Half marathon

The day after my flying lesson I crossed another thing off my bucket list - a feat of endurance that took weeks of preparation. Something that- yep, you guessed it from the title, I ran a half-marathon.

I was never interested in running before I came to Australia. The most running I'd ever done was at school, trundling along at the rear of the pack in cross country races. I wasn't the most athletic of kids. I found sports in general really boring. I never even learnt to throw a ball over-arm properly, because I wasn't paying attention when the PE teacher showed us how to play cricket. This led to immense difficulties filming the coconut shy scene in my first music video.

As a grown up, I felt a burning desire to prove my strength and fitness. My former boss, Chris, took up running and suggested I enter the City to Surf competition last year. This is a huge annual fun-run in Perth that stretches 12 kilometres from St Georges Terrace to the coast at City Beach. Tens of thousands of participants enter. There are also half-marathon and marathon events taking place on the same day for long-distance runners.

I trained for several weeks beforehand, gradually building up from 20 minutes' jogging on a treadmill (stopping to stretch every five minutes) to a 10 kilometre route around the Swan river (widely known as the bridges run) and finally to 12 kilometres on the treadmill. I kept the speed low, around 8-9 kilometres an hour, and broke up the tedious treadmill sessions by varying the incline from 1 degree to 3 degrees periodically, to mimic road conditions. Fortunately I could do this at home, as Sharon (my housemate and landlord) let me borrow her treadmill. My fitness levels improved greatly and I felt that the training (3 to 4 sessions a week) was going well.

I completed last year's 12k run in 78 minutes and 37 seconds, which isn't super-fast, but pretty good for a first-time runner. This year I decided to go one better and train for the half-marathon - 21 kilometres, or 13 miles. I'd left it late, and had just 4 weeks until the race to train. Chris emailed me some detailed instructions which I really appreciated. "4 weeks is tight but if you set a training plan and stick to it you will be fine," he said.

Knowing I could run 12k was a huge confidence boost - last year that had felt like an impossible distance. After a few jogs around the park, I decided I was ready to make the leap to the 10k bridges run. This became my regular training route, 3 to 4 times a week.

People slag Perth off for being a boring city (me amongst them) but the views as you run around the river, from the Narrows bridge to the Causeway, are breathtaking. You don't know Perth until you've been for a run around the river, seen the relaxed pace of life and smelt the briny air blowing straight in off the Indian ocean. The facilities for runners and cyclists are world-class.

Soon, I needed to increase my distance above 10km, so I found a route which would take me all round the river from the Narrows bridge up to Burswood. The estimated distance was 13.5km - a nice step up but nothing too strenuous. When I attempted the run everything went well, but it took me a very long time to finish. I checked the pedometer app on my phone when I returned to the car and discovered I'd just run 16km!

So my training was suddenly ahead of schedule. My knees felt a bit stiff during the run but remarkably I felt fine the next day. Things looked very promising. I was entering the realm of crazy night-time joggers.

With race day only a fortnight away, I decided to increase my distance again. I planned a route that took me along the Swan river from the Causeway to South Perth, then 3-4km south along the Canning river to the Comer Reserve footbridge, back up the way I came, over the Narrows bridge, along the Perth foreshore and back to the Causeway. I estimated this to be 18km, but when I finished my pedometer told me I'd run 20km! Nothing could stop me now.

A couple of days before the race, I went to the Perth convention centre to pick up my race pack. This is when they issue you a numbered race bib which contains a timing microchip. The convention centre is a big, draughty building with curved white walls, that somehow looks deserted even when it's thronging with people. The half marathon cost $85 to enter, slightly more than the $65 I paid last year to enter the 12k run (obviously a proportion of this goes to charity).

I was consoled by the fact my race pack included a free green T-shirt with a running stick figure and the words 'half marathon finisher' on it. It seemed a bit presumptuous to call me a 'half marathon finisher' when I'd not even run the race, but this was written on everyone's T-shirts, and hopefully I could make the prophecy come true!

I got up very early on Sunday morning, ate toast for breakfast (making sure I finished eating at least two hours before the start of the race), put on the green T-shirt, attached my bib and drove to a street on West Perth (15 minutes' walk from the starting point) with free parking. As I walked to the meeting point the city was deserted, save for race stewards and a few determined marathon runners who started their course at 6am.

I waited with hundreds of other runners, some stretching, others relaxing, in a big shed-like room at the convention centre. Overhead, a clean-cut man and woman on a projection screen took us through some stretching exercises whilst namechecking a never-ending list of sponsors. The moment of truth was near. I felt no nerves.

