Driving Me Crazy

It is generally considered, a truth universally accepted if you like, that Queenstown is the global capital of adrenaline sports. If you can call jumping off a bridge tied to an elastic band a sport that is. Which it's not. Foolhardy, maybe. A sport. No. Anyway questioning the legitimacy of bungee jumping as a potential Olympic event is not the point of this particular blog. But I do disagree that Queenstown is the adrenaline capital. I do. Most certainly. It is instead, in my humble opinion, Auckland. Or to be more precise the 2km stretch from our house in Parnell and our workplace in Newmarket. Gosh it's exciting. "But why?" I hear you ask. Well I'm going to go out on a limb here. Right out. Maybe too far....But it has to be said. Yes, I appreciate that this may cause some upset but, as all of the management manuals tell you, these things are better out in the open......

Kiwi drivers are shocking. Seriously. What gives? OK, I appreciate that I may be over generalising and maybe it's only an Auckland thing but good grief they suck. Big time.

They're not malicious, we'll leave those sort of shenanigans to the British who take perverse joy in making their fellow driver's lives miserable. Neither are they aggressive. Far from it. Aggression has no place on Kiwi roads, unlike the irate Italians who think the horn is somehow linked to the accelerator pedal. It's none of those things. No it's just they they're in a world of their own, their minds a thousand miles from where it ought to be. Which is of course observing the patch of asphalt in front of them. Not looking at their phones, combing their hair, chatting to their passengers or, and I'm not making this up, putting on lipstick.

Take the other day for example. I was walking to work, minding my own business, when I decided to cross a side street. This was nothing unusual and something I've done thousands of times before. You know, I know what I'm doing when it comes to side street crossing. I like to think myself of a bit of an expert in this matter. I came to the kerb side, looked in all directions and assessed the situation. It was early and traffic was light but there was a car approaching on the main road. "Where are they going?", I thought to myself, "I'd better make sure they're not turning left into this street"

Ah it was ok, they indicated to turn right, presumably into a driveway on the opposite site of the main road. And indeed the car started to turn to the right. No worries then. I stepped out into the side road and started my journey to the other side..... which was very nearly was in the spiritual sense. The car made a sudden change of direction and took a sweeping arc to the left and into the side street. My side street. THE ONE I WAS HALF WAY ACROSS!! 

Noticing my presence the driver took the only sensible option.... and sped up. My imminent doom seemed assured. I stopped in my tracks wondering if the last thing I would hear would be Madonna singing 'Borderline'  (I was feeling very base that morning and fancied a bit of 80s pop to accompany me in my journey.  With hind sight, if I'd known it was a journey to the afterlife I'd have picked something with a little more gravitas. Kylie for example). Frozen to the spot I saw my life flashing in front of my eyes, made peace with myself and shut my eyes. 

Thankfully the vehicle passed in front of me with an inch or two to spare. But close enough for me to get a look at the driver. He was oblivious to the whole thing - more concerned about a stray hair on his head than the startled looking pedestrian whose nose was almost grazed by his window - and sped of in the direction he had come.

And this is only the most recent incident. Oh I could go on. A colleague of mine spotted, whilst cycling into work, a woman holding a coffee in one hand whilst texting on her phone with the other, the steering wheel controlled masterfully with a pinkie finger. He had the last laugh - he got to the next set of lights, pulled up along side the car, banged on the window and shouted "Really? Are you serious?" Whilst gesticulating towards her choice of control mechanism. Or lack of it.

Maybe it is just Auckland. Or maybe the result of people used to driving on the open road being let loose in an urban environment. Maybe. Or it could be the result of nationalities not used to driving in the left arriving in the country and immediately being given control of a large SUV. Maybe. Or maybe it's just me? Maybe I'm a dangerous walker?

Certainly the rules of the road don't help. During my first month here I took our a pool car and drove, with some colleagues to a meeting. I was mocked for refusing to 'overtake' on the inside on the motorway. I just couldn't do it. I knew it was legal but every fibre of my British being screamed "DONT'T DO IT!! IT'S WRONG AND THERE'S NO WAY BACK." I explained to my passengers that I had a gold standard driving licence and I knew better. They'd never heard of a gold standard licence, so I explained it was a British licence and therefore the highest standard available. Odd but we've never really got on since.

