The Sunshine Army

Being a part of the Sunshine Army

This weekend in Sydney, the University of New South Wales volunteer program “Yellow Shirts” celebrated its 25th anniversary. Yellow Shirts are a group of 100+ students who give up their time to help orientate (orient?!) new students, geographically, academically, and socially, arriving at UNSW. Orientation Week, or O-Week, is one of the largest programs of its kind, runs for a full five days from 9am til late, and is filled with activities from campus tours, to jumping castles and giant jenga to clubs and society events and live bands. Volunteers receive extensive training, and become a part of an amazing group of people once referred to as the “sunshine army”. 

Seeing the images and stories from the anniversary pop up in my facebook feed made me nostalgic and strangely homesick. Memories of my four years as a Yellow Shirt volunteer pop up in fragmented fashion. Before living in America, before cutting off all my hair, before engagement, before world travel, there was uni, and there was Yellow Shirts. 

Squads, OT, double squads, quadruple squad outings, the importance of FAFYing and CWEFLS, and never using terms and abbreviations that outsiders/newcomers wouldn’t understand. Running around late at night at training camp and accidentally bursting into a room where two Muslim volunteers were quietly praying. Rehearsing for the band in the Huts and heading up to the Rege for $5 steaks (before I was a vegetarian...) and card games. Sitting in Coffee Republic whilst the O-Week Coordinator consoled me, above and beyond her duties, because I hadn’t been selected as a squad leader - and how that year I was placed with one of the most amazing people I have ever encountered and how he changed the entire way I looked at leadership. The year it poured with rain and we moved everything inside the Roundhouse, and how one squad provided tarp-covered escorts up the Main Walkway for arriving students. The relationships that formed, the boys I fell in love with. The couples still together, the families born. One day soon there will be second-generation shirts...

Beyond the memories of those four years, reflecting this weekend has reminded me how much that time has shaped me as a person. My time at UNSW was marked by the height of my depression. One volunteer recruiting session, which lasted well into the night, saw me escaping out into the cool night air, and sitting sobbing at the top of main walkway and contemplating if I should just end everything. Despite the pain and grief I was suffering, I look back now and think of my world at UNSW as an extremely happy and productive one.

Volunteering gave me an immense number of skills, practical not only on a CV checklist but in the real world. Talking with strangers, engaging with people across cultures, and barriers of language and age, organizational skills, team work, leadership, problem solving, and event planning. These skills have allowed me to confidently venture out into the world, and directly led to paid employment in three different countries in a variety of fields, including theatre, sustainability, retail, teaching, and running my own business.

Being a Yellow Shirt led me to the Contact Coordinator role, a part-time paid position overseeing the running of an information and referral centre at the university - often referred to as the O-Week outside of O-Week. That job covered my rent and expenses whilst I finished my undergrad, and gave me the skills of managing a team of 100 student volunteers, and overseeing the success of a crucial student service at a time when student services were being reduced, or cut altogether, at universities across Australia.

Beyond the skills, the greatest part of volunteering was the people. Like-minded souls with similar interests, people who pushed my comfort zones and broadened my horizons. They opened my eyes to the world around me, taught me about leadership and teamwork, and the bounds of friendship. My fellow volunteers are among the most wonderful, creative, talented, and lovely folk I have ever encountered. They are now dotted around the globe, and have gone on to be come scientists, doctors, lawyers, analysts, economists, historians, writers, politicians, actors, musicians, journalists, mothers and fathers. I am a lucky soul indeed to be able to count them amongst my friends.

Since becoming a Yellow Shirt, I have volunteered in theaters, bookshops, and on farms. I have learnt to put my hand up for projects, and roles, where there is little or no monetary payment, that have gifted me with friendships, books, food, and impossible-to-price experiences.

I have often joked that working a day job allows me to pay for the experience of volunteering. Those countless volunteer hours, in a variety of programs, not only gave me tangible skills, and a degree, they undeniably shaped who I am. And for that, I am eternally grateful. 