The shutters at the back of the room were open to the morning air but our path was blocked by a handful of stewards in orange T-shirts. I was bored as I had no-one to wait with. This is the downside to training and running the race alone. After an interminable length of time the stewards led us in a jog to the starting point.

Suddenly I felt tired and rusty, a bit like I used to feel during cross country running at school. Had I slackened off too much with my training? They tell you to taper off your distances in the week before race day. I passed the starting point on William street in a slow jog. The first hill leading up to Kings Park was very tough going.

I walk this hill regularly on the way to work but running it is a different proposition. I'd not thought to include hills in my training, which had all been on flat ground. I made it to the top of the hill and kept going. My heart pounded in my chest.

The next section deviated from the 12k course, taking us on a circuitous route round Kings Park. Rain fell in a drizzle through the tall trees, keeping conditions cool. I passed a wizened old man with a beard running a full marathon. His bravery and ambition made me feel more optimistic about my challenge ahead. I was perturbed at the sight of some medics tending to a middle-aged man in an oxygen mask. He looked okay, but people occasionally die from running the City to Surf and I didn't intend to be one of them.

"You can do it, 6694!" A woman yelled my number as I ran through Kings Park. I was pleased to see so many passers-by shouting words of encouragement. I reflected on the niceness of random strangers in Australia, one of the reasons I like living here. We passed the '10km' flag on the way out of Kings Park. I'd nearly run half the race!

We rejoined the 12k course, which took us through the suburbs of Subiaco and Mount Claremont. Groups of orange-shirted volunteers handed out cups of water and Powerade. The streets were littered with discarded paper cups. I was amused by the volunteers who stood on fences with the specific job of yelling encouragement to the runners.

'Chevron - the power of human energy' proclaimed numerous sinister banners. "Fuck you Chevron, you can stick your corporate branding where the sun don't shine," I thought. I didn't need the encouragement of the oil and gas industry to run this race.

I was never the fastest runner and while the first hill had dented my confidence, I was still making steady progress. I passed the 16km banner, then the 18km banner, then, finally, with the sea looming large on the horizon, the 20km banner. We were nearly done.

As I rounded the final corner I felt a twinge in my right ankle. I realised now that my pedometer had given me too high a reading during training - this 21km felt much longer than the '20km' I thought I had run. This is what you get for being a tightwad and downloading free apps. My ankle held out and I crossed the finish line with a time of 2 hours, 22 minutes and 54 seconds. I received a shiny silver medal and some free fruit and drinks as a reward.

In the days that followed it emerged that 2 runners had died after the race this year. One of them was 32, the same age as me, and running the race that I had run last year. We're bombarded with deaths in the news every day, but this shocked me. I realised I was very fortunate to be so healthy and to have completed the race without any complications. Could all this exercise actually be bad for you? Everyone dies eventually, so you might as well just try and have fun and be the best person you can.

In running this half-marathon I have achieved what I once thought would be impossible. My next goal is to one day run the London marathon. It's hard to explain what I like about running, but it gives me a focus and sense of purpose that is otherwise lacking. People tell me I've never looked fitter and my friends now ask me for advice on running. I'm no expert and can only tell you what has worked for me.

One thing's for sure though - I've got running nailed. Time to work on my throwing technique.

(Photos from PerthNow)

Flying lesson

This is the first blog I've written in a very long time. I've travelled quite a lot in the last 2-3 years, and though I've done a whole variety of stuff, I never seem to be in the mood to write. I've been looking for a reason to break through a severe case of writer's block, and what better reason than the fulfillment of a childhood dream?

Recently I went for my very first flying lesson. I've always wanted to learn how to fly. As a kid I used to collect die-cast aeroplanes, and loved movies like the Dambusters and Angels One Five. My classmates would mock me for creating my own 'plane' from a pen and ruler, and sitting there twirling it absent-mindedly during lessons, executing imaginary aerobatics and dogfight manoeuvres.

For my birthday, my parents bought me a gift voucher for a 45 minute trial flight with aerobatics here in Perth. After I made the booking, an email came through advising me to report to the Royal Aero Club at Jandakot (a small airport south of Perth) on the day. I was told to arrive fifteen minutes before my flight time and wear enclosed shoes. No further vetting needed. You gots the money, you flies the plane. How exciting!

When the day came, the winter sky was filled with grey clouds. I phoned the Royal Aero Club to check if we were flying, and they advised I could either wait a couple of hours to see if the weather improved, otherwise they were happy to postpone the booking. I opted to postpone it. I felt a clear desire not to leave my bed that day, probably owing to drink the previous night.

