Daylight Robbery

Ok, so now I’m back from my swin/spa/sauna extravaganza I can tell you about my day.

For those that have been paying attention, we abandoned our planned three day hike and instead holed up in a four star hotel to enjoy the best that Queenstown had to offer. At least it was supposed to be relaxing, well according to the brochure that is. But us being us, we had other ideas. What is the point, after all, of being in Queenstown if you’re not going to get out there and see what there is to see? So, inevitably, we found ourselves getting kitted up at 8:00am (which is much later than typical for us in case you were wondering) and heading off down the road towards the trail head. 

Now at this point I feel that I should point out that we hadn’t had our usual pre-hike breakfast. We would’ve normall enjoyed a breakfast of porridge but out hastily organsised hotel room didn’t have the equipment needed to prepare a batch of steaming gloopy goodness. Instead we resorted to cold cereal served up in a hotel room mug, washed down with tea and the left-overs of last night’s chocolate. Well it was either that or pay the extortionate price for a bacon butty in the hotel restaurant. Not happening!

It was a lovely day for a walk - the sky was relatively clear, the temperature was gentle and the humidity was non-Auckland like. Plus, there was not a soul around despite it being the last weekend of summer, or the first of Autumn depending upon your disposition. If there was any doubt that this was the last hurrah for the summer season, there was a slight crispness to the air and selected trees were signalling the arrival of the cooler season as pockets of golden reds and hues of deep brown interrupted the otherwise still green canopy.

The objective for today was the peak of Ben Lomond. Despite the disorientating name, Ben Lomond is a New Zealand classic was named after Ben Lomond in Scotland by the early shepherd Duncan McAusland. The summit lies approximately 4 km northwest of the town centre, and reaches a height of 1,748 metres, over 750m taller than its northern namesake. Being only a 7km hike from the centre of Queenstown, it is one of those rare New Zealand mountains that is with easy reach within a day. Obviously ‘easy’ is an subjective term as it is a constant uphill hike from the lake level. Actually that’s not entirely true, there is a brief period of respite once you reach the saddle but it’s short-lived and pretty soon you the path kicks upwards towards the summit.

Unfortunately today, despite the early clear skies and sunshine, the weather had closed in as we climbed the last kilometre to the top. Not a complete white out but only occasional glimpses of Lake Wakatipu could be seen as banks of cloud swirled around the peak. The curse of the hill walker I suppose - I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve set off towards a summit in cloudless skies only to find myself swatted in fog with a few hundred metres of the top. Then, just to add insult to injury, it’s not unusual for the blanket to lift once were off the hill. Yes Skiddaw! I’m looking at you!. Anyway, the arrival of scattered clouds hadn’t put people off making the push to the summit and as the last corner was rounded and final boulder negotiated, a small group came slowing into view. I recognised the grounds actions immediately; they were looking for the best spot to take the celebratory photograph and decidng which was the least windy spot to have lunch. 

It wasn’t just people that had decided to perch on the summit. As well as ten or some humans, and inquisitive Kea had decided to take a look around and see what was on offer. 

The Kea in its natural environment is an impressive sight as tese endangered birds are about the size of a small cat with dark green plumage and the occasional flashes of red as they flap their wings. And they are not shy, not in the slightest. In fact, this particual Kea had already spotted a potential source of food and was making advances towards the part open backpack of a young woman.

“Oh wow! They are so cute!,” she exclaimed to her friend and started to fumble in her pocket for presumably her camera phone.

“Watch them,” I advised before helpfully adding, “they’re sneaky!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when there was a shriek from the young woman, “Hey! That’s my lunch”

Right on cue, the not-so-cute-now Kea had prized open the rest of the backpack and picked up a silver foil parcel in its beak. The woman made a dash to grab it back but it was too late. The Kea flapped to the rock ledge and began dismantling the wrapper to see what spoils he had managed to grab for himself. A tuna and sweet corn sandwich as we were soon to find out. 

The precision with which the bird opened the parcel was impressive. What was even more impressive was the way in which it laid out the ingredients into groups; the bread on one side, tuna in the centre and the sweet corn off to the right. Well I thought it was impressive. The woman who was going to have to contemplate walking back down on an empty stomach had other feelings. Her walking companion tried to save the day and threw a piece of her banana towards the delighted bird, presumably as a decoy whilst her friend tried to retrieve what was left of her lunch. Which was not a lot by this point. Anyway, it didn’t work - the Kea are far too intelligent for human tricks like that. Fleet of feather, the bird hopped to one side, grabbed the banana and threw it towards his pile of food. He had just addded dessert to his already sumptuous meal.

“I think that bird is also going to have to walk down,” remarked another summit companion, “not sure he’ll be able to take off after eating all that food!”

