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THE EPIC FINAL BLOG OF - THE RUSTY IRONMAN...PART ONE

 

Scott Tinley – American tri-legend about 1991; purveyor of fine pastel lycra clothing; he with cheesy moustache wrote an article in a quality tri magazine (see previous posts under – crap). Not sure what the article was about, however a quote that he didn’t reference so I assumed was his jumped off the page. It defined something to me that subconsciously I guess I was looking for – “yer know, like, it really defined me dude, likeyerknow”.  I typed this quote out on A4 and for the next few years read it each time I opened the fridge. Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though chequered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.

GOLD!

Only it wasn’t Tinley’s. I discovered years later that it belonged to American statesman, former president and all American hero – Theodore Roosevelt.

I will come back to this as every great journey starts with a single step and this one needs to get moving......

CAPTAINS LOG – 5/6/11 0415hrs, the Enterprise, room 1221 – a louder than normal vibration emanates from the bedside cabinet heralding ‘RACE DAY’. Go go go!

Like a good little competitor and early morning riser I have prepared the gladiatorial robes and armour suited to such an epic journey. Set out neatly on the floor so I don’t have to think too much - just dress! However, the trained athlete knows his body systems and is prepared for the moment after consuming high energy slow release oats and a mug of shitty instant coffee that the inevitable gravitational pull of the previous days carb consumption is ready to be removed – leaving only pure energy!

Once that is done the process continues; nappy cream on vital points of contact – check, specifically designed nipple protection bandages – applied – check. Sunblock – on the face – not above the eyes – check (critical error here – North QLD sun, middle of the day, sunburn, aaghh, it burns my shoulders and back, damn it). Deodorant – no need – I’ll be moving too fast to sweat near anyone – no check. Compression shorts – not yet – at the transition site pre-wetsuit – check. Brightly coloured tri-singlet – zip – check. Street clothes, tri-thongs, tri-bags, tri-hat, bottle of tri-juice – all systems are go!

We make our way down to the transition bus; an eerie silence permeates the air like a triathlete’s fart. Monte is noticeably quiet, strange, what is this phenomenon? Oh yes, she is aware that any poorly chosen word on race day could be devastating and result in the icy gladiatorial glare that has been know to turn wives into quivering carb-gel – her comforting hands around my bags as she carries them for me is a blanket of solace that she relishes. We enter the bus – murmuring, fart smell again, nervous chatter – goddammit Monte behave and just sit down we will be there soon.

The bus trip, even though too long as usual is uneventful apart from more nervous chatter and the melodious hum of pan flutes from someone’s I’pod – whilst hallucinating later I see David Carradine (Kung Fu) on course and wonder whether he was the one with the I-pod?

A deafening hush followed by a group ‘gulp’ is sounded as one by one we exit the bus mere mortals aiming to achieve the unachievable. Like clockwork everything falls into place just like every rehearsed step on the way to the pulpit of pain – pump tyres up to 120psi, water bottles on the bike, bag of goodness on seat ready to pocket, secondary release of extraneous carbs in disgusting vestibule of filth – there is nothing that changes about ‘porta-loos’ pre-event – why in all this time can’t they smell better?? I love the smell of Napalm in the morning! For gods sake don’t light a smoke up or we’ll all be dead.

The minutes tick away slowly at first but then as the need to don the wetsuit arrive – of course there is always something forgotten – to check – what is it – nothing – nerves again – goddammit!

COMPETITORS – 15 MINUTES TO START TIME – MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE BEACH

Like mindless jabbering monkeys we all file towards the chute which leads us to the beach like gladiators to the lions and an uneasy silence comes over me – little do I realise this was the false dawn on an hour and fifteen minutes of the worst time you can have in water amongst 700 of your closest friends!

I still recall calmly shaking the hands of those around me wishing them all the best and to have a great day – no thoughts at all of what was about to occur. But as it occurred I recalled the only concerns I had about the whole race emanated from the disastrous ‘Eyeline swim’ two weeks prior when I had an unusual response to getting pushed around in the water swimming out and not being able to control my heart rate or breathing eventually causing me to swim back to shore – twice - and finally running a kilometre to meet up with the pack half way through the swim.