The lesson was postponed twice again due to low-lying cloud. Winters in Perth are really mild but you do see a fair amount of rain and stormy weather. The day of the flying lesson finally arrived a month after my birthday. No longer would I have to imaginatively deploy stationery to visualise flying a plane.

The afternoon sun shone on Jandakot airport as I slung my car along the sleepy access road, looking for the Royal Aero Club. 99% of air traffic goes through Perth's main airport. Jandakot only ever seems to get used by fly-in fly-out workers and the police when they're extraditing fugitive murderers from the outback. Half a dozen flying schools jostled for attention along the road I found myself on, but the passing traffic was meagre. The Royal Aero Club was a two story building right at the end of the road.

I walked in to discover an unfeasibly huge reception desk dominating the ground floor lounge. The room was deserted, save for a middle-aged couple waiting for a Tiger Moth flight and a girl on reception who greeted me with the usual laid-back West Australian hello (where you're never really sure if the person is pleased to see you, resents your intrusion on their relaxing day or gives a shit either way).

I filled in a form and met my flying instructor, Trent, a dark-haired bloke in his 20s wearing a pilot's uniform (obviously, as he was a pilot). He took me out to a Cessna 152 that was parked nearby on the tarmac. This is a small plane with fixed undercarriage, which is the most a beginner like me would be trusted with. I watched as he untied the wings and tail from their mooring ropes, then demonstrated how to check the oil and fuel levels. He waved to a man in a fuel tanker, who drove by and filled up the plane's tank. It probably held less than my car.

After a few more preparations, and an explanation of the controls, we were ready to go. I strapped myself into my flying harness, which seemed nice and solid, and struggled to shut the flimsy cockpit door.

"Just give it a slam... it springs open sometimes when you're in the air!" Trent laughed. I smiled back uneasily, assuming this sort of thing would be hilarious once we were up in the air.

Next I was showed how to prime the engine (pumping a handle in the cockpit to draw fuel into the cylinders), flick the master power switch, then turn the key in the ignition (yes, planes have keys). The propeller spun for an eternity before the plane's engine finally coughed into life.

We were both wearing our headsets by this point and Trent exchanged instructions with the control tower. The noise of the engine was very loud in the cockpit, even though it was only idling. Soon the control tower gave the magic word and we set off for the runway.

I got an opportunity to steer the plane as it taxied along. You direct the plane on the ground using foot pedals to apply a brake on the left or right wheel. It was quite a challenge not to zigzag from side to side and keep it on the yellow line, but we were moving quite slowly and there wasn't much around that we could crash into. The instructor steered us round a corner, and then came the exciting part.

Take-off was quite simple. I pushed the throttle all the way in and waited for the plane to accelerate to a certain speed (55 knots, which is the same as 100km/h or 60mph), then pulled the control column back. The plane floated from the runway into the sky, and we were airborne! I sat there in disbelief, clutching the controls - I was flying a plane!

We levelled out at 1,000 feet and flew across to Fremantle, then turned the nose south, heading along the coast to Rockingham. The sea shimmered in the distance and the cars on the roads below were small moving specks. The sun shone down, the skyscrapers of Perth glinted in the distance, and a dusting of cloud covered the sky high above. I spotted the Tiger Moth aircraft from the airport, flying below us and to the left, bimbling around Fremantle harbour. We were moving at about 100mph and it took a few minutes to reach Rockingham. Time for the next phase of the flying experience - aerobatics.

Trent took over on the dual controls and we climbed to 3,500 feet. Vomit bags were at the ready, though hopefully I wouldn't need one. I had been on a selection of the Pleasure Beach's finest rollercoasters and never blown chunks. This would be a piece of cake.

We did a barrel roll and the sky spun around us. The G-force pinning us in our seats was immense - twice as much as a rollercoaster ride. I avoided feeling sick by staring at the horizon, but the instructor must have seen the warning signs on my face and didn't try any further manoeuvres (such as a loop-de-loop or stall turn).

It was time to head back to the airport, past a few familiar landmarks such as Lake Richmond and Adventure World. After a meandering approach around the industrial landscape south of the river, the runway was suddenly rushing up to meet us. With Zen-like calm, Trent let me steady the wings and point the plane towards the middle of the runway.

We descended lower and lower... then suddenly it was all over. The wheels bounced gently on the tarmac and we were safely down on the ground. I had landed the plane (sort of - Trent would have taken over if things went wrong). The descent and landing happened too quickly for me to think about it. I guess it can be considered safe for a beginner like me to land a relatively slow plane like this - compared to a massive airliner that can travel at hundreds of miles an hour.