Even an attempted poke at the pile of food with a walking pole wasn’t enought to deter the bird. All that accomplished was to retrieve the aluminium foil and what crumbs were still attached to the wrapper. 

It was either pity or the concern for a fellow hiker that prompted others to offer food from their now firmly closed backpacks. There was no way the mountain parrot was going to make a fool out of them. Well not today anyway!

Me? I sat with my back to the mountain top survey marker and finished the rest of my ham and cheese sandwich, all the while keeping a beady eye on out feathered friend. Never turn your back on a Kea, especially when there is food to be had. Although I’d only been in New Zealand a relatively short amount of time, and hadn’t spent that long in the mountains, I knew enough to be wary of the cheeky bleeders. I had already seen, a year or so previously, footage of a group of Keas remove the rubber from car windscreen wipers, remove aerials and work together to get access to supposedly fastened wheelie bins. Grabbing a sandwich from a part-open bag was child’s play in comparison. 

The ease and speed with which the bird got his morning snack was impressive but did make me wonder how on earth they were endangered. Certainly, on the evidence this morning, not due to the lack of food so one can only assume it’s from a loss of habitat as human activity expands into what was once wilderness. And with those thoughts in my head, I started the slow decent back to Queenstown. Happy to have made it to the top of Ben Lomond but equally happy to have been able to eat my lunch without it being lost to a more cunning and clever foe. 

Within a couple of hours we were once again in our favourite lakeside bar and reflecting on a great day in the mountains and marvelling at the ingenuity of nature. Well elements of it anyway!

“What would you like to drink?,” Sarah asked.

“A pint of Mischevious Kea of course!” came the reply.

A Change of Plan

Thank goodness we’re adaptable, go-with-the-flow kind of people. You see, as I type this from the balcony of the hotel, overlooking Lake Wakatipu whilst watching the steamer ship Earnslaw slowly make her way across the water, I know that this wasn’t the weekend that we were supposed to have. It couldn’t have been more different.

We were, at this precise moment, supposed to be arriving at a mountain hut, somewhere along the Routeburn track, looking forward to shelter and a rehydrated meal of some description. Not that it would’ve mattered which rehydrated meal as they all taste pretty similar and are eaten not for their culinary delights but instead for pure survival. Carbs in = energy out. It was not to be, and instead of reconsituted food and a communal hut, we’re going to have to put up with chilled wine and cheese on the balcony before heading to the restaurant to see what’s on offer. Maybe then a dip in the pool whilst the sun sets before retiring to a soft queen sized bed with clean white cotton sheets. It was a tough decision, and one that we agonised over for several minutes, maybe as long as five. Could’ve even been ten. 

Way back in October last year we booked ourselves onto the Routeburn Track, one of New Zealand’s Great Walks, and were anticipating three days walking in the mountains in Fjordland. It was going to be spectacular; clean mountain air, spectacular scenery and a chance to switch off all devices and leave the hustle and bustle of modern life behind. Well on that we’d have no choice as the chance of a mobile phone signal out in the remote hills of the South Island is just about the same as England have of winning a penalty shootout, or hell freezing over if you’re not into sport analogies. 

We’d spent the previous weekend packing for the trip, agonising over choices so that week took the essentials whilst ensuring that the weight of our rucksacks didn’t top 10kg. With the responsibilities literally on your own shoulders, was it really worth the extra energy to carry a spare cardigan and a pair of slippers at the expense of the first aid kit?  Hhhhmmmm. We’re two pairs of undies really necessary for a three day trip? Surely one would do if I adopted the back-front-inside-out routine. Finally, with every nook and cranny of our hulking packs used, we could declare that we were ready for the trip. Anyway, with a full four days in work still to go, there’d be time for any late changes before jumping on the Air New Zealand flight to Queenstown.

It’s fair to say that the latter part of the New Zealand summer has been a bit..well....damp. The best way to describe it is to say it was tropical island like, only not in a good way. Very hot, wet and with a humidity that makes you sweaty before you’ve even left the house. Nowhere had escaped the dampness, not even the South Island and that was before Cyclone Gita came through. As the week progressed, the forecast for the coming weekend deteriorated with gale force winds and rain expected for a significant portion of the three day trek. A decision had to be made.....

At this point, I feel the need to note that we are not fair weather hikers. Far from it. We have spent many a day deep surrounded by mountain clouds, lost in thought with only the hammering of rain on our waterproof hoods for company. You can’t hike in Cumbria and not expect to spend most of the time wet. But those days spent in less-than-ideal conditions were suffered because of the promise of a warm shower, a drying room and a cold beer to raise our spirits. Besides there was always the thought that maybe tomorrow would be better! But in the back country of the New Zealand southern alps there is no such thing as home comforts.  The reward for a long day spent in rain and wind was the promise of another day spent in rain and wind, only this time with damp clothing from the day before and a half eaten rehydrated meal in the side pocket of your rucksack for company. 

