Aiva and I went to our first house auction in Sydney yesterday. We weren’t there to bid but more so to eavesdrop and get a feel for the process. The real estate agent had been telling people “offers above $650,000” so we weren’t particularly surprised when the bidding started at $680,000. After several tense moments, the bidding eventually fizzled out at $736,000 and that seemed like the end of it. Oh wait, except the owners had a reserve price of $750,000 so the deal didn’t go through. No sale despite the auction. Something seems very wrong about this whole process. Agents are setting the minimum price way below the minimum that the owners will accept. In this particular case, $100,000 too low.

As I tossed and turned last night, I thought about all the houses that I have walked through for the last few months and couldn’t imagine buying any of them, let alone buying them for $100,000 more than the listed price. The ones in our price range are either so far outside of the city that you might as well not call Sydney home or are described by agents as “renovators delight”. Aiva laughs at me when I even mention buying a hammer so I’m not sure that my ego could withstand a full kitchen renovation even if the price was right. I’m not sure that I even want to look at houses any more that are described as “cozy, humble or rustic” because that actually means a “cramped embarrassing shitbox”. And let’s be honest here (don’t tell Aiva), my renovation skills consist of the ability to call a contractor and even then I’ll just go to either the first in the phonebook or the one with the biggest ad.

So as our imminent move gets closer to reality (calendar wise) we have decided to give things away instead of having to move them later. We gave away 14 bags of books and a few bags of DVD’s to a charity that will sell them and use the proceeds to help fund a suicide helpline. That’s not a truly altruistic move though. The helpline could be a big service when we do buy a house only to realize the size of the mortgage and have a nervous breakdown. I also emptied my closet and managed to find 4 garbage bags of clothes that I either don’t wear anymore or are too big now. Those will go to the Salvation Army so we probably have some good karma for the next little while.  Hopefully that helps us find a "charming, period home with potential".

PS – Aiva says my next blog needs to be a happy one.

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I have recently received emails from just about everyone I know in Thunder Bay, telling me to watch this video below called “My Home Town”. I had heard about it before and the idea of watching some kid rapper rhyming about T-Bay seemed a little…high school film class. High school has clearly changed since I have been there because this video is very well done and worth seeing.



The first time I viewed it I felt all sorts of homesick. It made me hungry for pancakes, itch for a hockey game and thirsty for a beer…or 10. All my childhood memories came rushing back in an instant; especially the numb toes and crossing of the rickety swing bridge to Chippewa Park. I wanted to sit in a lawn chair and tell stories to friends that we’ve all heard before. That small town feel that is so hard to describe seemed to make more sense to me now than when I lived there. I thought of Sydney and the crowded anonymity of public transport and the pressure of a corporate life. Suddenly, stock charts and global trends had much less importance in my life.

The second time I watched the video was different. The video portrayed a town that is familiar, sure, but industrial and struggling like many small towns. Thunder Bay looked cold and a bit downtrodden. Not the kind of place you would like to move to and certainly not the way I think of it. In Sydney, I look out my window and it’s 28C and sunny in February but it still feels like there should be snow on the ground. It’s a city where anything and everything is possible and I suddenly feel guilty but I’m not sure why.

My job here in Sydney doesn’t even exist back home and I’m not sure what I would do for work if I ever moved back. Work isn’t everything though and TBay isn't just a pulp town anymore. I have so many funny stories of fishing and hockey, summer and winter, drinking outdoors and drinking indoors. I have friends that I’ve known for decades and some I’ve known my whole life. It’s a great feeling to say “my best friend” and mean a handful of people. That just doesn’t happen as readily in places like Sydney. Great people live here, and I’ve been very lucky finding them, but its hard work. A good chunk of my time I feel like I'm just somebody in line, waiting for something. Despite that, the sheer opportunity in Sydney trumps all. Every occupation exists here. Every hobby exists here (even hockey – but they call it ice hockey). Anything you could possibly want to do is here somewhere, you just have to pay a truckload of cash and wait in line for a bit.

It’s an interesting time to write about Sydney and Thunder Bay because I recently sold my old house. It’s a defining moment and it feels like a big string that held me to Canada has been cut. I love Tbay and I always will and I think someday I would like to move back. I have amazing friends and supportive family there and always will. That means I’ll forever have ties to it and that’s the way I want it. My life didn’t start two and half years ago and I’m proud to be a small town guy in big city. Besides, these Sydneysiders love stories about bears and driving on snow covered lakes.

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I'd like to write an introduction for the guest blogger today.  Normally, "guest bloggers" are family members (and Aiva if I've laid on the guilt heavily enough) but my good friend Paul is participating in something great so it seemed like a nice time to expand Craig In Australia's Guest Blogger List.  I hope that you enjoy reading about his upcoming adventure.  - Craig

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 Guest Blogger Paul: Tour de Cure

As many of you know, I have been bitten hard by the cycling bug. I’d like to share some news with you about my next cycling challenge, and to ask for your help.

Last year was a watershed year for me as a cyclist. I took part in the 2009 Tour Down Under, rode up Europe’s hardest mountain climb as part of a Tour de France mini-tour in July, and ended the year completing the tough Lake Taupo cycling challenge in New Zealand. Last month I returned to Adelaide for the 2010 Tour Down Under and instead of cramping during the final kilometre as I did last January, I finished easily despite battling a strong headwind.

So now I am riding well (it’s all relative - Lance has nothing to worry about!) and no longer intimidated by steep hills and long distances, I decided to look for a new challenge.