We taxied to the parking spot, stopped the engine and reattached the mooring ropes, and the flying lesson was over. I was awarded a shiny certificate for completing my flying lesson. If I want to have more lessons (which I do), it costs over $400 an hour.

I found the day really inspiring, but I have some serious saving to do if I want to get a private pilots' licence. The average pilot needs 60 hours' flying time to pass the test, which equals a minimum of $24,000. And you need a private licence as a prerequisite before you even think about training to be a commercial pilot.

I'm not sure if I want to become a commercial pilot, but it would nice to join the ranks of Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden and the singer from the Offspring, as rock stars who can fly airliners. Oh, I also need to become a famous rock star too - but that's a whole other story.

I found the flying part easy but was annoyed I couldn't handle the aerobatics. Apparently the more you fly, the more you get used to the G forces. With a farewell handshake, I left Trent and his buddies at the Aero Club to their enviable life of flying planes.

It remains to be seen what will happen with my aviation career. Until I find the money, I'm putting my pen and ruler together and going to my happy place.

Toastmasters: Eat whatever you like

This the transcript of a speech I gave at Toastmasters on Wednesday. I've been going to weekly Toastmasters meetings in Fremantle for months and I am finally developing real confidence as a public speaker.

Competent Communicator project 9 - Persuade with Power

Eat whatever you like

Would you believe me if I told you you could eat whatever you like and still lose weight? Well it’s true.

We live in a world where diets are increasingly used by both men and women. Gone are the days of medieval banquets and Henry VIII gorging himself on huge chunks of meat. Nowadays men and women both want to look good and feel healthy.

The dieting industry is a multi-million dollar business. Books, DVDs and specialist weight-loss products prey on the human race’s insecurities and compete for our precious cash. Does anyone agree that a lot of the wisdom preached by dieticians seems bogus and contradictory?

Well now I have found something better than any diet. I have found a means to eat what I want, when I want, and still lose weight. It’s a book by hypnotherapist Paul McKenna, entitled ‘I can make you thin’.

Let me tell you about Paul McKenna. Paul McKenna seems to be barely known in Australia but over in the UK he is a household name. He’s helped countless people overcome smoking, all manner of addictions and serious phobias through hypnosis and mental reprogramming. His TV programs are rarely off the air – in fact he has become irritating in his ubiquitous nature and air of quiet smugness.

I was always dubious about his work... until I read his book I can make you thin.

A friend of mine recommended this book to me. He used have problems with his weight. He weighed over a hundred kilos. After studying this book and rigorously applying the principles that I’m about to explain to you, within a year he knocked off almost thirty kilograms. He looks and feels like a different person.

This obviously caught my attention. Now let me tell you something: I used to share the eating habits of Homer Simpson. In one scene of the Simpsons, a co-worker comments that Homer eats like a pig, and another replies, ‘Pigs tend to chew. I’d say he eats more like a duck.’ Well that described me too, until last week.

I’m going to take you through the four golden rules of ‘how to be thin’. It’s a simple system.

Let me make one thing clear – this is not a diet. The word ‘diet’ implies restrictions on what and when you can eat. The problem with diets, medically speaking, is that by restricting your access to food, you slow down your body’s metabolic rate and force it into what is known as ‘starvation mode’.

Our bodies cannot differentiate between life in the comfortable modern age and the days when we used to have to chase food round for days on end with a spear. It’s so difficult to lose weight on a diet because your body’s clinging on to every single morsel of fat it can get to prepare you for a difficult winter.

These four golden rules are very easy to remember, and you can take them away with you tonight.

The first golden rule is: eat whenever you’re hungry. Eating whenever you’re genuinely hungry sends signals to the body that food is in plentiful supply. If you keep doing this your metabolism picks up and you feel more energetic. But you must only eat when you’re actually hungry.

I always knew that most of the time when I ate, I wasn’t actually hungry! This is what is known as ‘emotional eating’ – devouring food for comfort or, in my case, to pass the time.

If you find it difficult to tell if you’re hungry or not, practise rating your hunger on a scale of one to ten, with one being as hungry as you can imagine, faint-headed through lack of food and ten being as full as you can imagine, bloated to the point of nausea. If you score a four or below, time to eat. If you score above four, chain the biscuit barrel shut and find something to distract yourself with for an hour. Then repeat the test.

The second golden rule, the one people find hardest to believe, is you can eat whatever you like! If you place certain foods off-limits you distort your natural relationship with them and fantasize about them all the more. But if you allow yourself the freedom of eating whatever you like, over time you actually gravitate towards healthier foods and develop a better diet.