Did we really want to spend all that time in the mountains and not actually see any mountains? Probably not. Was there really any point in wandering each day slowly towards the next hut in the knowledge that there was no warm water and just a hard bench to sit on? I don’t think so. Was it time to admit defeat and change our plans. Hell yes! So with only a few hours to go before we were committed to the trip, we organised different accommodation, cancelled what bookings we could and unpacked and repacked our backpacks. The dried food could definitely be left behind, as could the power banks, storm shelter, spare hats, gloves and playing cards. Definitely more room now for that extra underwear, maybe a change of socks and hey, how about that cardigan! 

So that is how we find ourselves in this luxurious hotel room on the edge of Lake Wakatipu, sipping chilled Sauvignon Blanc whilst we wonder what we’d be doing if we hadn’t backed out. I’d like to think that we’d be wishing we had, but knowing us we’d have been absolutely fine and making the best of it. I am wondering, as I sit here typing this, whether we’d been a little hasty. There are some clouds in the sky but the breeze is gentle and the rain that was forecast hasn’t yet materialised. There’s even sunlight illuminating the mountain opposite our balcony. But that’s here. Over in the mountains it could be a lot different. Honestly!

I know the younger me wouldn’t have cared, he’d have been very happy being soaking wet and almost looking forward to hunkering down for the night and gorging on a packet of tasteless food, all the while laughing about it with his mates. It would’ve been an adventure, an experience and something that our peers definitely wouldn’t have been doing. Or likely ever do. And that would’ve made it worthwhile. This was the youngster after all that spent the night on a small island in the middle of a lake wrapped in a bin bag because.....well I forget. Probably for no other reason than why the hell not. Maybe it’s because I’ve been there and done that, that I need more reward for discomfort. Or is it simply that spare time is much more precious when you have to work hard during the week to earn it? 

Oh blimey, listen to me go on. The mountains aren’t going anywhere anytime soon and there will be other opportunities head for the hills, leave behind the stresses of modern life and abandon personal hygiene routines. For now I’ll enjoy sitting here and thank my lucky stars for being able to do this; just be here, in this space. It might not be what we set out to do, but if you’re able to change plans then, whaddya know, things will always go to plan! Maybe a day spent idly wasting time when we should’ve been hiking in the hills is a missed opportunity. But what the heck, I’ll raise a glass to the wise words of John Lennon and others and say “Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time!” 

There Goes the Neighbourhood

I know its a popular thing to attempt, but I’ve never really been tempted by a dry January. Actually, that’s not entirely true. A few years ago I did manage an almost-dry-january but that was because I was expecting to run in a Half Marathon at the end of the month and desperately needed to get rid of some unwanted weight. As it turns out, the event was cancelled the day before due to snow and ice so I never got to compete in the appropriately named ‘Brass Monkey’ nor did I successfully complete the dry January. As soon as I found out the event was cancelled I had a beer to commiserate the wasted effort and simultaneously celebrate the end of training. Well hurrah for that......

I’ve never attempted it since. Not the ‘Brass Monkey’ because being 12,000 miles away seems a reasonable exscuse, and the dry January because it seems....welll pointless really. Admittedly I could jump on a plane, travel to York and spend a very pleasant morning whilst running around country lanes but not in a UK winter. Stuff that! All things considered, I’m more likely to attempt a dry January than I am to run in sub-zero conditions. And that is pretty unlikely, especially since we have been living in New Zealand. You’d be hard pushed to find sub-zero conditions in January and the thought of travelling south to run in on a cold July day is not something that I want to contemplate right now thank you very much. Equally, depriving oneself of a cold beer on a hot January day is sheer madness. Nope no Brass Monkeys or dry Januarys for me.....unless it is forced upon me. “Ah, at last he’s got to the point of this blog!,” I hear you say. 

You see we’ve recently discovered that our local pub ‘The Windsor’ has closed down. Ferme. Geschlossen. It’s not uniusual for Auckland hostelries to close their doors over the festive period but they do ususally open them again. But not this time. Not for ‘The Windsor’ and after 165 years of serving cold ones to Parnell its doors are closed for good. It does strike me as unusual that Parnell high street can support a multitude of restaurants and cafes but can’t support a single pub. Actually there is another, ‘Hoggys’ but it’s at the top of the street and for us a twenty minute walk up a steep hill. It’s just about manageable in walking boots but not to be attempted in flip-flops! So Parnell is quite happy to support, at the last count, ten cafes (just how much Flat White can one town drink?) but can’t sustain two boozers. 