So here I am – in a salty, rubberised washing machine with a HR through the roof and breathing like a fish on dry land. No matter what I did I could only freak out and start fighting back the urge to turn around and say f)(** it!! I am out of here there is something wrong I must get out.

Desire. If it fades – cracks soon appear.

Thoughts of my wonderful one person team on shore and what she would say, what would a lot of people say – what could I say? Gradually I give up on freestyle as it just isn’t working and start breast stroking. This is not a stroke I spend a lot of time doing however I resign myself to believing it’s for a moment while I calm down.

Nope. I try and try again to freestyle but my face in the water and anyone nearby absolutely sends my body into panic mode – WTF is going on here?

I make it to turn around one – 350 metres. I spot the rescue board nearby with a friendly faced clubby and swim over – amazingly still in front of many swimmers –maybe I’m not the only one – paralysing toxin in the water possibly – I think not.

I rest up and assure her that I’m a bit panicky but “I’m OK”. I hear a voice from nearby – “get off the board”. Oh yeh, it’s a race, something in the rules about support and assistance. I wave nonchalantly and frog swim off – f(*& me this is no good. And so went the first lap of 1.9k – frog – free – frog – free. Let me tell you how sore your adductors can get doing that and yet I am still in front of others so maybe I missed my calling and should have been a breaststroker.

I turn into the marina to make my way towards the exit ramp, buffeted again by urgency and many people whilst recalling how much I hate the smell of outboard motor fuel.

I step out of the water and feel decidedly downtrodden but failure is not an option on this team and I walk to calm myself down whilst trying to remain positive. I crest the top of the beach and then realise my nightmare is not over and the gods of Ironman past are absolutely pushing my buttons as I then realise the teams competitors are lined up in the water and ready to swim off.

OMG this cannot be happening – again.

I wade out and cast a look over my shoulder as I see a school of black minnows with purple caps on swimming towards me. I take a serious risk and swim across and out of harms way and they are through within minutes.

1.9k to swim – severe panic attack – several hundred swimmers in the water (crocodile infested technically) – make or break time. I have never dnf’d – ever - and this is not the time for new experiences. I swim off – freestyle, and to my surprise the arms power through the water and I feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins as I gulp down O2 feeding my muscles which sends me through the people who just passed me. I am f)(*(*ng back you piece of f)(*g sh)(*t.

If kryptonite was in the water that day I had my dose, fought the demons and won. Rudyard Kipling once said, “Unless you’ve been in the pit, you’ll never appreciate the summit”. I hate that bastard.

That's about as worried as you will ever see me but at the same time massive relief!

My day had begun.

THE EPIC FINAL POST OF...THE RUSTY IRONMAN...PART TWO

 

 

 

 

This time I enter the marina and exit knowing that from here on in I was in very familiar territory and about to enjoy some very beautiful scenery but first recover from what must have taxed my reserves dramatically. A final twist of irony before moving on from this hell. As I exit the water I see the woman next to me falter and appear to lose her legs and I quickly grab her arm and say, “Are you OK?”.

Greater love hath no man than a man astride a carbon road bike heading up the

Captain Cook Highway

with a fist full of vegemite sandwich, a pocket full of energy food and a few bad moments far behind – yeehaahhhh!!

As predicted, the uninitiated always smash themselves in the first 90k on the bike and push the biggest gear they can. Still not sure why they do it but I guess its somewhere in between adrenalin, bravado, testosterone, lack of planning and just plain stupidity.

Rusty settles into an even gear that adheres to the race plan and commences the routine that will be with me for the next 10 or so hours. The repeat timer on my Garmin is set for ten minutes and I know that its drink time and each third repeat is eat time – just like feeding a baby – regularity is the key.

All going great, a fantastic ride up the coast with absolutely stunning views to keep the mind occupied however at about 60k the huge toll that breast stroking over two kilometres can do to ones adductors makes its presence felt. I start to cramp on the inside leg but experience comes to the fore and I know I need to get in some more electrolytes, fast. I get the Endura down and stop for a short stretch off the bike and after a couple of minutes I am on the way again – cramps gone. Note: Even four weeks later I am still feeling tight there.

