A Passion to Run

Journey

About the Author

Robyn is a Master’s Sprint Athlete residing in Sydney, Australia. When she is not training, Robyn works as a sprint coach and personal trainer.

As a child, she had loved competing in athletics events but at the age of 16, in the early ’70s, the athletic journey came to an abrupt halt with relocation to rural Australia, where a focus on school education took over. A 20-year career in institutional education followed till 2006, when Robyn made a radical career change. She would leave the world of formal education and pursue her passion for fitness and athletics.

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Robyn Suttor (2020)

The right of Robyn Suttor to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is for general information purposes and nothing contained in it is, or is intended to be construed as advice. It does not take into account your individual health, medical, physical or emotional situation or needs. It is not a substitute for medical attention, treatment, examination, advice, treatment of existing conditions or diagnosis and is not intended to provide a clinical diagnosis nor take the place of proper medical advice from a fully qualified medical practitioner.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528907606 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528958660 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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To all the volunteers who officiate at masters athletics events around the world.

(Even the one who laughed at me when I fell during warm-up the first time I attempted hurdles in 2012).

No volunteers = no competition = no dreams = no life.

Special acknowledgements go to :

* Barbara Konkolowicz, for encouraging me to write my story, and Angela Martin, author of Beyond Duck River, for believing that my story was worth sharing with others.

* Penny Gillies, Ron Bendall, Jim Day and Cris Penn, for coaching direction in the early stages of becoming a dedicated Master athlete.

* Ranell Hobson (Head Coach) and Kip Hobson (Director) of ASSA – Academy of Sport Speed and Agility – for taking me on as a coach for ASSA and supporting me in my skills development and growth as a coach over the last few years.

* Zsolt Zsombor (Hurdles) and Zsuzsanna Olgyay-Szabo (PoleVault) for coaching me, and believing in my ability to improve and aim high to achieve my goals at World Masters Athletics Championships.

* Australian Masters Athletics – for administering annual State and National Masters Athletics Championships and for being on the floor and being great friends out on the track.

* Masters Athletics NSW – for administering regular Masters competitions and informative newsletters, and for being great friends.

* Mounties Athletics Club – for being my local athletic club of choice and Mounties Club for being a great sponsor of athletics and many other sports across all ages.

* World Masters Athletics – for administering well planned, world class competitions for both Outdoor and Indoor Masters Athletics Championships around the world, bringing people from all countries and cultures together to compete to the best of their ability, representing their country and also to be able to live out their dreams and passions as an athlete, no matter what age and stage of life.

A Beginning

Sharpening his pencils, I eyed off the centre drawer filled with beloved pencils, rubbers, ink, blotting paper, charcoal, pastel sticks and sharpeners. Kissing Dad’s cheek good night, I hovered over his shoulder, looking at his sketches of the furniture he was designing. 360-degree aspects, geometric designs and support drawings with different shades of colour to help him with decision-making. This was one of those nights when Dad retired to his study to draw. He designed and built all of our small home furnishings.

Years passed and Mum’s voice seeped through the phone. ‘Would you like your father’s pastels? I’ve been cleaning out his cupboards and found all of his art materials.’

‘Oh yes please! I’ll be there Saturday to pick them up.’

I couldn’t wait for the weekend. I wanted to possess Dad’s pencils and pastels. I had to have them. I had to hold them. I had to have him back. I missed him so much. I raced home, spread my paper and sat down to draw. Dreamily he floated through my mind. Whispering, guiding, nodding, smiling, sighing, encouraging.

First it was planes for Joel, then flamingos for Yolande, then a sudden change.

Watching the international news on television, I was confronted with a documentary that changed my life. I was desperately upset and set off on a long run, crying most of the way. Finally sapped of energy, I walked the final blocks home. I was still grappling with the contrast of our happy, easy, free, modern lifestyle in contrast to accepted abuses and torture of women that were occurring on a regular basis in other parts of the world. My only consolation was the announcement of a parliamentary proclamation made that day to save this woman and others from such previously accepted behaviour.

I lost myself with my pastels and awakened an hour or two later to witness one of my first pieces about women. I wanted to say something, but didn’t have the courage. I could only do it in silence. I let my colours flow as my thoughts went to her. I hoped she would sense my colours winding over the paper, and I hoped her story would give courage around the world. I wanted to help her. I dedicate ‘Woman hanging upside down’ to her. The tears at the top represent myself and all the other people who cried for, and with her, in the hope of helping find forgiveness, and hope for change to the repression of women.

Much of my art is about the emotional link that we have between mother and child and the deep bond within relationships.

Often I would go for a long run to release tension and generated a natural high from the joy of exercise. I found that creative urges often occurred during or after my running. Even though I probably felt tired, the end result was fascinating as I allowed myself to flow with my pastel paints, not caring or judging my art, just letting it come into the world through the pastel colours.

How I love magenta, orange, aqua, yellow…

Formative Attitudes

He sits there…quietly…in Hyde Park…under the shade of the century old trees. Waiting…watching…relaxing. It is the first time I have seen an African man and the first time I have seen a snake. As we rush past, I am mesmerised by the carpet snake oozing, slithering, winding and wrapping around his beautiful, muscular neck, shoulders and arms. This man’s glistening skin, so round and strong, was a breath-taking and beautiful contrast to the scaly, rippling shimmer of the carpet snake. Why is he there?

