2024 May Tan Time Trial Results

A cool, clear autumn morning greeted VRR members and friends at the May Tan Time Trial. We welcomed some first timers, and welcomed back two members we hadn’t seen for “a while”,

Tony Freegard, who has been unwell (refer article below), and my sister Robyn (pictured)  who’s been AWOL in Eltham 🤷‍♂️

Brian Wenzel, star of ‘A Country Practice’ TV show, died recently, and the Blue Ribbon foundation noted his passing and posted this caricature of him.
Looking at the two bodyguards for the Chief Commissioner (holding either end of the banner) the caricature seemed very appropriate.
By the way, how would you like to do a fun run carrying a full equipment belt?

Members were advised that Kevin Browne’s funeral had been a great celebration of his remarkable life, with many, many stories of KB’s great coaching of distance runners, giving them personalised training programs and very accurately forecasting their required splits and overall race run time.

Kevin’s “star marathoner”, Jane Sturzaker, was coached by Kevin from her first marathon to her 351st, sadly completing marathon 352 without the benefit of his guidance.

At the Tan Jane told me a recent (extraordinary) Kevin Browne story. Apparently, KB and Jane shared an interest in betting on the horses. KB would give Jane tips, horses that he thought she should bet on. Before backing them, Jane would check their form, and only bet on them if she agreed with Kevin’s assessment. In Kevin’s last week, he gave Jane a tip for a horse running that weekend. Jane checked its form and decided to back a different horse. Kevin passed away on the Friday, the race was Saturday, the next day. Later, sad about Kevin passing away, Jane checked the result of the race.

Kevin’s horse hadn’t won, and neither had Jane’s…to her dismay, Jane discovered that her horse and Kevin’s had dead-heated for second, something that almost never happens…  

Michael
President of VRR

Regular Stride Out correspondent, Tony Freegard aka Agent 99 has provided us with an update on his health issues, and rest assured his dry humour has not been damaged.
Recommended reading !!

Oh dear! I must have nodded off. Rays of sunlight penetrate the fog of fatigue, hours, days, weeks have evaporated to a place beyond my ken.

Nothing ever gets done, and I lose track of what needs to be done, and what does get done isn’t worth doing.

So where was I? Radiation, yes that’s it. To be delivered by those lovely purple people at Peter Mac. The people aren’t purple, but everything else is. Not a popular colour choice for furniture and fit, I can only speculate they bought the paint cheap as job lot, and the shop was pleased to get rid of the stuff.

I was anxious in the lead up to my treatment, as the seriousness of the cancer now appeared real. More senior readers will be familiar with the movie series (modern day speak “franchise”) James Bond, a somewhat farcical international spy that drove a conspicuous sports car and announced his presence to all, “Bond, James Bond.” As if that hasn’t just blown his cover? Yet, this seemed to impress the girlies no end. One such film was entitled “Goldfinger,” Imagine my surprise when I learned I was to have three gold seeds inserted up my bottom! I am uncertain as to the origin of these seeds, but doubt someone was sent to the local horticultural supplier to buy a packet (price code G). These seeds would precisely triangulate the direction of the radiation treatment squarely at the remaining prostate cancers, reducing collateral damage to adjacent organs (we will come to that later). I would never challenge the exploits of “Goldfinger,” yet boast the sobriquet “Goldbottom.”

This insertion procedure was to be delivered by a well-respected clinic; however, they were having a bad hair day. Upon arrival the receptionist had never heard of the procedure, indicated I should take a seat, then she promptly went off to morning tea and forgot all about me. Eventually, other staff members noticed my presence loitering in the waiting area and looked for a just reason to have me evicted. After much examination of my proffered documentation, it was discovered that my referral had been lost and my appointment omitted. I was then shunted around the clinic for over 2 hours and instructed to gown up (bare in mind in preparation I had medicated myself with the supplied antibiotic, normally administered to racehorses that needed a leg or two removed,
and given myself 2 repositories), only to find out the only available clinicians were skilled in nothing more than applying a sticky plaster, and little ones at that. Procedure cancelled and my carefully planned twenty daily radiation treatments spanning four weeks was in disarray.

Insert clarion call – Peter Mac to rescue. An alternate was suggested which entailed marring my body with four tattoos. I have always considered tattoos to be face painting for adults. Regardless, I have succumbed to the depravity of ink work. A less accurate method but given the time constraints a favourable option.

I was issued with a confusing and contradictory set of instructions for radiation, which included a weird diet which was high in protein and low in fibre. The list of prohibitions basically covered my usual dietary regime, suggesting that gassy drinks should be allowed to go flat, flat beer!!!