What can you say about riding that coast ride to Port Douglas and then returning to Cairns via the same route albeit after a couple of repeat hill climbs whilst negotiating the turn around back to Port Douglas the second time and then finally heading south to transition at Cairns.

Curses on you USM.

The ride course will be ‘challenging’ Fateful words but truer words not spoken. In the middle of an Ironman distance triathlon to be doing repeats of hills in high humidity and relative high temps in north Queensland was brutal. However, Rusty loves the bike and the inbuilt computer adjusts, eats, drinks and enjoys as one by one the steam train athletes ahead of me fall prey to their early aspirations to be time trialists – I love stupidity as it’s the great leveller (just after the Tazer….and capsicum spray…and maybe one or two pain compliance techniques I have shown the children).

Time and kilometres slip by and I gradually but knowingly get to the end of my favourite leg and commence to access the internal hard drive file located in the ‘PAIN’ folder under ‘RUN’. Last few kilometres start to see the competitors ahead of me on there way to Cairns shuffling along the roadside as I commence to prepare the hamstrings, thighs and glutes to become running muscles i.e. stand up off the saddle and stretch.

The chute into the transition is agog with faces searching for long lost family and friends and hoping that they return soon so the pilgrimage can shift to the FNQ Mecca of Cairns. No such adulation for the Rusty Ironman as his one and only has left hours previously due to transition difficulties for spectators so I must face the transition alone and summon the strength to start this final leg.

After briefly demonstrating to the crowd and officials how to dismount with flair and finesse I pause for a brief moment to head-bang to ACDC’s highway to hell blaring on the speakers – how appropriate.

“NUMBER 628 – SHOWING HE STILL HAS PLENTY LEFT FOR THE RUN”.

GOLD.

See next post for final leg and the conclusion of the Rusty Ironman

THE EPIC FINAL POST OF...THE RUSTY IRONMAN...PART THREE

If only my duck walk to the dressing tent was as cool, anyway I move through with relative ease and grab my bag before removing extraneous items of clothing, applying nappy cream to the kiwi’s and donning the runners. The crowd lifts as they see the smile on my face and enjoy my high fives down the exit chute all the way to the end before disappearing around the corner.

Many months out from race day I realised that I would have to change my stride to a more economical length and in doing so possibly make it to the other end. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy would prove to be my friend here as the words – “Short steps, moving forward, run all day” were indelibly etched into my mind and were with me again after a couple of hundred metres into the marathon.

Rusty is no road runner – I detest it – like road riding it is boring and no good for your body so as result I managed to use the grass verge for a few kilometres before finally seeing that there was simply no way to travel this way once I hit the Capt Cook Highway – this was gonna hurt! Off to Cairns 20 k away….

I truly take my hat off to those freaks that take on the Hawaii Ironman and must travel through the lava fields. I hit the road at about 1400hrs and it was 28 degrees with high humidity – the sun coming in over my right shoulder or directly behind me – it was like being in a crucible under a magnifying glass. My early morning decision to not apply sunscreen all over was vexing me.

5k in and I make the decision that would save my bacon. No way would I run non-stop and nowhere near it so I work out that I can run six white road markers (@500metres) and then stride out two which kept me moving and catching the people shuffling along but then stopping for a break. I’d heard of the run hard for a minute and then walk for a minute marathon and knew that the times were pretty good so off I went.

Fatigue makes cowards of us all!

Short steps – moving forward – run all day Short steps – moving forward – run all day Short steps – moving forward – run all day Short steps – moving forward – run all day

…and then somewhere around 15k I just forgot to keep telling myself and started to enjoy the scenery, the people and concentrate on what was now an ability to run for nearly a kilometre before striding out. I was looking good and totally in control but man was I sick of ghastly sweet gels, bars and drinks.

The last half of this marathon is three laps of the Esplanade along the foreshore of Cairns so there is scenery and people – lots of people everywhere, cheering people – the spirits are lifted and as the sun goes down with the temperature I settle into familiar laps of the course.

…and then the most emotional moment of the day arrives as I see my beautiful personal support team running towards me – barefoot. Never one to miss out on a training session she is keen to run near me and give encouragement and a well needed kiss and hug – I am recharged. But alas, in her day of latte and reading she has abandoned the handbag with the much needed vegemite sandwich which I prepared the previous night – my stomach reels.

