Beach to Basin

It’s never a good idea to take a sleeping pill at 2am when you’ve signed up to run 9km in mere hours.

I’d gone to sleep all right but was woken at midnight by a twin who was upside down and back to front and all disorientated in bed.

After rearranging him I was padding back to my room when I remembered the impending event.

“Don’t switch your mind on, don’t switch your mind on,” I told myself.

Too late. Clammy dread shot through me and I was wired.

It had been eight years since I’d last run the Beach2Basin. Always one to come in nearly last at school cross country, running was never my thing. But I think it’s good to step outside the comfort zone now and again and I’d been proud of my 49-min score. In the years that followed, I’d come up with a last-minute excuse not to do it and hadn’t even run five kilometers, let alone nine (although I’m sure it used to be 9.4!)

Now I was keen to match my PB and interested to see if sitting in an office most of the day, as I did back then, with a run thrown in morning and/or night made one fitter than a mother on her feet all day who no longer exercises religiously.

Hubby signed me up sometime during the week before I had a chance to chicken out - he was probably sick of me being all talk – and I tried not to think about it after that.

So back to the early hours.

Counting sheep has never worked. The horrid sheep would start jumping too fast for me to keep up so, instead I lay there listening to the ‘weather bomb’ and trying every other trick in the book while resisting the urge to take a sleeping pill.

Finally two hour’s later, after watching the clock and counting down the hours with a sense of foreboding till I had to “perform”, I decided it might not hurt to take a quarter, just to knock me out without leaving me dopey the next day.

It didn’t and I was.

I fell asleep just before dawn and awoke late feeling like crap. The kids were already up and hyper with it.

With a thick fog hanging over me, I dragged my slothful self up and slovenly pulled on some running gear before dressing the kids.

I joined the masses at the start line and we were off. The running helped clear the cobwebs and I began to pick up speed.

Gridlocking during the Waimahanga Track slowed things somewhat and everyone came to a standstill waiting to cross the bridge single-file. Soon after I became aware of heavy breathing and a loud jingling noise behind me. It was hot on my heels and slightly disconcerting. After five long minutes of this, a long-bearded Neanderthal-looking fulla wearing a netting shirt with bells and chains lumbered past. Interesting.

It’s always funny passing kids along the way. Not having learnt to pace themselves, they shoot off, only to run out of steam and look up surprised to be passed by geriatrics further down the track.

But I cringe when I spot someone I know up ahead. Do you slink past and hope they haven’t seen you, or call a cheery ‘hello’, rubbing it in that you’re about to leave them in the dust? Then you have to keep up your pace in case they pass you again because then you might just end up passing them later on and you’ll have an involuntary race.

On and on I ran leaving the now-walking, heaving Neanderthal behind. I had to beat 49 minutes, or at least get the same time – and I’d be happy. Nine kilometers was definitely my limit, I decided. I only have one thing to say to people who put themselves through the torture of half-marathons and more – WHY?

I looked at my watch – there was three minutes to go and no way I would make it but then rounded the corner and noticed the finish line had moved closer than where it used to be.

With a burst of speed I went through the flags at 49 minutes to “Go Mummy,” from my small cheering squad. I stopped to greet them, then realised that was not quite the finish line. My body now hating me, I dragged it a little further through a second set of flags as the clock ticked over to 50mins.

Ahhhh well.

The finish line, on the canopy bridge resembled a ‘who’s who at the zoo’ scene but when you’re a red, hot, sweaty mess, gasping for breath with the dregs of an insomnia-induced haze hanging over you, you’re not in the mood to talk. I was keen to go before my muscles went into spasm and my legs gave out.

After hobbling around for the first part of the following week I was already vowing to beat my time next year but, by then, I’ll have a few things sorted - namely training and sleep. Getting the right finish line might help too.

Back to School

The Facebook pages were breathing a collective sigh of relief on Wednesday.

Almost every second comment on my Homepage read something like: “Yay, kids back at school. Phew, I made it!”

I’m not sure how I feel about it.

On the one hand, the job I have held down for the past six weeks as a referee is over. The fighting had become unbearable and my empty threats, along with the naughty corner, had long worn thin. Finally in the last week of holidays, after mum suggested I take something away they love, I cottoned on to a new form of punishment. Äs a result, teddy, rabbit and baby – their respective favourite cuddly toys – spent long hours sitting in their own “naughty corner”, on top of the highest cupboard in the kitchen.

This proved excruciating for they could see them but not have them.

Then one day Cadeyn decided Jai’s second favouite cuddly toy, lion, should join his own naughty teddy up on the shelf. Unable to reach, he threw him up in the air where lion disappeared over the top shelf and down the back of the gigantic fridge never to be seen again.

Cade’s teddy did an all-nighter on the shelf for that one.

So while I’m pleased that three bored kids are back into their kindy and schooling routines, I’m less than enthused about the pressure of deadlines.