Friends

Once upon a time I lived in Sydney
And I knew many people there
And I studied in many places
And worked in many places
And played, and sang, and danced, and
Lived a life
That now seems far away and distant

And in this present day life
I am a person I always dreamed of being
Living in the lands of overseas
And traveling
And performing
And meditating
And eating delicious food
And being a grown up
Who makes her own decisions
About how her life is going to be

And today I met up with a friend
Who I hadn't seen in quite a while
And he was still the same lovely person
He was a few years ago
Softly spoken but with a glint in his eye
And he made me remember
All those friends
From that Other Life that once I led

And it's funny how people
Float in and out of our lives
And Amy K.R. once wrote about how
Maybe the word "end" is in the word
Friendships
Because sometimes friendships
Just end in the middle

And I just wanted to say,
To all those people
From a distant time, a distant life,
Whether we're actually still in contact or not
To all those people I've sat under bright blue skies with
And drunk beverages with
And shared meals with
And sat beside ponds and stared at geese with
And laughed in offices with
And trained with
And studied with
And sang with
And danced with
And gardened with
And traversed a bit of time
On this globe
Together with

I'm thinking of you
And wondering how you are
And hoping you're happy and well
Really and truly
Happy. And well.
And sending you love from across the universe.

The end.

It's a Jolly Holiday with Mary

So it seems Mary Poppins is taking over my world.
I'm seeing her everywhere.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered her in my local park.

Last week I saw her at the Capitol Theatre.

That night I even got to shake Mr Banks’ hand (well really it was Philip Quast, who is even cooler, and it is lovely to meet people from your childhood, people who unknowingly sang and danced into your loungeroom and heart and soul every afternoon on Playschool). 

And then Mary’s image appeared on banners all over the city.

And then this week I heard an interview on Margaret Throsby with Valerie Lawson who is P.L. Travers’ biographer. 

And then tonight walking down George St (how apt!) I discovered that Town Hall has become Number 17, Cherry Tree Lane! 

Hallo, hallo, hallo! What have we here then?!

Chimney sweeps and umbrellas lit with fairy lights tumbling out of Town Hall! 

And the night was crisp

And the air was fresh

And it made me smile

Because anything can happen if you let it

Town Hall is transformed for the official Opening Night of "Mary Poppins", Sydney

The three (seriously happy) sisters and Philip Quast

Art and About

Imagine walking to the train station

And along the way you can see the Olgas

And an idyllic beach

And a hundred years of history marching through the tunnel

On the other side of the station an old steam train comes rushing out through green fields peppered with yellow flowers

Outside the fish and chip shop herds of seahorses swim in a blue ocean 

And it is nice that someone took the effort

To paint murals around your suburb

The council made an effort to make it nicer

Prettier

Deter vandalism

Art is everywhere if you look closely enough

I have often walked down this street before

And now it sings in technicolour arrangements 

(murals were painted by Robin Martin and commissioned by Ashfield Council. The Underline Project is also an initiative of Ashfield Council)

Moving to London

Left: Abuelo and Abuela in Manilla in the 1950s, Right: Mum and an assortment of (now) uncles and aunts in 1963

Forty-eight years ago you sailed into Sydney and leaned against the railing of the ship 

Thinking of children who weren’t even born yet

All the children with you would one day be grown-ups and married with children of their own

Could you have imagined me, your granddaughter, named after you

Who when she went to Spain for the first time felt strangely at home

Despite the language barrier 

Who longed her whole life to be European, to speak Spanish, who thrilled and delighted at finally getting a Spanish passport 

How would you feel knowing your nieta is not an out and proud Australian

That I cringe at our accents and our inability to speak more than one language 

That I find Australian culture frustrating

That I can’t stand that our national day of pride is a day commemorating a bloody battle thousands of miles away 

That I cannot connect with Australian history because it is so contested 

A few months ago I sailed into Sydney myself

I got up at 5am to watch the lights of Sydney Harbour come into view

And I thought of you leaning against the railing of the Iberia

Could you have imagined as you sailed past Nielsen Park or Point Piper or Taronga Zoo that these would be the sites of my childhood?

Strange to think that the Opera House wasn’t even finished yet 

Could you have imagined me singing in the Opera House?! Or having my year 10 formal at the Zoo overlooking the giraffes looking out to the Harbour? 

