Running about thinking

Next week, we'll go back to funny.

11 years ago, just before moving to London, I was freelancing about my hometown, Sydney.

I had a nice rhythm where I’d do a bit of work in regular above-the-line agencies like Whybins and BMF, a bit of dry-but-clever political stuff with the late Neil Lawrence, then a bit of my own writing that barely, if ever paid. I went into offices sometimes, but often I’d just sit at home or in a cafe typing away.

Every afternoon when I finished I’d go for a run, variations of a regular circuit from Oxford St, around Mrs Macquarie’s chair and back. I’m not sure how far it was. I never recorded it. Seven or eight kms?

Ever since, I’ve associated this period as one of the happiest in my life. I’d always put it down to the independence of freelancing, the joy of writing about pubs, the relatively low cost of living and the freedom and energy to go out drinking constantly and with little consequence.

Life was not perfect - we lost my wonderful cousin Rob to cancer and, of course, had all the regular unnecessary stresses and anxieties - but overall, the memories are mostly nice ones.

I’d always assumed that I ran every day because I was happy and free.

It never occurred that, maybe, I was happy and free because I ran every day.

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The Captain Cook, 2013

I’m out the front of the Captain Cook.

I stretch my hamstrings. A woman looks through the bin, talks to herself.

I run up Selwyn. Kids scooter the footpaths, parents supervise, drink from stemless Riedels.

I run past St Vincent’s. Patients wheel intravenous drip-stands toward outdoor ashtrays. Short-sleeved nurses laugh amongst themselves.

I run down Bourke. Clothes dry on fence posts, men sit on mattresses. A used syringe lies, upside down in a mostly empty Strongbow bottle.

I run past Boy Charlton. I squint my eyes and look across the dark grey water where dark grey sharks wait for dark grey clearance divers.

I run toward Circular Quay. On the foreshore people hold hands, compose sunset-tagged shots of the bridge and Opera House.

I run up the stairs at Macquarie St. The lights are still on at my former workplace and, in front of that, floats a party cruise.

I run back, through the city, up Oxford, to the top of my street.

I breathe, put hands on my head.

Sydney smells like dinner and humidity.

I squint my eyes, look up.

Street lamps streak out, stretch behind plane trees.

There are bats in the sky and chewed up berries on the road.

My hamstrings are fucked, but the rest of me feels fine.

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