So what did everyone do this weekend?
I bet no one ran 13.4 kilometres up a giant mountain for charity, drank too much wine afterward then took Monday off work because they felt like they’d been trampled by camels.
My cousin has recently moved into a place 10 minutes down the road from me. This is good because she feeds me regularly and lets me harass her children. It’s bad because we drink vast quantities of wine after which she talks me into doing stupid things like the Arthur’s Seat Challenge.
I have not been to the gym in weeks because of the Stupid Itchies. My cousin smokes and has never exercised because she’s naturally as thin as a rail despite having had two children. It’s fair to say neither of us is Bernard Fanning (I know he’s not an athlete, I just like saying his name). When I tactfully pointed this out, her argument was: “we’re from PNG! Mountain climbing is in our blood!” So apparently, a drop of Melanesian genetics is like to transform you into Xavier Rudd. Who knew?
We didn’t get off to an auspicious start when we arrived late to the starting point. We had to grab a croissant, then we had to register, and as we were powdering ourselves in the loo we heard the countdown. Crap. We bolted out of the toilet and down the street, to find 2500 competitors disappearing steadily into the distance. We sprinted a good 200 metres down the Nepean Highway to catch up to the pace car and ambulance while the spectators cheered us on and made smart ass comments like “have you lapped them already?”
Seventy minutes later we stumbled over the finishing line. My cousin, being unaccustomed to the effects of exercise induced endorphins, was bouncing and pinging like a crack whore. “We made it this far! We might as well run back – it’s all downhill!”….at which point she fired back down the road, leaving me no choice but to drag my sorry, aching arse after her.
Sixty minutes later as we sat sweaty and lank in a Rosebud café, hoeing into meat pies like a pair of truffle pigs while the other patrons gave us nervous glances, I was pleased to see she wasn’t so chipper. We drove back to her house, demolished two bottles of wine in celebration and promptly passed out. I’m pretty sure that’s how Steve Moneghetti rolls.