02

Sunday 5th April, 7am: I find my runners under the seat in front of me, the fasten seatbelt sign unilluminates, backpack retrieved from overhead locker, eyes scratchy and red from 24hours of airconditioning at 30,000 feet. I mumble a hollow promise to myself (especially my numb gluteals) that next time I'll fly business class.
I am digested in slow motion through the small intestine of immigration at Heathrow, immersed in the sonic juices of Radiohead's 'amnesiac'. The official seems slightly concerned that I am unemployed and that my occupation, 'traceur', doesn't rhyme with 'pounds sterling'. I get my stamps and evacuate, enjoying the legroom on the underground, enjoying the view on the overground, enjoying the illusion of weightlessness as John Bourne helps me with my bags at the station. Australian Parkour Woohoo!

After several cups of tea (it's the British way), a decent breakfast and a spot of moxibustion on my left ankle (it's getting heaps better), JB and I head out for a tour of the local hotspots. There is a bit of everything here, within 5-10 mins jog. Many opportunites for technique drilling, balance, some flow... Getting out and training was the best thing that I could have done, peeling back layers of jet lag and replacing them with happiness. It dawned on me that my 2 month training adventure had begun.

On the jog back home (after a round of chinups) my calves started cramping. Still dehydrated from the flight. I'll be into the magnesium and H2O in a big way over the next few days...