Near the end of April, on a whim – often the best reason to do things – I decided to accummulate 70 km on foot (running or walking) in a week. Seventy kilometres on foot, in a week, is not really very far. When we paddled across Eastern Bass Strait, we paddled 70 kilometres between Deal Island and Killecrankie in a day, and, ultra-runners have now gone far beyond 100 kilometres, even 100 miles, and are now regularly cranking out 200 mile races. On a personal level, it’s not that long, since I did 30 kilometres in a day myself, the day after a 24 hour fast.
Much to my chagrin, I was 2.2 kilometres shy. A distance that could easily have been rectified by an extra 20 minutes on any given day.
Most of each days ten kilometres were quite sensible. I’d walk along the coastal track that wraps around the bush covered headlands and dips down to cross sandy beaches, or I would run around on the single track up in the forest behind town. There was, however, the one weirdly silly day when, after the Saturday Park Run (five kilometres), I walked to pathways end and back to my bicycle (which I ride to the Park Run) and, finding I still had an extra kilometre to do, I pushed the bicycle for a kilometre instead of riding, thus guaranteeing that I spent the last half hour cycling home, in the rain, without a coat. I did, however, tick off my ten kilometres.
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