and is asking his customers to keep two meters apart. Whatever that is. Sorry I’m being pedantic. But it’s clearly a problem as nobody seems to be able to grasp what that looks like. Well it’s just a bit longer than one Arnold Swarzeneger - assuming of course that he was lying down.

The problem isn’t confined to shopping either. It’s just as problematic in open spaces such as parks. You would think that having plenty of space would make it even easier to give everyone the space required. Why not err on the side of caution and double the amount of space you think it should be? 

Runners are particularly bad at this, or at least they appear to be at the moment. I would’ve though that they would’ve been more tuned into distances - we do after all obsess about time and distance and unless you are based in the UK or the US everything running related is measured in metres. 

But alas no. Just the other day I was running around Auckland Domain and on my umpteenth lap of the 1.5km circuit when I passed another running doing the same thing but in the opposite direction. Being very wary of keeping my distance - nobody wants to get too close to a sweaty runner - I kept well inside my half of the road whilst the other runner was running right next to the kerb on the opposite side. Plenty of space.

“TWO METRES!,” the other runner shouted angrily, gesturing at the ground. 

I was a bit shocked I must say. Not only was the outburst pretty unusual, but I was well away from the other runner and had definitely left more than a two metre gap. How do I know? You had to ask an engineer. Well, I know that the road on which we were running was at least 6m wide, so each half of the road is 3m wide. For the sake of argument, let’s say I was in the middle of my side of the road. That means that I was about 1.5m off the centre line of the road. The other runner was tucked towards the kerb on the opposite side, so approximately 3m from the centreline on their side of the road. But it’s not practical to run right next to the kerb so let’s say they were 2.5m from the kerb line. In that case, I make the distance of separation 4m and well in excess of the 2m recommended and certainly further away than they thought. I did contemplate stopping to have the debate but thought better of it. Besides, I was pushing for a decent pace so could ill afford to stop and discuss the finer points of spacial awareness. Maybe I’ll carry a tape measure next time.

Perhaps part of the problem lies with the gyms being closed and the streets being inundated with  people more accustomed to the treadmill. Judging by the increase in poor footwear this seems to be the case. Ah well, at least the physios will have plenty to do one we get ourselves out of this situation.

But that’s for later. In the meantime if we can stick to giving each other the required space it would be appreciated. And at the end of the day it’s the space that’s important and it doesn’t really matter how you measure it; two metres, two hundred centimetres, six foot something, or an Arnie and a bit. 

A Holiday Distraction

I don’t know about you but I could do with a break from virus related talk. I know it’s important to talk this stuff through, but after nearly a month of being in lockdown it’s time for a distraction. So here’s a little story from a holiday we had last year.

Since arriving in New Zealand we’d talked about heading up to the cape - as far north as you can travel in New Zealand without getting your feet wet. But, even starting from Auckand it’s no mean feat. You’ve got to really want to go. It’s not the distance, although it’s far enough especially for a long weekend, it’s the roads. They aren’t all that and definitely weren’t built with efficient travelling in mind. They’re mostly single carriageway for the 400km trip with lots of bends and one-way bridges to contend with. Add to that several bottlenecks in the form of scattered townships and you have the ingredients for a fairly testy journey. You see although Northland is not that populated, being the Winterless North^TM it’s a popular spot for Aucklanders so traffic can be a nightmare. And that’s just getting out of Auckland. By the time the platoon gets to Warkworth, the first town on the way up, huge queues are inevitable.

There is, of course, always the option to take the route up ninety mile beach but it’s not a whole lot quicker and, being a beach, you’d better time it right. Might be a tad tricky if the tides not out - get it wrong and it’ll put a real damper on your weekend. 

I’ll be honest, this is all a lengthy preamble to try and excuse the fact that after nearly five years of talking about it, we finally plucked up the courage to head to the cape. Except we flew. I know, embarrassing really. I think it stems from a particularly horrendous journey back in the UK many years ago when it took us nine hours to get home from Cornwall. Up until then, I didn’t even know it was possible to travel for so long in the UK. Surely it wasn’t long enough?