In the short space of time I've been here I've see it all; tailgating on an empty motorway, dogs with heads out of car sunroofs, drivers reading books, looking at iPads or rummaging around for something in a bag.....on the back seat. I've seen cars pulling trailers with unsecured garden rubbish (by the time they got to where they were going the load would've surely miraculously vanished), vehicles suddenly emerging from within buildings onto packed footpaths, evasive manoeuvres on empty roads, non existent indication, over enthusiastic indication (tip: only one is supposed to flash at any one time), vehicles suddenly reversing onto the footpath, cars parked at jaunty angles across side roads and startled Asian drivers who seem surprised when a car doesn't get out of the way when they approach them on the wrong side of the road. It's mind boggling, exciting and just a little bit scary.

I'm sometimes really thankful to arrive into work in one piece. Sure, the first time I fell to my knees and kissed the carpet beside my desk got a few strange looks but it's become normal behaviour now. Well almost.

I say all of this from a place of love. I really do. Kiwis are lovely people; friendly, considerate, enthusiastic, caring and have a superb laissez-farez attitude. She'll be right. I just wish it didn't apply when they're behind one tonnes of fast moving steel.

A Bit Tied Up

I've been getting some funny looks at work this week.... Hey! I heard that at the back.... OK, I've been getting more funny looks than usual at work this week. And all because of a little social experiment. But it didn't start out that way....pull up a chair and I'll explain....

It was all getting a bit predictable. Every morning I'd open the wardrobe doors, grab a white shirt and declare myself ready for work. Of course I had pants on - that goes without saying. Or at least I hope it does. I hope you haven't, over the the course of these musings, got the impression that one can get away with a deficiency in the trouser department. I know New Zealand is relaxed. But it's not that relaxed. Sheesh. Anyway, it was getting monotonous so I decided to spice things up, and add a bit of colour, by wearing a tie. Something that I'd not done in a while. Long before I left the UK.  Yes! That was the answer, a tie would brighten up my day and put a smile on my face. And I'd look cool to boot!

It didn't take long after leaving the house to realise my mistake. It was far too hot to wear a constricting item around my throat. By the time I'd got to the top of the street I was red in the face and the smile had turned into a grimace. A whole fifteen degrees from looking even remotely cool. Ah well, I'd started this so I was going to see it through, no matter what.

All the way to work I was getting curious looks and began to feel more and more like the hapless hero in the cop show sit com "Death In a paradise". A real Brit out of water. At least now I knew why ties are a rarity in the Kiwi working day. 

But the odd looks didn't stop once I reached the air conditioned sanctuary of the office. Nope. In the relative comfort of the office 'the tie' took on a whole different meaning. Where previously it had been a instrument of torture, in the coolness of the office it symbolised something else. Whether it was professionalism, dynamism or just an unusual smartness I don't know. But I started getting unsolicited comments from my colleagues, some disappointingly predictable;

"Do you have an interview?"

"Who's died?"

"What time is your meeting with the client?"

"Oh, we didn't know we have top brass in the office today!"

So far, so predictable. There were others;

"Looking good!"

"Very smart"

And the direct;

"Why are you wearing a tie?"

Blimey. If I'd known I'd get such a reaction I'd have prepared more. Maybe some witty responses or an elaborate story as to why I'd decided to dress up. But I didn't. The fact was I fancied a change. Pure and simple. But now what? Tomorrow was another day but surely I couldn't back down. Back down from I don't know what but continuing with the tie-wearing, heat ignoring experiment seemed to be the right thing to do. And so it continued, through one of the hottest and most humid weeks. Day after day. Tie after tie.

Quite frankly I was ecstatic when Friday evening arrived and, like a giddy school kid on the way home at the end of term, as soon as I was out of view of the office the damn thing came off. 

Unceremoniously stuffed into my bag. "That's quite enough of that!" I thought to myself, "Well at least until it cools down...."

The Long Way Round

5:15 is too early to wake up when you're on holiday. It's hardly a good start to some much needed R&R. But that's one of the joys of air travel - the need to dance to the drum of air traffic control. Not that there was much dancing going on at that time of the morning.

In return, however, you are whooshed (is that a real word?) off to your desired destination in a fraction of the time it would've taken had you elected to drive. Or walk. Perish the thought. Or at least that's the plan. The deal, if you like, between you, your ungodly hour of rising, and the airline.

I guess you can tell by the tone of the opening paragraph that I have an axe to grind, a bug to bear or a point to make. Oh yes. 

It was almost excusable that the flight was thirty minutes late due to 'operational problems'. I appreciate that there was no way of informing each potential passenger of the delay whilst they were in their slumber, but I really could've used another thirty minutes in bed. That would've been nice. 

