Seven Bridges for Seven Hours
Well, that's how long it would have taken, if I'd finished the walk, but the day took a turn that ultimately decided me against going on.

It took me more than half an hour to get to the start of the course. I'd originally planned on starting at Pyrmont, but Rozelle was closer, really, so I hiked down to the City Link West where the course comes in after the Anzac Bridge, pictured above. At that point, coming through the grounds of the old psychiatric hospital, my camera batteries died, so I was forced to consider lugging the thing dead or taking a detour. I reckoned there'd be a shop somewhere, but I've done this stretch on my bike, so didn't anticipate much in the way of shopping for some time. Luckily, a brief excursion before Iron Cove provided the needed electrical resource and I was back on track with only about twenty minutes lost in the wrong direction.

This is something of a controversial bridge at the moment, as the State Labor Government has decided to build a new bridge. It's always a problem to lay in one while still using the other, and as far as I know continuing to do so, thereby inevitably increasing traffic, even if easing some congestion - that's six lanes squeezing into four to cross the bay. Residents are upset, but that's not helping anyone.

The picture doesn't do the bridge justice: it's a steep arc, and long.
The view, however, is terrific, especially with the jacarandas in bloom.

It's not far to the next bridge, but from here on until the Harbour Bridge, we're on the North Shore, so the suburbs start to get a bit ritzier. Interestingly, the view shows very little in the way of solar panels, something you'd think even the rich would take advantage of in this country, but it did show a lot of pools.

Fig Tree bridge isn't terribly special, but it's the last bridge (other than a few pedestrian walkways) I crossed on foot today. Shortly after this crossing, the promised thunder storms started to announce themselves, soon developing into a torrential downpour.

Somewhere between the Lane Cove rest area and Fig Tree Bridge, the planners had created a diversion - and I took the road less traveled, mostly because the one I, and about a dozen or so others, took was way off the mark. At this point, the rain was coming down very hard, so with no umbrella or jacket I was soaked through. Checking the map showed I had probably less than a kilometer to rejoin the route, so I headed up, figuring there might be a tent or shop awnings, or something to shelter in. I stood under an awning for about half an hour, but the gentle breeze that had kept me cool in the earlier stretches was now making my teeth chatter. The shuttle buses laid on for the event were all going in the wrong direction, so I figured: stay moving and keep warm or stand still and freeze.

I reached Wollstonecraft just as the rain finally stopped, so I thought I'd just keep going. I'd done about a third of the walk at this point, so why not? So I walked past the train station, determined to finish.

That didn't happen. Before I'd gone even a little way, the rain started up again. I got to Waverton, where I could pick up a train, and ditched. On the deserted platform, I took off my shirt and wrung it out. Even standing still, the water collected in my shoes and trousers pressed out by gravity and formed a pool around me. Other passengers filtering in gave me a look and detoured widely from my vicinity - and, yes, I did have my shirt back on. I was on a train, then a bus, and home in fairly short order, everything wet through.

Next year I will plan this better. Like bring an umbrella and dress in loose synthetics. Hope you enjoy the pictures.

Around Town
I had such a good time at the State Library in Melbourne, I thought I really ought to check out Sydney's NSW Library. Nowhere near as good. A lot of it was inaccessible, due to renovations or some such, but even what I could see presented none of the grandeur Melbourne put into theirs. Oh, well, it was a nice walk along Macquarie Street, where I could stop and say hello to Dribbles the boar.


As long as I was in a photographing mood, I brought my camera up to the office the following Monday. The industrial park where I work is notable mainly for two things: proximity to Lane Cove National Park and CSIRO, Australia's Commonwealth Science and Research Organisation, which is a number of buildings put up over the years, where experiments of one kind or another are conducted, with some evidence, based on the signage, at this location, that the focus is on food and food resources. "Wealth from Oceans" is one such.

I don't know what they're cooking in this place, but from the effect on the exhaust pipes, it's well done.


And I'm not sure, because I've never seen it in use or any evidence of recent usage, what this wall of glass might be about, but each pane is fitted with a fire suppression sprinkler head, which is my only clue.


