50 by 50 - Dimensions of a Dream

December, 2009

I’m dancing. It’s the end of year drinks with my Wallan Secondary work mates. We’re letting our hair down. Towards the end of the night, I buy a CD from the band, Vaudeville Smash, shove it into my jeans pocket, and then we all wander out onto the footpath. Some bright spark suggests the casino. And I follow along, thinking, What better way to ruin an evening (or a city).

Five metres from the casino front door, I look at my watch - it’s midnight - I can still catch the last train home to Hurstbridge. I say my goodbyes and start running - it’s going to be a close thing. 

Fuck! Missed it. Next train’s not until 5 o’clock. Not sleeping on a park bench. Been training for a marathon though. Miles in the legs, like money in the bank. Might as well spend it. How hard could it be, to run home to Hurstbridge from the city?

Better get some sustenance first. Cheeseburger for champions. And a Snickers bar in the pocket for later. Righto, off we go. Skipping across Swanston Street, wiggling my way up laneways, past overflowing Fitzroy pubs. I’m running. I’m happy. No decisions to make.

But I do decide to stop when I get pulled over by police in Clifton Hill. Not for speeding, I don’t think. Maybe for running on the road, specifically the overpass at the top of Hoddle Street. They ask, “What are you doing?”. I answer, “I’m running home.” They think about this. Then offer the advice: “Don’t run on the road.” Hmm, not what my dad taught me, but alright I’ll make an exception this time.

Through Fairfield now, past brand new Mercedes cars sleeping quietly behind glass. Who needs a car anyway. Across Darebin Creek, then up the hill. But hang on, nature calls. I duck into the shadows, near the station where the long grass provides fresh wipeage - good to give something back to nature.

Lower Heidelberg Road draws me on, and then high over the cutting with memories of family trips to cousins in Balwyn. Using finely honed bushcraft skills, I find water in a garden tap in a front yard in Heidelberg. It helps to wash down the Snickers.

The Rosanna Road dogleg leads me on to Watsonia where the novelty of this whole escapade wears off suddenly. I’ve had enough. I’m tired, sweaty, grumpy. The CD is chafing where it shouldn’t. And I’m annoyed at myself for doing this stupid thing. I’ve probably done  20km already, with another 15km to go. It’s 3 or 4 in the bloody morning and I’ve got another hour or more till I get home.

That might be why I forget I’m not a car. Or why I wish I was one. Anyway, I take the Greensborough Bypass, running on the freeway now. It’s fairly quiet and safe-ish. There are so few cars that I certainly notice the Commodore pull up in front of me, just after Grimshaw Street. And the two blokes looking at me out the window. “Whaddya doin’ mate?” the driver calls. “I’m running home to Hurstbridge,” I say, for the second time that night. “Jump in mate,” he replies. 

The idea of jumping into a dodgy looking car with a couple of dodgy looking blokes in the dead of night seemed too inviting to decline. “Thanks,” I said, and hop in. I mean, what could possibly go right.

I apologise now to those two gentlemen for assuming the worst because, in fact, they were the best. They were kind and friendly and they helped me in my time of need. Best of all, they dropped me at my front door. I waved them goodbye and jumped into bed - 3.51am.

June, 2024

Zap forward 15 years - and that’s where things are at - I still haven’t run home from the city. It feels like unfinished business. I’m curious to know how far it is. I measure the route online. From Flinders Street along the Yarra River and Diamond Creek to Hurstbridge. It comes out at exactly 50 kilometres. And I’m turning 50 this year. Hence the catchy title, “50 by 50”. Just too tempting to resist really.

One slight downside is that the furthest I’ve run recently is the 5km ParkRun in Diamond Creek. Another downside is the brain injury I suffered two years ago in a bike accident with a kangaroo which left me in hospital for a month and then had to re-learn how to walk (not sure how the kangaroo’s going). Full feeling has not returned to my right leg so downhills are exciting (if you see my leg, let me know where it is, won’t you).

In the early days of the recovery, physio, Ash at Austin Repat, said, “Slow down, Grant. Walk with balance.” These words help me regain my composure now if I’m rushing around. My OT’s words also come back when I get overwhelmed in noisy and busy environments: “Your filter is broken.” This prompts me to breathe through challenging situations (the 20-minute powernaps help too).

Kim, my exercise physiologist, was all gung-ho after the accident, she said, “We’ll get you back to running 5km ParkRun by the end of August.” I thought she was pulling my leg (not that helpful for someone who’s forgotten how to walk). But she was right, or not far off; I ran it at the start of October, 2022. And her ambitious attitude has rubbed off on me. I’m not aiming small.

Bit by bit, each week I’ve been extending my long runs with my mate Bruce, who’s aiming for the Melbourne Marathon - a tiddly 42km. My longest training run so far has been 40km to Strathewen where I gave the Blacksmith’s tree a hug and remembered the Black Saturday bushfires. I’m ready to run 50km!