Anyway the airline would've been far too busy sorting out the 'operational problems'. 'Operational problems', as it turned out, was code for 'we can't find the plane'. Now each to their own profession, I grant you, and I'm sure there are aspects of airline management that I just can't comprehend, but I'd like to think I would know where my airplanes were. It's kind of important to the running of an airline. Almost fundamental some might say. I can just imagine the scene that early morning;

"Where is it?", asks the airline manager

"Where's what?", comes the response

"The plane?", the manager explains

"Plane?", the employee questions

"Yes the plane!" 

"Aeroplane?", the employee confirms

"Of course aeroplane. We run an airline so what sort of plane did you think I meant?"

"Well I just wanted to check before I went  to look"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well where's the bloody plane!", the exasperated manager continues

"Which one?", the employee asks

"THE ONE FOR THE BLOODY FLIGHT TO QUEENSTOWN THIS MORNING!!"

"Oh, are we going to Queenstown this morning?", the employee wonders

"Of course we are - we always go to Queenstown in the morning"

"Oh, that plane", the employee replies

"Of course that plane", the manager tells adding "which other plane did you think I meant.... it doesn't matter. Go and get it"

"I can't", the airline employee adds rather sheepishly.

"Why ever not?", the manager asks afraid of the answer and trying to keep his temper under control.

"Well I don't know where it is", the employee responds whilst looking at his shoes.

"(Under his breath) Jesus give me strength.....OK.....So when did you last see it?".......

Anyway all was well because the plane eventually turned up. Presumably there had been a mad scramble whilst the missing plane was found. I guess it was down the back of the sofa or something.

Finally we were off. With a thirty minute delay I was wondering, if not worrying, whether we would make our connecting pre-paid transport to Te Anau. It was going to be tight. The snow capped southern Alps came into view outside the window. Not far. Ten minutes max. The aeroplane began its final descent. We might just make it..... What the? 

The plane made a sudden banking turn and pulled out of the descent.....

"I'm sorry to announce that the runway has just been closed due to contamination and we are diverting to Christchurch"

For those that don't have a good grasp of NZ geography, Christchurch, whilst still on the South Island is about midway between the northern tip and our desired destination, in other words IN THE WRONG BLOODY DIRECTION and nearly halfway back the way we'd already travelled. 

This was not good. We were certainly going to miss our lift and it would be touch and go whether we got to Te Anau that evening.

Forty minutes later we touched down at Christchurch airport and taxied to the airport building. It was then explained that a heavy rain storm had flooded the runway at Queenstown resulting in 12mm of standing water, which the ground crew were furiously trying to clear. 

What a start to a holiday. After an anxious  thirty minutes and we were given the all clear. Taking off once again, and heading back the way we came, we finally landed in the correct airport, three hours later than scheduled.

The pre-arranged lift had long gone and the next service wouldn't be back for another three hours. Three hours was longer than we wanted to wait. Especially with the thought that wouldn't get to our accommodation until 9pm and particularly after we had left the house at 6:00am that morning.

There was nothing else for it. We were going to have to hire a car. Luckily neither of us had hit the bar in Auckland so were sober enough to hit the road, although the $450 hire charge would sobered up the most drunk of travellers.

Thankfully all that seems so far off and a minor inconvenience. A mere blip on what turned out to be a wonderful week tramping in the back country. Beautiful blue skies, fresh mountain air, lush forests, crystal clear streams and huts with running water. Even not having a wash for four days is quite liberating. If not a little smelly. But then you are not alone in being in that state. I'll save that though for another time. 

So it's ironic that Mother Nature lived up to her part of the bargain and delivered a fantastic four days in the wilderness without a hitch yet it was the modern world, the world that is designed, planned and scheduled that let us down. 

A Medical Emergency

Well I suppose it had to happen eventually. We have, after all, been here for over six months. I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Six months without incident. Six months without a slip, trip or fall. Twelve man months if you count the two of us. It's really quite miraculous if you think about it for long enough. But it couldn't last. And I suppose it was inevitable that it would be caused by running....

You see I've got one hell of a nappy rash in.... well .... in the general crotch area. Stop laughing. It's not a laughing matter. Not from where I'm stood. Or sat. Sitting is much better that standing at the moment. Sitting with legs akimbo. I did try standing that way this morning at the queue for the kettle, but people thought I was about to make a big announcement. Which I wasn't. Well certainly not without drinking my morning coffee first. And that wasn't going to happen with everyone looking at me rather than getting the drinks that they were queuing for. It was a Mexican standoff in the kitchen area. Anyway not to put too fine a point on it (no please don't) with the increased mileage, soaring humidity and the help of friction I've ....well ... you can guess the rest.

