I was thinking this morning the best way to shake off a New Year’s Day super-rave (Space all-dayer in North Sydney – does-what-it-says-on-the-tin) was to go for a quick run along the coast here in Coogee, just for a couple of miles, to shake off the booze and chain-smoking hangover (cough, and the rest). 6 hours sleep over two days was only going to get me up the road and back again, surely. And then straight home for a coffee and a fag chaser.
I set off coughing and spluttering, my head still pounding from the night before, but after a few minutes warm-up and feeling the sunshine and cooling breeze enveloping my tired old raver body a new lease of life struck me. There is nothing quite like running along a stunning coastline – even uphill – to give you added wings, regardless of almost vomming up at the side of the path and pausing with painful stabs of stitch. The scenery tugs you along like an invisible electric current pulling at your knee-caps – despite the exhaustion you just don’t feel like stopping.
The difference between running here in Sydney beside such picturesque surroundings and through the streets of south East London (Catford, Lewisham – go figure) hardly needs explaining. One’s motivation is 200% improved and the sight of so many buff fuckers everywhere you look is only fuel for the aspirational fitness fire. The place is swamped with them: toned, tanned, slim – even the older generation here put us Brits to shame. As I mentioned in my previous post, the sporty people here are the cover stars of Runner’s World. They do exist. And I can’t really hate them. They are my heroes – the people I want to be. I don’t care if they have no stories of deviant behaviour. They are the rock stars of the fitness world.
The trouble is, I – and many Brits such as myself – would never cut the fitness mustard in comparison. We’re a different breed, our bodies function with a different blood, a blood thinned out with a few too many dashes of Vodka, the odd ciggy and fried food. Here, we brave the roads and let our inner thighs wobble (you can spot a Brit a mile off), we shudder at the sight of a steep hill and whimper at the thought of running up a flight of steps. But, we’re not afraid to give it a go. I can’t speak for every Brit, of course, but c’mon: you know who you are.
So, despite the slight liver damage and tight nicotine inflicted chest, I managed to pull 6 miles out of the bag this morning, and burn 830 calories. Now, time to jump in the shower and head off for massive brunch to put it all back in again. I may even wash it all down with a Bloody Mary and a cheeky roll-up.
Happy New Year from Sydney!