I am running to keep up with my mother’s power walk. We have travelled George Street to College Street and everywhere in between. We have rushed and raced every inch of David Jones and Meyers.

At the end, the winner’s prize awaits – a chocolate milkshake. It is cold. The metal shake holder is moist on the outside. One or two straws, dear? he asks.

Two please!

One strawberry coloured and the other chocolate brown. Beautiful straws with spiralling lines. The flavour is exotic and cooling. But to earn that prize, I would have easily done 20,000 steps. Fast, then stop at the lights. Recover. Repeat. Repeat x100+. What a day. My best ever interval training and I didn’t realise it at the time. I was only 8 years old!

Mum had the perfect balance of tidy and beautiful. She was fit, streamlined and fatless. She was powerful and determined. Such a positive woman! When she set the agenda, that was it. We had to follow. I was sucked along in her vortex. So much seemed to be achieved on that day! Nothing was forgotten. My job was to keep up with her. Speed and endurance were my goals. She taught me how to muscle up, stay focused and how to execute thought into action using deadlines and goals to drive and complete each task.

Cool shadows, lingering pine smells, sunlight slithering between the scattered needles, as the race to the top began. My brother and I were monkeys, explorers, adventurers, birds! Each day different to the one before, as we climbed as high as we could, looking out over our world. The thick branches, sturdy and strong, as we clung, winding and wrapping ourselves around them, careful not to disturb the delicate little creatures living in our tree, minding their own business. Yesterday, there was a hanging cocoon stuck to a lower branch. Our garden filled with the colours and textures of butterflies, caterpillars, dragonflies, spiders and the occasional green stick insect. David, smiling, watches quietly as I discover a frozen-still, bark-brown stick insect. Gazing at its delicate legs, I patiently wait for it to move. Transfixed. Which one of us will move first? Perhaps I’ll be here till dark, so after a long pause, I continue my climb up our pine tree, way above the cubby house that Dad built.

Standing with my back to the fence, an apple on my head, David attempts to shoot his rubber bow and arrow. Today I am Robin Hood with his band of merry men. Cowboys and Indians is next, then we race across the road to the park to play soccer and chasings with our neighbourhood mates. Dave, my leader and hero! Always encouraging me, always letting me join in, always there looking out for me.

Resting, I pick mulberries trying not to squirt the juice on my clothes. Lying in the long grass on the hillside, eyes upwards, I see cloud boats, sea horses, dragons and unicorns racing though the sky. I dream of being Thumbelina living down in the grass with the gorgeous flowers as my homeland. Dreamily, I lie on the hillside slicing stalks, threading and linking the purple-edged, white flowers into daisy chain necklaces. Balancing on the see-saw, climbing like monkeys up the side of the swings, hanging until my sweaty hands force me to jump down and roll, like Mum’s rolling pin, sideways down the hill. Pouncing up onto the monkey bars and hanging upside down again, twirling and spinning round and round. Elastics and skip rope are my favourite games. So much fun.

Each school day, I walk from Paris Avenue to Earlwood Public School, following in my brother’s footsteps and daydreaming most of the way. At the top of Wardell Road, I stop to pick a snapdragon petal from the garden closest to the petrol station. The biggest decision of my day is which coloured petal to pick? I love this garden so much as it is like a vessel of colour and creativity seeping into my veins. Pinks, maroons, oranges, yellows, purples, creams and greens, draw me into the heart of the flowers. Chatting to my petal, snapping its colourful jaws open and closed, I talk to my imaginary friend until it is exhausted and falls apart.

Losing my stomach for the first time, we drive down and up the gigantic hills of The Comenarra Parkway, stomach rolling and breathing quickly. Bush smells, kookaburras, snakes, possums, lizards and space! Textures of rocks, long areas of natural bush filled with gum trees, creeks and trails to explore. At the top of our street, a creek bed ran down from the golf course. The rain was heavy and the mud squishy. Soon the tadpoles appeared! Squatting next to the muddy bath, we watch them swimming, wriggling and darting, trying to count them! Racing up to the golf course, we gather up lost golf balls, and then race down to the park for a game of French cricket or soccer.

On the weekend, after hours of swimming in Louise or Jenny’s pool, we would wander down the bush trails leading towards the dam fed by a sparkling waterfall. Sometimes we would lie down on the large flat rocks that were scattered through the gully, listening for sounds of animals, snakes and birds, and enjoying the occasional bush flower or seedpods that added colour and interest to our journey.

Summer meant sprinting through the tracks in case of snakes, and the occasional weird person lurking around.

Once I sprinted so fast to save the life of Scott, Louise’s brother, who had slipped into the dam and was unconscious, I accidentally missed the short cut through the bush and had to run a further kilometre along the level bush track, and a further kilometre up, up, up, up until finally reaching Louise’s home to scream for help. I’ve never run so fast. I had to save him. My speed meant everything. I was on a mission. He was rescued and he lived!

Running up the hills, and darting nimbly through bush tracks in the National Park up behind Turramurra High School was a daily occurrence. I never thought twice about it. If I wanted to go somewhere, then off I would go, and I would go as fast as I could. Hill training started young without even realising it.

A favourite TV show was the Ninja Warriors. Captivated by their athleticism, I imagined growing up and becoming a female ninja, capable of hard work, jumping up into trees, twirling through the air and landing rapidly ahead to outrun anyone standing in my path. I dreamed of being as physically capable as the male ninja role models. I had no idea of the reality of their cultural heritage, just that