Filmmaker, Adventurer, Public Speaker
Blog
What's my Gripe? (written July 2011)
Dec 02 2011
I drink an average amount of coffee. Recently, my 1-2 a day has gone though the roof. Granted, I’ve been in, at, close-to, or anticipating an airport and the people-stuffed cavities of all things air-travel for 20 odd days. For it, I’ve slept in fits and prolonged coma’s and covered (or at least the alien ships I’m travelling on) 44,000km’s. Mostly, I’m flying standby. I have to reinvent my route each sector, looking for spare seats, low listings and bulky planes with a higher incidence of no-show. No real down-time with caffeine needed to keep the itinerary ticking. I’m an outdoor contractor of sorts and it’s ‘hay time’, being the northern hemisphere summer (coincidently, in Iceland this expression would be used when things are bad- the summer grass’s having not sprung during the short season, meaning no hay for the winter and stockpiles then have to be used in the very months where grass is cut for bailing). It’s a time consuming/committing and shuffling affair that makes transit a tactical dance between service desks and ticket counters. I’ve cleared customs in 7 countries over 4 continents- a ridiculous schedule to attend a brief work commitment in the U.S, a bi-annual international conference in Europe and a guiding obligation to a group of walkers across a section of the Australian outback. More of a tea man, I’ve gone against my nativity, opting for the louder, visceral pumping effect of coffee to get me through. My bulging wallet of receipts tell me I’ve slid my thermal camping mug (440ml) over grubby, ubber, reclaimed, bespeckled, advertised, drip-trayed, wipable, (nearly always about 400mm wide), counter-tops no less than 32 times. Varying between flat-white (preferred) short-black, macchiato, latte, and in Pontefract (West Yorkshire), an absurdly strong ‘Irish’. All the usual suspects, even a few soy combos just for the novelty of tasting two beans go at it. Relatively new to the black stuff, I figure its giving me more of a kick in the pants than tea-totalling. I’ve swashed down a further 15 cups of ‘soup of the day’ and filled it with a medley of juice, water, cask wine, arching water-fountain splash, toothpaste spit and old apple cores. I’m not fussy. Bad, boutique, burnt, warm, dish-waterish, tide-out, skinned, plain bad, even American (just). I’m no connoisseur, just tight. When not used on the trail, in a kayak, canoe or up-righting a few pencils, the clunky blue mug is as important in my carry-on as my computer, toothbrush and spare undies. After 7 weeks abroad, the slick landing of a Qantas flight into Brisbane has me back on home soil, one leg away from being home. One more transfer lounge; one more haggle with the service desk for a boarding pass; one more transit coffee before I can flick the kettle at home. Drinking instead from a thin lipped porcelain job I gifted from my 15-a-day, tea drinking mother. Of coarse, once home, I’ll revert back this birthright fetish of tea. After such a heavy dose of distance, a tour de force of jet-fuel, a pocket full of worldly change, and so close to home I can almost smell the lawn, I find myself deeply pissed at the world. I know fully well that it’s because the coffee vendor- during my first attempt at a hot drink on home soil, wouldn’t use my camp mug. My patriotism for my landscape, our relaxed and genuine people, diversity, beauty, all down the drain with a categorical, albeit friendly, refusal to use my cup. What have I come home too? More-to-the point, do I deserve to be pissed off? After almost two laps of the world, my middle seats (standby), on a variety of aircraft, are responsible for an approximate 5.5 metric tones of CO2. I can’t help but compare this ‘barista experience’ to my previous 31 purchases. Europeans, who literally bath in coffee (one particular coffee festival in Italy has people sitting, bathing, face-masking in coffee products for a weekend of caffeine induced revelry) are served their particular brand of coffee experience, by university graduates. Engineers, nurses, actors, accountants- not baristas aka, wanker’s pretending to be anything but great coffee makers. I compare my terminal experience to the coffee stands, street vendors, uber bistros, train-stations, vending machines (where in Denmark beer is as prevalent in a vending machine as Coke- and it asks if you have your own cup!) café’s across dozens of cities, towns, ports, stations and streets. Not once, not even in the U.S, did I have my mug refused- not even close. A country so strangled with uncommon laws that I have to further screw the world with a take-away. Ahh, I sense you ask; do I have a righteous leg in the world to scream bloody murder after contributing half a dozen tones of CO2 into our earths lungs? Australia is the 14th largest, per person consumer of coffee. The Norges, Danes and Swedes are the top seed, drinking on average 10kg a year. According to the Australian coffee federation we average 2kg per person (adult) per annum. In cup terms, this is 2-3 cups a day- which if you do the math, means the beautiful people of northern Europe drink upto 15 cups of coffee a day (and still look like that!). I said to a good friend of mine once that I/we/you could do all the little things in the world- in terms of living an ethically