Obviously we’ve only got ourselves to blame - we just weren’t trying hard enough. The occasional pint, albeit on a regular basis,  just didn’t do it. Cut the mustard as it were. Which is surprising as I alway made sure that I ordered the largest size of beer, the Stein, rather than the diminutive pints. Which for those living outside New Zealand are not actually pints but are 500ml. Mostly. Occasionally a pint is only 420ml and you wouldn’t know it until it turned up on the bar top. Even then it can be deceptive - on more than one occasion I have picked up such a beverage only to wonder in my eyes need testing or my hands have suddenly grown out of proportion with the rest on my upper body. And don’t get me started on Schooners.....

Whatever the future of our local bar or building is, we have some fond memories of the place. Althoigh we have very rarely stumbled out of here at closing time, it has been a cornerstone of our existence in Parnell; a place to meet afterwork on a Friday, head to whilst we decide the agenda for a night out, a stop-off point whilst pizzas are being prepared a few doors up the street and more often than not, the first and last call for any overseas visitors who have dared make it this far across the globe. That’s not to say that there aren’t other pubs in this city that hold fond memories. For a start there’s the uniquely named ‘Andrew Andrew’ that was our first drink on NZ soil, enticed in by the name and the closeness to our hotel. ‘The Lumsden’ in Newmarket will always be a go-to place for a pre-cinema pint and the original post-work port of call, and of course there’s ‘Brew on Quay’ when we spent many an hour drinking Epic IPA whilst we used their free WiFi to find somewhere to live. So desperate were we to get out of the small apartment that we had to resort to sitting in a bar every night. Hard times. But none of these are what you would call ‘our local’ and therefore, despite arguably being better pubs, don’t hold that affectionate spot.

I guess we’ll just have to find somewhere else to call ‘home’. There’s the posh place just down the street but whilst they don’t have a dress code (nowhere in NZ does) we’ve never really felt comfortable amongst the latte-supping lawyers and hoorays, and a rather limited beer menu does nothing to help us overcome our prejudices .There is, of course, ‘The Paddington’ but a Liverpool FC quote above the door puts off at least one half of the Stanton-Davies contingent, and besides it’s at the bottom of a hill so the inevitable trudge back up after a few pints doesn’t make it an obvious choice. 

Of course the alternative, and this is a bit radical, is to buy the place ourselves. At only $199,000 it’s quite a bargain but I’m not sure the prospective punters could cope with random opening hours and a tendency to be closed for long stretches of the time. I just can’t see it working and it would be a bit of an extreme solution to the problem. 

For the time being, we will have to take our money elsewhere, enjoy the change and hope that the ‘Windsor’ re-opens soon. Well any time really. And when it does....well watch out Parnell! This time we’re going to make sure it stays open! Cheers!

False Start

Who on earth has ever heard of a bank holiday Tuesday? No? I’m not surprised because it just doesn’t happen. Admittedly there are the occasions when Christmas Day falls on a Tuesday but that’s different. And besides, it’s a Christmas Day not Christmas Tuesday and everyone is for too knee deep in mince pies to careanyway.

The same goes for its running mate Boxing Day and second cousin New Year’s Day. These all could fall on a Tuesday but most wouldn’t give it a second thought....It's at this point that I should acknowledge that there are those who have to work through the festive period might have a totally different take on this, just as there are many who work through all of the public holidays. 

Anyway, all of this is rather a long way around to noting that today is a public holiday in New Zealand and I find myself in the odd position of having just started the working week, now having a lie in and a sort of mini weekend. How come? Why it’s Waitangi Day of course - more of this in a minute.

New Zealand is blessed with a generous amount of public holidays. Obviously there are the aforementioned festive breaks, the only difference being that they are summer not winter holidays. But just like our Scottish neighbours, New Zealanders also enjoy the aptly named Day After New Year’s Day. Perfect for getting over that hangover or catching up on some much needed sleep.

Just when you’re back into the swing of things in work along comes Auckland Anniversary when the whole of Auckland takes a collective breath and heads to the beach again. Just to be fair, the rest of the country also has respective anniversary days at their allotted times in the calendar but Aucklanders deserve theirs more. Why? Well for putting up with living in Auckland and amongst Aucklanders obviously!

From Auckland Anniversary, it's only a week until the 6 February and Waitangi Day holiday. I know, I don't know how we cope. And then that's it....

Well until Good Friday and Easter Monday that is! Hopefully they're not too late in the calendar because the last thing we would want to do is actually work for a living. Not whilst there’s any strength in the sun and warmth in the sea anyway.

If the stretch from Waitangi to Easter seems a bit of a .....well..... stretch, then Anzac comes along to give us a well earned rest. The 25 April is a national day of remembrance that commemorates Australians and New Zealanders who served and died in wars and conflicts,  the date marking the anniversary of the first campaign of the Great War that lead to significant Australian and New Zealand casualties. 

