The race at Bendigo and a phone call from Davey's forever home.

We had two women's teams and three men's teams competing in the Harcourt to Bendigo relay. I ran the third leg in Division 5 (plodders), a relatively flat 7.5 kilometre section from the end of the water race to Sedgwick.

The water race segment goes through a restricted area, normally open only to the local water authority. It is hilly and rocky. I climbed one of the hills to see if I could see the runners approaching. From high up I could see them snaking through the valley like ants. I scampered down again to wait for them to come through.

Soon the first runner came into sight down a rocky path through a kind of gorge. It was S., our leading female runner, ahead by over two minutes from the next runner (the women started first). S.'s effort turned out to be a course record for that leg. Soon, my runner came through, we slapped hands and I was away. We had to beat the Coburg team which was just ahead of us on the ladder. Their runner edged past me half way through our leg, got out to about fifty metres. Close to the next changeover he was just twenty metres ahead and then shock! he took a wrong turn. I sprinted past him to the changeover, slapped D's hand and urged him on.

Once again, we were passed by the Coburg runner and then, horrors - at the second last checkpoint, our runner wasn't ready. He was still dragging off his tracksuit and lost a few precious seconds. In the confusion, D. fell badly, grazing himself in several places.

But we had M. as last runner, and he has a kick like no other. He 'sat' on the Coburg guy for most of the way and then turned on the gas and sped away for a win by 100 metres at the finish which was a lap of the Bendigo Athletics track.

Our division seven team also had an easy win, while our top team lay in fourth place until the athletics track when our runner out-sprinted the Geelong runner to pick up bronze. The women's team silvered in division 1 after leading for most of the 48 kilometres.

Then it was time to eat.

*

When we arrived home we had a phone call from Davey the foster greyhound's new home - he has settled in well and is getting along famously with their other dogs. That's great news. I'm looking forward to the next foster.

Racing at Bendigo.

The annual 48 kilometre relay from Harcourt to Bendigo is on tomorrow. Looks like I'm doing the 'Hogan's Road' leg of 8.6 kilometres. Never run that before, but some of the others are horrendous.

Two years ago I ran the third leg which was five kilometres on a flat road then five kilometres uphill, all the way. Last year I had the water-race leg which was a fascinating experience. It runs along an open concrete 'water race' which is basically a sluice - they used to call them aqueducts in roman days - to carry water from a catchment area to Bendigo, the only city in Australia NOT TO HAVE BEEN BUILT ON A WATER SOURCE! Isn't that amazing? They built a city with no source of water! The reason is that Bendigo grew up around the gold diggings in the Gold Rush of the nineteenth century. It was a 'dig for gold' area rather than a 'pan for gold' area like Ballarat.

Right. History out of the way. So last year I ran along this acqueduct thing that they open up occasionally to send thousands of gigalitres of water into Bendigo. T. is running this leg tomorrow.

The relays end at the Bendgo Athletics Centre and then afterwards we are having a giant afternoon tea at L's house in Bendigo.

Lookin' forward to it.

Here's a picture of T. in the last race two weeks ago at Bundoora. The threatening rain clouds did not eventuate, the sun came out and it was quite a nice day despite the cold southerly.

Davey's off to his forever home tomorrow.

They usually go through at least two or three foster home experiences, but Davey the foster Greyhound is off to his forever home tomorrow after having just one foster home.

Going to be hard to let him go.

He's going to a house with (a) two cocker spaniels, (b) a poodle and (c) a nine year old boy.

Yep. Davey's going to be just fine.

Goldie's going to be lonely again. Until the next foster 'hound comes along.

Soon.

A long walk on a Saturday afternoon.

We have kept Davey the foster Greyhound for a further week and spent this past weekend at the beach.

Saturday was bitterly cold yet again. The dogs were up for a big walk and we set off at around one 0'clock after an early lunch. We made our way through the streets of Rye and found ourselves at the beach after probably 30 minutes or so.

All the while Goldie the Brittany was pulling hard on the leash while trying to sniff every tree, bush, shrub, fence post, you name it, stopping suddenly one minute, then tearing off at a hundred miles an hour the next, just about pulling our arms out of their sockets. (She is truly a terror to walk. It's not her fault, Brittanies were bred to flush, retrieve, point etc. They love nothing better than to tear about the fields searching out smells. Walking down the street on a leash is not in the Brittany list of favourite instincts.) However, Davey was happy to lope along happily beside us.

