Things I think of when I think of Stevie Power
1. Being a cool dude and a kind soul are not mutually exclusive.
2. It’s possible to offer love to others and not to yourself.
3. Hope and hopelessness sometimes sit together.
4. Good people are remembered forever.
5. The best conversations are often had sitting on a step, not a chair.
6. Love is easy to see in some people’s faces.
7. A tortured soul can also be a beautiful soul.
8. Forgiveness is everything.
9. Kindness is very important.
10. Wonderfulness and terribleness live together.
For your 40th birthday in heaven, Stevie. You are so missed.
To the Grove shopping centre where my hairdresser, Ian resides on the second floor I went yesterday afternoon.
Ian is the sort of queer who types “xxx” (kiss kiss) after all text messages no matter who he sends them to. I adore him and his touching stories of Trooper his epileptic dog and his intense swearing habit.
If there is a sliding scale of gay to straight, he is the gay marker at that end of the scale, the one the rest are measured by.
We were discussing training regimens. He goes to the gym with his trainer (“I chose him because I am not attracted to him” says Ian) and I run alone.
We talk about toughness and he squeals “My love, I grew up in Rockingham with this voice, don’t you talk to me about tough!” Rockingham is a tough place to grow up when you're a raging queen.
As I arrive at the centre I realise how stiff my grazed knees are from crashing down a stone step in the dark earlier that day while out running (damn daylight savings; give me honest darkness not this fake rubbish).
So I ride the lift up to the second floor. One of the pretty young students from the beauty academy is in the lift with me and, feeling a need to make polite small talk in the 15 seconds it takes to get to the second floor, says “so I guess you’re on your way to see Ian the hairdresser?”
“Yes, actually I am” I reply, smiling.
There is a brief pause during which time I realise that I could just as easily have been going to the second floor to the bridal shop, the gym, the two dollar shop, the podiatrist, or (I would have thought most obviously) Kathmandu, the outdoor adventure shop.
“Does my hair look that bad then?” I ask her in a mild panic.
“Oh no its not that,” she replies meekly.
And we arrive at the second floor and go our separate ways.
THEN WHAT??? What made it so clear that I was off to the hairdresser and not to stock up on adventuring essentials from Kathmandu??
I was wandering around my local bookshop yesterday. A blue book caught my eye and I found myself reading through it first with incredulity then hilarity: Stuff White People Like by Christian Lander.
It is completely non PC and points directly at the mask we all put on as we grow up and head into the world.
I came home and googled it to find the paperback had been spawned from a very funny blog. Lander gets right to the uncomfortable squirmy truth of what a bunch of dickheads we all are most of the time.
On tattoos:
“A white person with the right kind of tattoo is generally very popular within the white community since they have shown a demonstrated commitment to irony, humor, and in some cases, self-deprecation.
If you find yourself competing socially with one of these people, there are a few things you can do in order to defeat them.
Your saving grace is the fact that white people not only enjoy getting funny/ironic tattoos, but they really enjoy talking about them too! Therefore, it is essential that you already have 2-3 clever tattoo ideas ready to drop into a conversation.”
From the blog, Stuff White People Like by Christian Lander.
I chose this excerpt because I don’t have a tatt. I do however have some outdoor gear , go running and host dinner parties... Yikes, I even practice yoga. But I wear cheap pants!
If you’re white and this stuff about what white people like doesn’t make you feel a little uncomfortable, then the truth is that your mask is stuck so tightly and desperately to your face that you can’t see it, or you are the white version of the Dalai Lama.
When I saw the book I didn’t know about the blog, but there is another little goldmine of truth-telling: the comments that are posted on each blog.
Absolutely hilarious. (I am waiting for installment: “white people love saying ‘hilarious’ ”)
The indignation of people who have been ‘busted’ (“man you just suck/f.u.c.k you” etc), the complete lack of comprehension (“is this supposed to be ironic?”—and that wasn’t even on the entry on how much white people love irony), the thigh-slapping Oh Yeah I get It (“Tatoos [sic] are a trendy way to declare oneself hip. When all the people with them now hit their 40s tattoos will go the way of other misconstrued cultural commodifications “) and finally the Whoa, uh-oh! (“I have a tattoo of an ampersand….a backwards ampersand…where does that put me?”).