This is made harder by the fact we are still living in limbo. Not knowing when the property we are looking after will sell, we kept the kids attending school on the other side of town intending to return there. So all this tripping across town makes for tight schedules, though we are constantly running late.

It’s very important to Cade that we get to school on time and, if I let it slip that we are running late, I cop a tirade of verbal abuse all the way there. He was particularly nervous this week so I made sure I got up extra early and even forewent my morning run to get it right.

But I stuffed up by not ordering his stationery on time. I don’t know what I was expecting when I parked outside the shop and ran in several weeks ago. But, having left the kids in the car, I obviously wasn’t expecting to be handed a list of 15 items such as “Clever Kiwi My Writing Book 2 Year 4 Plus, and 3F1 Limp Cover, Ruled 12mm, 32 Leaf Notebook”

Looking up from my list to the large shop spilling with random stationery I had no idea where to start. It was a hot day and I could already hear the kids fighting in the car so I left with the list, sans stationery, and ordered it instead online some time later.

By Wednesday it still hadn’t arrived and someone was not happy.

“But what will I write on?” he whimpered all the way to school. “Will all the other kids have their stationery? I don’t want to be the only one with no books!”

After dropping him off, I went home and found the stationery waiting on the door step.

This was when I checked my emails with some leading onto Facebook. In amongst the communal elation were photos of first dayers swimming in their new oversize school uniforms, accompanied by comments from weepy mums stating how fast their babies had grown. Some children had been clingy, others (like mine) had been happy to see their parents go. All the first-time mothers (and some fathers), I noticed at drop off, had been wearing sun glasses.

I suppose I should say something nostalgic here about how I will miss the kids but, while the holidays were fun, I won’t miss playing referee, they enjoy school and kindy and return home full of their news and actually happy to see each other. So early morning rush and verbal abuse aside, it’s more pleasant all-round.

Yes, I think I just caught myself breathing that mutual sigh of relief.

The Country

 The trucks and utes crawl through the gates and everyone turns in unison.

They are checking out what’s on board the trailers – the days goods – to be sold at the Maungakaramea Sale Yards.

In the beating sun, farmers hang lazily over the rails of pens inspecting the contents – pigs, ewes, lambs, steers, heifers and bulls, are among those going to new homes today. But sometimes there are chickens, ducks, rabbits, cattle dogs and once, I’m told, even a cat.

Amongst the 100-odd crowd, sitting atop his mobile scooter, is the man responsible for its origins – Murdoch Ross. He is constantly surrounded by a small crowd with others stopping by to pay their regards.

I am there with the children to buy three weaner calves to help keep the grass down in the paddock.

We’re townies and I’m sure everybody knows it.

After introducing myself to Murdoch, he kindly offers his help, should we need it. But friends of my dad have taken us under their wings to help with all things rural and they are here.

My dad would have known most of these farmers, and Murdoch. Until recently, he was the co-owner of a business centered around the farming industry which he started more than 30 years ago from a shed at our home. Obviously the farming gene eluded me and the sad irony strikes me, yet again, that he held the answers to the many questions I now have.

The children have named their calves the night before. Cade’s is James, after the train (?), Jai’s is Chocolate and someone came up with the great idea to name Jayla’s Milkshake - which she latched onto - before they realised these are not dairy cows.

I am not willing to disclose who that person was. But like I say, we’re townies.

And we are learning.

After an hour of sifting through the stock, the auctions begin at midday.

With all the rain – and therefore grass – sheep and cows are in hot demand. Not like the droughts of recent summers. It’s not just animals being auctioned today either – sacks of wool and all sorts of random paraphernalia are being snapped up.

Things are moving along swiftly but the kids are now tired and, frankly, embarrassing me.

I leave the bidding to dad’s mate Roger. He’s a farmer from way back and knows his stuff.

Roger rolls up to our place 30 minutes later with our new babies – actually I do know they’re Friesian Hereford Steers - and they are shown into their paddock.

Cade claims the one with the eye patch.

“Why don’t you call him Pirate?” I suggest.

“Why don’t you call them Mince, Chop and Steak more like,” adds Roger with a chuckle.

I shudder, then take a photo of the kids with their new “pets” which I later show to a few family members.

“Make sure you don’t name them,” cautions one. “Else they’ll never make it to the freezer.”

Oops, too late. I fill him in on their new names.

“Possibly Barbi, Roast and Hangi may have been easier all round. Never mind, I'll happily come for a “Milkshake” on the spit in a couple a years,” he jokes.

As Roger’s wife Teresa says, the life and death aspect of farming gets easier with time.

Anyway, it hasn’t put me off. Next time, I’ve decided I’m buying chickens so have been scrounging around the property for timbre and netting for the coop which hubby doesn’t yet know he’s building. Cade has also put in an order for a pig.

I’m not thinking about what will become of our new calves, or the chickens and pig – I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Heading for greener pasture.