So we arrived at the beach and of course I immediately released Goldie to tear off in sheer doggie joy, a ginger and white flash against the white sand and grey winter sky.

(The beach here is still dog-friendly. When the last beach is banned from having dogs run free, I'm moving to Mars.)

We walked several kilometres along the beach and the sun came out. It actually got quite warm. Goldie ran in and out of the water and even Davey splashed along in the shallows.  I guess we'd been going for about an hour, so we stopped for a rest on the sand. Several other dogs and their owners happened by and all the dogs had a good sniff.

Soon we walked up the beach to the Blairgowrie shops. There were a few late lunchers at the cafe, but no sign of Frank the Fat Dog. Probably home in front of the fire.

We walked back home through the hilly streets of Blairgowrie. Davey was tiring but Goldie was still pulling like mad.

They each got a nice bone to chew in the weak winter late afternoon sunshine.

 

 

Davy's assessment.

We have to do a dog assessment on our foster greyhound, Davy. We're his first foster home and the assessment, along with those from two further foster homes, will help place Davy in his 'forever' home. Of course, we want him to go to the right home.
 
But we don't want to 'oversell' him, if you know what I mean, so that he ends up in just any old home. He will need care and attention and the right treatment. A well-fenced house, lots of company and affection, and quality food. Most of all, company. There is nothing sadder than a lonely dog. They are pack animals and without the pack, they are miserable. I personally regard leaving any dog (that been brought up in a pack situation) on its own as borderline cruelty.
 
He's really a perfect dog. Doesn't need a lot of exercise, just a couple of walks morning and night (will cope with more of course). In fact, our Brittany needs fare more exercise than most greyhounds do. It's a complete misconception that they need heaps of exercise.
 
He is fine with children (we had a house full of them the other night) and is sociable with other dogs (except for the tiny chihuahua in a knitted vest he saw the other day, it seriously looked like a rat wearing a coat).
 
He walks well on the lead, travels happily in the car, and is happy to lie around the house when he's not doing anything else.
 
He learned well - his first day with us, he couldn't even climb stairs and he 'shied' at the television. Now he strolls around the house as if he owns it.
 
He is clean, doesn't smell and doesn't shed a great deal at all. He eats everything he is given. We totally should keep him ourselves. Like we did with Billy.  (We'd have a hundred and one  greyhounds if we did that. Although I can think of worse things!)
 
I hope he finds a wonderful home.

Race day and the weather is not looking good.

Here's the forecast.
 
'Strong and chilly southerly winds, squally during showers.' Melbourne's chilly wind is notorious.
 
Not looking forward to the Victorian 12 k cross country championship. It's going to be like running through the Scottish highlands with a glowering sky and a chill wind cutting through us. Might have to wear gloves.
 
It's on in three hours.
 
We just decided to leave the dogs at home, they have a warm shed complete with a sofa and blankets. The lap of luxury, really. They've just had their chicken frames and their cooked mince. They'll go and sleep it  off while we're gone. Then we'll walk them when we get home.
 
If it's not raining.

Sandown road relays.

Back to Sandown Raceway for the road relay championships last Saturday.

We've had some wild weather conditions at Sandown over the years but the wind blowing into your teeth down the back straight was the strongest I can remember. Added to that, the back straight is an uphill stretch for five hundred metres. At least the sun was shining.

We had to run two laps of 3.1 kms each. The guys running earlier legs were saying don't worry about the rest of the course, just try and stick with someone up the back straight into the wind.

Tom started our division, handed over to Theo who passed onto to Tony and then me. Sure enough, it was a cruise until the wind hit as you turned left at the base of the hill climb. When I reached the hill on the second lap, I glanced around and there were several runners running single file directly behind me for protection from the wind.

Our first three runners had built a lead of over two minutes giving me the luxury of anchoring the team to an easy victory. It was only division seven but a win's a win, right? We also had teams in divisions one and three and two women's teams as well. Tracy ran her best time ever in her second relay for the team.

Afternoon tea followed the warmdown - Seth from SF brought along a bunch of US candy - 'Watchamacallits' - and there were cakes, fruit and other yummy things. That's the best part of a race meeting.

