Coming up to 8:30 on a Sunday morning in late summer, with the mercury already edging its way up to to the forecast 31C. The morning after a breathless, heavy night.
One pack rounds Busby's Lake, keeping beneath the shade cast by the she-oaks. The pounding of the other pack is felt as it breasts the rise up Snake Bank, lined with palms. Lean bodies trickle sweat.
I slink back into the shadow of the melaleuca, stretching my cotton top to cover flab, puffing from the sheer exertion of breathing, waiting for youth to pass.