tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46892463585098516292024-03-21T05:41:39.613-07:00The Saleby Jogging Centresaleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-80619614900660004142015-04-19T03:17:00.000-07:002015-04-19T03:17:02.895-07:00Listen To The Birds<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP5a5JErl0nuvC9IXr6b69JJwPjbili7YH7MqIBtODuuCAWHrDxUuEzmlUeNj8pkFSMEuo7vxGkD_VimPksS6nRhwNB5EVpLGdrqV-WKu2dzOc5qoIu3PFybb1Xl51-M0JYTodIn6Xgk/s1600/listen+to+the+birds.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP5a5JErl0nuvC9IXr6b69JJwPjbili7YH7MqIBtODuuCAWHrDxUuEzmlUeNj8pkFSMEuo7vxGkD_VimPksS6nRhwNB5EVpLGdrqV-WKu2dzOc5qoIu3PFybb1Xl51-M0JYTodIn6Xgk/s1600/listen+to+the+birds.png" height="299" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
'<i>You cannot step twice into the same river, for other waters are continually flowing on.'</i><br />
<i> Heraclitus</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's probably my favourite rock 'n' roll moment ever.<br />
<br />
By the time the 'Ziggy Stardust' tour reached London's Hammersmith Odeon on July 3rd 1973, David Bowie had been on the road for over a year with practically no breaks. During that time, he'd gone from being the curly-haired folky guy who sang 'Space Oddity' to an extra-terrestrial sex alien and an international superstar. His Ziggy Stardust character had become a glam rock icon, and teenagers - both boys and girls - all across the world had his poster on their walls. Bowie's manager, Tony DeFries, saw no reason to stop. He had plans to take Ziggy all over the globe in 1974. But Bowie had other plans.<br />
<br />
As that July 3rd show drew to its conclusion, Bowie stepped forward to speak to the frenzied crowd of 3,500 space cadets.<br />
<br />
'This show will stay the longest in our memories,' he told his fans. 'Not just because it is the end of the tour, but because it is the last show we'll ever do.'<br />
<br />
Amidst the hysterical screams, Bowie then turned his back on the audience and walked towards the back of the stage. The Spiders From Mars launched into one final song, 'Rock 'n' Roll Suicide'.<br />
<br />
Folklore has it that audience members, so upset by news of Ziggy's retirement, sated themselves by indulging in a mass orgy in the seats.<br />
<br />
The NME front cover - 'BOWIE QUITS'- became one of the most iconic of all time.<br />
<br />
Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars never played together again.<br />
<br />
Just a matter of months later, Bowie - bleached quiff, smooth suit - started recording an album of 'blue-eyed soul' in Philidelphia, Pennsylvania.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9z32Qfa64c60CqwONiUnSnHKXMFUgGq-Wx_D62aoKQYC8nqQtSbIVXromVmBtCYLAwznUopV7QjsB7be9HBYqL9rZQT4Dt6oPV_-RNCeFwcdTyKa4As3Fl28JVpO4A3Qwi9ljRu2OV8/s1600/Bowie+Quits.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL9z32Qfa64c60CqwONiUnSnHKXMFUgGq-Wx_D62aoKQYC8nqQtSbIVXromVmBtCYLAwznUopV7QjsB7be9HBYqL9rZQT4Dt6oPV_-RNCeFwcdTyKa4As3Fl28JVpO4A3Qwi9ljRu2OV8/s1600/Bowie+Quits.png" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In September 2007, Anton Krupicka wrote his first blog post. Entitled 'Now', it began with a single question: 'Why does one blog?' Why share a life on the internet when one could simply write a private journal?<br />
<br />
His conclusion was interesting:<br />
<br />
<i>'There is no reason to post one's life on the internet, other than to feel as if you have some sort of agency as a human being. That is, that your actions - and posts - are meaningful to someone other than oneself and that they affect other humans in some way: to inflame, inspire, degrade, invoke joy, etc.,etc. That is the only - yet incredibly crucial - difference between maintaining a meticulous Word document on one's hard drive and posting to a public blog of one's own creation. The internet allows others to see you - provides an audience - and this helps tremendously to validate one's own existence.'</i><br />
<br />
I came across Krupicka's blog in 2010. I'd just joined Facebook. I bought into Krupicka's philosophy. My life needed validating. Not long afterwards, I started my own blog.<br />
<br />
My blog was never an on-line training diary or a self-aggrandising list of achievements. I worked hard to make it more than that. In retrospect, it's a body of work I'll always be proud of.<br />
<br />
And what started out as a means to validate my existence - to make me a star in a movie about myself - became so much more. Through the words of this blog I was able to talk of things I'd shared with almost no-one: childhood abuse, self-harm, directionless self-pity, an over-dependence on stuff that's no good for you - all the bullshit, basically, that most of us encounter and eventually have to find a way of confronting and laying to rest. Our methods vary. Writing was mine.<br />