Davey tried some parmigiano reggiano.

He loved it.

OK, it was just a small sliver. And usually we buy the local product, but occasionally, the imported stuff comes home in the shopping bag. Just occasionally.

And occasionally, the dogs get a little taste. They love cheese.

Davey the foster greyhound has been with almost two weeks and has visited:
(a) the beach
(b) a coffee shop
(c) Sunday lunch at relatives
(d) the running shoe shop where the man who works there owns a greyhound and thoroughly enjoyed Davey visiting.

So his socialisation is coming along just fine. And he gets along fine with Goldie, the 12 year old Brittany.

He is a table surfer, however. Not aggressively so, but if he happens to be passing by the kitchen (as you do when you're a dog) and if a plateful of buttered bread happens to be the counter (as it frequently is); well, you just help yourself to a slice, don't you?

(They are so gentle in their actions, they just kind of glide by - and in one seamless movement, they pick up the item of food and keep walking.)

Then he came back the other way and took the next piece. Yum!

We tried him with a piece of apple. He kind of crunched it a bit, with a thoughtful expression, then ever so gently, spat it out!

Deadly surf complete with battering rams. Scary.

I couldn't run with shoes on at the weekend because of a massive blister on my heel, due to stupidly wearing a new pair of running shoes without socks.

I thought, some salt water will help it and I can enjoy a barefoot run on the beach.

So I went to Portsea 'back' beach (Portsea is on a very narrow peninsula with a gentle north-facing bay beach, ideal for swimming, on one side and one of the most dangerous ocean beaches in the world on the other).

Man, was it wild! The tide was in and the waves were washing right up to the top of the sand. The beach has quite a severe rake and so that when the tide is in and you on are the beach, the waves appear to build up several storeys high - they tower over you, it is quite frightening. (This is the area where Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt was drowned on a solo swim in 1967.)

There were not many people on the beach, just a few rugged up in coats, scarves, hats, boots, gloves etc. Fails me how you could actually walk along whilst in that get-up. It wasn't that cold, maybe 10 or 11 degrees - Celsius. Plus there were a couple of kids scampering about with some dogs.

It was late afternoon and the heavy black clouds were occasionally broken by flashes of sun which reflected off the water to create a kind of blinding light diffused by the spray. You know, like the apocalyse.

So I'm running up the beach imagining the apocalypse, with giant waves breaking and threatening to wash me out to sea. I ran to one end of the beach, then to the other end - the stretch is bookmarked by rocky caves which jut out into the water.

While I was running, I saw three or four huge timber posts being washed in further along the beach. You totally would not want to be in the way when those babies came barrelling through the surf like battering rams. They were about ten feet long. (Actually, there is a mention in one of the links above about the possibility of PM Holt having been hit by flotsam and jetsam. Or one of the two, I can never remember which is which!) By the time I reached the logs, they were sitting there motionless on the sand and I nimbly leapt over them.

The run was probably only about six kilometres all up, but hard work sinking into the sand and dodging tidal waves. Then I stripped off my T-shirt and ran into the foaming water. But not too far!

And then home to a hot bath.

How do you socialise a greyhound? Take him out for coffee.

Took the dogs to the beach for the weekend. We don't have steps at home, but there are steps at the beach house.

Davey managed to walk up into the house, but later, wouldn't walk down again. Tried gentle coaxing, but no deal. After a while, I bent down to his level, physically lifted his forelegs with my hands and placed them alternately on each lower step. And so we made it to the ground, (the back legs followed naturally if a little awkwardly. Effusive praise followed. They are fast learners, so no trouble with steps after that.

First, we went to the beach. It is always exciting to take a dog to the beach when you are not sure of whether they have seen water and waves before. Some of the foster dogs we have had in the past have been terribly frightened of waves (at first).

Davey was fine, but he's very curious and spends more time glancing around than looking straight ahead. Goldie tore on ahead, wearing her best Tartan coat.

Then it was time for some socialisation. Where better than the Blairgowrie cafe? It was a bright, sunny morning so there were lots of people out. We found a table and immediately some children came over and started petting Davey, while a couple of fifty-something English ladies, clearly dog-lovers, admired him and asked how long he had been out of 'captivity'!

