To paraphrase Forest Gump, I ran, I just ran. It was a Sunday morning. My girl and I were due at my grandma’s place that day. Somewhere between getting home from my restaurant gig and waking up I’d decided to take my running up a notch. Why not run from Bronte to Seaforth? I’d been running for a few years, in fact all ’round Australia.
Wherever the band was, I’d set out and run each morning. Perth, Adelaide, Brisbane, Newcastle, I got a real good look at these places rather than driving. When you run, you see the town. Smell the air. Bondi Beach is no more spectacular than many other Australian beaches. You realised this running the miles every morning. There were more topless babes on Tamarama than the Gold Coast, I must say. And Fremantle is as boring as Townsville, for a runner anyway.
So once ensconced in Sydney, and having run the gauntlet from Bronte to Rose Bay each day, I was chafing at the bit. The enforced visit to the relatives in Seaforth gave me the idea. I lived with Jenny. She was the light of my life. I gave her the car keys and directions, and put on my running shoes. Bronte to Kings Cross was easy. As I hit William Street I wondered for a moment if I could find the right route. Surprisingly it’s well marked for walkers and crazy runners. Before I knew it I was on the Harbour Bridge. Segueing onto Miltary Road was also easy. I was almost on the home stretch.
Jenny drove past me at Mosman, waving from the old Ford. I almost caught her on the downhill run to the Spit Bridge. She beat me up Battle Boulevard, but as I hit the bridge I found a new spurt of energy. It was a sprint across the Spit, a more than capable run up Battle Blvd, and a triumphant slow walk down to the pool overlooking the harbour. The Tooheys Draught never tasted so good as I sat poolside overlooking the harbour.
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