abiding, swidden existence, only to book an 87 dollar flight to NZ to go bushwalking…blowing away the righteousness (and impact) of the whole thing. Maybe, to maintain my ethical status quo, hiking the hills that overlook my town is the only feasible, ethically moral piece of trail I should wander? Maybe, after saying this, I should stop writing? But this is not really my gripe, as I fear it reeks of being overzealous. No, it’s about the simple fact that here in Australia, so clinically and unabashed, something so beautifully reusable was refusable. It’s beginning- I think we fear, to shape our nation. I had to return to the coffee lady, who, as I mention was a very nice about her refusal. It turns out she is under explicit, direct orders from management. Overseeing this are several cameras and according to her “there are consequences if I made a coffee in your cup”. I needed further clarification. Was my mug dirty? No. Was it presentable? Yes. Would it fit under the beautifully spouted coffee beaks of the 4 bayed coffee machine? Yes. Did I expect to get all 440mm of capacity? No. And, the most litigious question of all; would I, having 70 degree c coffee and 80 degree c milk served into my alien vessel, get ill? Maybe, but most probably not. I’m willing to take that chance and wish the business’s would also, especially as the price of a typical take-away cup is around 12 cents and a sleeve of 100 is the paper equivalent of a 500 sheet ream. I’m finding this out as I bang away at my laptop in the airport terminal, ranting away, Google searching statistics, rates and organisations- continually shocked at the sheer amount of accessible information is available at my fingertips. My name doest get called.I don’t get a seat on the early flight. No longer in a rush, I opt for a thick mug of ‘drink-in’ and sit back down. Rant mode seems to ebb as the warm brown liquid slides down and melts in to my blood. What’s my gripe I ask myself? What’s the source all this ethical angst? Our shortcomings- it seems, our hypocrisy at the little things (reusable refusable coffee mug??!!) is an understandable but lop-sided anxiety. Our undoing is really the muddy footprints of unconscious undertakings; cars, air travel, urbanisation. More than the tip-toeing, frontline and overly peevish small things that- case in point, tend to makes us see red. As the musing continued, what started out as a rant against Australia, our uncommon litigiousness and the company-line coffee lady, has turned into a self sobering, critique of our worldly, large habits. My attention turned to my own actions, on a home front, grassroots scale, is fairly wholesome. But is it really? Am I making a difference with small, conscious fuelled actions such as lumping around a banged-up camping mug? Is it rational to ask that corporations, business’s, societies and individuals conform to greener, better, common sense laws and ethics? What is the equation- the actual outcomes, of our small, ethically sound motives in terms of the big picture? ‘Paging passaner Miles. Mr. Miles to gate 23’. I slide my coffee mug over the counter, rushing toward the gate. The aerobridge cuts me off from the ground world and stops my train of thought. I'm non the wiser after all the musing. Food, or coffee, for thought.A mate heads to Bussleton
Nov 23 2011
I’m writing this for a friend who recently, and profoundly, inspired me. Long time friend Luke Whitmore. Father of Oscar, husband to the lovely Tarryn, firefighter, teacher, coach, family man. A solid man. I did a speech at his wedding, car-pooled with him during uni days, drank copious amount of grog with him at pubs and backyards throughout our footloose years and have always considered him one of the most honest, down to earth characters in my close-circle. As much as a career man in his early 30’s, he is now a dedicated professional triathlete. Over the 8 odd years of triathlon, he has continued to get stronger, leaner, smarter, meaner and more easy-going. The plight of racing and training has seemed to dissolve the anxiety of continued mind and body upheaval that triathletes seem to be in constant search of. It’s a heck of a regime flogging the body 340 days a year, 25 hours a week. Especially with progression, always progression. Splits, segments, wattage, outputs, heart rate, lactic thresholds TIME. I guess you could say I’ve followed his progress. From short-course, club level competition, to longer, Olympic distance events, before stepping to the longer courses of half and full ironman. I’ve also been curb side at some of his most formative races; first half ironman, first full ironman, first Hawaiian/Kona, world championships. I’ve seen him suffer openly. I’ve see him look like he’s not suffering. I’ve seen transitions go ok, good and bad. I’ve seen how sucked-back someone’s eyes can get after a race. And how a hinged, flexing and extending two-part leg, within an hour or two of the finish line, conjoins as one. A polar opposite to the flowing, hinged, unstoppable bastion that it was only hours earlier. Truth is, I’ve always been inspired. Not to copy his feats, just to watch and bask and think, ‘By heck, what a nut. A marvelous, crazy nut amongst a whole bunch of equally nutty, amazing bastards’ vowing never to put my body through such rigor. Being from the same town, and me, not having fallen