A R C H I V E S
Thanks
for
visiting.
2.12.01
An Email from
Australia . . .
Taking
the cure
We arrived at the Gold Coast late on a Sunday evening because
our train from Sydney was an hour late. The manager of our apartment left
the key in an envelope taped to the door. We entered the second floor
flat, fixed a cup of tea with the furnished supplies and fell into bed.
In Queensland the sun is up at 5:00 AM, and aided by our remaining jetlag,
we were out walking at 5:30 that first morning. Here the bright white
sand of the beach slopes up to a small dune where sand fences restrain
the drift. Behind this fence a strip of green parkland runs between the
beach and the street. A path winds through the park for several kilometers
and at 5:30 a.m. it is the parade ground for superbly conditioned men
and women who are moving at full speed from one end of the park to the
other, running, jogging, fast-walking, some pushing streamlined strollers,
others being paced by dogs on leashes---all going faster than seems reasonable
for this time of morning. These people are suntanned with golden hair,
and they are not interested in having slow moving white-skinned tourists
clog up their path. We soon learned to watch carefully and move onto the
grass as they speed by.
At the edge of the park is a bike lane. There, riding club members in
brightly colored outfits glide by in training formation, hunched over
their handle bars, their wheels centimeters apart, their calf muscles
defined under tanned skin. If you look in the other direction, you can
see early morning surfers riding the waves before daytime swimmers crowd
the water and cause lifeguards to restrict surfboards to limited areas.
On the upside of the beach an area is fenced off for professional beach
volleyball TV broadcasting. The impression we're getting is that the Gold
Coast is a permanent training ground for all of Australia's world class
athletes. But there are others who catch the exercise bug.
Not only are we pale and slow but we are also flabby. Saggy hips and a
developing paunch, hardly noticed at home, are disgustingly obvious here.
We have arranged to be here for four weeks and do not have a car. We don't
have the patience for the endlessly boring bus trips to Sea World and
the other tourist traps. We hide in a local shopping center, settle in
a sidewalk cafe with a newspaper, a hot chocolate and a cup of cappuccino,
and plot our strategy. Long morning walks in the park, a little later
so the runners and bikers will be back home showering for work. A newspaper
and hot drinks afterwards to reward our effort. Late afternoon at the
beach, body surfing for exercise, and soaking up the less potent sunrays
as a fix for the pale skin that labels us outsiders. Add an evening walk
to enjoy the cool breezes and burn a few more calories. Not enough. The
shopping center has stores and shops with beautiful Australian vegetables
and fruits. We'll live European style, shop each day and live on salads
with an occasional lamb steak for protein. Still no remedy for the sags.
Ah, the shopping center has an exercise gym: The Healthworks. We take
the plunge for two one- month memberships. We'll go twice a day, hit the
weight machines and stationary bikes each time and as an extra, get access
to a scale so we can plot our progress on the computer. We'll stop at
the local used bookstore and read for intellectual stimulation in the
evenings (and while we bike at the gym) and play Scrabble with meals to
make us forget we're not getting enough calories to support all this exercise.
Done.
The gate keepers at Healthworks are Daniel in the evening and Keft, a
very petite real blonde, in the morning. The cast of characters is just
as intimidating here as on the street. Men of massive upper bodies and
women of massive upper bodies--- but Keft and Daniel are encouraging and
give us help specific to our body parts and needs. We start to fit in.
At first we feel conspicuous, then we notice that other body builders
seem to operate with two principles: (1) sweat and grunt, and (2) admire
yourself in the mirrored walls the whole time. So, they don't even notice
us. Gradually, back at the apartment, the slope of the weight graphs turns
down. The pale skin darkens. We go to the mall and buy more revealing
shorts and tops.
One man at the gym stands out. He is probably in his 50's. We don't know
his name but refer to him as Arthur in honor of our favorite Australian
writer. He could be a man from the bush. He is thin and a little stooped
but his muscles are long and sinewy. His skin is dark, whether by genetics
or sun we cannot tell. He comes in slacks and a white shirt but changes
to tee shirt and shorts and puts on a cap, the only person at the gym
who wears one. He speaks to Daniel but never to anyone else. He goes through
his workout systematically and then leaves in his workout togs, his other
clothes in a blue gym bag. We watch him every night, wonder about his
life, discuss him on the walk home. One night he approaches, stands close
and says in a private way, "The pursuit of Arnold is never ending." We
haven't seen him since that night, but as our stay here is coming to an
end, we think he speaks the truth.
Bob and Carol
Dixon
