RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

Testy times in lycra's fast lane
21st May 2004

This week we were treated to the rare cosmic event of two comets appearing in the sky together – it seems that one of anything is just not enough anymore.  It's currently the fashion to maximise every single moment and opportunity of our lives without any space for calm and introspection.  I was very impressed with Italian-born Sonia Gandhi's decision not to become India's next Prime Minister because she said she made her decision, "by listening to her inner voice."  My head is so choc-full of voices, it's like an Andrew Lloyd Weber production-the cast and crew are all in there giving me directions while I'm stuck like a rabbit in the glare of the spotlight.  I never know which voice to listen to because they're all scrambling for airspace.  We're all on overload, take a look at the person sitting next to you – are they staring into their Weeties as though there's meaning in the soggy mush?

Magazine articles written by know-nothing nuff nuffs drive us to a place where we balance precariously between exhaustion and high anxiety.  I know, because that's my permanent parking spot-squeezed in, back-end first, between anxiety and exhaustion.  These are the diaries of the starship Berger on her quest to find meaning and energy via the rubbish suggestions of experts.

Having longingly observed those Melburnians who run along our footpaths and bike tracks every morning – rain, hail or exhaust fumes, I too wanted to belong to this elite group of spandex Smurfs.  People who run tell me it's their obsession that it gives them a dose of endorphins that fuel their day and power their brains.  But I'm not like them.  The real runners glide past trees, cars and local shops, feet pounding effortlessly on whatever surface they're on.  Those that run with their dogs generally have a plastic bag attached to their body somewhere, ready to scoop up doggie litter.  Dog and runner dribble and grin simultaneously at each other blissfully happy with this co-dependency.

My attempts at running have not been so elegant.  I can't face the cold morning without heavy tracky daks, a couple of loose but warm hooded tops, a beanie, gloves and thick socks.  I tumble down the street like an abandoned garbage bag full of used clothing.  And no matter what style I adopt I never glide along – I lurch and waddle like a duck with a bad case of hemorrhoids.  Other runners cross the road to avoid me – maybe it's the pained smile on my unassembled face?  After a couple of weeks of dashing out of my cave at daybreak and straight onto the footpath I decided that I needed something more gentle, like swimming.

"Great for your back", everybody said.  Yeah right, but what about my head?  In my first week I got kicked in the head twice.  I was somewhat desensitised to the pain having endured the condom-hugging sensation of getting a bathing cap over my head.  What remains of my scalp is a crater-like moonscape of clumps of matted hair.  Then there's the torment of the fast lane and slow lane.  The fast lane is full of marketing types, sleek predators racing towards a power-point finish.  They splash and kick even when they're not moving; digital bathing caps ready to receive emails.  This is not my tribe, they're looking for brand recognition and I'm nothing more than junk mail.

I chose the helter-skelter lane for those who prefer to swim diagonally across the pool.  One woman wore a shower cap and I realised too late that I had my Speedos on backward and inside out.  The water collecting in my gusset was not only weighing me down, but helped me understand for the first time how inconvenient testicles must be.  As if on cue the man in front of me snapped open his legs and swapped to a breaststroke.  The friction of his hairy thighs and lycra bathers created a current that fogged up my goggles and dragged me under and between his thighs.  I struggled with my fear of intimacy and drowning, but managed to bounce out of the water.  Next week my morning exercise will be to lift and drag the doona further over my head.