far from the tree (at least, after 10 seasons of falling far- far away, I now live in my grandfathers old house) he often comes home to see his parents. On Sunday, during such a visit, he called in for a run. Or rather, we met on the road between his parents and my house, turned left and headed for the hills. I’m in an op-shop shirt, billowing hat and slick, crack sided runners, odd socks, and shorts clearly too small. Luke is in a bright orange top, short-shorts that look like the hulk was wearing them, miraculously ripping in the right spots and now fit him perfectly, short anklet matching socks and blinging, bright orange, matching runners. His wrist makes a noise every few minutes and his right hand claws some gels. We jog for 50 odd minutes, talking about this and that, circuiting the dairy belt that rims the town. Pre warmed, Luke- ever so gently, slips into another gear. We head towards the high-point in the district, beaconed with transmission towers and flanking winery. I watch as he effortlessly produces 4 minute kay’s, then sub 4’s whilst going up, on dirt, in the growing heat. I tick along, not effortlessly, with no extra gear, salting my way towards chafe. I’ve been running or paddling for years and know what its like to be inspired. Hell, you need it to get places and get-up early and- here is the difference, to repeat the process over and over and over. A bottomless form of inspiration when there's always another level, another race. Luke seems to have this in spades. Splitting for home, we head our separate ways. His stride is still light. He looks amazing- built for running. I’ve never seen him look so set, so easy with his power. It is the product of 4am runs, whey-powder, advice, patience, hills, training progressions, trusting your self. Of logistical plotting for time between work, body, child, wife, family, the lawns. Midday rides across mountain pass’s and up snaking valleys, getting dropped, hurting (and doing the same a year later and not hurting- as much, and dropping your crew, revealing). Swimming amongst bombing kids and chlorine along an endless black line. It’s mostly very, very unromantic. Years’ worth of choices whittled into a machine of a body. I am, hands down, inspired by the sight. What he represents. Luke will race the ironman in Bussleton, Western Australia in 10 days time. I’d wish him luck but know fully well it has nothing to do with it. Luck suggests phantom unknowns, not eight years of toil and explicit scripting. I can imagine he’ll suffer. At the pointy end, pushing, it can be no less. I suppose its how he suffers- contently, angrily, aggressively, calm. After our run on Sunday, seeing what I saw, (even if only a laypersons take on elite performance), I'm vividly imagining, as if knowing, he's going to have the race of his life in Bussleton. For me, its been a swift kick in the pants to re-set my agenda. Maybe the hardest, and best thing you could ever give someone is a timely dose of inspiration? Thanks Whitt. Savour WA mate- swim, ride and run like the lucky bastard that deserves it.Continuing AAWT washup
Apr 06 2011
Today marks three weeks since I left the track. Flatly, I miss it. I still remember the lost trails, jungle thick re-growth, a shin twice as large as its opposite, driving rain, dusty heat- like yesterday. But it's waning, the vivid livingness of it- both good and bad. I am reminded, in my line of work, of 'life on the trail'. Several days ago, having dropped a group of international students at a trail head, I agreed to drive to the end point and walk back towards them, meeting half way. I started out walking, slowly at first, my left ankle still niggling with tenderness and poor flexion/extension. Beautiful single track, shaded and well marked turned around a brief escarpment. I couldn't help myself, raising a trot, I shuffled along the trail at barely a jog. I had never walked/run the track before. Unfolding was new trail, new trees new undulations. After two weeks of enjoying the flick of a kettle- or more accurately the hum of a trangia, in that moment, I missed the AAWT. On coming home yesterday, inbox full, I find several well wishing congratulatory messages. With brevity, most are short and simple, but several are more explanatory, detailing their message with their own situation or journey. Responding with personal motivations and drives, amongst others, are hinted at. An old school friend, bogged down in the midst of a PhD in Bangladesh was one in particular. I answered simply; 'Ultimately, it is easier for me to motivate the physical 'meat' of me, simply because I trust my body and my brain to drive it. The slog is broken down. No real tricks other than this; looking for the beauty in the small moments and small things in everyday life (like my mother in the garden. I once heard her have a conversation with a fruit tree. She was so impressed with its budding she felt up its limb like you would a child's forearm, beaming at its health). A PhD is a mountain of a project and needs fragmentation.' The AAWT, I mentioned, allowed little time to think of the next day. I had to live in the moment, or at least the day. The good moments take on a bit-part in the daily rigour of distance, body and time. Mostly little things stick out; finding an extra fig in my pack when particularly hungry, an elbow of tree shaped