ReCycling

Today, for the second time in as many weeks, I rode my bike to work. 

This, it should be noted, is not anything of which to be particularly proud.

Firstly, my house is a 10km straight shot, on an overall downhill trajectory, from the office, along well maintained and highly trafficked separated bike lanes, and I am provided with excellent "end of trip" facilities, including a hot shower, when I arrive. 

It's going home that's the problem. 

A problem that I, in my own fashion, decided to solve with the rigorous application of a) money and b) technology.

In December last year, we went to visit some lovely folks of our acquaintance in Brisbane, and I found a delightful organisation that would rent us e-bikes for a WEEK for a very reasonable price. We spent a solid week, zipping up and down Southbank in a wonderful fashion, and I came home convinced that I needed one. 

A few weeks idly refreshing Facebook Marketplace, and I POUNCED on one that met the brief. Since then, we've notched up a couple of hundred kms, exploring some of the city's most lovely bike paths, including some up in the hills, and one down to the beach. 

And one, dear reader, that leads from my office to home. 

A Mother of a Day

The karting appeared to be so much fun, that immediately upon finishing, we booked to go again the next day. 

The evening at the pub went off without a hitch, although with the addition of several glasses of excellent cab sauv and one of a mediocre pinot noir. 

The next day's adventure commenced with tidying and exiting the accommodation, a lovely place by the beach, to which I inadvertently donated a delightful bottle of sangiovese when I left it in the pantry. We moseyed up the road to try to find a hot chocolate at the Chocolate Factory. Unfortunately, in today's industrial relations environment, the Oompa Loompas apparently don't start until 10, so it was a quick u-turn to a local cafe. 

Then, dear reader, we hit the track. 

It should be stated at the outset, that I had a single goal for the session, and that goal was the completion of a sub 50 second lap. It may be suggested by some that this goal may have resulted in some.. assertive driving on my part, which may or may not be characterised as... less than polite. An accidental shunt into the smaller member of the party, would, in some jurisdictions, have resulted in a Black Flag.

Let it be a lesson, however, to those of us considering such practices, that the outcomes of such an approach were limited to 50.167, most definitely not worth the reputational damage that results from this strategy. 

The karting complete, we headed back up to town, into the whirling vortex of Mother's Day traffic on Melbourne's major arterials. Elly was driving, and she artfully threaded her way through the legions of kamikaze idiots, to deposit our guest at his house, (finding time to duck past a florist to ensure he didn't arrive empty handed). 

Then a rapid series of stops to pick up a dog and drop off a kid and a dog and find a bottle of rose (I can't work out how to make it do the thing but this was wine not some flowers in a bottle I want to make that clear), and then we went to visit my mum. 

Kartography

 We're at Philip Island this weekend; a place I've been many times, but never feel a particular association with. It seems like there are many other people, my partner included, who have a kind of innate understanding of this place; a deep, visceral connection to it, which brings with it a comfort and belonging.

That being said, she went the wrong way out of the supermarket car park to go back to our rented house, so perhaps it's not that deep.

We went go-karting. I wasn't sure how well the wee man would cope with the physical effort involved, but he was right into it, and had such a great time we rebooked for tomorrow as we were leaving.

Wee man's mate, who is with us for the weekend, was clearly rueing his decision to journey to Phillip island in the winter in shorts. We made a mercy dash to a surf shop and he's now safely ensconced in a pair of actual pants.

Dinner at the pub with friends tonight, we're back at the house for "quiet time". The boys are playing switch sports and I'm lying on the bed, seriously considering a nap. Tough life, right?

Challenging Times

The challenge, naturally, sets out to be, well, challenging. Every day in May, (although slightly truncated by dint of the club meeting on the 4th), we are required (ok "required" might be stretching it, it's a challenge not a directive), to put words to paper. 

I'm often struck, in my professional life, by people coming to me and telling me, on being assigned a writing task, that they're "not a writer". I smile, then, because despite near on 25 years of being paid to put words onto paper (although scant few missives from me actually land on dead trees these days), I don't know that I consider myself one either. 

I have friends who make a living, writing books. Actual books, with titles and blurbs and pages and plotlines. I've always thought of them as "real" writers, and of me, well, I say "mechanically pretty good, I've got a few chops". 

I've been waiting, you see, for the story to arrive. 

Now, at 40 *cough* years old, I'm starting to wonder if maybe the stories have been walking past, and I just haven't been seeing them. 

 

Aged Pumpkin

I was reminded, just yesterday, by The Pumpkin, on the occasion of his 17th birthday, that this thing exists at all. 

I was struck, last evening, by a challenge from a social group I attend, to write a journal every day of May in 2022. 

These two occurrences, by dint of association, led to this morning's "I wonder what will happen if", during an idle phase, between coffees and during the assessment of the piles of work on one's desk, pondering what will make up the morning's work. 

So, to that end, I wonder what will happen.