Anyway, I digress, so last summer with a long weekend we ditched the car at Auckland airport and flew up a far as we could. It did seem counterintuitive to drive south when we should’ve been heading north, but it would be worth it. In fact, the 45 minute drive to the airport was just a little shorter than the flight and would’ve been a lot quicker had it not been Friday night. 

In fact there was hardly anytime for the crew to sit down after the briefing when we started to make our descent into Kerikeri. It’s a shame there wasn’t an inflight service - not because I was desperate for a glass of wine but because I was looking forward to seeing how quickly the cabin crew could serve it and tidy up again. I’d imagined they’d have to do most of it running. Anyway I was denied that spectacle and didn’t even get a decent view because we hardly gained any height. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the pilot didn’t even need to use any navigation equipment and instead just followed SH1 up the country. Probably had a road map in the glove box.

We landed, and after a very short taxi back along the runway we picked up our bags off the tarmac, sorted out the hire car and we’re on our way.

There isn’t much in the way of facilities at the cape so our chosen base for the long weekend was Mangonui. Not only was this close enough to the top of the peninsula to make it a sensible starting point, it also boasted that it had the best fish and chips in New Zealand. How could we not stay here?

It was quite late when we finally rolled into the small hotel’s car park but we were relatively fresh as the journey couldn’t have been any easier. We left the luggage in the boot and went into the reception.

“Ahh, you must be Graeme?” the owner asked as we opened the sliding door into the small office. Without waiting for an answer he added “Thought so because you’re the last of my bookings to arrive! It’s okay, I’m not a mind reader. Just let get your room details.” 

And with that he disappeared into a small room to one side, no doubt chuckling to himself about his cutting wit. To pass the time I started looking at a map of Northland that hung on the wall, partly to get my bearings but mainly to check out the location of the world famous famous fish and chip shop. World famous in New Zealand anyway.

“Have you driven far today?” He was back and was motioning towards the map on the wall that I was now studying with great interest.

“Oh, no. Just from the local airport,” I answered, pointing vaguely in the direction of Kerikeri on the map.

“Oh, so you’ve just arrived?” he enquired with some surprise.

“Yes, we landed and came straight here. Not had time for much else really.” 

“Wow, you must be exhausted. Glad you didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. So how long are you staying?” he asked as the questioning continued.

“Oh, we’re just for the weekend and then we fly home.” I replied, thinking it wasn’t that far but starting to wonder if it’s been a harder week than I imagined. Maybe I looked more tired than I felt.

“Straight back?” he asked, “you’re not stopping off anywhere on the way home?”

“Errr, no we’re back in work next week,” I replied, wondering where on earth he thought we should stop off on a 40 minute flight back to Auckland. 

“Well you are keen I must say!” he exclaimed looking genuinely surprised, “Wouldn’t have thought it was worth the effort though!”

Well this was a bit much I thought to myself. You really would think he’d have a bit more of a positive attitude toward the area than that. Especially when you’re in the hospitality business. Hardly encouraging.

“Well if you’re not too jet-lagged, I could arrange a trip to the cape for you tomorrow. Weather‘a supposed to be nice!”

Jet-lagged? What was the loon talking about? The flight was so short we hardly got off the ground........ahh and then the penny began to drop....

“At least you’ll get to see a little bit of New Zealand before you head home,” he added and in doing so confirmed my suspicion.

“Oh sorry,” I said, although not quite sure why I was apologising, “but we live in Auckland.”

“Really. You sound British.....”

There really was no answer to that and so I just smiled and made a mental note that I wasn’t in Auckland anymore and would have to get used to people thinking I’m on holiday. Which of course I was but not in the way they thought. No wonder he looked surprised. Who on earth would fly from the UK to rural New Zealand for the weekend? 

Thankfully the trip was a huge success. Cape Reinga was worth ever ounce of effort, the beaches were golden and practically empty, the late January weather prefect. And yes, the fish and chips were every bit as good as they said they were.

A Night Out

After over two weeks of isolation, and staying home and saving lives, we decided that we deserved a break and were due a night out. A small reward for the effort that we had put in over the past fourteen days. Besides, it had been a while since we’d worn anything other than t-shirts and shorts - even that was an improvement over the first few days where we never ventured far from pyjamas. It would be nice to dress up for a change and have a change of scene.