<br />
As a young man, I was an avid diarist. For hours each week for the best part of ten years, I'd record a life that wasn't really being lived. I get those blue hard-backed books out now and again and scan through them, marveling (and cringing) at the person I once was.<br />
<br />
Then, during a night in an Ingoldmells club during a particularly shaky spell of my life some years back, my oldest friend took me aside for a few drunken words of advice. 'You need to stop writing in those books of yours,' he said. 'Stop thinking so much. Start living a bit more.'<br />
<br />
It was a turning point. I've never kept a journal since.<br />
<br />
When one lives one's life according to the dictate of 'Self-experimentation is the key', there'll always be turning points and crossroads. For months now, I've been approaching another.<br />
<br />
Although it's been a long journey of trial and error, the path I've chosen - the one that just feels right - seems to offer promise in terms of giving my existence the validity it needs now.<br />
<br />
The bricks this path is made of are numerous, inter-connected and important. Detachment. Simplicity. An immersion in the outdoors. A fuller appreciation of the love of family and friends.<br />
<br />
I've almost found what I'm looking for.<br />
<br />
There's a few things, however, that need to fall by the wayside: competition, gossip, back-stabbing, false friendship, social media, more possessions than I need, more money than I need - all of the bollocks, in fact, by which one defines 'Modern Life'.<br />
<br />
Blur got it right.<br />
<br />
Blogging, too, is on that list.<br />
<br />
It was always something that really bugged me: a favourite blog gradually fading into non-existence by means of less and less frequent posts, and finally no more at all. I always thought I'd do it differently. Do it properly.<br />
<br />
That's why I'm bringing my blog to an end with this post.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The same old friend that took me aside in that nightclub all those years ago, sent me an e-mail recently. It was a link to an article about the marathon monks of Mount Hiei. In my reply, I talked to him about the idea of 'secular pilgrimages'. I told him of my weekly Friday 12-hour walks. I mentioned listening to podcasts on these walks.<br />
<br />
In his response, he ended his message with a simple instruction: 'Listen to the birds on Friday'.<br />
<br />
It's a phrase I've thought of almost constantly since. Not only good advice for a long walk, but an ideal for living.<br />
<br />
And so, I go.<br />
<br />
To the anonymous amigos who have clocked up those 40,000 page hits since the start of this blog, I thank you and leave you with a corruption of Micah True's guide to happiness:<br />
<br />
Jog Free, my friends xx<br />
<br />
Me? Well I'm off to listen to the birds. saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-53483285215011426522015-03-22T12:37:00.000-07:002015-03-22T12:40:14.259-07:00Drum Boy John<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0-NSNAxYyZustvluJ_RM0Xsl9jOfaplatgmKejAz7zKhSl6pFMM4RShot5frjiN4dcGIyH0e5MdZRC4gE-pjpfJ5Qv1JTPZrFpM5dx9iWuCvTYuyKgc47qkC-0BHPVhnJ9XWL-0Y3hE/s1600/postcard.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0-NSNAxYyZustvluJ_RM0Xsl9jOfaplatgmKejAz7zKhSl6pFMM4RShot5frjiN4dcGIyH0e5MdZRC4gE-pjpfJ5Qv1JTPZrFpM5dx9iWuCvTYuyKgc47qkC-0BHPVhnJ9XWL-0Y3hE/s1600/postcard.gif" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>A guest blog by Dennis Rainbow.</i></b><br />
<br />
The first time I met Drum Boy John was on the school bus. I'd got on and, as usual, most of the seats were taken. I walked down the aisle and ended up standing next to a lad I'd not seen before. He was sitting on a double seat with a snare drum next to him. He looked up at me, and, although I wasn't bothered if I stood or sat for the short journey, he moved the drum and I sat down. We didn't say a word, but I watched him after we got off. He put on his headphones, pressed 'Play' on his Walkman, picked up his drum with a strap attached that he slung round his neck, took some sticks from his waist band and walked off, beating out a rhythm as if he was playing in a marching band.<br />
<br />
The next morning I got on the bus and walked towards him. As I did so, he again moved his drum and I sat down. He'd been the talk of the school the previous day. The weird new boy with the drum. He'd walked down town at dinner break playing abstract beats and done the same again at home time.<br />