Its my latest favourite blog in my very new foray into the blogging world (nearly 50 million people made it to Landers blog before me).
I looked up and down the list for “White People Love Blogs” but perhaps everyone does.
Story of a First Marathon
A small group of quiet, shivering people is gathered on the river front at Burswood, hopping from foot to foot, underdressed for the one degree early morning but well dressed to run for 42.2 kms. Among them several first-timers, including me.
Did I go to the loo too early? Is there time to go again? Is this the actual start or is it up there? Am I far enough to the back that I won’t be run down? Am I too far back, does it matter that I am starting last?
The starting gun echoes across the Swan River and almost silently the runners take off. Within three kms there are big gaps between running groups; the fastest have gone from sight and the plodders remain behind. At this point my feet are still numb from the cold and I have my fingers tucked into my thin long sleeves.
Am I coming last? OMG I can’t believe I need the loo and we haven’t got to the five km mark yet…..
A rhythm is starting to develop and the morning is starting to defrost. Despite threats of a lingering storm with rain, it has turned out to be a stunningly beautiful day. The river is glassy, the air is crisp and clear, it is early and quiet so every footfall seems to be amplified. I catch up to a woman who is looking strong and keeping a steady, leisurely pace and decide to hang out with her for a couple of kms. We have a chat about running; it’s her first marathon too. I leave her to run ahead and find a loo.
I can see a public loo but it’s going to add a hundred metres on to my total distance….does this make me an ultra runner? The damned thing’s locked. Shrubs nearby will have to do…..no spectators this far off course.
Back on the bike path and I realise I am coming last. I keep telling myself this doesn’t matter a bit—the only person I am racing is myself. Still, I pick up the pace a little to get back to the thin stream of marathon runners ahead.
I can’t see anyone….at all. This is so different to the city to surf…
On the edge of the path is my little family. My husband is holding our one year old who is yelling “go mummy” and the other kids are waving and cheering. As I keep running the littlest one’s face crumples as she realises I am not going to stop for her and I leave them with her sobbing “mummy……”
Another runner, thank God. Got to get past her. Should I say sorry as I go past? Does she realise she is now last? Is it possible that no one except me is bothered by this, and I need to get over my Last is Bad mentality?
I happily jog along, now it is ten kms, twelve, a gel shot is gone. I was going to have one at 15kms but I have forgotten to have my first one before the race began, and so I revise my gel strategy and resolve to have one every ten kms. I also have four jellybeans in my spi-belt but these are saved for the final assault, wherever that may be. Emergency Beans. Thirteen kms and I have to do another wee.
You have got to be kidding me – is this bladder runout day or something? Am I completely obsessed with the toilet – is my race report going to be little more than a recounting of my ablution issues??
I reluctantly, yet thankfully duck into a loo along the freeway amongst the first wave of relay people waiting for their changeover. I just can’t believe that I have had to stop twice in the first 15kms. Because my first 15kms has been so slow, my husband spends the next few hours missing me at certain points around the river, arriving to cheer me on when I have already passed that spot. He is in mobile contact with other family and a few friends who take his advice about where to find me and when, so, consequently, all my cheering happens from people in cars trying to catch up with me.
I wonder why the Hill’s are egging me on from the emergency lane of the freeway? I would have thought a park was an easier place to stop and cheer, but oh well, maybe they like to keep the speed up since they have a convertible.
There is an older man waving enthusiastically up ahead, and I am thinking how impressive these spectators are to be so kind as to wave so frantically at people they don’t even know. I am almost past him before I realise its my Dad. Instinct tells me to stop for a chat, but then I realise I am in the middle of a running race, you just don’t do that. So I keep going, say Hi to Mum and Dad and keep running.