Meanwhile, Frank the Fat Local Dog walked around looking for tidbits and various other dogs sat by their owners' tables. Goldie sat, watching.

Davey enjoyed the attention. And lots of people got to see how gentle and well-accepted the greyhound was. It is not always the way. After all, a very large brindle dog wearing a muzzle (legally required until the fostering process is finished) can sometimes give a different impression to that conveyed by, for example, a cute ball of fluff Shih-Tzu wearing a pink ribbon and sitting on its owner's lap.

Of course, Davey's Burberry coat helped. You should have seen him. What a sight.

Then it was enough socialisation and back to the beach house for a Very Large Bone each, enjoyed in the sun in the backyard.

Davey the Greyhound's first night.

Davey arrived yesterday. He is a big, friendly Greyhound, fawn brindle. Davey is only three and his racing career recently ended.

We had a look at his papers. Davey's winnings were $75. For some reason, I don't know why, reading that makes me sad.

$75.

The poor dog. A princely, aristocratic, noble, elegant masterpiece of nature, and he's tossed out because he only earned $75.

Anyhow. Last night was the first time he spent in a house in his life (as far as we know). It certainly appears that way. He is unfamiliar with everything in a house. He jumped when the TV was turned on. He was fascinated with the curtains.

Goldie the Brittany was all over him, jumping around like a pup.

Apart from being unfamiliar with domestic surroundings, Davey was quite calm and serene, as most Greyhounds are, and slept on his allotted soft mattress most of the night.

A couple of times, he woke, walked into the bedroom, went to the window, poked his head behind the curtains, had a look out, then went back to bed.

In the morning, we took him for a walk to the shop to get the paper. He bounced along enthusiastically, wearing his greyhound coat in the cold morning air.

Davey will stay for three weeks. Then he will go to two further foster homes and, after he is assessed, will be put up for adoption.

The running week.

After the Victorian 15k road race last Sunday morning (how I hate running on Sunday mornings!) spent a pleasant afternoon at Thomastown indoor pool, with plenty of time in the spa and steam room.

Still a bit sore on Monday, so jogged around Princes park in biting cold conditions, then backed up on Tuesday with the group for a session of three ten-minute hard runs with a three minute rest break in between each.

Wednesday in the gym, then back to Princes Park on Thursday - with my new ASICS DS trainers (man, those shoes are light, I felt like I was flying!) - for a session of six 600 metre surges. Right heel started feeling a bit hot towards the end. Jogged back to the university track, took off the shoe and, oh my, a giant blister - the inner of my clean new shoe was soaked in blood. I hate that.

I'm taking the weekend off. Maybe get into some salt water.

A greyhound is coming to our house on Thursday.

We will be fostering Davy, a brindle male, three years old, for three weeks. He has failed his racing career and would be a candidate for death or Asia were it not for the Greyhound Adoption Program.

It will be his very first experience in an actual house, having lived in kennels. That's correct, three years in kennels. He will be fostered in three different households by volunteers to help him get used to living with people (and other pets) in houses.

When they first go to a house, they shy at stairs, do not see glass (be careful with glass doors) and are generally unfamiliar with many other aspects of being a domesticated animal.

I will let you know how Davy gets along.

Running through winter.

What's colder, a south-westerly off Bass Straight (one of the roughest stretches of water in the world) or a northeasterly off the Victorian Alps?

Last night it was the wind off the snow. I could feel it 'burning' my cheeks as I ran north along Sydney Road as part of an 8k run including a lap of Princes Park. Brr.

The problem with Melbourne's weather (if it is a problem, which it probably isn't) is its unpredictability. Most really cold places have a predictability that allows you to accurately know what to wear or pack. Melbourne's weather can turn from one extreme to the other. One summer we were running in 42 degrees celsius (100-plus in Fahrenheit) when a cool change reduced the temperature by 24 degrees to just 18 celsius in thirty minutes.

Equally, in winter, a bitterly cold wind can spring up, making the wearing of several layers necessary. So it's possible to be caught out without hat, gloves or rainproof jacket.

Well, we have passed the winter solstice and the days get longer from now on.

When I got home, Goldie was bouncing around like a new pup, ready for a walk. She walks rain or shine. Not like poor Billy, who would dig his heels in at the sight of a wet footpath. We miss him very much.

Goldie fails to execute perfect left turn at full speed.