Never one to fall down on responsibilities she is back on task by the time I see her next lap with a vegemite sambo in hand and too ready to point out that it cost four bucks fifty – the reply being that it was four bucks fifty well spent and I will leave the rest up to you.

My memories in the last stages of this great event are blended into a collage of stories; the organisation behind the event that everyone turns up to but only few realise the sacrifice made by those behind the scenes, behind the government wrangling, behind the sponsorship hassles, behind the sacrifices made of family and friends – Geoffrey and team you are my pro-forma of professionalism and the reminder of ‘how things are done around here’.

The volunteers; nothing but a t-shirt, a free lunch pack and if they are lucky a ‘thanks mate’ as the bottle is grabbed, the corner is passed or the shoulder is given whilst the fatigued muscle is stretched. It may sound corny and self serving but I always make it a point in any event to thank as many of them as I can as I know they are the backbone of the event management family.

The mums and dads, the first timers, the old guys, the old girls, the repeat ironmen and women, the fat bastards and the guy who opened his mouth to his mates and had to put up or shut up – I bow to you all as anyone who attempts this is truly deserving of the title ‘Athlete’.

The final thank you to the aid station volunteers for those rotten pineapple lollies and life saving flat coke. The apologies to the guy I opened the porta-loo door on whilst he was completing paperwork – really sorry man, but you didn’t lock the door. The guy who could not run further than twenty metres without cramping up for without the knowledge that you just stuffed up your eating and drinking reminded me of how important an eating/drinking plan is and what happens when you don’t stick to it or be able to alter it when needed – he’ll be back again, next year.

The look of longing each lap past the finish chute that I couldn’t run up until my final coloured band was provided – and then finally as I realised that I was coming home…..

……eight months in the making, moments of despair caused by injury, time spent away from loved ones, money spent on reliving a moment last seen seventeen years previous…….

A sea of red balloons and flags, arms waving, open mouths but no sound – an ethereal moment in time as I run the final hundred metres and feel suspended above the ground until finally the silence is broken and I catch my name over the speakers and see a fleeting glance of my wonderful wife waving madly whilst pointing an I-Phone at me.

I cross the line and glance up to see that I am finished – 12 hours 43 minutes after the journey started I am done, nothing left in the tank – job done.

My medal hung around my neck and the memorial towel over the shoulders as it catches up on me and I find myself collapsing onto the chest of the other aged ironman who gave me the opportunity to chase a dream. I stagger and look up as I see him wiping away a tear that I later convince myself was one from laughter but for a moment I see he was just as stoked as I was – nice one mate.

I never, not once thought that I would never finish this event. From the time I took up the challenge in October to the time I saw the final metres – I knew that I could do it. That may sound self assured and over confident to those who do not know me but then again if you are reading this then you surely know me my friend. I can’t explain that but I think it needs to be said, I just backed myself that I could do it again and now it is done I feel ready for the next challenge.

Back to my comment at the start, ‘I don’t know why I did this’.

I do know why I did this event and the answer was close to the surface as I delved into memories past circa 1991. I draw your attention to the elder statesmen Theodore Roosevelt and his many famous lines but amongst which their can only suit able to answer the question why.

You can copy paste these words (italics) and it will link you to the full speech but for the moment I will point it out;

Sorbonne – Paris, France in 1910.

Commonly known as ‘The Man in the Arena’ speech it was delivered around the topic of citizenship in the republic. It is quite lengthy however there is a paragraph that encapsulates Tinley’s stolen quote and then some;

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Next time you are stuck listening to the armchair critic, the loser on the side line or the profoundly negative of all – think of these prophetic words, lace up the runners, pump up the tires and leave the negative void you are momentarily amidst.

Life is short, get out there.

RI.

Language warning –this blog may offend some triathletes.

Stardate: 3/6/2011 0640hrs.

Captains log…..my trusty second mate, confidante, fellow athlete and I are finally on the red eye leaving from Brisvegas after getting up at 0300hrs, a quick manscape, some chaff, a handful of nutrients and a travel coffee and we are en route to Cairns. This is it folks over the top!