Tomorrow is the Seven Bridges Walk, which should be fun and offer more chances to take pictures of stuff. 25 kilometers of stuff, seven of which are bridges, so it'll be a good day. If those thunderstorms hold off.

Movie Money
The Australian dollar used to get us a lot of blockbuster development, but it's been growing more powerful than a locomotive lately, or at least more powerful than Green Lantern's power ring can handle (even when Hal Jordan's being played by an Aussie).

Must be those gold coins and $50 notes.

Playing Politics
Anyone who doesn't understand that the Nobel Peace Prize is political is deluded. Hell, the Literature prize is political. (Who's the last American who won that? Toni Morrison? And her body of work is superior to Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike? Think about why she got it.) So picking Obama this year as for the Prize Committee to exert influence in the world isn't new, isn't really surprising, and probably isn't worth of the wroth and derision it's getting some places. ZOMG, what next? Professional athletes in the Olympics? Steroids in the Tour de France? Save the confected outrage and recognise that the current President of the U.S. may not have saved the world and can't, but he has changed the terms and tone of the debate about America and international relations in ways you haven't and won't, and hasn't even been in office for a year. Congratulations, Mr. President; along with the Committee, I hope you live up to it, even just a little.

ContinuedRemarkable how many people think they know better than the administrators of the prize what the prize "has to be" awarded for, what rules should apply, and who is or isn't an eligible recipient.

Racism Heyday Is Long Gone
The revival of the variety show “Hey Hey It’s Saturday” didn’t generate any interest in me. It looked to be a silly show at best, utterly naf, bogan even. Turns out I was right, and more, since even now they couldn’t resist a minstrel show. That was embarrassing when it was Bing Crosby, let alone Al Jolson. It’s sparked considerable debate here, largely due, however, to the fact that it’s generated some degree of furore back in the States. What’s most galling to me is how many have come forward to defend it. It’s just a joke, they say, it’s supposed to be funny, nobody meant any harm. Yes, they did, even if they were too stupid to understand their own message. Blackface was always demeaning and derogatory and it’s more so now. Golliwog wigs don’t make it any better. The whole country makes me cringe sometimes, and Julia Gillard just lost her favored position as next Labor PM as far as I’m concerned.

Holiday Tourism
I thought this morning would be nice to take the walk along the foreshore extending from the Spit Bridge to Manly, with a leisurely ferry ride home after lunch at the beach, but only one bus runs that route on Sundays and public holidays, and it doesn't stop at the Spit. So I ended up wandering off to Darling Harbour, thinking that those food stalls I'd seen on a previous visit might be open. They were, as it turns out, and they were showcasing food from various Spanish-speaking countries, including one of my favourites, the Cuban Sandwich. Not the best, perhaps, but fresh, authentic, still yum.

Because I'd actually planned to play tourist, for once I had my camera with me, although Darling Harbour and the Pyrmont environs are not so particularly splendid for anything more than touristy shots. The light was very good, however, and I got a couple I like enough to stick up here.

Red Middle Removed
Last night a wind storm blew in and by morning the 100kpm gusts had brought the biggest dust cloud into Sydney that I've ever seen. When I woke up, the sun past the blinds was a vivid red, and walking out into the street was like arriving on Mars. Or the apocalypse, if much quieter. Somehow, even for the usual traffic sounds from Parramatta Road at that hour, everything was hushed, the way it is when there's a thick but gentle snow storm back in NYC. It stayed quite vivid all morning, although by afternoon had cleared. I was particularly interested in the effect the cloud had on colors. Because of all the red and yellow filtered from the light, greens were notably greener, and fluorescent lights - stripped of what makes them seem so white and yet cast such a ghastly pallor on everything - glowed an electric blue. It's just as well it's past, but the reminders will stay for a little while. The rain storm that preceded the dust gave it somewhere to stick, and there were more than a few complaints about just-washed cars, all bearing evidence to the event.