Could you have imagined that I would grow up among the eucalyptus and the smell of the Australian bush

And yet never feel at home in it

To feel frustrated every time someone asks “but don’t you feel so lucky?”

In two months, I’m leaving this place

To go to the land where your brothers live

And then to London to seek my own life and put down my own roots

Where I will be in forty-eight years time? 

And what stories will have played out between my arrival at Heathrow and sitting down to reflect on it all?

Abuelo, forty-eight years ago you sailed to Sydney

To a land that for you was entirely sight unseen 

No internet to do your research

No crystal ball to let you know that it was all going to be ok, that you were making the right decision

Our wanderings are not over yet

We are still shifting in time and space 

But wherever we go, there we are

And we have our stories and our ancestors to guide the way

Anything Can Happen

Imagine that as a child you watched Mary Poppins on repeat and there are countless million times you have watched Mary float down from the sky and dish out coloured spoonfuls of goodness and hold the beak of her umbrella and say that will be quite enough of that thank you! And as that little child you wished and prayed that Mary would one day actually fly into your world. And then imagine one day you are living in a place you have never lived before and one morning you go out for a jog. And you are in the park and next to the playground you spy a statue of Mary Poppins. And there she is with her feet in perfect first position and her umbrella held above her head and the familiarity of her makes you gasp. And even more surprising is the discovery that P.L. Travers (who wrote the original books upon which the movie was based) once lived just a short jog from your house. And the person who unveiled the statue six years ago is your aunty. And it is surprising. And it is lovely. And your inner six year old says that is too cool. Mary Poppins lives at my park. 

  

Jason Robert Brown

And one day you find yourself in a theatre surrounded by a bunch of avid theatre nerds and you are all there because in time and space you have sat listening to the original cast recordings over and over and some of you have performed in amateur productions of his shows and the music is what gets you. And although it is not a large venue, it is entirely intimate and you can hear his breath and the plosive p’s and b’s and t’s and feel the pressure of his pinky hitting the top notes of the piano. And he excudes so much energy so much passion so much life as he plays and sings the songs you know so well but suddenly tonight they are new because the brain that wrote them is performing them in front of you and you wonder how he can possibly still be sitting with all that energy surely he must be floating surely the way he taps his foot so insistently that the whole auditorium can hear it feel its pulse surely he must need to stand but his back is straight and there he is sitting playing the piano and singing. And he is utterly marvellous. The way the music is driving and full of vigour but the lyrics are melancholy and funny all at once and the whole room is transported to intimate worlds far away in the land of America but still so familiar it could have been your own living room. You have had that conversation. You have had that heart break. You have felt that loneliness. You have shared that laugh. The magic of watching the craft come to life. Feeling like you are there as he writes the notes the chords the lyrics  the song is created in front of you before your eyes inside your very ears. And all there is is a piano a microphone and a man in a spotlight. And it is lovely. It is breath-taking. It is music. The end. 

Dinner at Shelly Beach

 (picture of Shelly Beach from here)

One day one can find oneself sitting at Shelly Beach looking at the headland covered in lush greenery and at the ocean and at people picnicking and playing and swimming and in the past fifteen minutes you have encountered three water dragons, a possum, and a rabbit sitting beneath a tree. And although a storm is brewing, it is still warm, and people are not in any rush to leave. A man is strumming a guitar. There is laughter. Upstairs in the cafe there is a party going on and you can hear the music and the hubbub of people chatting and mingling. 

And then you can find yourself sitting inside a lovely restaurant eating beautiful food with five beautiful people from all over the world. And the conversation tingles your toes and resonates with everything you have been thinking and feeling and reading for the past little while and it all feels delightfully synchronistic. And outside the storm has taken gentle reign of the beach. It's raining, but not very hard. The lightning camera flashes the sand and the ocean and the trees. And it is lovely. And it is beautiful. And you go home tired but happy and feeling like something within you has shifted. And you are incredibly grateful that you were there, you were a part of the conversation, and you shared the energy and it was light and beautiful and song. 

The end.

