Jumpin' Januaries!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Of cicadas and currawongs - a Sydney summer sonnet.

It's time I began writing properly again: the warm embrace of a sunny Sydney summer, coincident as it of course always is with the festive time of year has rather overtaken my running diaries, and if truth be told, the running too. As quickly as it arrives, the Christmas/New Year period seems to fade just as fast, and with it the wistfulness that comes from having shared the bounty with family and friends, whilst toasting those that are absent, some temporarily, others more permanently so.  The Christmas tunes have been removed for another year from the iPod (yes, we still use such an amazingly primitive device), and the festive placemats and left-over Christmas crackers have been put away until next season.

Without the Michael Buble and Johnny Mathis' Christmas albums to jolly along our household vibe,  we've returned to more standard fare, albeit with a summerish touch: Taylor Swift somehow works, as does the generally ignored Billy Joel, one track from his 1976 album Turnstiles so frighteningly relevant just now:

We’re going wrong, we’re gaining weight
We’re sleeping long and far too late
And so it’s time to change our ways
But I’ve loved these days

The sentiment is doubly true for me just now. Although it's an exaggeration to say I've gained weight (miraculously, I've not) there is always a certain frustration for me at this time of year. With the weather and hours of daylight perfect for running, the training schedule always takes a back seat to the planning, shopping, cooking, travelling, eating, drinking and general mayhem of festivities that is Christmas and New Year. And, as Billy Joel suggests (even taken out of context), you really can't complain or get upset about it because it was just such great fun. I approach Christmas every year with trepidation, and yet leave more than just a little regretful at its passing.

But as the recycling truck empties our bin full of vanquished bottles of Pol Roger NV Brut and Rockford's excellent Alicante Bouchet, and the ham and turkey bones have been reduced to stock, it's time once again to turn to the spreadsheet of my running log.

The soundtrack for my running at this time of year is the seasonal song of cicadas and currawongs, their summer chorale as invasive as the heat and humidity (especially the humidity) yet as enticing for the runner as the cold beer that I know is sitting in my fridge. But whereas the cicadas and currawongs give their song freely, now that the Santa season is over I have to earn the beer through sweat, grit and miles actually run.

Yes, the season of hard graft is upon me. I have kept up enough gentle jogging throughout to still be able to pull off a (very) slow, but steady two-hour long run on occasion, but much remains to be done before I can truly declare myself half-marathon ready. It's true also that this gentle return to the running discipline too often gets derailed by the steady stream of televised cricket and tennis that remains compulsory viewing throughout the Aussie summer. And so the transformation from gluttonous, slightly sozzled turkey and Christmas-pudding eater to lithe, abstemious athlete is more akin to the slow, painful removal of a band-aid than to any miraculous transubstantiation.

With Almeria now knocking at the door, it's time to pull out all stops and perhaps move the treadmill in front of the telly (in order to better watch all that cricket and tennis) to get a few more decent training sessions under my water belt. And here's the bonus: sharing the experience of Almeria with so many good running friends will be so much like a second Christmas that it's truly, frighteningly inspiring. See you there!

So before we end and then begin
We’ll drink a toast to how it’s been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I’ve loved these days

Almeria doesn't know what's coming..!