<br />
'What music you into?' he'd said that morning.<br />
'Bowie, the Postcard stuff - Aztec Camera, Josef K, Orange Juice,' I'd replied. 'What about you?'<br />
'The Skids,' he'd said.<br />
<br />
After a couple of weeks, I asked him.<br />
'Why do you walk around with that drum?'<br />
He gave me a sidewards glance, shrugged his shoulders.<br />
'No reason.'<br />
<br />
I started hanging around with him at breaks, after school and at weekends. Most people still thought he was a freak but, gradually, we both got a bit of attention. A couple of the cool girls - the girls who wore dark eyeliner and listened to Bauhaus and the Cocteaus - started to knock around with us. I made one a mix tape with stuff like 'Walk Out To Winter' and 'Fantastic Voyage' on it. John generally ignored them both.<br />
<br />
That summer was brilliant. Jobless, we spent most days together. I saved my birthday money and bought a drum. We both got jackets from Oxfam like the ones on Sgt. Pepper's, and John copied me a cassette for my Walkman. In perfect synchronicity we'd march up and down the beach, past bewildered holiday makers, drumming and laughing.<br />
<br />
The first day back, I took my drum on the bus and sat next to John. We were in a new class that year - 4U- and, as we walked down the corridor, we heard a familiar sound. Darren Johnson was stood in front of the class, laughing and drumming. He was one of the popular lads. The sort that had proper girlfriends, wore skinny ties, white socks, Adidas Sambas. Listened to U2. He wasn't taking the piss. It was as if drumming was cool.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I sat next to John.<br />
'Why you not brought your drum?' I asked.<br />
He gave me a sidewards glance, shrugged his shoulders.<br />
'No reason.'<br />
<br />
The next morning, he wasn't on the bus at all.<br />
Our form teacher told us that John and his family had moved away.<br />
I don't know if he took his drum with him. <br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-88716138044167928882015-03-04T12:02:00.000-08:002015-03-04T12:20:12.283-08:00This Is What I Do<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_nmUvOiG5Yy3V5zRocEkynsSIQXEpsw9jMlnR218n932SzNIjqg02r1LP2GQwhAuKj1xmaD1UvMmxCU-9_C6TbSovQ7A4iu7ufeZR3-Tq4hI_yuok7qgRm8IBdcdgDJJlwWdFJqDGPE/s1600/023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_nmUvOiG5Yy3V5zRocEkynsSIQXEpsw9jMlnR218n932SzNIjqg02r1LP2GQwhAuKj1xmaD1UvMmxCU-9_C6TbSovQ7A4iu7ufeZR3-Tq4hI_yuok7qgRm8IBdcdgDJJlwWdFJqDGPE/s1600/023.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b> Sunday afternoon</b></u><br />
<br />
I'm trying to put into words the feeling that's held me all day.<br />
<br />
We're driving back from an open cross-country meeting at Barton-Upon-Humber. Tam's behind the wheel, and I'm talking.<br />
<br />
'I just think that I need to find a new hobby. I was looking at some of those folks today and they seem to get such a buzz from running. I used to be like that, but not any more. Not for ages. It's all become a bit of a chore. Most of the time I get out, not because I really want to, but because it's a habit. You know what I mean? It's like, 'I'll go for a run because<i> this is what I do</i>.' '<br />
<br />
Tam looks over, nods her head in all the right places, sighs like Twig the Wonderkid, but doesn't say anything.<br />
<br />
'I'm sure there's something I could do that would really fire me up. Climbing, maybe? Mountain-biking? Something that I've never done before. Where everything would be new and exciting. And fun. Not just the same old, same old.'<br />
<br />
I guess I'm in one of those moods. After a bit, I get the hint and shut up.<br />
<br />
I cast my mind over the events of Friday night. The HPM. A DNF. Whilst no-one's particularly to blame, and I'd come out afterwards with such lazy platitudes as, 'It's only a race - it doesn't matter in the scheme of things', not having achieved what I'd set out to do, along with missing a full night's sleep, had left me feeling pissed off all day.<br />
<br />
Maybe a run would sort me out? I'd asked Tam earlier to drop me off 10 miles from home on the way back, but I couldn't say I was particularly looking forward to it. As if things couldn't possibly get more downbeat, at that moment the clouds burst and heavy raindrops smeer the windscreen. I'm sure the forecast had said cold and windy, but dry. With no waterproof, the possible salvation I'll find in a run home looks far-fetched. 10 miles in the rain. No jacket. Freezing-bastard-cold and blowing a gale. Fan. Fucking. Tastic.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stepping into the house sometime later, I admit that I do feel a bit better. The rain had stopped, the wind had blown away a few murky mental cobwebs,and my legs had felt a little stiff but surprisingly good. <br />