Satisfying Close to Running Season
1:56 by my watch, 2:09 on the clock at the finish. The discrepancy is due to starting well after the gun. I got to the start at about 6, but found getting up at 4:30 for breakfast etc. hadn't actually relieved me of the need to relieve myself, and there seemed to be far fewer facilities and far more people queued up to use them than last year. The family of four small children ahead of me should have been my first clue I was in the wrong line, but these things happen. Anyway, I felt pretty good throughout, sucking down energy gels every 5-6 kilometers, and only walking a little all up. So I'll go with my watch for now - an SMS should arrive shortly to provide the official time.

As for running season, there is a race on November 8, but with spring commencing in the next week or so, the hotter weather is going to seriously reduce how much time I'm inclined to spend outdoors actively seeking to sweat.

Update: 1:57:28, official. Still good.

Taper
So here we are: last long run of the training season done, at full volume, although, in fact, I've been tapering off for weeks now, having given myself time to recover from whatever virus laid me out prior to the City-to-Surf, and then recovery from that race, and the oddity of having found myself strangely less motivated, even in the face of the race a week from Sunday impending. So it's good to do 13K, if on the principle that on race-day I'll have the fitness to accomplish twice my training distance, and I did feel strong throughout. Luckily, there's a November race added to the calendar to motivate me past the running festival; just a 10K, but out at Olympic Park, which was where Nike put on a race one year that I would have like to have as a regular event. Too bad about that, but let's see how things go.

Here's another kind of taper.

Wrong kind.

Alien Nation
That's an obvious parallel, although technology has improved markedly, enough so that aliens can be depicted as something other than Mandy Patinkin in a spotted skin-head wig, but District 9 is also generally better, mostly for the cringing, cowardly anti-hero Wikus, but also for a better pay-off at the end.

Art & About: Non-Sponsored Version
Astrid Spielman took her art to the streets on Saturday, well, to a pedestrian tunnel leading into Glebe's Jubilee Park, anyway. Normally a digital artist with a focus on video, Astrid this time put up a public installation, consisting of panels of 20cent piece-sized sequins lining the walls of the underpass, shimmering in the gentle breeze and illuminating a dark public space, making this utilitarian passage into an experience, one which, as I witnessed, delighted everyone passing through, perhaps particularly all the children on their way to and from the park, and all of whom seemed to take a genuine and participatory interest. Astrid's an inventive and engaging artist, and her work takes on an unexpected depth, at least insofar as prose descriptions fail its ingenuity and effect. I've got a small piece by her hanging in my lounge room, and love how even something less than an A4 sheet of paper can provide so much color and interest without fading over time. It's kind of a shame that the panels installed Saturday were temporary, but I'll be interested to see if there isn't some digitization on offer eventually.

Not Quite Hollywood
There’s an argument I’ve seen made from time-to-time that there should be no government funding for the arts, particularly for such things as movies, which, according to the argument, would make plenty of money if there were any good. There’s something to be said for this, I suppose, but it’s usually only raised by the same kinds of people who argue there shouldn’t be any government assistance to anything or anybody, including, often enough, for health care or housing. These same people can be found also arguing that stop-light cameras and speed traps are an income-generating rort, an intrusion on the public simply to build up the state’s coffers for spending on things they don’t agree with. (Let’s leave aside the fact that if you’re running through red lights or speeding you are also endangering others and probably deserve to lose your license a lot sooner.)

So when actress and filmmaker Rachel Ward bemoans the inevitable fate of her movie in the public press, I’m inclined to let it through as more than just whinging. The fact is, one of the best Australian movies I’ve seen, Somersault, got great reviews – until it didn’t make any money. At that point, everybody dog-piled on to say how bad it was, and it started turning up as the argument against the independent Australian film industry.

Does anybody successfully compete against Hollywood? O.k., I guess Bollywood manages, but that seems a rather specialized market, like romance novels are, with a built-in audience share capable of competing with anyone. Similarly, most foreign films cater to their indigenous audience by reason of using the local language. Chinese films generally aren’t going to do as well outside China as they do inside, Crouching Tiger notwithstanding.