After eight months in the planning – the ‘RustyIronman’ is flying out a cool calm, focused, hairless, lean, mean triathlon machine – ooh-rah as the USMC say.

Of course, my omnipresent wife and observer of all things meaningful is always at hand to point out the things that really mean something just so I don’t miss anything that later on she can say “I told you so” about. A couple of minutes inside the terminal and the oracle has picked up on a few things that seem to alert her that we are not in some paddock in the middle of a god-forsaken dot on the behind QLD town getting pumped over a horse event – we are definitely not in Kansas Dorothy. Note: If you look in the oxford dictionary/thesaurus under ‘friends of Dorothy’ you will see a reference to leather clad middle aged men with handlebar moustaches with a penchants for show tunes – apparently the Wiz of Oz is a big fav’ darling!

Not wanting to miss any of these pearls I quickly pull out my 36 page Challenge Cairns competitor booklet which I’d printed out to help me on my way to true enlightenment – turns out I inadvertently stoked the oracles fire by merely acknowledging I needed one. Anyway, I start scribbling on the back of it some of the keynotes so I could later enter them in this blog.

I should point out that her holiness is an ultra-marathoner of some repute (well recently) and likes to smirk derisively at distances below warm up level (100k) and anyone who dares to better themselves through self promotion and the use of performance enhancing compression gear.

The first target – a 36 page competitor’s book. “WTF is that for” – we just turn up and get told to run off in that direction. What could possibly be in that tome that anyone would be interested in reading. I should point out that only a couple of nights before she was lecturing from the pulpit of www.challengecairns and making sure that I knew where and when I should put my bike in transition and what constitutes a breach of the triathlete code of conduct (I later find out that no hands on the handlebars doing 30kph on the Captain Cook Highway whilst mimicking Chipolini le tour legend i.e. hand on heart pointing at event camera smiling – is in fact a hanging offence. I copped a muffled warning from frauline race marshall through her stormtrooper helmet but the photo was worth it).

“You’re kidding aren’t you – a flow chart”. Page 12 – how to enter and exit the aid stations most effectively. Who’d a thought a flow chart just in case you can’t work it out that each aid station has people pushing a steady flow of liquid goodies and sugary snacks onto you – and they get pushed in the same order each station. Discard – toilets – water – energy drink – food – energy drink – water – discard. On she went, laughing at the high level confabulating that would have finally decided after a few government grants that this will be the order of things and any other way was not on.

I should point out at this stage great mate Huey is in fact the CEO of tri-town and actually does this for a living and if he puts a flow chart in his tri-ble of proceedings then you can bet you need one.

Not to restrict her targets to the written word thou eminence then sees some of the other mere mortals beginning to line up at check in. OMG – its 0530 in the morning, how come that guy only has a singlet on – the one with the massive bike box thingy! Offence: be lean, tanned and in possession of a bike box that looks like it dropped out of the Challengers cargo hold just before that spacechick pushed that red button (“OMG captain, what does that button do……). It is a strange quirk of triathlete behaviour only mirrored in the body building world and that is the most flesh must be shown at all times, minimal clothing, it must preferably have a triathlon motif somewhere on it but if you are a god then IRONMAN rules all. Accessories – water bottle, Ipod, compression clothing, ego – tick!

Important reminder – monte carlo (hair colour) and I met in 1993 in my first IRONMAN year and the nineties were all about lycra, pastels and mesh running singlets – oh yeh! Walkman, water bottle and tight pants – sound familiar homies.

Considering the burgeoning Australian liking of all things caffeine I can’t really drag up what she said about ‘coffee for skinny people' but I can précis – skinny milk, double shot, latte, mochachino, cold milk on the side waste of space was mentioned through her ultramarathoner long black (milk on the siiiiiidddde!).

The other thing that appears to have changed since the nineties apart from no more shoulder pads, mullets, earings and Phil Collins is the bikes. 1993 I raced on an aluminium SOFTRIDE which for the uninitiated reader who has no bike and therefore no life – the Softride was what you rode if you wanted to be out there, could actually ride but had no money. It had all the hallmarks of something really cool and different but really it was probably a backward step in bike tech. The only ones who had carbon anything were the pros and even then it was the euros and yanks – any ozzie with carbon probably stole it.