The third golden rule is: enjoy your food. Eat slowly and chew each mouthful thoroughly. Stop and savour each meal. Eating provides a fix of endorphins which compel us to eat faster and faster in order to score another hit of brain chemicals. But by eating slowly and chewing thoroughly, you give your stomach chance to catch up and tell you when it’s full.

And if you chew your food properly, it becomes easier for your stomach to digest. You no longer feel bogged down and lethargic after eating. You feel lighter and you possess bags of energy. Also, because you’re stopping to enjoy your food, rather than wolfing it down in one go, you most likely feel like you’re enjoying it on a whole new level.

The fourth golden rule is perhaps the hardest to follow: you must stop eating when you’re full. Many of us were told as kids to always finish our meals. Leaving food on your plate apparently makes you an ungrateful person. “There’s people starving in Africa,” my teachers used to say. And I felt powerless to disobey their commands.

It’s difficult to break this programming. But doing as you were once told and finishing the food on your plate won’t solve any global food crisis. So sweep your leftovers into the bin. If you find this too difficult start by leaving a single chip on your plate.
After following the four golden rules for a couple of weeks, you start to develop an understanding of when your stomach is full. Continuing to eat past this point becomes a less and less appealing prospect.

I’ve been following this system a week, and already my food portions have halved. I can go hours between meals without hunger. I’m amazed. I don’t know what to do with all my spare time now I’m not eating!

The key is to apply the system consistently day after day. Soon it will become second nature. And don’t beat yourself up if you suffer a relapse into your old ways. Keep trying. You’re only human.

So if you’re worried about your weight, help is at hand. Don’t fall prey to the dieting industry – give this book a go. You can eat whatever you want and still lose weight!

Flying to Bali

I'm off on my travels again. Right now I am sat in the departure lounge at Perth Airport. It's 4.30 in the afternoon and I have just caught a taxi straight here from work. Tonight I fly out to Bali for a three-day break.

I am surprised to note from the entry and exit stamps on my passport that my latest stretch in Australia has been a few days shy of eighteen months. A lot has occurred for me in that short time. Long may the forces of change and upheaval continue their bewitching dance!

I've never been to Bali before. I'm excited to see it. Right now I'm killing time till my flight boards. I always find flying exciting - it takes me back to the very first family holiday when I went abroad with my mum and dad.

It was the early nineties and we spent two weeks in sunny Bulgaria. The Communists had left buildings unfinished everywhere and there were topless women on the beach. I loved it. Maybe there is still a subconscious link in my head between getting on a plane and seeing girls' tits. I just enjoy flying.

I'm stopping at a villa in Seminyak that my friends have rented out. It has a pool and a pool table. Yes, that's right, two accessories with the word 'pool' in the title. And there's more features too, including some wicker chairs and maybe some beds and light sockets. It promises to be the height of luxury - it looked great in the photos and we only payed about $35 each a night for it.

Before I get there, another encounter with Air Asia, a microwaved meal of Nasi Lemak (egg noodles, non-fascist related) during my flight and possibly a cheeky beer to go with it!

Sydney to Cairns – Part Five

One flight later, the plane was swooping low over the Great Barrier Reef on the final approach into Cairns. I was blown away by the sight of the tropical hills and the turquoise ocean. After two years of hard graft I had finally stumbled upon the Australia they show in the adverts.

“Enjoy your stay,” the lady next to me smiled, an extremely friendly type. “Watch out after dark for the Aborigines.”

The weather was muggy and tropical, the airport small. The sun shone down on beautiful green hills. I got a lift into town, to a hostel who offered me a private room for $30 a night. This was an incredible bargain. I changed into shorts and sandals and hit the seafront. Cairns is a delight with its natural beauty and laid-back pace. It’s a backpacker town and the premier staging point for day trips to the Barrier Reef.

When in Rome... my first act was to book myself on a diving trip. My second act was to head to the night market and chow down on a monster plate of food from the Asian food court. Forget the cheese plate in the sea – this was decadence. Too full to finish my last piece of hoi sin octopus, I wandered through the market, marvelling at the cheap prices. I had a quiet evening. Revellers down the corridor kept me awake and there were lots of mosquitoes in the room. At least I had my own fridge though.

I’d never so much as snorkelled before so the diving trip promised to be something completely new. There were dozens of boats competing for the tourist trade. Finding the one I booked with was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Our boat carried fifty or so passengers. After an hour and a half of sailing through calm seas, giant turquoise streaks appeared under the sparkling blue waters. We were at the edge of the reef.