New Year's Eve

It’s days like these that will make you happy. Spending time with friends. Popping in to see Matt and Clairie-O, meeting lovely people and playing board games. Catching the train across the Bridge and seeing the myriad of people lining the foreshore. Sydney is made for big events on the harbour. A bright blue sky day. Warm. People of all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life are out on the street. The air is alive. I meet Len at Dawe’s Point. All the “VIP’s” feeling extra special because they have invites. Wrist-tagged and bag searched and inside to where the mood is festive, the music pumping. The view is spectacular. I don‘t recall seeing the fireworks from this side of the bridge before. The Opera House to my right. The sound of the giant bangs. Explosions of sparkle in the sky. 

We walk around to Circular Quay. The kind concierge at the Marriott finds me a safety pin for my holey jumper. Walk up Pitt St and up to the State Library. On the steps of the palace I meet Heath and Lyn and Ben. We walk down to join the queue for the Cahill Expressway. It is orderly and calm and moves quickly. Onto the Expressway and down to the western end. The view is utterly spectacular. The Bridge, the Opera House, the Quay beneath us. People are patiently waiting for midnight. We eat ice cream. Girls in colourful costumes walk past to entertain the crowd. 

On the hour, the half hour, and quarter of the hour before midnight single fireworks explode over the city and over the Opera House. People cheer. And suddenly it is ten seconds to midnight. And the pylons light up with giant numbers, helping the crowds around the foreshore count down. And then it is 2011! And the fireworks erupt. A lone bird flies confused over the bridge through the smoke and glitter. The bridge becomes so covered in smoke you can’t see it any more, and even some of the fireworks are obscured. A giant hand appears on the Bridge. 2011, Make Your Mark. With your hands go out into the world and create. High five the people you meet. Offer your hand in love, in gratitude, in peace. Wave goodbye Sydney. 2011, I’m off to make my mark on the world!

Watching Mould Grow

For the past week I have been dutifully turning 4 lumps of curdled milk in an esky, watching (semi)patiently for signs of mould, and squealing delightedly when I discover a fine furry white layer surrounding two of the lumps. I have not gone mad. I am conducting the most fabulous art/science experiment to come out of north-western France. Cheese-making. Camembert to be precise. These four round discs are the result of a wonderful day standing over a hot stove, stirring 10L of goat’s milk, adding cultures and non-animal rennet, waiting, stirring, waiting some more, more stirring, more waiting, more stirring, a little chopping, some careful pouring, and voila! By Christmas, I will have home-made camembert to devour! And because I did the course with my bestie Len, and my S’mum Meg, I will have not one, but three different camemberts to sample. WIN! 

The course was a fabulous day of cheese-making and learning with Karen Borg, at the North Sydney Community Centre. Karen is the owner and creator of Willowbrae Chevre Cheese, a wonderful goat’s cheese enterprise in Wilberforce (north of Sydney). I have been visiting Karen’s stall at the markets for nearly a year now, and I am utterly addicted to her goat’s curd, and marinated fettas. Oh sweet heaven help me, if there is nothing more delicious than a bit of plain curd on a fresh piece of bread! 

On the day of our cheese-making, we learnt the art of camembert and ricotta (you can also sign up for a day of blue cheese or fetta... they are absolutely on the to do list...) Ricotta is ridiculously easy, and utterly delicious when smothered in olive oil and thyme and baked in the oven until golden. While our camembert’s sat transforming from goat’s milk to curds and whey (yes, this is where Little Miss Muffet came from... she was eating curdled milk, and depending on what temperature the milk had been heated to, the beginnings of camembert or ricotta!), we sat on our tuffets feasting on pasta with a light cheesy sauce, rocket salad with pear, marinated fetta balls, and roasted walnuts, sweet potato and broccoli quiche, mini savoury tartlets, and an enormous cheese platter with blue cheese and camembert, and curd and all kinds of wonderful. 

It was divine to be sitting in the beautiful surrounds of the North Sydney Community Centre on a bright blue sky Sydney day, learning the craft of something that most people may not even think about, let alone try. Cheese just comes from the supermarket right?! To attempt the science that is cheese-making, to chat with like-minded people about the origins of our food, to enjoy beautiful food and appreciate where every last morsel of it comes from. It may be slow and full of effort, but that’s why I love it. It’s like watching mould grow. A daily practise that with each day brings new surprises and joys. I can’t wait for Christmas!  