No, this is cultural-cringe stuff, I reckon. Australian movies don’t have to be Mad Max to garner audience share sufficient to sustain the industry as a whole, and it’s tough to get any sort of blockbuster out against Hollywood budgeting capacity, whether for production or marketing. Please also note that Hollywood finds it highly advantageous to spend that budget here in Australia, where they can access state-of-the-art equipment and highly accomplished professionals while taking advantage of the exchange and wage rates. Australia is unlikely to be able to compete against the Matrix or any of the other multi-multi-million dollar projects coming out of U.S. studios, but we can produce engaging, interesting, even entertaining features that are expressive of ourselves instead of imitations of some other culture. If we accept the worth of our culture in the first place.

Birds of the World
Although the office park where I work isn’t one of the nicest – that would have been the one down around Georgia where I spent some time one year training on some software – it has the advantage of abutting a national park, so the wildlife is plentiful, if largely represented by the various fowl: ibises, mynahs (Indian and native), crows, and magpies.

The maggies are big birds, on the order of crows, with a fearsome-looking beak. Their song is a somewhat spooky, fluting, quite distinct.

Every evening as I make my way through the street to the bus station, I pass one building in particular, with a curved face, along the top front edge of which the magpies gather, facing out into the coming night, piping home their fellows, it seems. Since their array is eastward, I can’t quite figure why that building and no other: prevailing wind for take-off and landing? The lowering sun’s not in their eyes or the rising sun is for an early wake-up call? In any case, it’s a pleasant walk, listening to them and recognising their sociability.

Fiduciary
I reckon I'm not too bad with spreadsheets, but I've always avoided any sort of "treasurer" duties in my stints on one co-op/condo board or another. Sadly, this isn't the case where I am now, as there are only four units and none of us have much in the way of mathematical expertise. So I'm running half-assed balance statements and account registers (and that's probably half-arsed in this country), and trying to keep everything on the up-and-up. Well, I'm only eighty cents off on my own checking account register for the last two years, so maybe I'm better at this kind of thing than I think. I really hope so, because my MS-Excel skills are critical to the success of the project I'm on at work, and my boss has guaranteed to the CEO that "everybody will be paid, correctly and on time." Thanks for writing checks for me to pay, boss. But I'm absolutely committed anyway, if only because this is the best job I've ever had, even if it is the hardest. I guess there's something in that.

Results
Well, that's 14k done 'n' dusted. 83 minutes by my watch, 81 on the clock at the finish, so we'll see what chip-time does for me, although I'm not expecting much. There are far too many people at the City-to-Surf these days: 75,000 entrants this year. The Pub-to-Pub, on the north shore, limits entries to something like 3,000, which I'll bet is just as crowded, given the neighborhood, but we're getting there for this one, I reckon. Just think: it took me 3 times as long to get out of Bondi as it did to get there in the first place. And somebody explain to me how, even within the first kilometer, there are people ahead of me walking, particularly since there's a special start section reserved for them (after mine, thanks)? I mean, you can walk to Bondi any weekend; there's only one City-to-Surf weekend. Get out of the way! Beep-Beep! I am the mighty Toad! Sorry, carried away with runner's high endorphins or something.

City-to-Surf is a great race. NYCRRC had a race pretty much every other weekend, in Central Park, Prospect Park, Flushing Meadows, but almost none of them compare to the exhilaration of this 14k fun run. Probably the New Year's Midnight Run, maybe the Shea Stadium run. O.k., Fifth Avenue Mile was pretty special. But this is something on a different order of magnitude.

Update: 80 minutes, official and some awful photos.

Weakend
While in the grip of the grippe, I lost a week of training, then another just to be sure and because my phlegm production was still noticably higher than indicated it would be o.k. to start running again. Then I discovered that I had only a week left before the City-to-Surf. So I did some mid-week runs, 5-10-5 k's, Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday. Wednesday's 10 was tough, as two weeks off meant the initial 5 left me a little sore, but Thursday's 5 was tougher, as the 10 really did a number, especially on my calfs. (Is that right? We're not talking about veal, here, so is it calves or calfs?) Two days off before Sunday's 14k race should be enough to see me right, but all things considered I suppose I ought not expect to repeat or improve my last 76-77 minute completion time.