Goldie the Brittany is losing control of her rear legs when doing something like a full-stretch run along the hallway with a hard left leading towards the back door.

Mid-turn, her rear legs flop, failing to achieve traction on the polished floorboards, and she falls over before scrambling into position for a straight-ahead surge at the door.

Of course, if she walked delicately, this wouldn't happen. But Brittanies don't walk delicately, so this is an unachievable hypothetical.

The only solution so far is to move the persian rug from the bedroom to the hallway. It doesn't really 'go' there but it gives Goldie adequate traction, even if she does move it slightly each time she tears past. I'm forever now straightening it up.

Oh well. Can't have a dog falling over all the time. Off to the vet this week to check it out. Hope it's not serious. Already lost one pooch this year.

I'm sure it's just a touch of arthritis. She is 12, you wouldn't think so to look at her.

The dreaded 'double pyramid' .

Sounds like some weird instrument of torture.

It is.

It was a cold and windy night at the university track.
Goldie the Brittany watched from her warm position amongst the tracksuit tops under the judges' stand as we 'warmed' up.

The 'pyramid' is a training session where you run intervals of increasing distance, and then go 'down the other side' - like a pyramid. In this case - after a long warmup and stretching exercises - we ran a 200, 400, 800, 1600 (the metric mile), 800, 400 and 200 with two minutes rest in between each repeat.

Then we did it over.

Then it started raining. Then we packed Goldie into the car and drove home to a warm bath and a warm house. And a hot dinner.

Down the coast.

Three day weekend at the coast. As if we didn't walk around all day, we had a run on Sunday night as well.

Started at Rye pier about 4.30, running up the coast along the foreshore to Rosebud. About 13k round trip. Back at the start in the darkness, I peeled off my running gear and plunged into the bay at the end.

My, that water was cold! Makes you wonder how anyone survived those shipwrecks all those years ago. It's not as if they'd run 13ks to build up a sweat.

Cold, dark, muddy.

We met at the track and jogged over to Princes Park near Optus Oval. A long warm up and lots of stretching then the session: 6 x 1600 metres, around the top of Princes Park, along the muddy inner track, finishing at the opposite side of the park, with a 300 metre jog back to the start in between each.

It's a killer session, one you don't want to do too often. Times from 5:55 to 6:05, with the last one in about 5:50.

Just had two fairly easy runs at the weekend, about 8k on Saturday and about 12k on Sunday. Still a bit sore from the killer session and trying to run the soreness out. It's hard in winter. Need some sunshine.

This is, like, impossible.

The guy, Bekele, has run 60 second quarters for an entire five kilometres.

Well, a couple seconds over. 12:37.35. That's 7.35 seconds.

That is flying. As Craig Mottram said, the guy is off the planet.

How ironic - Bekele is not even running that distance at Athens, he's running the 10,000.

Bring it on.

Racing to afternoon tea.

In the cold winter sunshine on Saturday afternoon T. lined up for the Victorian 10k Road Racing Championship - her first race as a fully-fledged registered club runner.

Sure, she's done the odd fun run and she jogs around Princes Park. But competitive running is something else. It doesn't have to mean coming first or even fiftieth, it's enough to take part in an organised race.

The nerves beforehand were something to see! Butterflies verging on upset tummy, worried about coming last, worried about sore ankles, wanting to pull out just before the race. I'm so cruel, I just laughed.

The venue was the motor racing circuit at Sandown racecourse. Three and one third laps. Bang! The gun went off and they were away, a field of about two hundred. As they ran anti-clockwise down the main straight past the grandstand I walked a lap of the circuit clockwise - with Goldie the brittany rugged up in her tartan coat - and watched the field coming towards me after one lap, then two, the three.

T. stopped the clock at just over 53 minutes, an excellent first-up effort.

Then it was the mens' race and T. took over minding Goldie while I ran, our team of fifteen being the best turn-out in some years. The total field was three hundred or so. It's a great course, the curves all meld into one and the laps are over before you know it. The sun shone weakly, reflecting off the asphalt surface and creating quite a glare.

Then the finish line was in sight and I sprinted to the line, remembering the club mantra we had recited before the start: 'The faster you run, the faster you get to eat Boston Bun!'

And after a quick warm-down and stretch, we set into our afternoon tea spread with gusto.