September, 2024

The morning of my 50km run is cold and dark. I jog down to Hurstbridge station in a thermal top and beanie. My neighbour Brendan is there waiting with a big grin; he’s more excited about this whole caper than I am. An hour later we are standing under the clocks of Flinders Street station, my sister Kaz and my cousin Marty are ready to run. And so we head off with a spring in the step and the buoyancy of the naive.

We chat away as we run along at a decent pace, past the MCG and under the Burnley freeway. I reminisce about the old bouldering wall where real rocks had been attached with liquid-nails and there was one rock climber we dubbed “the sloth” because every movement was in slow-motion. Kaz peels off here to catch a train at Burnley station, vowing to join me again later on. 

Cousin Dave and his sausage dog, Archie - a blur of little legs - run with us for 500 metres until the Walmer Street footbridge. I stop for a drink and energy gel at Studley Park boathouse before continuing to Fairfield pipeline bridge. Here Marty drops out and my brother James tags in. He crouches down with his hand stuck out behind as if this is a relay race. “It is a relay, Grant,” he says, “And you’re the baton.”

Under Chandler Hwy, we find a beautiful rhythm. Past the peaceful Wilsmere billabong, then up and over Belford Rd. The next kilometre is the least pleasant part of the whole Yarra trail. I call it “the Cage” because pedestrians and cyclists are jammed up against the metal fence and the roar of the freeway. One day maybe the private golf courses will learn how to share the river. Until then I will fantasise about organising a night time working-bee to re-route the trail down the 9th fairway. Hands up any volunteers?

Approaching Yarra Flats, so many people are running, walking and cycling - fellow humans moving their bodies this way and that, just like me. Except one difference. I am going from point to point. (And I am willing to drink from that dog bowl on the side of the trail). Anyway, when I got off the train this morning I realised, shit, there’s no going back. This is committing - the only way you’re getting home, mate, is if you just keep going. Mental note to self: keep going.

Under Manningham Rd, and then up ahead there’s a familiar face: Tony, my old running coach from my uni days (“I’m not old,” I can hear him quip…he’s hilarious like me). This is turning into a moving party with guests coming and going as they please. Only the host can’t leave.

My workmate, Mike, jumps in at Banyule Flats while Brendan, who’s been there from the start, and James, bail out to find Heidelberg station. My sister has driven to Bonds Rd and my emotions rise when I see her; a burst of energy comes then heaviness. We’re chatting and laughing about everything, anything to distract me from my legs. But my body is not falling for it, I begin to slow, making hard work of it now as we cross the Yarra into Westerfolds Park.

My uni running mate, Andy, and his kids on bikes, come along for a bit until we duck under Fitzsimons Lane and up over the Yarra River for the last time today. At Eltham Lower Park, where I used to run with dad, I wave goodbye to the Yarra River and chuck a leftie onto the Diamond Creek trail. This is a big moment, a new water course, the home stretch. But it’s a long stretch, 16km to go. I consider boarding one of the miniature trains, but not sure if they take Myki.

Bruce is here now and it instantly feels like our normal training runs. Months of long dark winter runs with head torches seem crazy far away and up close all at once. At Eltham Leisure Centre there’s mum waving up ahead. We high-five and she runs with me for a few metres. Oh jeez, my legs are really tightening up now. The beautiful free flowing running is turning into a shuffle. I expected this but, mate, still 13km’s to go. This is going to be tough. My hips and hammies are all locked. I’ve got no leg lift - a beetle could trip me up.

Mike and Tony head off at Eltham station, and for a time it’s just Bruce and me. We stop for a drink at Eltham North playground. (Later I find out that mum was right there, just metres away, standing on the track. She’d been following my “blue dot” on her phone.) But I run on without seeing her. We cross Allendale Rd and there’s my beautiful wife and kids on their bikes. Now I really start to choke up. Come on, matey, keep it together.

Past the Diamond Creek pool, my best mate Steve, who has a broken ankle, is hanging off a one-lane bridge taking photos of me. It makes me smile and my running legs return momentarily. He gives me a big cheer and I think, I can do this. Bruce gives me some good advice: break it into smaller chunks. Righto, my next goal is Diamond Valley College. Then, the “Lorax estate” - where they’ve cut down all the trees. Then Wilson Rd, and Kaz is running with me again. 

Now it’s the last footbridge into Hurstbridge, my GPS watch ticks over 50km. Yay! I announce it to the others and a cheer goes up. But I’m determined to run all the way home. Kaz and Bruce help me over the train tracks - I don’t want to trip over here. And then it’s the last hill. Rosie and the kids, Patrick and Nina, are still riding their bikes. There are messages in chalk on the road: Keep going! Not far now! Put the kettle on! 

When I turn into my street there’s Brendan and his kids at the driveway with chalk in their hands. I give the letterbox a kiss and raise my arms. Far out, I want to sit down but the ground is too far away. I’m smiling and grimacing, and just incredibly relieved that I don’t have to run any more. So grateful for all my friends and family who shared this experience. 

I just ran 50km from the city to Hurstbridge! And I did it before I turned fifty. 50 by 50 - the dimensions of a dream - whacko.

My son Patrick says, “Dad, now you have to do 100 by 100.” Hmm.