If I made a habit of wearing spandex I dare say I’d feel right at home in a wetsuit. However this was the first time I’d zipped one up and it seemed a little tight. I felt like James Bond. The boat came to a halt and our group went snorkelling. I learnt the basics of breathing through my mask and working the flippers while gazing down at colourful swathes of coral and shoals of rainbow fish. It was great to see these things in the flesh, although you wonder how much tourism is destroying their habitat.

Next came a scuba dive, with an oxygen tank, to a depth of five metres. One by one we got kitted up like spacemen and dropped off the back of the boat into the water. I got much closer to the corals, and was allowed to touch a big purple thing on the sea bed shaped like a clam. It felt very velvety and flinched at my touch.

I was guided through this dive by a Japanese girl. Most of the guides, and a lot of the tourists, were Japanese. A Japanese guy with an underwater camera swam down to take my souvenir photo. It was all a bit Disneyland. I could barely recognise myself in the picture as I looked very Japanese with the mask on. This seemed to be a strange consequence of the water pressure.

The boat returned to shore at the end of the afternoon and I set out to explore some more of Cairns. Cairns is by the ocean but there is no beach – just miles of empty mud-flats dotted with crocodiles. The Esplanade has an outdoor lagoon and an array of wood and metal bars for morning push-ups. My explorations didn’t take much time.

On Lindsay’s recommendation I tried a Chinese massage at the night market – suffice to say it was the Bohemian Rhapsody of massages. The man even planted a strange-smelling plaster on the vertebrae of my back to ease the tension. That was $15 well-spent.

Next day I went to see the tropical rainforests of Cape Tribulation. A lovely Aussie girl picked everyone up in a minibus. As we drove through Cairns we spotted fire engines and masses of smoke billowing from a burning house. The morning’s newspaper told of another house burning down. Fires seem to break out a lot in Cairns. Perhaps the cane toads like to chew through wiring.

As we drove up the coast, past an empty nudist beach, our guide told us about Australia. Some of the foreign tourists hadn’t heard of Neighbours. She wasted no time pointing out that she despised the show. I would have loved her to have met my Neighbours-mad Blackpool friends. There would have been a passionate exchange of views.

Our first port of call was a cruise on the Daintree River. We saw crocodiles lurking in the mangroves, but the main fascination for me was a German tourist who was videoing the entire voyage on his camcorder. He was possibly the most German-looking person I have ever seen. He wore a bumbag, sandals with socks, and sported a Rudi Voller moustache and an Italia 90 permed mullet. He was on holiday with his kids. What fantastic trip was he the Holiday Dad for?

The clouds didn’t break all day but the trip was interesting. Next we went for a walk in the rainforest, followed by a free lunch of child-sized fish ‘n’ chips at a beach resort. I sat with a Dutchman and a Portuguese guy who had been visiting Sydney on a business trip from Amsterdam university. Talk about a convoluted story – the introductions took us a full five minutes.

This was as far north as tarmac roads go – there are many miles of untouched rainforest north of Cooktown – so we started to head south again. A car ferry brought us back over the spooky Daintree River, which our guide told us was home of at least one croc-related fatality every year. It reminded me of our family holidays in Cornwall, with the added twist that if you stuck your hand out of the window you might die.

Finally we had a brief stop in the yuppie haven of Port Douglas. Its church has a three-year waiting list for weddings. The beautiful landscape appeared rather drab under the constipated grey sky. How I cursed those clouds for tainting my photos. I bought some homemade iced tea from a cafe and it was rubbish. Literally just Tetley’s with ice cubes in it.

I'd seen reef and rainforest during my brief stay in Cairns. All sight-seeing boxes were ticked. I cut a rather forlorn figure wandering round town that evening. Travelling by myself – something I once did without blinking – had lost its allure. Time to go home and put the kettle on surely? This was the evening when my friends flew home from Melbourne, and I too would soon be heading back to everyday life.

Next morning, the sunshine was back to send me off on a high. I finished a monster cooked breakfast at the hostel and caught the shuttle bus to the airport. The driver told me it was his birthday. Mine was following a few days after his and I would be working too. I’d found a cheap Qantas deal that took me back to Perth in two flights, via, of all places, Uluru!

The aerial photos I got of the mountains and desert were spectacular. Uluru lies maybe ten kilometres from its airport, close enough for incoming planes to see the glower on its face like a disapproving in-law. I was fortunate enough to be bathed in its orange scowl at very close quarters last year. You’re never quite the same afterwards.

After a brief wait in the tiny terminal, it was time to board the same plane with the same stewardesses for the final leg of my journey. It’s a real feat to visit Cairns, Uluru and Perth all in one day.

Landing back at Perth airport, a mere fourteen days after leaving for Sydney, I felt rejuvenated and alive. Truly this was the best holiday I’d ever been on.