like a sun baking lady, a face off with a wombat- both gesturing the same way several times before bludgeoning past each other in the most inconvienint way, looking forward to needing to leak for a guilt-free 20 seconds of motionless. All moments of no more than a minute in 145 hours of running.' Maybe thats the point. You need a mountain to take notice of the rocks along the way, otherwise a rock is a rock- and not part of something bigger? Yet again, why can't the rock simply be great in its own right. Does a lap around the block have to turn into an ultra run across the mountains? Either way, jeeze a nice piece of trail can sure make life good. Some more thankyou's; Alan McCubbin of Next Level Nutrition www.nextlevelnutrition.com.au for nutritional wisdom and help in the lead-up. Icebreaker and Salomon- did I mention the gear? Simply the best running/adventure outdoor gear. Pat Kinsella, Chris Ord (seed planter), Ross Taylor, Luke Whitmore and Maggie for care-taking advice, Matt O'Keeffe, Monash University, Brian Wattchow and Ryan Teasel (covering my class's), Wynn Shooter (seed grower) Parks Vic, Mark DeFazio (summer spent together renovating and jogging) Lisa Logan and her mum (Diana Lodge Falls Creek) Outward Bound Tharwa (camping spot) Mum and Mos for Falls support- and lovely walk, Brett for setting a ripper camp each eve, Charlie and Li for everything (and bottle of French bubbly), Lesli for the jogs and home stretch, Jade and crew for abandonment, Dad for appearing at the finish line on no-sleep and Azzadine for coming along. To Jamie Magyar for continued support and several mountainous photo shoots.The AAWT Washup- the simple life of the track
Mar 19 2011
The simple life is over. Consider ultra running; the principle concerns of life are a broken down version of necessity. On any given day, the guiding forces of existence are; how the feet feel, how the body feels, how hydrated you are, how your fuel supply is, where you are and what time it is. Parameters surrounding this are; weather/heat/cold, trail condition(s), time and place relationship (certain distance/place at certain time of day will vary from day to day) and how well the head is doing; i.e, mental state. You couldn't care less about the rest of the globe- the shocking state of natural, political and economic affairs (Japan, Christchurch, Queensland, Libya...) It is all so far removed from the time and place(ness) of negotiating a large slab of largely unoccupied human landscape. The second-by-second transience of the day is all about footfall's. Finding the even ground between rock, puddle, tree, root- any form of trail infraction, that will propel the next limb to a similar safe landing. The consumption of it is mechanical and make the 10-12 hours go by with surprising speed. In all I met 3 end-to-end hikers. Phil, heading north (a lovely chap whom I'd met on the Great Ocean Walk last year) Li (American chap zooming along with ultra light kit and on-task for a super quick day count) and renowned ultra runner/adventurer Dave Byrnes, also alone and heading out for a quick 26 day north bound walk (I have since been in message contact with Dave and wished him all the best). Otherwise two day walkers heading into Valantine's Hut, a cross-country skier checking out the pre-snow trails on the north side of Mt. Jagungal and a tented, early morning head-showing from a guy on the north side of Mt.Speculation, brewing morning tea. An idle quad bike, sat in the middle of a bracken thick paddock near Taylor's Crossing- its' mount/farmer nowhere to be seen. There were some Parks people in the Mt.Nelse area, some 4x4 campers near the King Billies and a dozer driver and engineer clearing track near Black River. The busiest trafficed area seemed to be Baw Baw to St. Gwinear, but it felt like a rumour. I only saw their sticky footprints in the morning mud. You can count the people I saw over my journey on two hands and a foot. I am staggered at how few people were out there. As I sit here now, warm as toast, as comfortable as any man could possibly be, I am thrown- by choice I suppose, back into the world of complication. Work, dates, study, deadlines, bills, lawns, relationships, filmmaking- domestication and segmented life. It is wonderful, and nice to be home, but the juggle is somehow less empowering and far less selfish. Ultimately, you can't live an amplified physical existence in a by-the-minute environment for more than an intense burst of time (although this is a sliding scale for all of us, and in some ways depends on the task. As in, if the AAWT was twice the distance, your mental state would lock-in at least twice the time and thus- potentially, hold you through the project simply because thats the time required). The sheer consumption towards a single goal (in this case the rotunda beside side creek in Walhalla) may topple our natural equilibriums if we aim too big, or too fast, or too long. It seems I may have got it right in some regards. Asked in Walhalla if I could go on; I oohed and ahhed. I suppose I could. The body was ok, but the head, having driven for two weeks towards that grand little town was happy for an end point. To see the high pitched roofs, to smell the wood smoke, to taste the afternoon dew in the air- it felt like the closing of summer and the end to one long day.Finish of Alpine Run!!
