No wonder they call us Poms
The Sandgroper, and what they call you if you come from Perth, WA (en.wikipedia.org)
The Sandgroper, and what they call you if you come from Perth, WA (en.wikipedia.org)
Perth, Australia
I thought I was fit until I visited Australia; I then realised I was a beginner. It was 6.15 a.m. on a Sunday morning, a time of day when the UK’s streets are so often bare. It is my favourite time to go for a morning run. Actually it is not so much a run as a stationary jog. You know the sort, where you look like a lifeless, slow-motion, ageing manikin running head down against a non-existent wind. That was me in Perth, Western Australia, as the dawn was slowly beginning to appear. I was staggering uphill towards a place the Aussies call King’s Park.
I had seen the park the night before, from the front passenger seat of a colleague’s open-top Mercedes. I had landed in the dark, been driven in the dark, and had woken up when darkness had barely begun to clear. As far as I was concerned Australia was a nocturnal nation. There were the remnants, perhaps, of a full moon beginning to disappear over a vaguely identifiable distant horizon but that could easily have been my imagination. Anyway, I had not seen anything other than shadows since my arrival, so it was time to explore by what I anticipated might be imminent daylight.
I had decided to sightsee on foot and an almost-jog seemed a reasonable way to travel. King’s Park is an impressive place, is larger than New York’s Central Park, and dominates the Perth skyline. Its roads are lined by trees which have been individually planted in memory of fallen soldiers in either World War I or World War II. There is no doubting King’s Park ‘s distinctly military flavour. Anzac Day, in reality the 100th Anzac Day, was only a few days gone and Prince Harry had visited Perth to spend his last few months in the military working alongside the Australian Special Forces, who are based at Campbell Barracks on the western edge of the city. The place is incredibly clean, too. I could see no evidence of graffiti and certainly had no worries about stumbling into dog poo as I almost-jogged the circumference of the area. There was simply none to see.
That morning, I set off from my apartment hotel, which was unimpressively positioned opposite an old warehouse that housed the Perth Convention Centre. Actually, once inside the Centre, you can see how it is one of the better places to run meetings. It is huge, massive in fact, with seating for at least 2500 souls, albeit with plenty of smaller meeting rooms, too.
My early morning almost-jog was to set the scene for a difficult day to follow. Australia is 7 hours ahead of UK, which plays havoc with the body clock. The only conceivable advantage is that it is possible to complete a full day’s computer work in Australia and have it on people’s desks in time for their arrival at work in UK. That really annoys colleagues back home when I have messages waiting for them the moment they appear in their office. Naturally, they get their own back at the other end of the day.
So off I set, slightly confused as to direction and failing totally to find the so-called Jacob’s Ladder that had been recommended by the male hotel receptionist as the best way of ascending to the Park. That did not seem to matter. As long as I kept almost-jogging uphill, I was bound to end up in the right place. King’s Park is the highest bit of land for miles around. Sadly, Perth is not dominated by hills. You would certainly not wish to live there if your favourite pastime was mountaineering.
It was as I crossed the bridge over the freeway that I noticed I was not alone. Then, seemingly without effort and certainly without the least noise, the sleekest of young females ran past me as if the hill was in my imagination. There was no nod, no wave, no cursory “Good Morning”, or even an Aussie “Good Day”, just an effortless glide past an ageing Brit, as if female dominance was to be expected.
I took it like a man, on the basis that the girl regarded me more as a figure of fatherhood, maybe even Grandad, than a competing athlete. She was right, of course. For a brief moment I watched her athletic frame essentially float past and then cast my eyes downwards towards the pavement for fear of being regarded a dirty old man. There really does need to be a law governing how tight Lycra can be when it covers an attractive lady. Such things are not at all good for men. I cannot imagine I am an exception.
Rapidly, Miss Australia disappeared into the half dark and turned left at the top of the hill. I followed, glancing up occasionally to see the distance between us increase with alarming velocity. Then I turned the corner, too. Good Heavens! So much for my perceived quiet of an Australian Sunday morning. It was not quiet in any shape or form. Indeed, it seemed as if all Australia had arrived - each and every one of the nation’s 24 million people. They were everywhere. Largely female - there were a few stoical blokes - I saw big runners, small runners and absolutely no one who was fat. Granted the folk that I saw were probably self-selected as however sleek we think the Aussies may be, their average BMI actually places them as the eleventh chubbiest nation on the planet. The UK is number 26. The world’s worst? Kuwait, strangely enough, although I have no idea why. Their ladies in particular.
An almost-jog uphill to King’s Park takes considerable effort, especially if you are a jetlagged Brit. I was panting, puffing, spluttering and wheezing but could see none of my newly found Aussie companions doing the same. There was little chit chat, zero eye contact, but fierce concentration on stretching legs, arms, shoulders, indeed anything that might stretch and anything that might not. I joined in as it was clearly the thing to do. Stretching at the top of King’s Park at dawn on Sunday is manifestly how the Perth folk exist. I call them Perth folk but their Aussie description is Sandgroper, which is actually a Western Australian insect; something between a grasshopper and a locust. No wonder they call us Poms.
King's Park, Perth, WA. Row upon row of memorial tree. A sober place