By the time the Anzac commemorations are out of the way, Autumn is well and truly upon us and there is nothing but the long dark winter ahead. Just as well then that the Queen's Birthday public holiday in June comes along to give us all a bit of cheer. As you will know I'm a huge supporter of the Royal family and it's contribution to the economy, especially if there is a day off thrown in. I just ask that whoever is next on the thrown is selected on the basis of thieir month of birth rather than something as random as hereditary. June is an okay-ish month for a public holiday but May would be a lot better. Whilst we are on the subject (pun entirely intended), I do think it is a bit odd that the UK doesn't get a day off to celebrate the Head of State's birthday whilst New Zealand does. Losers!

After that, well there is only one more public holiday left and that's Labour Day at the end of October. This generally heralds the arrival of spring and its origins are traced back to the eight-hour working day movement that arose in the newly founded Wellington colony in 1840, primarily because of carpenter Samuel Parnell's refusal to work more than eight hours a day. Well hurrah for Wellington and Mr P I say!

Out of all of these holiday, most are either observed on a Friday or a Monday in what is locally known as a Long Weekend. Clever that. Waitangi and Anzac, however, commemorate historical events so they are observed on the day that they fall. If, however, the date falls on a weekend then they are Mondayised and the long weekend status is reinstated. 

So what about Waitangi I hear you ask? Well Waitangi is the national day of New Zealand and commemorates the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi on the 6 February 1840, which is generally regarded as New Zealand's founding document. Needless to say when British colonists are involved, it's a very controversial document and I won't presume to understand all of the nuances. In fact, I'm not going to say any more on the subject other than the issues are still being resolved to this day through Treaty of Waitangi claims and settlements.

If you really want to find out more, there is plenty of information on the internet and a cracking museum at the Waitangi Treaty Grounds in the Bay of Islands. It's well worth a visit if you're passing!

I wholly understand why the nation's two significant historical events are observed on the same date each year. Not everything has to beat to the drum of a working week and conveniently move towards a weekend. These events should be different and, dare I say, inconvenient and give everyone cause to stop and think what they are commemorating......even if it does mean having essentially two Monday mornings in the same week!

99 not out!

Anyone who as spent anytime listening to me rabbit on about running - and for that I sincerely apologise - may also know that my other passion is data. Wait! Come back! I promise to keep this brief and interesting. Well mildly interesting anyway.

So when the opportunity arose to combine both...well you can imagine my joy. Running and data all in one neat package. Actually, when I say 'data' (or 'darta' if you prefer the Kiwi pronunciation) what I really mean is information, facts and figures. When it comes to the collection of such stuff I'm a bit of a digital hoarder. Want to know what we were doing on the 15 August 1999? No problem. We were sunning ourselves in Morar on the West coast of Scotland. How do I know this? Well my photograph database tells me this. A photograph database I hear to ask? Really? Well what else am I supposed to do with over 20,000 photographs? No good keeping them in a box. Or hidden away in the dark corners of a hard drive for that matter.

It's the same with receipts. Want to know when we bought our now defunct Alphason TV stand? No problem, 31 July 2010. Am I sure? Of course I am, I have a scan of the receipt stored in our document hard drive. I probably should delete it but you never know. I guess its a digital version of a man-drawer. You know, the one where you put batteries of indeterminate charge, cables, old phone chargers, pizza menus and a Boulder Dash Gameboy cartridge that you bought off eBay despite not even owning the console to put it in. Well it was an investment opportunity that I couldn't pass up.

It's a bit of a compulsion really and I probably need psychological help.

Where is all this leading? Well this coming Saturday will be my 100th parkrun and presents a excellent opportunity reflect and dissect upon the achievement. You see rather than have a lie in on a Saturday morning, I have been rising, putting on running shoes (and clothes before your imagination runs away with you!) and travelling to a local park to complete a 5km course. This coming Saturday will be no different, and for the 100th time I'll eschew sleep and tip-toe out of the house trying not the disturb those who might be sleeping.

So for those brave enough to keep on reading, let's take a look at the story the data tells. I warn you there will be graphs but all done in the best possible taste.......

Still here? Great. Well it all started on the 9 June 2012 in the sleepy town of Basingstoke in Hampshire........

Well it almost started. Although this was my first foray into the sociable world of parkrun, it would be another seven months before I chalked up my second run. This wasn't, however, due to a lack of interest but rather lack of opportunity. Well a convenient opportunity anyway. You see it wasn't until December 2012 that a parkrun started up in our home town of Darlington....which I missed because it was the night after my work Christmas party and I was in no fit state to run. In fact I had trouble just standing up!

It's fair to say that winter is not the best season to encourage people to put on running shoes and hurtle around a local park. But Darlington did just that and 109 keen runners turned up on the 5 January 2013 to accompany me on my inaugral South Park parkrun and put the town well and truly on the parkrun map. Incidentally, if you're interested, the Darlington South Park parkrun has gone from strength to strength and now regularly attracts over 300 runners.