Mar 18 2011
Yesterday afternoon at 4:45pm I ran into Walhalla, close to 700kms after leaving the fringe of Canberra, having left 14 days earlier. It feels good to be able to stop, to take a break from the headfirst drive, to sit. I am reflecting on the run now, drinking tea, watching the world news on mute. It was an incredible experience. Two weeks of simplistic, anxious, physically elevated existence in a whirlwind of forward momentum. Very little time to dwell or contemplate (although hap-hazard, broken sleep was the feeding ground for the build up of daily stress's). It is only now that I'm realising how manic you have to be to continually turn over the kilometres. The few times I fell; stumbling, slipping, clotheslined onto the ground, the first instinct is to stop- sleep even. But you can't- of course you can't. You tell yourself you're ok, propelling forward faster than before the fall, pissed-off at the incursion. The highs are as categorical as the lows. Running at dawn over Mt. Speculation and the Cross Cut Saw dropping in and out of the cloud layer was simply incredible. It felt like you could fall and not get hurt. The dark days of swampy bogs (Buenba hut site heading towards Johnies Top) and large tracts of overgrown trail are just as fresh in the minds-eye, but like all good stories, make the aftermath a little more satisfying. My pride is in the map and compass navigation of the track. I had no GPS and relied on the accuracy of both topographic (several scaled version) and guide-book representation- all of which (whilst often different) provided excellent. Like the adage suggests; get three sources and boil down to the common factors. Whilst my days were alone, I shared my evenings and breakfasts with my terrific crew; brother-in-law Charlie Showers and cameraman Brett Campbell. The boys were a wonderful help- Charlie a rock of support and kindness. Replacing Charlie through the Falls/Hotham days was was mum Cheryl and step father Warren. Whilst Charlie would return for some of the closing days (tough days over the Viking/Razor wilderness and overgrown sections leading towards the Baw Baw plateau) friend and physiologist Lesli Shooter came in at the 11th hour for the final few days, giving me left leg some solid attention and cooking up a storm. My heartfelt thanks to Li for her never ending support, (and final day run-in! magnificent) family and friends for their words of wisdom throughout. To Salomon and Icebreaker- what can I say, their gear is the best on the planet. If you don't run in wool you are a fool and Salomon trail shoes are the F1 for dirt, rock, river- the AAWT. More to come in days to follow. One heck of a run!Final week before the run
Feb 23 2011
A box of magnificent Icebreaker arrived via courier. The merino clothing is fine grained, smells natural and is brilliant in the heat or cold. Whilst they are indeed my leading brand supporter for the run, I'd advocate the stuff regardless- its simply the best active clothing on the planet. In other news, I (we) leave or Canberra in a week. Won't lie, excited about it. The 700 clicks is still a daunt, but the lack of any more round the block, up the same hills training has got me grinning again. On board as film producer is Brett Campbell of Melbourne- a wonderfully can-do editor/cameraman/producer whilst Charlie Showers, my good friend and brother-in-law will manage the mountain shoot/support. Off the wine/champagne for a few weeks, drinking only high-cal, boutique tasting beers instead. Not sure if legs are/will enjoy the taper period- as in the habit of actually turning them over. But the head and body certainly will.Alps training grind
Feb 01 2011
In any given day, you have to face your demons; when to run. If it's first thing in the morning, the first 5 minutes of groggyness is a complete con. You have to gee-yourself into action. It's a hard sell. Coffee, crap breakfast tv and a heaped bowl of museli is a better option and filling a water bladder- to slosh around on your back and head up a hill you're run a million times. From 10-4 the UV is nuts and not worth lacing up for, and the afternoon, well- you can always convince yourself to go in the morning. Not that I don;t like running. I love it. The daydreaming, the rythem, the prickle of air over sweaty limbs and the aftermath fatigue that makes you feel worthy of a few beers. Plus, it certainly takes you places. But when its all for training- to be somewhere else, it is ripe with an expiry date. Flogging over well trodden terrain gets a bit much- especially when you run to see new things. Seasons are one thing, but back to back to back summer days, regardless of small varieties in route, still have you marvelling or bemused at the same stuff. This is my world right now in the lead up to the AAWT run. I love the existence, but like the running circuits I've done to death, I look forward to the track itself. Not sure if the legs are ready, but my head is.