Even the process of putting on a shirt felt like an occasion. Gone were the old work branded t-shirts and in came a collar and long sleeves. No more could I claim that I was smartly dressed because the t-shirt I had on was relatively clean and didn’t have that many stains down the front. 

But where could we go? Thankfully we happened to know that there was a neighbourhood bar that was open and it had a very cosy courtyard. It was settled.

This bar has a very select clientele and have been known to be quite fussy over who they let in. You won’t find listed in any guides so entry is on a need to know basis. Luckily, we know the owners so admission was never going to be a problem. We walked through the reception area and found a small table out the back and settled down.

It is a very informal establishment - they even let you help yourselves to the drinks behind the bar. Admittedly it wasn’t a huge beer selection - the owner explained that since the lockdown, it’s been much harder to get the selection that we had become accustomed to - but the quality of the selection made up for the lack of range. I picked up two Moa Southern Alps beers and returned to the table.

It was really nice to sit surrounded by candles, sipping cold beers whilst the early autumn light slowly faded. And for a moment it felt almost normal. Gosh was that really only two weeks ago? How much we had taken for granted. Best not to dwell on it too much - this was supposed to be a celebration.

Beer and wine drunk, it was time to find somewhere to eat. Ordinarily Newmarket is awash with places to eat on a Friday night; pizza places, Mexican restaurants, mediterranean tapas and good pub fare are all within walking distance. But the lockdown means that they’re off limits. We’d heard a rumour that there was a place serving greek food not far from the bar so decided to give it a go. Well what other options were there? 

By the time we arrived the smell of mediterranean spices was already filling the evening air. A complimentary greek salad had been placed on the table and a few bowls of snacks had been laid out. It was almost as we’d been expected! Again, because of the current situation, options were limited to one dish. The chef explained that whilst there was only one dish on the menu, the chicken had been marinating all afternoon in a lime and coriander dressing and he promised that it would be mouthwatering. It sounded perfect.

We chatted and drank a glass of the house sauvignon blanc whilst remarking how quiet it was but how lucky we were to find this place. Even the music choice we excellent - it was almost as if we’d picked it ourselves. We’d definitely have to tell others about this place - once the restrictions were lifted of course!

The food was ready quickly and, as promised, delicious. The marinated chicken was zingy from the lime and it was served with a yoghurt and humus dressing and came with pita breads. With food this good, only having one choice on the menu was no problem.

Food eaten and wine drunk, it was time to meander home. We wanted to stay longer, not for more food or wine, but to savour the feeling of normality for as long as possible. Begrudgingly we got up from the table, thanked the chef for a lovely meal and headed to the comfort of our lounge. At least we didn’t have far to walk to get home. I guess that’s the advantage of staying local. Very local!

Bubble Troubles

How on earth did it come to this? Spending my Friday morning washing recently bought vegetables. Yes, I know there’s nothing wrong with that. But in soapy water? It’s really quite odd seeing cherry tomatoes bobbing around in soapy bubbles. Soapy bubble are, ironically, now recommended to keep your bubble intact. Unblemished and unburst.

We’re now into day 14 of our housebound way of life and it’s fair to say things got very odd very quickly. Sure sometimes, especially when I first wake up, I forget what’s going on, momentarily at least, and start to think about the day and what lies ahead. Ahh, and then I remember. What lies ahead is exactly like yesterday. Which in turn is exactly like the day before. And the one before that. And.....well I guess you get the picture. Not because you can imagined my predicament but because I'm sure it’s the same for you.

The most important thing in life is now not worrying about whether your tie goes with the shirt or stressing about whether you’re prepared enough for a meeting but “can I keep my bubble intact?” Suddenly other problems seem somewhat insignificant.

My daily government sanctioned exercise of choice is a run in the neighbourhood park. It just so happens that the largest city centre park is on our doorstep so it’s totally within the rules to take some exercise in Auckland Domain. Admittedly running has taken on a surreal tone. I no longer worry about splits or pace but whether I can see a clear people-free path ahead. It’s a big park so usually it’s not a problem, but when two runners do approach each other on a footpath things can get a little dicey.