If 2013 cemented my involvement in parkrun you wouldn't know it. The following year, 2014, I didn't manage to turn out for a single parkrun. The simple excuse is that, for the first part of the year, I was training for the Edinburgh Marathon and didn't have the time for the parkrun. I was far too busy stressing over running further to bother with a piddling 5km. It never occurred to me that I could be combined the two!

Then, I relocated to New Zealand which I'm sure you can imagine was a little bit distracting, hence my total disappearance from the parkrun statistics. It doesn't really explain why I didn't take it up again on reaching the Southern Hemisphere. It's not as if the climate wasn't favourable for running or that I didn't have parkrun options. Maybe I was just to phased by the whole living on the other side of the world thing? Or maybe I just couldn't be arsed. I'll let you decide.

It wouldn't be until 2015 that my relationship with parkrun recommenced and on the 17 January 2015 I completed the Cornwall Park course and ended a 560 day parkrun drought. Of course I didn't know this at the time but my 12th parkrun rebooted my parkrun participation. I can only say that it must've been the agreeable weather, although slightly too warm for serious running, or the friendly people. It certainly can't have been the course because Cornwall park has a bastard of a hill around 2km into the run. Locally known as Dead Man's Hill, this 1km long dip us just what you need in the middle of a 5km course on a warm summer's day. Not!

I was on a roll and just didn't know it! Having made my first appearance in an international parkrun, there was no stopping me. I've since turned out for parkruns in Australia in four difference locations, and the US where I completed the Crissy Fields parkrun with the Golden Gate Bridge as my backdrop. I must say that, on that balmy day in Basingstoke, I had no idea that I would go onto to complete over 80 parkruns on foreign soil.

In fact, the records will show that I have participated in no less that 16 different parkruns in four countries, from the country park of Sedgefield to the humidity of Darwin in Australia's Northern Territories - 30 degrees at 7am WTF - and the beautiful serenity of Western Springs.

Whilst I am on the topic, a special mention must go to our current home parkrun. Western Springs, on the face of it, seems like quite an ordinary place to hold a parkrun. Just three laps around the lake and, apart from a few bumps, it's a relatively flat course. Simple. It may look like a serene parkrun location but just beneath the surface it's a bit of an animal. Literally. Being located next to Auckland Zoo, it's not unusual to be accompanied on the run by the trumpeting of elephants or the roar of lions. I'm still expecting one day to look over my shoulder only to find a big cat hunting me down. At least it would be good for a PB.....assuming I could finish with all appendages attached! For the time being, however, I'm happy with my personal best time at Western Springs of 21:21.

I've come close a few times to beating the time I set on the 13 August 2016 but I kinda like the symmetry of that time. 21:21 has a nice look to it don't you think? Besides, it's some way off the course record at 15:55 so why bother?

I'm quite happy with my cluster of times, somewhere in the mid-twenties. There has been a few glitches in my performances, some due to illness and others self-inflicted. Like the time on the 29 October 2016 when I mistakingly ate breakfast before running and vomited into the toilets half way around. At least I made it to the loos - can't imagine it would've been particularly nice for my fellow competitors to have to avoid a chunky-spew lake. It's enough having to plan a route through swan poo without adding partly digested cereal into the mix. I'll leave that there and probably have said too much.

But what the statistics don't show you though, is the main reason that hundreds turn up week-in-week-out at their local parkrun. Friendship. Without that essential ingredient, a parkrun would be nothing more than a jog around a local park and certainly wouldn't encourage repeated participation on a Saturday morning. I have met some fantastic people on my little adventure around the parkruns of the world, be it a short chat before the run, longer discussions over coffee after or proper friendship through meeting in the same place at the same time.

So I must say a big thank you to all of the people that I have met, ran alongside and supped coffee with. From the organisers and volunteers at each event, strangers who have welcomed me to their event and everyone at my local parkrun. Thank you for 99 wonderful memories and I look forward to another 99, wherever they may be.

On that note, I'll just leave these here.....well it's not all about numbers is it?

Kitted out for the Darlington South Park parkrun

I'm not a fair-weather runner!

Welcome to New Zealand and Cornwall Park parkrun

Western Springs. My adopted parkrun home

Finally! My 50th parkrun was completed on the 28 May 2016

Getting ready to tackle the Melbourne Albert Park parkrun. Watch out for F1 cars though!

Hamilton parkrun is a really well run event. And flat!

Errr! I think this was Christmas Day? Not sure about the pink wig though.

This is either Hull or San Francisco

Puarenga in Rotorua must be one of the most unique courses.

Sweaty and tired in Darwin

Volunteering is an essential part of parkrun, although it looks like we could also help out on the building site next door!

The Western Springs crew!

The Road to Somewhere

I’d imagine that for most people, the last place that they’d want to be on their day off would be at work. Which technically wouldn’t be a day off except for the fact that they’re not getting paid. Thankfully most people aren’t engineers.

