welcome to my new place

This is it for the next 6 months, I showed up on a dark and stormy night and surprised my unsuspecting flatmates, Hi I'm Loren and I'll be living here from now on, I said through sheets of water passing over me. This delightful little image fails to capture the gangsta tagging along the outer wall (if you look very closely you can see it), amateurs, probably the most average tagging I've ever seen. So here I am in the hood, living the thug life.

the truth about my condition

I am unashamedly deluded. No matter how many times it happens, I still think I'm untacklable, is this wrong? Every time I do get tackled, which never happens, I truly believe that it's an aberration and that next time I'll happily run over the top of my opponent and score a try. This is the only thing in my whole life where I have 100% unshaterable confidence and I don't know why and I could almost say I don't care, but wouldn't it be nice for this brash dogged egotism to branch out into other areas of my life? Well, come to think of it, if this were to happen, most people probably couldn't stand to be around me at all, this type of hubris isn't exactly endearing, I'll just have to settle for being able to run 'em over. Yehah! P.S. Got a nines tourney this weekend!

There is such a thing as Australian country music and I'm living it

A week in Tamworth is worth two in the bush or almost anywhere else. Famed world wide for it's giant golden guitar which allegedly gave birth to Elvis Presley himself, you'll find throngs of Memphis pilgrims trudging in their blue suedes here in the mighty New South, perhaps they're lost, they must be, since when was Elvis filed under Country Western (the only thing allowed to play on any radio here by law). Do enough line dancing and everything starts blending together, one great big blob of monotony. Then you meet the people, crazy, irrational, insane, people just like everyone else. Wow, people who listen to country music are people too. Some of them even buy Austar off you. I gave up one week of league training for this, so I'm happy I'll have some money to show for it. There's nothing else to do out here except heel and toe, one , two, three, (at a seedy bar) and/or look at that magical monument to Elvis greatness. We settled for the latter (Alt: I will insert the photo here when I track it down) and left our country friends with the unrivalled joys of satellite television. Rock on.

quench me please

Look at them aren't they beautiful. When you're body type profusely perspires at the slightest provocation and add to that a job where you walk around in temperatures similar to those found in the atmosphere of Venus, one thing you must always remember to bring is your water bottle. But not just any bottle will do, I've been through many during my time, sifting through all the pretenders, some too big, others too small, most ultimately unsatisfying. It's a question of taste, what I'm looking for is an elegance of design that most bottle producers just don't offer. Then I saw her for the first time, absolutely perfect: The sleek elongated body; the roundness of the measurement of her volume, 1 litre; the tasteless refreshing gulp of her flower extracts. She's a keeper all right.Oh yes, this is the water bottle for me. This endorsement of Balance's water bottles is in no way endorsed by Balance Water.

grasshopper you have much to learn

They're not asking much really: 5x100 meter sprints followed by 5x200 meter sprints, with 1 minute rest periods between each cycle. I get out of the blocks quickly on the first 4 runs or so. I wonder what my dust tastes like. Got Nathans running on either side of me. How's it going, I'm Loren, nice to meet you. Later boys. I'm good like that generally. Yep, I'm pretty much the life of the party when I get going, making connections, putting myself out there, don't let my Kiwi southern drawl fool you, I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security before I pounce. I don't want to get too self congratulatory, but I'm pretty much the man.

Ahem.

Cough.

OK.

As I was saying I was running and sometimes I find myself moving back to front here on the field, sometimes here I start fast and finish crap. I blitz the rest of the boys for the first few 100s and before I know it my body runs out of ATP stores and I go into coast mode for the rest of the evening. Gold coast mode, like she's right mate, no worries. I believe it was the honourable Vince Lombardi who said "Fatigue makes cowards out all of us." ATP can be replaced no matter how depleted, but bad habits aren't so easily reversed. Fatigue what have you done to me?!? As the "sprints" wore on I found myself inclined to decide before they even began, hey I'm gonna dog it on this one. Yet if I decided otherwise I could have gone a lot better. Friends, esteemed colleagues, children of the revolution this is no way to live life. "Save secondary efforts for secondary occasions." I came here to do one thing and that was to be the best. To be my best. Maybe I'm not quite the man I thought I was. Not yet, but it's coming, oh yeah baby it's coming. Next training's gonna be seick mate.

get rich or die trying

So this is what it feels like in the desert of the real. In a few short weeks I'll be completely broke. I'm walking a tight rope without a safety net. It feels awesome. If I fall along the way then my feelings may change on the matter.

Sometimes I feel like Theoden in the battle for Helm's Deep, "Is this it? Is this all you can conjure Sauruman?" and then there's a massive breach in the fortress wall. Who knows what could happen. At times like these I prefer to remain philosophical though, Victoria Holt seems to have the right idea "Never regret. If it's good, it's wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience."

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS HOME or THE RETURN OF THE KING

Oh gym, how I've missed you. Let me count the ways. I'm more broke than Windows Vista (OK, so they fixed it, I know), but not even that could hold me back, from returning to where I rightly belong: In the centre of a crowd of strangely dressed, smelly, health fanatics.

It is said that King Arthur will return to save his people in their time of most dire need. Today I was King Arthur, the gym was my Camelot, the bench was my Excalibur, Guinevere was that really hot chick that left when I was walking in, my knights were, um, and the dire need part... the analogy is breaking down, but who cares, I'm back! Bring on DOMS tomorrow.

early morning sunburn

Loren awoke to the melodious sound of early morning alarm bells. Technophonic trajedies sprung a leak in his cellphone, rupturing his dream time connection. Why wake up at 6:00am, when sleep is still a posibility? He had training at Main Beach, he knew it, his team knew it and there was no way he could deny it. Off to training!

a penny for my thoughts

Another leisurely stroll down Moralla Ave, which becomes Government Road and something else in between. I have to placate my thirst by rehydrating and I do so by making another unnecessary purchase when I could have used the taps outside of the rest rooms, at training, for free, but I can't get out of my mind what I did to those toilets just a couple of days ago.

Vitamin water, watermelon and strawberry flavour, emmm, tastes disgusting, but it'll tide me over till I get home. Ah, home, at least a mile and a half away. I walk with my empty bottle, that I downed faster than a shot glass in front of an alcoholic during happy hour. I continue to walk and I notice a pattern forming, there continues to be no rubbish bins anywhere along the foot path.

I'm in Runaway Bay this is the rich retired Florida part of the Gold Coast, at least the multiple octogenarian in fancy clothes sightings would suggest as much. A sign to my right informs me: No dumping rubbish, maximum penalty $300. Where do rich people put there trash? I walk the entire length of my journey and there's not one rubbish bin till I'm about 2 minutes from home (yes, I live in the destitute bogan part of town). Does the threat of a fine and the absence of rubbish bins prevent thoroughfare by the poor through richman's territory. Do the rich have some kind of elaborate underground network of plastic pipes and capsules setup whereby they dispose of all the rubbish that doesn't seem to pollute their collective properties? It's classism all over again. Where's Michael Moore when you need him, shouldn't he be making a documentary about this or something?

I chuck away the bottle and shake my head, I think all this walking is getting to me just a little.