Fartlek forward to 2011 – if you don’t have carbon everything then you should probably keep it in the box. ZIPP wheels are the norm, ultegra and dura ace are the only spec worth having and if you show up on steel you may as well shower in zippo lighter fluid, start smoking and light up on the start line.

Point to note – Rusty has a firm and often warm desire to ride steel bikes and in fact has restored several vintage bewties later to be sold on the bay which coincidentally permitted the purchase of this year’s carbon princess. Just remember Lance’s first book, “It’s not about the bike”. If you recall, Lance was a triathlete first!

I digress – my point, since when did the punter become the pseudo pro who looks down his Profile T2’s at anyone who just scrapes together to get to the start line? Maybe it’s always been that way and I’ve awoken from my seventeen year deep space sleep with a new found derision of what is termed in common parlance – ‘the wanker’.

Whilst on my revisit to the nineties I can unashamedly say that I like everyone else raced and ran in the smugglers. There were no race suits (well no compression ones) in the early nineties. However, the same ludicrous grasp of seconds saving is still alive today when you consider that the race suit does not have a chamois as such and only a micro fibre gusset. Similarly the budgies provided the same prostate saving level as the race suit – but it did save seconds from swim to bike to run and therefore worth it. Go figure?

And what’s this go big or go home thing with triathletes and chain rings. Any triathlete I have spoken to will not back down from the big dog when out training or racing but at the end of the race will stare in amazement at the training log and wonder, “why were my legs like rubber?”. What does Rusty use? – the little ring of course. Not many people know but Frodo and Bilbo were cyclists of some repute. Just read the books again and see how many references to ‘one ring to bind them all’ is in there.

Anyway, I’m on the plane now so I must start to focus my energy on the time travel from 1993 to 2011 if I’m ever going to make it.

“Has anyone seen my compression socks?”.

 

  

The Rusty Ultramarathoner

The pic says it all.xx

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The things we do.....

Honestly is there anything we won't do - to ourselves, our bodies, our loved ones and quite often with no recognised benefit - at the time anyway.

As I sit here waiting for my beloved who is somewhere between checkpoint 4 and cp5 in the North Face 100, Blue Mountains, Sydney Australia I have one of those 'epiphenous' moments (yes I made that word up) brought upon by lack of sleep, caffeine, crap food, mental torture from two now sleeping children dragged around from about 0545 this morning through the blue mountains (and loving it) and probably seeing what mummy is putting herself through presently.

I think whats inscribed into the rocks and mud along Kokoda - courage, mateship, sacrifice and I think pain should or may be in there as well. In each of us there are moments that can only be defined under those words but achieved through so many different ways the inclusion of infinite would have to slip in there as well. The months of pain through training, sacrifice of time, sleep, precious moments with loved ones, mateship developed through training partners new and old, courage to think that if I could only put the time in - I may just be able to pull this out of my hat and go alright or die trying.

My beautful wife (xx) after having so spectacularly dnf'd last year at 89k and trained so valiantly and achieved the unachievable just by showing up this year again is very close to wiping another massive goal from her bucket list. There have been injuries physical, mentally and emotionally that have tried her but have done no more than harden her titanium resolve and bring out her already indominitable spirit further - I am in awe and regard myself as blessed in having such a wonderful person as my wife.

The welsh running dog who at year three has burnt out a fantastic 22nd overall at 11;50 and proven what can be done with pure guts grit determination and vegemite sandwiches - is a fine example of what can happen when we process new imigrants through into our fine country - nice one Andy B.

Huey - another rusting ironman who with about seven weeks to go before Challenge Roth is out there squeezing it in on top an exhausting work, family, training schedule knowing that at the end of the day it could all blow up with another injury or illness. Not to be totally all train no play he even manages epic rides on top of all things - a hangover. You just cannot keep him down.

Where will this Rusty Ironman be in about three weeks? Who knows but with so many fine examples close at hand I'm sure I will be in good company.....stay tuned.....

This blog written at 2130 adjacent to cp5 and coincidentally next to the old Queen Elizabeth Hospital - former institution for the clinically insane and mentally ill....seriously.

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