You see, to an engineer, there is nothing more interesting to do on your day off than to go and look at some engineering. It’s true. Sad, but true. It was a long running joke for a while that once, whilst out on a shopping trip with my parents and heading to the pub for a well earned pint, both my Sarah and I stopped in our tracks as we passed a fenced off area, stared down into the huge hole that had been dug and discussed what was going on, why, and what the risks were. Only an engineer could find a hole in the ground more interesting than a pint in a pub. 

Anyway, even I would draw the line at visiting my own project whilst 'not working'. That was, however, until today. Today, my project was having an Open Day so what else was there to do on a bright and sunny Auckland Sunday than to jump in the car and see what was going on. A busman’s holiday so to speak. Which is kind of fitting because the first thing we did when we got to the designated car park was to jump on a bus.

Before I go any further, and to attempt to quell any thoughts that I’ve lost my mind, there are some mitigating circumstances that I feel compelled to explain.

Firstly, this is no ordinary project. The Puhoi to Warkworth PPP is the construction of 18km of brand new motorway through mainly native New Zealand bush. In completing the $800m project, 150 Ha of forest will have been removed, 7 bridges will have been built, 11 million cubic metres of earth will have been moved, nearly 8km of drainage culverts constructed. But before all that, erosion and sediment control ponds have been built, bats monitored, snails rehoused and 26 endangered gekos relocated. Well technically it was 26. You see we first had to find them and once the proverbial needle in the haystack exercise was completed, they were transported to Auckland University for safe keeping. The University did such a good job that upon our return there were actually 28 gekos ready for a new life on the other side of the road. Clearly a nice break in a warm hotel being fed and watered was good for the geko libido and certain gives a potential answer to 'Why did the geko cross the road?"

As well as increasing endangered animal population, the completed motorway will finally join Warkworth to the motorway network and remove the need to travel on one of the deadliest pieces of road network in the country. At its peak, sometime next year, the project will employ 500 people and utilise over 250 pieces of earth-moving machinery. And if that doesn’t make you want to jump up, get on a plane and take a look then you’re clearly not an engineer!

Secondly, my partner is also an engineer so was curious to see what was going on. Admittedly there wasn’t a hole in the ground to take a look at, not yet anyway, but there was some big machinery on display. And a sausage sizzle. What more could you want for a top day out?

One day this will be all roads...well one road but you get the idea

My plan was, if you can call a loose idea formed whilst walking across the car park such a thing, to attend incognito. Keep my head down and see what was going on. A bit like a secret shopper I suppose. Not that I thought that there would be anything untoward or faintly dodgy going on, but as a member of the Client team I didn’t want to be seen to be interfering. Unfortunately my ‘plan’ didn’t last long.

“Good morning, shouldn’t you be helping out?”, joked the guy* on the registration desk. 

Rumbled. And there was I thinking that my sunglasses, hat and the fact that I was wearing shorts was an effective disguise.

* Note - I obviously know this persons name but in the interests of anninomity I’ve left it out. It’s not important but I didn’t want anyone to get the impression that I’m one of those client who doesn’t know the name of people on the project. If it bothers you let’s just call him Trevor, which is obviously not his real name but somehow it seems less impersonal.

As the bus wound its way along the haul road on the way to the site complex, another colleagues gave an introduction to the project and pointed out things of interest, with only the occasional glance in my direction. As I sat there staring out of the bus window, as an ordinary member of the public, I reflected on what an impressive job the contractor was doing in engaging the local community and was in no doubt that this was, in part at least, due to the level of enthusiasm that the team showed when talking about it. The people on the bus were clearly interested and a barrage of questions occupied the short 20 minute journey. They can’t all have been engineers. The more likely explanation is that they were all locals and are keen to see the desperately needed piece of infrastructure completed.

After traversing a tempoarary bridge, the bus arrived in the site complex. As we hopped off the bus Kar.....err ‘Bob’.... smiled and asked “I hope I got all of the facts right!”.

‘Note perfect”, I responded.

The usual sea of white Utes (Utility Vehicle or pick up truck) had been cleared from the site complex and in their place was an array of displays, food stalls, demonstrations and an area that had been fenced off for two pieces of large earth moving machinery. Against the fence was a colourful sign announcing ‘Free Dump Truck Rides’.

“Oh my god, I’ve got to get a go in that!”, I thought to myself, “That will be sooo coool!”

Maybe I'll get a go on Monday?

...and then my sensible head took over. It would not be a good look for the one of the project team to be seen riding in the cab of a 40T dump truck, grinning like an idiot and waving. I grudgingly accepted that my sensible head was right. Besides, I could just wait until Monday.......

By the time we had seen all of the displays, checked out the equipment on display and eaten our own weight in sausage sandwiches, we decided it was time to head off. 

