Warfare

My Mind and Body are constantly at war. Mind thinks I am a physical virtuoso with the strength and dering-do of a cavalier stunt-goddess. Body laughs derisively at Mind, sniggering "Face it, you're a 30-something middleweight with two bung knees, a bung back, a temper on you the size of Lake Superior, and while we're at it - a nail-biter, an asthmatic, and if Australian Idol's on the Box, I aint goin' anywhere"

As if Mind needed reminding.

Take yesterday as a case in point. Husband and I took the bikes on the train out to Lilydale with a bunch of crazy canucks, with the goal of riding the Warburton Trail 20 kms out to the Woori Yallock Pub (yes... the pub) then 20 kms back. "Fine!" Cried Mind, "20 kms is nothing! A piss in the ocean!"

It was a beautiful day on a beautiful stretch of Australia but 25 kms later, we still hadn't found the pub, Kevin had lost his mobile somewhere on the trail, the sun beat down relentlessly, I had to pee real bad and then out of nowhere, just as we located the pub perched high on the hill overlooking idyllic countryside, my back decides to go "Ping!!! No more riding for you!"

A beer and a muscle relaxant later, Mind slurred, "I'll give it a go. It's only 25 kms back. Uphill. On gravel. If Back goes, I'm up shit creek without a paddle, but hell, it only took us three hours to get here (OK, we did stop for a spot of sightseeing)"....

But Body took the easy way out and had the pub ring the cab company. Bloody luck to even get a cab - apparently there are only two that service the Warburton highway in a 40 km radius on a Sunday. So I lugged my bike into the boot and made the 30 minute drive back to Lilydale Station. I felt like the biggest piker ever, my pride torn to shreds. G.o.d.d.a.m.n Body!

I can still hold my alkihol though (more a sign of a chronically resigned liver than any sign of good health) - made a good showing at Cookie on Saturday night, a most excellent bar/thai restaurant on Swanston Street, dining with a bunch of poms...

Which reminds me, did you know that Western Australia has gone and taken "wog" (for non-Australian readers, a slang term for character of mediterranean descent) and "pom" (character of English accent and persuasion) out of the Racial villification charter and made it an acceptable part of the Australian vernacular? Apparently it's the expletory adjectives that offend aforementioned poms and wogs, such as "bleeding pom", "pom bastard", "wog... i don't know, what goes with wog?" rather than the actual "pom" or "wog". Wonder how many people they asked before they went and passed that law?

Ah, we skips do love to stereotype. We would stop at nothing to put down our fellow Aussies simply because they weren't born here, aren't of Anglo origin, can sing better than us or look good in hotpants. Now, I'm no saint and I'm as guilty of the next skip of using the term "pom" and "wog" if I'm joking and/or drunk but certainly not to someone's face and I'd never say it if there's the least chance of someone being offended by it. Next thing you know, "Chink", "Freeballer" and "Speedo Queen" will be deemed socially acceptable.

Where will it end?

More pics from the Yarra Valley area