Saturday's balmy 36 degree cooking pot day offered 4 minutes of painful diversion. The Tom Flood sports centre where the league of shaved head egomaniacs aka the pro running fraternity of Victoria gather each year to blitz themselves around in a circle at dizzying speeds in pursuit of the "Black Opal" - a ten thousand dollar gem that can be held in your finger tips and represents the "richest" 400metre footrace in the world. The use of "richest" meaning the one with the biggest cash prize. Latterly I've diverted my energies away from the smoky shenanigans of that one lap wonder towards the "shard of coal" frontmarkers 800 and suffered a double portion of lactic humiliation.
Determined to aquit myself less dishonourably this year as it was my last outing of the southern hemisphere season I devoted the last three months to specific running sessions, supplement sucking, eating and diverse "exercises" with the aim of a glorious podium imitation of an orangeman, photos courtesy of Tommy Burke (the bandido with the SLR) and a short comic acceptance speech under the glittering spotlights.
I was second.
Determined to aquit myself less dishonourably this year as it was my last outing of the southern hemisphere season I devoted the last three months to specific running sessions, supplement sucking, eating and diverse "exercises" with the aim of a glorious podium imitation of an orangeman, photos courtesy of Tommy Burke (the bandido with the SLR) and a short comic acceptance speech under the glittering spotlights.
I was second.