A full bladder and empty bowel are necessary to avoid collateral organ damage. I was to drink, scull not sip 500 mls of water 30 minutes prior to treatment, hence timely appointments are essential and the conveniently located loo much appreciated post zap.

I was warned that the rectum may become irritable. No, it is downright angry. Never in my life have I been more aware of the difference between the bowel and the rectum. The treatment may not of have wrecked the rectum, but it sure hasn’t done it any favours. Number two’s lead time has been drastically reduced, requiring rapid multi-skilling to open the toilet door, yank down my strides, lift the water closet lid and aim appropriately. Rendering me busier than a one-armed paper hanger on speed.

Treatment is painless and takes only about seven minutes. Upon arrival you collect your own tote bag from your very own little cubby hole, with your name of it, reminiscent of kindy. Secrete yourself away in a cubicle to strip down to your underwear (which brought to mind the appalling state of my undies, holey mouldy worn out old things which would cause significant embarrassment if I was run over by a bus (why a bus?), I must do something about this, one day), and don one of those impossible gowns that tie at the back. Seriously ladies, how do you dress in the morning with all those buttons, clasps and zippers inconveniently placed.
at the rear. I pre-tied mine at the top, slipped it over my head at left my petite derriere open to public view.

Unfortunately, what is normally a four-week voyage of discovery (ie 5 times per week Monday to Friday, equalling the 20 required treatments), my schedule was disrupted by a profusion of public holidays, marking the distribution of chocolate and an impossible campaign to reduce the number of hours in the day to only 8. So, it stretched out to four and half weeks, an extra weekend (of flat beer). Fatigue, my old friend, is to be expected during treatment. In the first few weeks it was a doddle, but towards the end it becomes horrendous. The last five K of a marathon before the finish line is in sight, is a close, but not exact approximation.

During the treatment I developed and annoying rash that had me scratching myself raw. Although the rash was not in the treatment zone, I demanded to be referred onto a Ichthyologist, but was informed these people deal only with fish. I settled for a polite, if confused Radiation Oncologist who assured me, she was not an expert in rashes, (yet took a photo on her phone for social media purposes) and referred me to any chemist shop for expert advice, delivered by an eager, yet inexperienced shop assistant with no medical training. Regardless, the rash has cleared up, leaving no unsightly blemishes for my adoring public to endure.

Mother nature abhors a vacuum. Then how does she keep her carpets clean? The day of the final treatment is a bit of a celebration of an ordeal successfully completed. Imagine my distress to find my very own little cubby hole had already been reallocated and my name removed. Worse still my lovingly pre-tied gown had been removed to the laundry without as much as goodbye, bit like losing in a house move a favourite sleeping blanky.

During post treatment care I was advised to install a Mattress Protector. Was this clinician aware of some nefarious conspiracy to whisk my mattress away in the dead of night? even as I rested peacefully upon it. How would this protection work? Would a big burly bloke with the appropriate accreditation be stationed at my bedroom door? Who should I approach to engage this service, and most importantly is there a government benefit to cover such a cost?

Thank you for reading and as always,
Tony Freegard
Agent 99

PS On a recent road trip I noticed signs claiming, “Only sleep cures fatigue.” I realise these messages are not peer group reviewed medical advice, but rather a general warning that tired drivers should take a break. Chronic fatigue is not relieved by a nap, or by any number of hours of peaceful sleep. Only a nagging bladder forces the abandonment of the comforting cocoon of a warm bed, yet this is not a metamorphosis, merely a brief interlude into the real world, before a return to whence you came, utterly exhausted.

On a completely different note, read about Russ Cook’s running adventures in Africa.

Dozens of supporters gathered on a rocky outcrop beside the Mediterranean in northern Tunisia, cheering on the British charity fundraiser, who has run more than 16,000 kilometres across 16 countries in 352 days.

“I’m a little bit tired,” Cook said – likely an understatement.

In the course of his journey, the 27-year-old endurance athlete from Worthing in southern England crossed jungle and desert, swerved conflict zones and was delayed by theft, injury and visa problems.

Cook – known on social media by his nickname, Hardest Geezer – set off on April 22, 2023 from Cape Agulhas in South Africa, the continent’s southernmost point. He hoped to complete the journey in 240 days, running the equivalent of more than a marathon every day.

He and his team had money, passports and equipment stolen in a gunpoint robbery in Angola. He was temporarily halted by back pain in Nigeria. And he was almost stopped in his tracks by the lack of a visa to enter Algeria, before diplomatic intervention from the Algerian embassy in Britain managed to secure the required documents.