I just returned from a week-long family holiday in Bali, Indonesia. The number of highlights from
Lost track of time running on Bali sand
the trip easily matched the number of mosquito bites that I sustained (that is to say, abundant). One of the highlights that you won’t read in any Lonely Planet guides is the beach run that I did on the very first morning on the island, from north (Seminyak) to south (Kuta) and back.
It started out unremarkably, perhaps even stressfully, as I had to negotiate the busy main street leading up to the beach, side-stepping pot-holes and dodging motor-bikes while trying to get used to the stifling heat (even at 6.30am).
Then I hit the beach and everything changed. Continue reading
Hi everyone, my name is L. I am The Jogging Dad’s 6 year-old elder son. He left this thing called WordPress/Joggingdad.com logged on (he’s becoming a little forgetful at his age) because he’s attending to my little 4 year-old brother who is chucking a hissy fit. My brother always chucks a hissy fit when jigsaw puzzles don’t look like a Picasso, if you know what I mean!
That’s not me but that’s exactly what I’m doing on daddy’s blog!
Anyhow, I thought I take this opportunity, while he’s not looking, to write some gibberish on this blog thing that my daddy spends an unhealthy amount of time on.
I rarely hear him talk about his work except that he stares at these numbers on computer screens everyday. He tells me that when these numbers go up, he sells some things, when they are go down, he buys some things. I usually roll my eyes and switch off at that point, and I think he does too. I also rarely hear him talk about his hobbies except that he runs around the park every now and then, comes home all sweaty without a shirt on, and then stares into the distance while sitting in the backyard guzzling down a Coke. However, I do see him quite often typing away on his laptop or scribbling away on his little notebook. I’m thinking that that has something to do with this blog thing that I’m currently mucking about with. Continue reading
Mention the words “a long run”, people either conjure up an image of messy struggles in the restroom after an exotic meal, or one of tortuous struggles out in the open, endlessly pounding the pavement. In either case, the reaction usually involves a moan followed by a groan. Even for an enthusiast like myself, heading out for a 90-120 minute jog requires a certain fortitude – the lack of which I compensate through my sheer love of the activity … and some artificial assistance.
Nothing like a Fat Boy Slim beat to make my Torpid Heart Pump!
MUSIC. This is the reason why I would never be welcomed into any hardcore running cliques. I enjoy listening to music while I’m on a long run. Not only does it drip feed the occasional boost to my pace with inspiring beats, but it also acts as a comforting companion while I mentally negotiate the long stretches of solitude.
I am, of course, aware of those purists extolling the benefits of running and learning to listen to your breathing at the same time. But I would rather not listen to my heavy breathing, especially when I’m on my own and engaged in something which does not lead to the kind of climax that usually follows such heavy breathing! Continue reading
My younger son, C, is almost four years old. A cheeky and loveable rogue, he is rapidly redefining the meaning of the term “Mommy’s Boy”, such is his attachment to his number-one fan a.k.a. my wife.
However, there is one thing that C loves more than his mother. It’s not a fancy toy or a tasty treat. It has nothing to do with any animals or digital gadgets. It is … a shirt! Just a plain, boring white (and often filthy from his drool and spills) cotton shirt – a shirt that not only has no logos or cute robot prints, but has more wear and tears than it has threads. What’s more, he doesn’t even wear the shirt, as it is my wife’s old shirt from the days of B.C. (Before Children). It was given to C soon after he turned one, as a sort of comfort blanket to help him settle during sleeps. Continue reading