Podcasting

Last year I started listening to a FABULOUS podcast called MusicalTalk. Every week a group of Brits get together and talk about musicals. Their focus is mainly on London and the UK theatre scene, with occasional dips across the pond to talk about what’s happening on Broadway. They talk with actors, directors, writers, stage managers, audience members, all the plethora of folks involved in making musicals, and have a whole list of very well known industry folk on their interview credits including Stephen Schwartz, Alan Menken, Anthony Rapp, Johnny Depp, and Stephanie J Block to name but just a few.

So a couple of weeks ago, I was listening to MusicalTalk and I thought, I like talking about musicals! Why don’t I do my own podcast? And talk about Australian musicals? And in a rush of excitement I told the girls at dance about it. And they got very excited. And then, last Thursday after Chris had whipped us into shape in Broadway Jazz, Flick and I sat down and attempted our very own podcast. The results are here for your listening pleasure. In this inaugural episode we talk about our first experiences of musical theatre. It was ridiculously fun to sit and talk musicals. It was ridiculously fun to sit and edit the thing (thank you Apple and your wonderful GarageBand invention!). In short I had a total blast. Do what you love. And you will be happy. The end. 

PS. We need a name for the podcast. Suggestions welcome!

The Best Things

In the past 7 days I have had several beautiful, inspiring, and exciting experiences...

On Monday I went down to Canberra (the above image is actually a photo of the air con and personal light on the bus!) to visit my good friend Susie La Q and her boyfriend Ryan, and after a delicious lunch in the CBD, we headed off to the Australian War Memorial. Even though I have been to the memorial countless times, each visit is an emotional, confronting, and inspiring. It is a beautifully designed space, and the exhibits never fail to move me. It seems that the more I learn about conflict around the world, the less I understand it. At closing time, the crowds are ushered towards the exit, and we were privileged to witness the “closing ceremony”, a simple service at the Pool of Reflection. A different soldier is remembered each day, his story read out to the crowd, and at the conclusion, a moment of silence followed by a lone musician playing The Lament on the bagpipes. Looking around the crowd, a multicultural mix of tourists from all around the world, I couldn’t help but wonder, what is the point of all this conflict? I am standing with people whose nations at one time or another Australia has most likely been at war with. And for what? Has it made the world a better place? Or does it just make people more mistrusting of each other? 

On Tuesday Susie and I visited Floriade. If you ignored the carnival rides and Easter Show-like stalls, you could almost believe you were stepping into an Impressionist painting. The rainbow of colours of poppies and irises and English daisies and chrysanthemums, the light green of the weeping willows dotting the perimeter of the lake was breath-taking (I love how in the photo below, the image has pixelated and it looks like a painting). The gnome knoll was a surprise highlight, with a myriad of brightly and imaginatively painted gnomes grinning up at intrigued passers-by. Thank you to Susie La Q and Ryan (and Sulley!) for a lovely couple of days! 

On Thursday I took Phoebe and her friend Sara (aged 7 and 8 respectively) to the Rock’s Discovery Museum for a school holiday program called HMS Discovery. Each “sailor” was given a passport, and the embarkation point, Plymouth, was stamped onto the yellow page. The year is 1792. Captain Natalie (not quite historically correct having a female captain, but we’re willing to be a little more open minded these days) reads her crew of 10 sailors, ranging in age from about 5 to 11, a letter from Captain Arthur Phillip to King George, requesting supplies for the colony of NSW. A projected image on the wall behind the ship tells us we are at the Plymouth dock. Over the (anachronistic) loudspeaker we hear sounds of a busy wharf - sailors stomping up an down the gangplank, cows and pigs mooing and oinking, the horns of the ships.

The crew were briefed on how to run a ship by playing Captain’s Coming, and were quickly inducted into the technicalities of port, starboard, bow, and stern, climbing the rigging, sewing the sail, and scrubbing the deck. The crew assembled in the Plymouth Storehouse, and were ordered to load the ship. Sacks of tools, timber, flour, and sugar, heavy chests with currency, a large sack of mail and cages of animals were quickly despatched onto the ship by the willing crew. Once all were aboard, the gangplank was removed, the ropes were thrown in, and the sail let down. 

