There was a time when...

streets, long and winding, our shadows stood long over pavement; buildings, tall and grey and magestic; parks, wide and green. We ran, and ran, forever our footsteps hidden by the wind which rustled the red leaves, spilling hopes and dreams into the slowly wintering air.

2004.
I had gotten used to the long walks. It was about summer, and I was about to take longer walks because I had chosen to do Cycling as my Wednesday sports. We were a small group, only a little more than ten people, and every third day of the week we’d walk a few kilometres to Centennial Park.

On the way, we’d stop by at a cycling shop to rent our bicycles. They were always a little too big for me, so mine always needed a little adjusting. But cycling has been, and still is, one of the sports that I do well at.

So there we were, in the wide, hilly lanes of the magnificent park. Where the trees grew more than ten metres high. The wheels on our bike spun and spun, faster and faster we went, whizzing down, speeding and never stopping. We passed people jogging, dogs sprinting, old men and women strolling, the ponds and bridges, and still we whizzed down the cycling track.

We were racing. In 90 minutes we had to be able to circle the 200 ha three times. Four would be a record.

I had a friend. At least, she was my friend in those days. She had legs longer than me, with long and wavy  brown, slightly copper hair, flowing behind her. She had a gift for conquering any athletics field, especially running. But in our Wednesday cycling sessions, we were equal. And in those days, she told me about herself; how she had mixed racial backgrounds; Aborigines, Spanish and Australian.

We’d speed until we come to where we’ve started. And there’d be Mr. Jones, the only male teacher with a golden earring and long hair starting to turn grey under a trucker cap. He’d pick up a pinecone and explain to us, how that particular pinecone would’ve taken hundreds of years to grow into trees as tall as they are now.

2007.
It’s way colder up here than in Sydney. But of course, they’d made us wake up earlier. About 6 am and they had us doing sprints uphill and back downhill, doing push-ups and sit-ups. I had a partner, taller than I am. We breathed hard, we punched each other, kiai-ed, anything to get our legs moving and not having our names called out by the senpais.

I wasn’t in Sydney anymore. There were no Centennial Park in these areas, I needed a new sport. And I found it a few hundred metres away from my new home.

A small wooden building which every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons turned into a karate dojo. I quickly fell in love with the sport. I fell in love with the adrenaline rushing which kept the skin numb through every practice, which later turned into purple bruises on the arms, legs, chest and stomachs... but the pain is almost immediately washed down by the cool showers afterwards...

That night, we built a bonfire, toasted marshmallows, and for a little time walked uphill under the stars. We weren’t in the dojo anymore, of course, but out in the midst of nature; Buninyong, Victoria, where the grass held wild animal droppings and the wind blew right into your bones.

So much had changed in three years. I had moved houses, yes. And I no longer talked to the girl with the long legs with mixed racial backgrounds. But I had met another, a tall girl with short brown hair and beautiful eyes. She is about four years older than me. She drank Starbucks, while I’d much rather have Gloria Jean’s. But we got along well and that was many of the things that only mattered in this life.

Even until now.