Half Way. This is a beautiful place to be. I am feeling strong and there is less fatigue in my legs than I thought there would be. For the first time I wonder if perhaps I have underestimated what I can do in terms of time. I am happy with my progress, but perhaps my goal of between 4:30 and 5:30 was a little unambitious.
I am passing people….this is so cool, although when you’re coming last there is only one way to go, I guess.
I’ve found two men who seem like they might be the unofficial 4:30 Bus. I resolve to stick with them and stay about ten feet behind them no problem. This works really well for about eight kms and it is comforting to glance up every so often at the red shirt, white shirt pair. The only problem is that they take it in turns to hop off course (by a metre) for a wee….a lot.
These guys have helped me without knowing it just by running a good pace that suits me, like following another car on a lonely country road when the sky is black. If only they wouldn’t keep leaning off the path to take a piss so often. Yep they are drinking way too much. If I stay behind them for the rest of the run my main memory of the marathon is going to be these two guys taking a leak every five minutes.
My unsuspecting running buddies, to my complete surprise, stop to have photos taken with their wives and kids at around 28 kms. I have appreciated their company from behind (they likely never even knew I was there) but am glad to pass them and their constant leak-stops at this point. I don’t realise it at this time, but I will never see these men again.
Here it is: 30kms. Oh My God, this is freaking unreal.
I have had my last gel and from here on in it’s my four jellybeans. Just me and my jellybeans. My husband has finally worked out that I have made up a little time and meets me at the 32km mark. The kids are off at football training and little miss sunshine has been packed off to grandma’s for a nap. He jogs beside me in his jeans and loafers for a few moments to see how I am doing.
“this is it – I have now gone further than ever before!”
“you’re doing great”
“I am loving this, it is amazing”
“how are your legs”
“sore...great…tired…wonderful.”
I am tired, but I am also in awe of this run, like nothing I have ever done before in my life. I know that these last ten kms are the ones to remember, to relish, to savor, and I move away from thinking about my legs, wishing I hadn’t needed to stop for the loo, the gels and all that peripheral stuff and into this moment.
All the times I have tried to meditate and found myself making mental notes about what groceries we need…..and here I am running and this is the only thing that is with me….I am meditating.
I am tired, but buzzed. I don’t think of how far I have come. I live in the moment and occasionally remind myself that all I have to do is run 10kms.
Can I run ten kms? Of course I bloody can.
I consult the scrap of paper tucked into my shoulder strap to see how I am doing with time. I have about eight kms to go at this point. Maths has always been my weakest subject, so it takes me another km to work out where I am at based on my calculations. I realise with a start that if I run fast I can make it in about 4:30. This is good, really good. I have been joking with everyone that I hope to make it across the line during daylight hours and this has been a fearful half-truth.
Legs Run, Heart Pump, Lungs Breathe.
This naff little mantra helped me through my first ever ‘long’ run of 14kms and it helps me now after 37kms to pick up speed and run 5 minute kms for the rest of the race. I feel wonderful all over. At 41 kms I approach a runner walking.
“Come on mate, one more kilometre. Its just one more”
I don’t look back to see if he has started running. The end is in sight. As I come across the line, the older kids run with me for a bit. My husband has not banked on my fast final five so he is off parking the car. He’s seen me coming as he has driven up to the Finish and stopped the car, yelling to the kids “go! Quick, get out now! GO!”
The clock says 4:30:47. I have done it, with one hour and 13 seconds to spare. I stop at the drink station, the first stationary drink at the drink station. The kids are looking at me, the woman volunteering (one of many wonderful volunteers) watches me as I take a drink. I have a sip and burst into tears, alarming the kids. I manage to say “I am so happy” and with those four words there is an ocean of unspoken words that somehow gets conveyed to my little crowd. The lady at the drink station cries too.
The kids look pleased but a little embarrassed. How ironic that even as I finish the marathon I am still able to embarrass the kids.
“Then the time came when the risk it took to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom"
– Anais Nin
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