<br />
The phone's ringing.<br />
<br />
Before I even have chance to take off my shoes, I hear Tam saying, 'Yeah - he's just walked in.' She wanders into the hallway and hands me the house phone. A friend's on the line. I spread myself out on the computer chair in the front room and chat for 20 minutes. We get onto the subject of the team's retirement from Friday night's race, and I start again with all the same crap I was saying to Tam earlier.<br />
<br />
'You know what your next challenge should be?' my mate tells me once I've finished my depressing monologue. 'Don't run a single step for a month. It'll be hard, I know, but it'll do you the world of good. Kind of get things into perspective.'<br />
<br />
When I put down the phone, he's convinced me. My next challenge will be to not run at all for a month. At least. A new plan; I should feel excited, but I don't. What if, without running, things just stop making sense?<br />
<br />
I shuffle into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Think for a while, resolve dissolving. Ok - my next challenge will be to not run at all for a month. Maybe. But I won't start just yet. Later this year, perhaps? Or not at all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>Monday afternoon</b></u><br />
<br />
Work's dragged. Fed-up all day. The prospect of the run home, to be honest, hasn't really helped things either. Recently, I've found the jog home from the factory a right drag. My circadian rhythms must hit rock-bottom at around 3pm. Even a slow plod seems like hard work.<br />
<br />
I get home at about half-four.<br />
<br />
'Good run?' Tam says, hopeful, as I flop out against the kitchen wall.<br />
<br />
'Not bad,' I reply, trying not to sound too negative. 'A bit of a slog.'<br />
<br />
I sup a mug of sweet tea and contemplate getting ready to coach the kids at running club later on. Don't really feel like that either, I admit, but I guess it'll do me good.<br />
<br />
There's definitely something about being in the company of enthusiastic youngsters and good friends that does wonders for the soul. When I arrive back from the club a couple of hours later, the dark clouds of the previous two days have all but evaporated.<br />
<br />
Getting out the car, I'm surprised by the brightness of the moon. I'd not noticed it earlier. Not full, but not far off. I take a few steps to the end of the drive and look across the fields opposite. Eventually, my eyes are drawn to the distant red lights of the Belmont transmitter. On my last Lindsey Loop adventure, I began to picture the transmitter as a light-bulb in the middle of a huge room and myself as a moth, blindly making my way around it, pulled by a force too powerful to resist. I stare for a while at that far-away column of red light, and realise my predicament. Realise what running is to me. I'm pulled by a force too powerful to resist. And, as I stand in the darkness, I realise what a comforting thought that is.<br />
<br />
I go to bed early. There's excitement in my belly again. I spread out an OS map on top of the duvet and check out an idea that's appeared from nowhere. How far would it be to run the course of the River Lymm from its source on Belchford Hill to the sea at Gib Point? Which parts of its banks have open access? Which sections are negotiable with trespass, or not at all? When would be the best time to try it? Would it be a point-to-point trip, or could I incorporate it into a long round?<br />
<br />
I lay awake for a while later. A moth around a lightbulb. My thoughts flick through a catalogue of the things I've been drawn to for this year: a 2 day walk around the Tennyson Trail with an overnight bivvy; a 280 mile, 7 day run on the Cross Britain Way; a solo, unsupported 90 mile race against the daylight from Skegness to Hunstanton on the Summer Soltice; multi-day, super-light fastpacking trips over the length of the Nene Way and Hereward Way; a 140 mile FKT attempt on running the length of Lincolnshire, utilising the Viking Way and the Danelaw Way; a whole pile of undiscovered footpaths and as-yet-unattempted Pointless Challenges.<br />
<br />
Round and round the lightbulb, until sleep turns off the power.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>Tuesday morning </b></u><br />
<br />