The ship was off! The image on the wall changed to  a painting of a ship at sea, and the sounds of the ocean could be heard all around. The eagle eyed crew quickly spotted that the ship was overrun with rats, and spent time running around the ship throwing fat black squeaky rats overboard. Each sailor took turns in the important tasks of furling and unfurling the sail, throwing the ropes, and steering the ship. As evidenced by the sound effects, and a new image on the screen, the ship sailed into a storm, and the crew tied themselves to the railings to avoid being flung overboard by the rollicking sea - thankfully everyone knew how to tie a reef knot! They charted their way down around South America and found themselves in Rio de Janeiro. The crew avoided scurvy by eating lemons, limes, and bananas, and dancing to the music of Rio de Janeiro. But the stop was only a short one, as there was still a long voyage ahead. 

Finally, after 8 long months at sea, the crew could hear seagulls, which meant land was at last nearby! The distinct sounds of the NSW bush could at last be heard - cackling kookaburras and lilting lyre birds. The image on the wall transformed into Sydney Cove, and the crew rejoiced at having made the long voyage successfully. The cargo was unloaded into the Sydney storehouse, and all sailors were given a new Sydney Cove stamp in their passports. A most wonderful way to spend an hour in the school holidays... now I need to find a version for adults! 

The War Memorial visit re-inspired me to keep learning about conflicts around the world, and after a delightful couple of hours in the City of Sydney Library on Tuesday afternoon, I have a new stack of books on Afghanistan to keep me busy for a while. Yesterday I finished reading Three Cups of Tea, a powerful book about the importance of providing education in Central Asia. Once again, the more I learn, the more I want to know, and the less I seem to understand... the contradictory joy of learning!

So a very busy and wonderful week, with much to inspire me! And the best part, all of these activities were free! WIN! 

Rookwood

When one thinks of moments of beauty, inspiration, and excitement, a cemetery is probably not on the list of things that spring to mind. Let us travel back to the Victorian era... First of all, death was considered in an entirely different way to the way we view it today. It was much more out in the open, publicly discussed, shared, and mourned. Concurrently in this period, we see the development of public green spaces - large beautifully designed parks and public spaces for people to enjoy fresh air, sunshine, and be close to nature. Central Park, Hyde Park (both in London and Sydney), and the Sydney Royal Botanic Gardens, are beautiful examples of such parks. 

These two notions came together in the form of the necropolis, or “city of the dead” (from the Latin words “necro” for dead body and “polis” for city), a large open space that was at once a park and a cemetery, or as it was referred to by our Victorian counterparts, a garden cemetery. A space for people to come and bury their dead, mourn the loss of their loved ones, and be in a beautiful environment. In Sydney, we are home to one of the the largest necropolis’ in the world, and what is considered to be one of the best examples of a Victorian necropolis in the world, Rookwood Necropolis (a tiny portion of which is pictured above, picture is from the Rookwood website). Located between Lidcome and Strathfield in Sydney’s west, Rookwood comprises 700 acres of burial grounds, featuring beautiful gardens, architecture, and the names of over 800,000 people who are interred within the grounds. 

Arriving at Rookwood on the free shuttle from Lidcombe Station for the Open Day yesterday was entirely bizzare. There were bands playing music, sausage sizzles and Devonshire tea stalls, face painting for the kids, and people everywhere. People of all ages and backgrounds were wandering around the grounds, looking at headstones, listening to volunteer tour guides share the histories of the cemetery and some of its more infamous inhabitants, and looking for graves of relatives and ancestors. If there is one thing that unites humanity, it’s death. No matter where we are born, under what circumstances we live, what we do, at some point or other, we will all no longer be living. 

Due to the sheer size of the place, I unfortunately missed the talks I was hoping to attend - behind the scenes at the crematorium, and the history of embalming, but it was rather incredible to just wander through the grounds for an hour and a half. I felt that the original designers of Rookwood would have been proudly watching over the creation yesterday. Their ideal of the garden cemetery was not realised in the nineteenth century owing to poor burial practices, issues with sewerage, and poor management, but today Rookwood is an eerily beautiful place. It is steeped in history, and captures the ethos of a time gone by. 

