Travel Reference
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ribs, steak, pie and other standard American fare. As when I entered
the Halfway House in Shoreham, the patrons stood and cheered me
and wished me well. The local media flocked and fired questions at
me. Thank goodness I turned down all the kind offers of a second
and third drink; otherwise, I would be in no shape to run tomorrow.
I enjoyed myself and relaxed more than I have for a time, but the
bottom line is that with the dining and the media interviews I didn't
get back to the van until after midnight, and that means I won't have
enough sleep.
Here's another thing I'm trying not to dwell on: if we don't receive
an injection of funds from sponsors, we'll be hard-pressed to finish, or
even to travel much further than South America, let alone to the South
Pole, where we will have to pay for guides and skidoos. All I can do is
keep running and hope the money comes.
June 14
As I run, I try to notice the sights and sounds, the scenery, what people
are doing on the route. Running through the United States, I've been
aware of the smell of dead animals on the side of the road. Roadkill
is everywhere—deer, cats, dogs, possums, birds, rats—poor creatures
that tangled with a passing vehicle and lost and now lie decaying on
the roadside or in the bushes nearby. When I think of this run in years
to come, the acrid smell of death will be in my nostrils.
Sometimes things I experience spark memories, and I go with
the flow. I see a tennis court and I remember playing tennis with my
brothers and mates when I was a kid growing up in Sydney's western
suburbs. The aroma emanating from a diner will take me back to the
time when I was running in my neighbourhood and would pass my
home and smell Mum's cooking, meaning I had a pressing decision to
make: be strong and run on, or weaken, go inside and help myself to
her beautiful rich pancakes or roast lamb. I bask in the memories and
my legs keep working.
Bernie was giving me a briefing the other day and I grinned at
my recollection of the time when I was running across the Simpson
Desert and Bernie was my logistics man and ran a kilometre or two
with me. Unbeknown to Bernie, I was miked up so I could talk to a
television van that was covering the run. One of the reporters was the