Normal running etiquette dictates that you wave or nod hello as you pass the other runner. But not anymore. Space is now the aim of the game so rather than pass close by, runners veer off to one side as if we both were being repelled by invisible force fields. Which in a way we are, because invisible to the naked eye is our protective bubble. A 4m wide ball of safeness and it needs to be guarded with your life. 

But, I hear you say, what if there isn't enough space to run into? It's all well an good to veer off to one side but surely there's no guarantee space will be there? There's always a way - you just need my handy cut-out-and-keep guide to safe bubble running.

The Mountain Climber
Obviously flat space is preferable for evasive manoeuvres but this is not always available. It's sod's law that just when you need it there's no flat space available but just a grassy bank. That's where The Mountain Climber comes in handy.

Simply slow to a jog, glance up at the precipitous slope and power up it like you meant to do it all along. But make sure you've got enough in the legs to make it to the top. The next worst thing to bubble breaking is being seen to fail at a hill, and the sheer embarrassment of having to walk! Runners don't walk. Mostly anyway.

The Forgotten Appliance
To really avoid breaking your bubble it's important to plan a route where there will be plenty of room to get out of the way if the need arises. But this is not always possible so there may be a point in the route where there's simply no space other than on the path you're running along. Should you encounter traffic in the opposite direction. No fear, The Forgotten Appliance is there to help you get out of a potentially sticky situation.

When you're sure that there really is no escape, stop running. Then, and this is important, make an obvious move and look at your watch (you're a runner so there's no doubt you'll be wearing one), then say something like "Crap, I've left the iron on!", turn around and run quickly in the opposite direction. Sticky situation avoided.

The Road Runner
Were not all blessed with green, car free spaces available in which to run. And even if we are, more often than not our route will involve running on a footpath next to a road. If you find yourself needing to make a sudden movement away from on an oncoming entourage, just engage The Road Runner and hop into the road.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't recommend running in the road if there was a perfectly serviceable footpath but these are not ordinary times. Sure there's a chance you might get hit by a car, but that's much better than breaking your bubble. Oh, who am I kidding? There almost no chance of getting hit by a car because everyone's in lockdown and there's no cars on the roads. Isn't it nice! But please don't forget that you are now running in the road and you need to plan to get back to the footpath as soon as possible - don't make the mistake I made by continuing along the road into a signalised junction. I may have had the green light but it didn't stop people giving me a strange look as I sailed through the junction whilst pedestrians waited patiently to cross.

The Forester
Maybe you are blessed with green spaces and parks with trails to run in. Lucky you. If you are, there's a good chance that the paths are not wide enough to maintain the prescribed 2m safe distance. And if you're in the park trails, there's a good chance that others have had the same idea. Maybe you shouldn't go into the park in the first place? Nonsense. Just remember The Forester.

When there's no space on the trail don't let that stop you in your tracks. Make your own. As soon as you're sure that the trail is blocked ahead, dive off into the trees. Yes it will slow you down, and you may get a bit scratched and tangled up in greenery, but hey you're still out and your bubble is intact. Just remember not to get carried away - make sure you know where you are and can get back to a trail at some point. Having to be rescued from your local park would defeat the purpose of protecting your bubble as well as being hugely embarassing. If in doubt take a map and a compass on you're next run!

The Triathlete
Hopefully the manoeuvres covered above will help you out in most situations. But there's still a chance, albeit a slim one, that none of these can be applied because solid ground is in short supply and the only escape route involves water. Well, that's where The Triathlete comes in. Route blocked? No problem - just dive into the water like you intended to all along! But only if you can swim. Not only is swimming necessary to stay alive, thrashing around would totally destroy the illusion that you are a triathlete in training.

So there you go, you're now equipped to cope with anything that might come your way. So what are you waiting for? Get out there and get running. Just remember to keep a weather eye out for other potential bubble breakers; uncontrolled dogs, wayward balls, kids on bikes and less then considerate other runner. Phew it’s a minefield but better then the alternative..... nor running!

Happy bubble running!

Above: Veg - post bubble wash!