I found one when I met an extraordinary bunch of riders involved in an annual cycling event called the Tour de Cure. They ride to raise money to cure cancer, and they are very successful. Over the past three years, the Tour de Cure has raised well over $1.7 million. This year, their goal is to raise $1 million in a single year by riding from Sydney to Maroochydore in May. That’s 1,400km in 10 days, including one day of madness riding 277km!

And here is my news: I have agreed to ride with them. I want to combine my passion for cycling with my desire to make a difference in the fight against cancer. This awful disease has had a pretty big impact on my life over the past 12 months. Last year I lost my uncle to it, a couple of my friends have been diagnosed with it, and recently one of my previous bosses – a man who had a huge impact on my career - died from pancreatic cancer aged just 52.

I am sure many of you have had similar experiences. After all, someone hears those awful words “I’m sorry, you have cancer” every 90 seconds. That’s the time it will take you to read this entry.

Between now and May, helping the Tour de Cure team to achieve their $1 million goal will be a major part of my life. I will be training at ridiculous hours, riding up to 600km a week and generally dividing my time between work, cycling and sleeping. So if you see me walking strangely, you’ll know why. Fortunately, I have a supportive family, but if you see my wife, I suggest you don’t mention cycling!

Of course, the training and riding are just part of the challenge; fund raising is the main goal and to do that, I need your support. If you would like to make a donation, please use this link.  It will take you to my section of the Tour de Cure website (with a very attractive photo of me!), and you can donate from there.  Any amount is welcome, and every donation is tax deductible.

Over the next few months, I’ll be sending out progress reports so you can share in my suffering.  Many thanks for your help and support; together we can make a difference.

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Well toenail, you’ve had a good run. For 32 years you’ve done your job well and it was just too much to ask that you hang on any longer. The Oxfam Race way back in August was the death of you. You were swollen black before that race even ended and I was surprised that you didn’t simply leave me then and there. For three months, you battled to stay attached to me and you nearly did it. I’m proud of you for hanging in there as long as you did. I probably should have stopped running for a bit and kept you neatly trimmed. Instead, I kept training, neglected you and let you grow too long. This ultimately forced your departure by getting you caught in the bed sheets every morning only to see you tear away, millimetre by millimetre.

My tender toe skin is exposed and only now that you are gone do I truly realize how much I’ll miss you. Cliché indeed. A stiff breeze now causes me to wince and when I accidentally kicked a bar stool I nearly passed out in pain. To represent my shame, I will wear a single black sock to bed as a symbol of how horribly I’ve treated you. I will wear it until I get a new nail although I expect that day is quite some time off. I can only hope that when that day comes I have learned my lesson and will give it the attention it deserves…the attention you deserved.

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Before last weekend, I had only been to three countries. Canada, USA and Australia. A few months ago, the buddies that I ride with invited me to a race in New Zealand and I jumped at the chance. The race was the Lake Taupo Cycle Challenge; 160km of grueling cycling followed by a pretty good party.

We had trained hard leading up to the race and were grateful that it was scheduled for November and not January because we had started to crack mentally. You can only train at race pace for so long without questioning if you cycle as a fun hobby that ends with a coffee or because you enjoy the torture.

The five that headed over from Sydney got delayed at the airport for two hours and everyone but me knew the secret handshake that allowed you into the Qantas Lounge. The privileged four flashed a card and sneaked me into the mysterious lounge that I had heard so much about but assumed was a myth that millionaires told common folk. For the first time I enjoyed a flight delay, perfectly comfortable enjoying my free breakfast and glugging freshly squeezed orange juice.

Because the other team members had raced here before, logistics were a breeze. Our (painfully) disciplined leader Carl had organized everything. With military precision we moved from the airport to the rented SUV’s and on to Taupo and our rented house for the weekend. I quickly realized that although this weekend was planned for a bike race, it was really a guy’s long weekend that happened to have a bike event on the Saturday. The true purpose of the race was to provide ammunition for conversation (read: taunting) for the next 12 months.

The pre-race verbal sparring and mind games were epic. The trash talking reached a high the night before the race and admittedly, my confidence was wavering. The target for the 160km was 5 hours and it was going to be close. That pace would require everything to fall into place and to possibly sacrifice of a kidney to avoid a piss stop.

The race probably deserves its own blog entry but I’ll summarize as best as possible. The start line could only be described as controlled chaos. The 11,500 riders completely engulfed the Main Street that normally catered to Taupo’s 22,000 residents. Everywhere you looked there were riders within 3 inches of one another. Making things even more nerve racking was the rain that poured down making the roads slick and the sunglasses foggy. It didn’t take long for the first ambulance to come racing past and every 10 minutes or so a rider was on the side of the road with either a flat tire or road rash. Our team managed to navigate the crowd pretty well for the first half and then everything blew apart and I was separated. I hammered the pace up the hills (that’s what skinny guys do) and that seemed like a good idea at the time but proved to be my undoing. Sure, I set a blistering pace to the summits but was completely shattered and couldn’t keep up with the tempo riding on the flats afterward. By the end of the race I had gained about 9 minutes on the hills and lost…damn near 25 minutes on the flats!

With 7 kilometres to go, at the base of a small hill, my body was not pleased with me and I had lost focus when a huge sign came into view and cheered me up. “This hill is a bitch!” The part that made it so funny was that the sign wasn’t handmade or chalked on the road – the organizers (who clearly had keen eye for detail) had it professionally made. I crossed the line in 5 hours 12 minutes and couldn’t have pushed any harder. Next year though, it’s on. Thanks to the guys for a great weekend and the race organizers for running such a fantastic event.

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