It was so bad that, after a colleague in work remarked on my unusual walking style, I had to take action. I rushed - which is no mean feat when you are trying to keep your legs as far apart as possible - to the chemist and bought the biggest tub of nappy rash cream I could find. I must've looked a sight - as if John Wayne had decided to take up amateur athletics; legs thrashing at acute angles whilst trying to negotiate the busy lunchtime traffic.

With rash cream in hand, as well as a pair of softer running underwear from the adjacent running apparel store, I couldn't wait to get back to work, enter the men's loo and administer a good dollop of cool relief. And it was fantastic. Thankfully there were no other visitors to hear my "Ooos", "Aaahhs" or hear the hiss of steam.

So let this tale act as a solitary lesson. If you're out running and friction gets the better of you - take my advice. You can't run it off. Quite the opposite. The longer or faster you run, the worse it gets. And, if left untreated, then be prepared to be the butt of jokes in the office. Well not exactly butt. You get the picture. 

Mount Karioi - Lookout!

When is a walk not a walk? Good question. Or at what point does excitement cease to be fun? An even better question. Read on and find out.

After a lazy day we decided that we needed to get out and about and make the most of our last full day in Raglan. But what should we do and where should we go to do it.

"How about a nice walk tomorrow ?"

"Sounds good."

"Cool, but where?"

Well there was Mount Karioi to climb and as it was our doorstep it'd be rude not too pay it a visit. All sorted then. Sandwiches were made, bags packed and the alarm was set.

With the temperatures threatening to hit 30 degees we got up at 6am and were in the car heading towards the trail head at 7am. Doesn't everyone get up early on holiday? Seemingly not - we arrived in the trail head car park to find surfer types asleep in their cars - I guess they wanted an early alarm call. Couldn't they have found somewhere more convenient to sleep? A car park 12km down a dirt track didn't seem like the obvious spot.

After changing our footwear and a quick glug of water we were off. It was only 4km to the top of the 759m hill so we were confident that we would knock it off in a couple of hours. Somewhere between Great Gable and Old Man of Coniston. Easy peasy. The climb out of the car park was uphill, but easy-going under foot and with the sun barely over the horizon it was relatively cool. It wouldn't last but at least we were getting some of the climb out of the way before it got too hot. And with spectacular views, like the one below, already starting to appear there was no rush.

But it wasn't to last.... Pretty soon we left the clearing and entered the bush. Thick, dense, bush. Our pace soon dropped as the path became more challenging. Thick roots, rocks, sudden drops and sharp rises slowed our progress to an almost crawl. Quite literally in some cases, as our arms became as useful as our legs. And all the while, at the back of our minds was the thought "We have to do this again on the way down".

The further we got up the slope, the more obscure the track became with the occasional orange triangle to mark the way. Still, at least we were making progress and being rewarded, when the bush suddenly cleared, with increasingly spectacular views.

Maybe this was going to be ok? Maybe the view at the top was going to be worth it. Maybe..... Ahhh no. As we turned a corner, well I say corner - it was more like scrambling over a rock and ducking under a tree branch - we were presented with a new challenge. One we had never come cross in years of hiking. Chains.

The route had become so vertiginous that chains had been installed to help walkers get up the slope. One of the things that I like about hiking is the fact that you use your legs, and occasionally your backside, to get up hills. Pulling yourself up chains in order to progress is not, at least in my book, hiking. Scrambling? Possibly. Climbing? Perhaps.

Still we had come this far so we pressed onwards. And upwards. There was no point in going back. Finally, after ninety minutes of slow progress we reached the first objective. Mount Karioi lookout. And what a lookout it was, as the Tasman Sea stretched out infront of us with the bush-clad hills all around. Somewhere in there was the path to the top. 

As we sat and munched our sandwiches we contemplated what lay ahead. It was another hour to the summit. Another hour of battling with tree roots, rocks, and slippery slopes. Another hour up. Another hour back to where we were, maybe longer. Then another two hours back down to the car. It was going to be slow going. Very slow going. Ninety minutes so far and we'd covered a grand total of 3km. Another hour to cover just 1km to the top. You've got to be kidding. 