Three Out of Four
For the last month, the Rabbitohs were on a tear, winning three in a row, and thereby igniting hope of achieving a spot in the top eight, being only one or two competition points away. So of course we drop today's match to the Bulldogs.

I know my presence or absence has no determining effect on a game, but having not been in attendance for the three wins - two away and one where I was still too sick to be sitting out in a stadium in the middle of winter - rejoining the team in time to witness today's loss does make me feel a bit of a Jonah. A strong first half - despite some fairly stupid errors - was matched by a declining second half - including one of the most stupid errors I've ever seen. Sometimes it's better to take the tackle, even in your own goal, than try to keep the ball alive and watch the other side score a try. Of course, that said, it isn't as though the referee wasn't taking our side back past ten meters, and Canterbury weren't offside for about half the game. Manly next week, which could be interesting.

Sound (&) Vision
Glasses have long been one of the more expensive necessities of my life, and with frames starting at over $200 even before they put my expensive prescription in them, finding a way to reduce my semi-annual out-of-pocket upgrades is something of a priority. As a result, I've taken to doing my shopping on-line, where starting prices, complete, start at $100. That doesn't mean I'm not spending up big anyway, since, as I say, my prescription is for coke-bottle thick, pretty much requiring that I opt for the extras, like specialty-thin. The big trick lately, however, is that I am increasingly decrepit, needing reading glasses. I originally opted for a distance paid and a reading pair, with slightly different frames for ease of identification, and have swapped between them. I've also left my sunglasses un-upgraded, since, effectively, as medium-distance glasses, I can both read and see far enough for most purposes. But carrying extra glasses and having to juggle them seemed stupid enough in the end that I bought a pair of bifocals for this year's model.

It is very important that I keep my head still, or at any rate that I don't move my eyes in advance of moving my head, as the tilt-shift is absolutely nauseating. Walking down the hall, every irregularity in the floor seems to throw my inner ear just enough that I want to go back to two pairs. Also, I don't think the distance on these is as strong as on my pure distance-glasses. Reading's o.k. - so far.

I've heard you get used to this, but it's not a particularly pleasant period of adaptation just right now.

We Many, We Lucky Many
Although at this point if you get 'flu, they say it's sure to be HSV, there are other things to get, like a plain ol' cold. Nothing like the cache of having a potentially fatal pandemic virus, just a rhinovirus. Annoying, damaging to keeping up training, and not glamorous. I take consolation in scaring the living daylights out of everyone I encounter.

Library Card
I really need to get it together to get myself a library card. I’ve never even visited my local public library, and while the little time I’ve spent in other branches hasn’t impressed me, Glebe’s looks like it might be big enough to be worth visiting. I say this with a few unread volumes of one thing or another sitting on a shelf waiting for me to get to, but books are among the most expensive consumer item in this country, and I consume a fair few. Despite a recent move towards opening Australia to cheap imports, there’s a hue and cry, as there often is in these protectionist matters, of opposition. Australian publishers, particularly in regard to Australian authors, can’t compete against the prodigious output of America, or even the U.K., for that matter. And Australian authors can’t compete if they can’t even get published in their own country, and they won’t be if the local publishers can’t afford to stay open. Theoretically, I suppose, there would still be some demand for local product, forcing the number of publishers to shrink and specialize, but more likely it would simply send Australian writers overseas and to abandon writing, if only writing about Australia. Sure, we’ve got a Nobel Prize winner, and sure, screenplays have been adapted from our stories, but nobody much reads Patrick White anymore, no matter how good he was, and those movies didn’t do particularly well at home or abroad, so where’s the worth? I’m not a fan overall of protectionist trade practices, but I’d hate to think Tim Winton would have to give up or move to California, or that we’d lose out on the next Miles Franklin ever having a brilliant career. The small Australian houses have, over the years, been eaten up by multinational publishing and media conglomerates, and that trend would only be exacerbated by the end of import restrictions. It’s bad enough that television, movies, and Microsoft dictionary settings are undermining Australia’s authentic voice. Not our writers, too.