With the bulk of my involvement due to end next July but construction not due to complete until 2021, it’s doubtful I’ll still be involved when the ribbon is cut. But whatever happens it’s really a great privilege to be involved in such a project, even just to be a small part in a huge machine (I’m back on machinery again - sorry), and to really make a difference. It was certainly not something that I was expecting when I arrived into New Zealand. 

Watch Out! There’s a Tomo About!

It’s very dangerous to assume that just because you’ve been somewhere a while, that you know all there is to know about a place and are totally at ease in your surroundings. But, just because everything is quite similar, no sooner do you think you have a handle on everything, then New Zealand’s uniqueness reasserts itself and bops you on the nose. Figuratively speaking of course. 

It all started so innocently. I was asked to attend a video conference meeting with some colleagues to discuss progress on site and to take a look at the programme for the coming weeks. Fairly mundane and run of the mill stuff. With over three years of NZ work experience under my belt I’ve finally stopped referring to pounds, no longer called intersections junctions and a verge is finally a berm. In fact, so sure was I of my perfect colloquialisms that I’ve even started raising a wry smile when new European arrivals made exactly the same mistakes that I had not too long ago. Oh how we forget. And how easily we can fall off our high horse, partner!

Anyway, the conversation was progressing nicely when suddenly the person at the other end of the call stated “We’ve found a tomo so part of the site is a no-go area!”

“Wow, a tomo!” I exclaimed a little to enthusiastically, not having a clue what or indeed who a tomo was. 

“Yeah, we found it whilst we were walking over the site. Lucky we didn’t stand right on it really!”, came the response.

I looked around at my colleagues in the room for any clue as to what is was that we were talking about, but all I could see was a row of confirmatory nods that this was indeed a precarious situation. In short, no bloody help at all and I was going to have to figure this one out for myself.

“So,” I started cautiously, “what’s your plan of action then for dealing with it?”

Brilliant! A good question and one that was designed to not disclose my level of ignorance. 

“Well, we’ve already put a fence around the area so it’s contained but obviously we need to get an expert in to deal with it”.

“Obviously”, I agreed without knowing what it was that I was agreeing to.

So we were surely dealing with an animal of some kind. Definitely not a bird - a fence would’ve been useless against a flying animal.....oh but wait, it could be a flightless bird. I started to rack my brain to see if a flightless bird called a Tomo had ever been mentioned but nothing was registering. Surely I would’ve heard about such a creature? I decided that I hadn’t and therefore it couldn’t be that. Right, an animal of some kind it must be. And clearly a dangerous one given the level of concern that was being shown both in the room and on the screen. 

Time for another carefully worded question.....

“Great. What do you think their assessment will be?”

“Well, ideally we’d like to get rid of it but it depends how big it is really.”

“F*ck, this thing must be huge”, I thought to myself. 

The thought of animal slaughter on the project, however, was just too much to bear. I could see the headlines writing themselves in from of my eyes. The last thing we needed was a load of environmentalists crawling over the site. And who would blame them? You can’t just go around exterminating creatures because they happen to wander into your project site. Especially not in New Zealand. Unless they’re possums of course. I needed more information.....

“Just how do you propose to get rid of it?”

That was clearly a question too far as the assembled group, real and virtual, looked at me with incredulity. 

“Oh, probably with an excavator, that’s what we normally do with Tomos”, came the response from the TV screen adding, “or just drop a load of rock on it if its not too big.”

This was too much.

“Wait! How do you know that dropping rock on it is going to sort it out. What if it survives?”, I exclaimed, not sure if I was more concerned about the negative publicity or the inhumane method of disposal.

“Survives? How else are we going to fill the hole?”, a colleague enquired no doubt half wondering if I’d lost my mind before quickly adding, “Or we could just excavate to find the bottom but it will depend upon how deep and wide the Tomo is.”

Thankfully the conversation moved on to the engineering solution whilst I surreptitiously consulted Wikipedia. And in doing so, I soon realised my mistake. How could I have been so stupid....  don’t answer that! So, to prevent you from landing in a similar situation, and before we go any further, you need to know what a Tomo is. Admittedly the chances are slim but you never know in this world. So a Tomo is a hole in the ground that either once, or still does have, water passing through it and usually found in limestone regions. Or if you prefer, a sinkhole and definitely not an animal or flightless bird.

For those that would like a longer explanation, and I’m thinking mainly the engineers out there, here is an extract from the Wikipedia entry;

The word ‘Waitomo’ comes from the Māori language ‘wai’ meaning water and ‘tomo’ meaning a doline or sinkhole. In short, this can translated to be water passing through a hole.

And the moral of the story? Well if this story must have one then I guess its that don’t be afraid to ask questions, no matter how stupid they may seem. Or to put it another way, you’re going to look like an idiot no matter what you do so you might as well get it over with!