MELLIPOP DE CASTELLA

Ok, so indulge me in a rare moment of micro-braggadocio.

I've been running for a few years now. When I started running, I actually couldn't run at all. I could manage a semi-decent power-walk, but my aerobic capacity was such that I could barely run a single lap of the oval down at Camperdown without collapsing with a near-fatal stitch. The legs were willing but the lungs weren't able. This was circa whenever-I-lived-with-Nick. I think it might have been around 2002??? Not too sure, as that was also the height of my inner-west pub-hopping glory (heh heh heh) days.

Since then, despite having moved five times across various states and suburbs, I've kept up with the running. My knees were fucked up for a while. Until I realised it was all in the shoes. Despite my scepticism, I did the Athlete's Foot "foot test" thing and was duly paired up with a hideously expensive pair of runners by the 17 year old staff member, who also tried to upsell me on the $50 insoles to boot. And fuck me, if my knees haven't been perfect since. I am now officially a running powerhouse.

Running became an addiction for me while I was living in North Fremantle. Considering the warm weather, the long days, the beautiful beach I used to run as part of my route and the fact that I was home from work at 4pm every day, running was easy.

I was worried that moving to Quakers Hill would put an end to my love for running, but the reverse is true. I am even more addicted than I was in Freo. Despite the darkness, the cold, the lack of scenery and the rare occasion of rain, without any difficulty at all, I leap straight out of bed at 5:30am every morning and run for forty minutes before getting ready for work. And it is an addiction. There have been mornings when I have woken up and made a conscious decision to stay snuggled up in the doona for that extra hour's sleep. Within five or ten minutes of having made that decision, my body throws itself out of bed and into my beloved runners, saying "fuck you" to sleep and warmth and repose.

So I run. Then I do twenty tricep dips, twenty "boy" push-ups and a further fifty "girl" push-ups before hitting the showers in the morning. The push ups are a hangover from my pilates days, and were drilled into me as homework by my brilliant instructor Freya, whom I miss dearly. I think she'd be pleased to know that I still do those goddamn push-ups of hers.

Anyway, last night - on the way home from buying grog and fags, ironically - Anton and I measured the length of my current running route. I was rather pleased to discover that my running track is just short of 8 kilometres. Which is not bad in forty minutes, especially because I do it easily, and without exertion. Plus, I've started running in the evenings as well, a few times a week. For a girl who never had any stamina or athletic fitness - even back in my school days - I am rather proud about that.

So fuck all of you who dis us smokers for being unhealthy and unfit. I'd run rings around you pristine-lunged fuckers any day.