I leave the house at 5.15. It's cold outside, frost on the car windscreen and a stillness in the air. Turning on my head-torch and pulling the fleece beany over my ears, I start to jog down the lane and then over the crossroads in the direction of the Wold Grift. Sometimes you know immediately. Today, I know. This run's going to be a good one.<br />
<br />
As I make my way slowly and easily along the field edges to Alford, the moths of last night have flickered away and my thoughts are consumed by a different anology. What if running were a marriage? A long-lasting relationship? A commitment until death-do-us-part?<br />
<br />
Perhaps the look of joy I'd seen on the faces of those runners at Barton - those Absolute Beginners - a couple of days ago was due to the heady ecstasy of lust and infatuation? The running equivalent of falling hopelessly in love with someone new and then shagging each other senseless for six months straight. Many years ago, my running started like that too. Each day, a joy, a new discovery, a dizzying rush of natural chemicals. All-consuming. Exciting. Thrilling.<br />
<br />
But over time, it's changed. Just like a marriage, the dynamics have altered. Whilst the passion is undoubtedly still there, it's been blended beautifully with a love and respect that runs much deeper. A love and respect that binds your relationship, ties you together closely, buoys you through the times when things don't seem quite right and enables you to appreciate all the moments when things are perfect.<br />
<br />
Dawn's breaking. I pass the church at Well, and it's a beautiful day. I'm in love again. Every footstep is a kiss.<br />
<br />
I jog on through the woods and remember words I recently read. In answer to the question, 'How has running shaped your life?' Buzz Burrell, 63 year-old US mountain-running guru replied:<br />
<br />
'<i>When I was in high school, nothing was being presented to me that was real. This was when the Vietnam War was just getting started and various values in society at the time were questionable. And I had zero answers. I had no idea what was true or what was false, but I knew when I moved and breathed and perspired, that was real. And so running became the first thing in my life. It was reality and in that reality there was intrinsic meaning. And not a lot has changed.</i>' <br />
<br />
I can't help feeling that if asked the same question, my sentiments would be much the same.<br />
<br />
Before the track makes a steady descent to Claxby Psalter, a fallen tree has blocked the way. Recently, I've gotten into a habit of standing on that tree, looking over to the ridge-line and the Bluestone Heath road, savouring the silence of the morning. For a moment, just being.<br />
<br />
This morning's no different. But today, my mind isn't empty. It's full of snapshots of the paths we've taken since we came together- running and myself - nearly forty years ago: Primary school sports day sprints; teenage daydreams of track stardom; gruelling sessions on a University cinder track; mid-20's road-running heydays; the natural progression to the trails and the hills and the lure of longer distance. Right up until this very morning - a man perhaps past his best, but moving forward with a philosophy of outdoors movement that just feels right - no longer 'a runner', not quite 'a long distance walker', just something somewhere in between.<br />
<br />
Standing on that fallen tree, I savour the precious memories, the joy we've had together, and look ahead to the things we've yet to share, the places we've yet to discover.<br />
<br />
I'm smiling.<i> That feeling</i> inside me. <br />
<br />
And, as I start to run, a phrase I used in despair a couple of days ago returns, and I'm filled with pride.<br />
<br />
<i>This Is What I Do.</i><br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-81281182533485021082015-02-18T10:48:00.001-08:002015-02-18T11:01:20.572-08:00Conquistador Of The Useless<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFYNDWQUaVvyHOFJ0-jFxLtbP5UJksq7NW7teftotlzbpMD4WSIFB4396fQ2IOP-kWayd8ycfMlLA-wGWz_ZS1_J-FREd0mUk1pkkd74xAmqszc4PpGPF_OqAVf5PEbLrfp5uRFy13KM/s1600/conquistador.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFYNDWQUaVvyHOFJ0-jFxLtbP5UJksq7NW7teftotlzbpMD4WSIFB4396fQ2IOP-kWayd8ycfMlLA-wGWz_ZS1_J-FREd0mUk1pkkd74xAmqszc4PpGPF_OqAVf5PEbLrfp5uRFy13KM/s1600/conquistador.png" height="400" width="370" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I<i> often think that when I get older, it won't be the things I've done in my life that I'll most fondly remember, but, rather, the people who I did those things with.