For more Cairns photos and aerial shots see my Facebook album here.

Sydney to Cairns – Part Four

Brisbane lay about two hours away from Surfers Paradise. A testing final drive for Dave and Theresa brought us to the capital of Queensland. I liked the place already on first glance. It was incredibly hilly (at least compared to Perth). The bridges and river paint a fascinating panorama from any angle. Our hostel had a fantastic rooftop pool.

After sampling the city’s Hog’s Breath franchise over dinner, I headed out for a quiet drink with Cheese, Caz, Laura and Alex. The bar we stumbled upon changed our holiday forever. If a place can be said to be hallowed, enchanted and throw open the doors of humankind’s perception, then this was it. It boasted pansexual bar staff, interesting clientele, and a new and thrilling delight that answered our many prayers. I speak, of course, of a karaoke machine.

That quiet drink turned into a full-on jamboree, as is the wonder of such spontaneous nights out. We jostled for position on the karaoke with two rosy-cheeked girls in dresses, who seemed eager to provide the assembled punters with the world’s least compelling Mariah Carey tribute act.

Dave and Alex performed a number of tunes together and were clearly seasoned professionals at this kind of thing. One of the plump girls bravely upped the stakes and gave ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ a go. This was an error. My impromptu rap to ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ inspired one stranger who was watching to whoop excitedly and mime doggy sex in front of the stage. I’ve never seen anyone do that in public before. It’s surely the ultimate hip-hop accolade.

I rose early in the morning to watch the World Cup final in the hostel’s TV room. The score was locked at 0-0 and I managed to watch fifteen minutes before heading back to bed. My friends all slept. The buzz of football’s big party passed our time zone completely by.

Later in the morning we dropped off both the vans at the rental depot and bid them a sad farewell. They had carried us all the way from Sydney with only one problematic headlight bulb to trouble us.

Then we set forth on foot to see the city, still guided by the Sat Nav. Needless to say it threw us a couple of curveballs, but we found our way round pretty easily. There were many grand streets, skyscrapers and river views. Brisbane is not everyone’s cup of tea, but in my opinion it is up there with Sydney and Melbourne in terms of culture. I do like a city with hills in it.

Some of us went to Starbucks to meet Caz’s friend Mikaela and Theresa’s friend Paul. Meanwhile I went with Alex, Katie and Dave to the Brisbane Art Gallery and saw an exhibition by renowned sculptor Ron Mueck. He specialises in producing realistic human figures in unflinching detail, a lot of them naked. You wonder what stories lay behind these fascinating characters. The day certainly inspired me to take more of an interest in art.

After rejoining the rest of the group we of course proceeded to drink heavily into the night. I got so badly drunk I was put in a taxi by my friends, but I still managed to find my way back to the hostel and update my Facebook status with the following pearl of wisdom: “Brisbane is ace as tits. Fact.” And so to bed.

We had another day to kill in Brisbane so we visited the artificial beach and lagoon down by the river. It lived up to our demanding Blackpool standards. Presumably they had shipped in the finest-quality sand from the Bahamas at great expense, such is the logic of these schemes. Some of us hadn’t seen the art gallery yesterday so we took another stroll over there to breathe in more culture. “If it’s free, give it me.” I was enjoying all this art.

That night was my final night with the group and we made an occasion of it, introducing the people who missed it to our new karaoke bar find. Everyone took to the stage with a frenzy. The plump girls were there holding court next to the DJ and our presence was welcomed by the other regulars.

Within a span of time that felt like the blinking of an eye, the nine of us were uproariously drunk and showing the world how ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ should (not) be sung. When I left at 2am the others were still there partying. Was I learning a degree of self-control in my old age? Probably not.

So came the breakfast of farewells. Lindsay and Theresa I would meet in Perth in a few weeks. The rest I would not see for several months. The last ten days had been a roller-coaster ride of travelling, resuming old friendships and forming new ones. For some reason it just felt great to hear lots of northern accents again. The rest of the group would now return to Melbourne before most of them flew home. I chose not to choose Melbourne. I chose something else.

Sydney to Cairns – Part Three

The Scottish sea captain was waiting to show us to our houseboat, which bobbed serenely in the inky black night-time waters of Sanctuary Cove. This was a gem of a rental that Chris had dug out from the cobwebs of the internet. Stepping aboard we discovered a slick interior, several bedrooms, furnishings fit for a prince and a spacious sun deck. Already this promised to be the Boat that Rocked!

We stocked up with hundreds of dollars of food and drink from the shops near the marina and ventured on board, vowing not to return to dry land for three days. Katie cooked a big pot of chilli for everyone in the ship’s galley. Beers were quaffed. Memories of this first evening on the boat have been pushed out by what followed, but I assume it was pleasant.