Is it morbid to enjoy learning about the history of death? Or is it just a natural part of living? I find it fascinating, and I think we could do well to take a note from our Victorian forebears and bring the discussion of death back into a more public domain. Tours are run by the Friends of Rookwood (a volunteer organisation that works to promote the “social, historical, and cultural values” and preservation of the site), on the first Sunday of the month. It would be great to go back and experience it again. 

Run, Lulu! Run!

Bright blue sky, crisp air, and 80,000 of my closest friends. A perfect day for running the iconic City to Surf. Now in it’s fortieth, and my first, year, the City to Surf today was an amazing event. The logistics behind these kinds of things always staggers me. Who has to make the decision about how many plastic cups to buy? Organises the online registrations? Packs bibs and electronic tags and stuffs bags full of newspapers? Organises the marshalling of 80,000 runners?! It’s mind blowing. But it is incredible to be a part of. Dad and Phoebe dropped my s’Mum (step-mum for the uninitiated, and pictured with moi above at the end of the race) Meg and I off at Hyde Park and my adrenalin started pumping. The park was full of people in sports gear, stretching, jogging, and greeting fellow runners. This is what life should be all about. People coming together to celebrate health and fitness and the beauty that is Sydney on a bright sunny, albeit chilly, Sunday morning in early August. 

The race start is divided into 6 groups based on previous experience (ie. the super duper runners start first), and safety (ie. the walkers and mum’s/dad’s/carers with prams are up the back). Meg was in the blue group, so I bid her farewell and made my way through the park down to College St to join the yellow group. I giggled at the long row of porta loo’s through the middle of the park, and the patient queues of runners lined up to use them (something about peeing in the middle of the city with but a wall of thin plastic between you and thousands of people is immensely amusing... after all is said and done, we are all human...). 

Are you ready yellow group?! Cheers and waves. They called the start of the race, and we were off! Sort of. The sheer mass of people meant we really couldn’t get moving beyond a slight shuffle. Thankfully as we rounded the corner to William St, the pace picked up, the crowd thinned a little, and I was able to run right from the blue mat (the point from which the electronic tag attached to your shoe starts recording your time... Ah technology! Back in my old running days it was a volunteer with a stop-watch...).  And from then on, except for a couple of drink stops along the way, I pretty much didn't stop running until I hit the finish line.

It was humbling, inspiring, and emotional to look up to the end of William St and see a mass of humanity running toward the tunnel. The sound of feet pounding the pavement around me, the smell of tiger balm, the spectators cheering us on. I was totally pumped! Running through the tunnel people were whooping and cheering, and a lythe young Mexican woman with a giant sombrero and an Ipod speaker dock, was playing awesome Latino tunes, all the while cheering and running, (and totally outpacing me)! I had to keep reminding myself to not let the excitement (or emotions) get a hold of me, and focus on running! 

I was shocked when we reached the 5km mark to realise we had already done 5km, because I was feeling good! The sheer momentum of the people around me, the bands playing along the roadside, the people who had come out onto their lawns and driveways to cheer and play music, the gorgeous day, it felt fantastic to be a part of it all. Heartbreak Hill was demanding, but with so much going on around me, people dressed in costumes - from Star Wars to Spiderman, several gorillas, a giant frog (how do people run 14km in head gear?!), wigs and capes, tutu’s and fairies, inspirational t-shirts, and people from all walks of life, young and old, walking and running, I didn’t have time to remember I was willingly running up a 5km hill, let alone a 14km race!

Rounding down the hill down Military Rd and Campbell Parade, I remembered why I love living in Sydney (especially my days of living in the east). Bright blue sky meets glorious blue ocean meets beautiful harbour foreshore. It's fairly spectacular. And coming into Bondi Beach was a mixed bag of emotions. I was excited, proud, tired, sad that it was coming to an end so quickly, and pumped that I had finally achieved something I had said I would do since I was about eleven years old. I’m a little sore tonight (ok, make that a lot sore... when Mum called out to say the race was on the news, I could barely make it from my room to the tv... go figure!), but I feel like I can achieve ANYTHING I put my mind to... look out world!