After much debate and, it has to be said, soul searching we decided to make a tactful retreat in the full knowledge that, for the first time in our hiking history, we'd been beaten by a mountain. Sure we'd turned back on hikes before but that was only due to poor weather. We certainly didn't have that excuse today. Nope it was simply too much. Not in terms of fitness but the thought of slipping, tripping or snapping something breakable was too great. We turned around.

Pretty soon we were back at the chain section. Going down was even harder. If it looked bad on the way up, it looked worse from the top. It was a long way to fall. Slowly we slid down the rock face, clinging onto the chain for support and reassurance. 

Thankfully it all went without any incidents. And was actually much easier than we thought it would be. Had we been too hasty in our retreat? Had the mental challenge overcome us? It was looking like it was a possibility. After another hour of clambering, and making good use of our bums, and with only the ladder sections in front of us we'd soon be on the home stretch. Why couldn't ladders be installed on the whole walk? Tsscchhh! Our confidence was back and we pressed on down the hill. "We'll soon be down at this rate", I said.

I didn't know just how accurate that statement was going to be. Just as the path started to level out, I lost my footing and fell head first off the narrow path down the ravine. Thankfully the dense bush was there to stop my fall otherwise it might well have been auf wiedersehen. Sarah had quite a sight when she rushed around the corner, her pace quickened by a sudden cry of "SSHHIIITTT". Sticking out of dense undergrowth were two familiar legs. 

"I think I might be stuck!," a voice called from within the vegetation, "Oh, I'm slipping!" it added. 

Luckily, with the aid of creeping vines, gravity and Sarah's outstretched hand, I managed to turn around, face up the slope and gingerly pull myself onto the path. "That wasn't funny" I needlessly stated adding, "I thought I was a gonner."

No serious damage done. Just a twisted knee and a dented ego. One was fixable. The other maybe not! We slowly made our way back down to the car, each step more careful than the previous, until we finally hit flatter ground. The valley floor. At last. 

"Well that wasn't too bad!," I exclaimed.

The echo from the response is still, to this day, reverberating around the valley.

Anger Mismanagement

You've got to love local news stories. And by local I mean New Zealand. And by New Zealand I mean Auckland. It's fair to say that the rest of the country hate Auckland. And they may have a point. It's not too dissimilar to the disdain that northern England has for London. Bloody London with their funny accents, swanky restaurants, warmer weather and money. Yes money. Lots of it. 

Auckland is indeed the London of New Zealand, but with nicer people. It's all relative I suppose. I'm sure people in the south find Aucklanders rude, smug and arrogant. Well, one does like to try. I could start a debate about the huge percentage of the country's GDP comes in through Auckland ports, or about the size of tax receipts that are generated here. But I won't. For one, it's not my place - I'm only a new comer after all - and two I don't want to add fuel to the fire regarding Jaffas. 

But you have to love the press. Which is where I came in. One of the tragic and, it has to be said, slightly amusing, stories that have graced the pages of the press is the tale of a man who electrocuted himself during a camping site altercation. "What?" I hear you ask. Well it goes something like this.

During a camping trip to Northland this person became irritated by the constant noise from his neighbour's caravan. Apparently, and I wasn't there so I can't confirm this fact, but the noise was incessant and went on for several nights, well into the early hours of the morning. I can imagine the scene though. Been there. Got the t-shirt.

Anyway enough was enough. This had gone on far too long by half and it was time to take matters into his own hands. But what to do? He did the only rational thing. No, not knock on the door of the problematic caravan - that would involve a nasty middle-of-the-night confrontation. Instead he opted to cut the power cable running from the caravan to the power socket. Without first unplugging it. I can only begin to imagine the shock, both literally and metaphorically, he felt when his knife sliced through the sheathed power cable. If only he'd taken a few breaths and thought it through. If only he'd have been able to ignore the noise for just one more night. If only he'd waited and calmly confronted his neighbour in the morning. If only he'd bought a pair of ear plugs. If only. If only.

It got me to thinking. What would I have done? Would the red mist have descended on me too? Would I have pulled a knife on a live cable? I don't think so. I may have gone as far as pulling the plug from the power socket. But even that may have being going too far. Perhaps a shot of revenge in the morning with some loud, but appropriate music? Either way I think I would've been safe, as would 90% of the British population if confronted with a similar situation. Yes we would've gotten upset, uptight even, and maybe forced into action. Truly drastic action. The only course of action that is left open when the last line has been crossed. Oh yes the ultimate weapon..... A stiffly worded letter to the owner of the campsite. I know, I know. But a line had been crossed and the deserved all they got. Both barrels.