The next day the sea captain returned and fired up the houseboat’s engine. The ropes were cast off and we were out into the ocean. Luxury mansions drifted past and the skyscrapers of Surfers Paradise appeared on the horizon. We travelled maybe fifteen miles down the coast to a secluded bay and dropped anchor.

The boat towed a small dinghy for trips to shore. After a brief instruction on how to start its engine, the captain left the dinghy and boat in our semi-capable hands. It was time to unpack the beach towels and have a dip in the ocean.

Despite the afternoon sun, the water was quite cold and choppy. Dave and I experimented with floating a cheese-plate in the sea. It ended in disaster, with several crackers and a selection of continental cheeses heading to a watery grave. Such is the price of decadence.

That evening, we threw another party. This was an ‘un-birthday’ celebration as several of us had birthdays due. We drank some more and listened to recordings of a band performing Queen songs in Japanese. The Japanese Freddie amused us with his theatrical panache. I retired quite early and missed the birthday cake, but Caz ensured everyone else got a slice. From what I understand she turned quite sinister.

I awoke very early the next morning and spent several hours writing and watching the sun rise. Once the others had risen, six of us – Alex, Dave, Chris, Lindsay, Katie and I – decided to take a trip on the dinghy to the nearby sand island. We spent a carefree hour on the kilometre-long needle of unspoilt sands, in the brilliant sun, chasing the swarms of tiny blue crabs which scampered from our Godzilla-like footsteps.

The problems came when we tried to return to the houseboat. The boat’s engine wouldn’t start. We tried all the advice the sea captain gave us and nothing worked. Nightfall was only a couple of hours away and the houseboat was too far to swim. The dinghy held four people so we needed to make two trips to ferry everyone back. Chris cranked the engine frantically for around five minutes before we finally got it going. He, Lindsay, Katie and I were in the boat.

The following five minutes were a blur of adrenaline and survival instinct lunges. I was nearest to the motor and pumped the throttle to keep it alive. Stuck it in forward gear. The boat surged wildly across the incoming swell. A wave hit. I pulled at the rudder. We careered off the other way, into deep water. Where the hell were we going?

Another wave hit. We began to take on water rapidly. The boat was vanishing under the waves. One of us grabbed the bucket and began bailing it out. The rest of us lay on the boat to prevent it capsizing and scooped out water with our hands. Somehow we didn’t sink and made it back to tie up at the houseboat. Alex and Dave, stranded on the island, were brought back by some kindly locals.

A stiff drink was needed. When I turned to look back at the island, the area was swarming with boats and concerned people searching the sand. ‘A bunch of tourists in too deep.’ It must happen from time to time. I wonder if we made the local news. The dinghy bobbed innocently in the ocean like nothing had happened. I dare say the bastard was cursed.

Not to be outdone by its smaller cousin, the houseboat was providing its own share of technical wobbles. The grey water pump malfunctioned and regurgitated foul-smelling effluent through the shower’s plughole. The ship’s toilet, already an experience in avant-garde noise art and sphinctral discipline, was now full up and beeping madly. A meaty wave from a passing ship struck us and the boat began listing oddly to one side. Add all of these ingredients together and you’ve got a bad package holiday to Sharm El-Sheikh. I think we were ready to return to dry land.

Nevertheless those three days on the houseboat were magical and unforgettable. Next day, as we chugged back to the marina, the group reclining on the sun deck was a picture of contentment. Caz had failed to apply suncream and turned bright pink like a lobster. We all envied her colour-changing abilities.

Everyone had ‘sea legs’ for days afterwards. The world span slowly round us as if moored to a buoy in a serene maritime bay. Next up: another day in (Surfers) Paradise. Katie cooked sausages in the hostel kitchen while I sorted out my travel plans on a borrowed laptop. I was to part ways with the group in a few days.

We celebrated our return to dry land with yet another piss-up. Hitting the pubs and bars of Surfers Paradise, everything seemed eerily reminiscent of Blackpool. It was full-on. Let’s be under no illusions: Surfers is not a quiet glass of red wine by the fire and a discussion about philosophy; it’s an evening doing shots of tequila through a fire-hose in a crack den. Dressed as a priest.

Never mind, the slap-up breakfast the next morning, in an all-you-can-eat fry-up cafe, made up for any perceived trauma. We strolled to the vans, hungover, taking photos on the golden sands. The views were stunning. I wasn’t taken with this huge, bristling elephant of a tourist resort, but Surfers has an absolutely fantastic beach.