Certainly none of this tramping around in the dark nonsense armed with a knife. Gosh, you could trip and accidentally hurt someone. And what if someone saw you? What would they think? How embarrassing would it be for someone to see you in your pyjamas. I know. You'd not be able to show your face in public again. Oh the horror.

Yes say what you like about the British condition, it may be amusing. But it'll keep you alive!

New Kids on the Block

When you decide to up sticks and move to the other side of the world there are certain things that you accept are going to change. Some for the better (otherwise what's the point) and others not so much.

Hopefully, in the fullness of time and after a period of reflection, the balance is tipped in favour of a positive experience. Well you wouldn't hope so anyway or else you look like a right pair of eejits.

And for us? Well so far, so good. Sure there have been moments when the scales seemed positively jammed on the negative side, but mostly it's all good. Mostly.

One of the biggest weights, if you will allow me the indulgence of keeping to the scale analogy, pressing on the negative side is the loss of a network of family and friends. Accepting the we can't do anything about the family thing - not without taking seriously drastic measures, inventing time travel or discovering a worm hole for example, then the only other opportunity is to create another network of friends.  Sounds easy. But it's not. Especially if you are a picky as us! Really! Yes we are! I don't think our friends back in the UK appreciate just how lucky they are to have been accepted by us as friends. I'm only joking of course..... or course they know how lucky they are.

Anyway, back to my point. Actually no. First a bit of back story. 

It was the last day of our summer Christmas holiday and we decided that we would take it easy, a lazy day if you like. After all why not? The sun was shining, Auckland had gone on holiday to the Corromadel and we had the whole city to ourselves. A lazy day was just the ticket. Especially after nearly two weeks of galavanting about. Ahh yes, a lie in, coffee on the veranda, a leisurely breakfast and maybe a dip in the sea......

So it came as a bit of a surprise when we found ourselves doing a gym session at 7:30 in the morning. That wasn't part of the plan. Not even close. Where was the coffee? What happened to the relaxing breakfast? 

After the exertions of the gym we decided to head to the outdoor pool to cool off. Just to cool of mind you. Keeping physical exertion to a minimum was key to a lazy day after all. It was only then, during my fifth length of the pool, that I began to wonder if our lazy day would ever really start. Thankfully it was still only 11:00am so there was still time to salvage a quiet day from the wreckage of being far too active. Or so I thought.

Quite how we came to be driving to a running club at 5:30, with the sun still blazing away, is still a bit of a mystery. How did that happen? Still, as this was our first time at the club, we were sure that we would be eased in.....

"An hour and a half run? In this heat? Are you sure?," I asked hopefully.

"Yes, Tuesday night's are always a longer run. You need to come on Thursday for a shorter one. That's only an hour and a bit more sociable."

"Come with us", came another voice, "We're taking it easy tonight. It is bit warm after all".

It was music too my era and it seemed like a good way to ease out of the predicament. A slow run in the heat after all, was infinitely preferable to a fast one. Not wanting to sound rude I accepted the kind invitation and set off down the street. 

"So how far are we going?", I calmly asked, not wanting to sound too desperate.

"Only about 16k", came the answer, "About 5 minutes per k. That'll be ok with you won't it?"

"Oh yeah, no problem," I replied, displaying a strong British stiff upper lip.

"An hour and a half", I muttered to myself, "Ninety minutes. Ten miles. I don't believe it".

By the time I got to the first corner I realised my mistake. A lazy day should not consist of the gym, swimming and then a log run in the searing heat. 

It seemed to last forever. After each hill there was a short and flat respite before heading off up another hill. Surely we couldn't get much higher? Just how many hills are there in Auckland?

"Do you run in these temperatures at home?," asked one of my running partners.

"We don't get these temperatures at home!," I instantly replied between pants.  

But as each kilometre ticked by I also began to realise something else. I'd missed being in a running club. And I started to enjoy myself. Well as much as you can when you are bone weary and dehydrating faster than a leaky bucket. In the sun. 

By the time I got back to the clubhouse I was spent. And absolutely dehydrated. A sun-dried tomato of a human. But happy. And a bit sore. And a lot wiser. 

The next time we decide that a lazy day is in order I'll eat more food, rest more the day before and certainly drink more water.

And do you learn from your mistakes? Of course not! I just know we'll be back there next week, and the week after, raring to go.