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Over the years, I've been blessed that running has led me to a group of people who's friendship I cherish. A loose collective, we have differing views on most things, but a shared vision of where the elemental essence of 'running' really lies. On mountain tops, field paths, bridleways, moors, dales and fells, I spend time with these people and I always come home a better person for it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Over the weekend of the Winter Soltice, I set off to run 90 miles from Hunstanton to Skegness - the length of The Wash - in the company of two of these treasured friends. When you're travelling on foot for 24 hours, there's plenty of time for talking. Sometime during our trip, Leon, Dave and myself got onto the subject of blogging. 'It would be a good idea to have some guest posts on The SJC site,' someone said. We all agreed that it would.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Two months later, I'd all but forgotten that conversation. What a pleasant surprise then last night, when amongst all the crap in my e-mail inbox was this little gem, sent to me by Leon.</i><br />
<br />
<i>In December 2013, Leon became the first person to complete the Lindsey Loop, Lincolnshire's best long distance route, in one continuous run during winter.</i><br />
<br />
<i>It was a remarkable day.</i><br />
<br />
<i>This is the story of that day.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Enjoy!</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>CONQUISTADOR OF THE USELESS </b><br />
<br />
<b> by </b><br />
<b> Leon Hockham</b><br />
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Plodding on, I thought the monotony would never end. The golden orb ebbed over the horizon and still, enthusiasm and joy seemed like something only other people feel. Those feelings were not returning. I hoped that I was journeying towards them. The chatter from my friends was comforting, both Dave and Chris had done their job. Their endless prattle had mutated into simple sound - white sound. A friendly, reassuring sound. Like the muffled whisperings you hear on waking, when you can't make out the words but you know you are in a safe place in the company of people who care.<br />
<br />
It had been a long day and here I was, 2 sunrises and 1 sunset later. Measuring time by celestial events. A man approached, or was it? I had been seeing things for a while, in that place where you are not absolutely sure whether what you see is real or a figment of an exhausted and confused imagination. Thoughts whirled around and I paced, 'One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other.' He was wearing a discoloured fluorescent jacket. I didn't recognise him! It could be a farmer appearing over a rise in the barren field. 'One foot in front of the other', look up - he's gone. Must have been my addled mind, slaughtered by the relentless, monotonous, muddy fields that separated me from the start of my journey.<br />
<br />
Time had ceased to matter, since I had no idea how to measure it. Clocks ticked slower. Distances that I had covered on simple runs over familiar ground seemed to go on forever. Distances that would have been over within a flash. Time travel. Was I moving? Or was I the observer? Either way, I was on my time; slow time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The day had started with the usual nerves, following a restless night. Who needs sleep? Sleep is for wimps! My sister's arrival with her husband from Sussex had kept me up later than I would have liked. It was worth it. Rory was my road support. Reliable, dependable; Rory, the 'white van man'. I needed that van and Rory in it. It focuses me and reassures me. Waiting for that coffee and cigarette, ready rolled. Waiting for the banter and encouragement. Stepping stones on my Transit.<br />
<br />
With everyone present, I was ready to start. Treana and Tam on the 1st leg. We set off plodding up the road. Treana and Tam seemed to be going off too fast, because they were. I had forgotten the map. I knew they would take the piss, but I needed that map. I knew the route but it would comfort me. As predicted, they took the piss. I was off again and I would try to catch the girls. Where were they? Too fast for me. I caught up with them on the outskirts to Alford and we were off. I was doing it. I had dreamed about this run. A loop starting and finishing on my doorstep. Adventure begins when you step out of your door. Saleby Jogging Centre had done it a couple of years ago, but he is a class runner, a hard runner, the 'real deal'. I'm an emulator, a pretender. It was hard to curb his enthusiasm for this route; he had been going on about it for ages, and had guarded that guide book, that coveted out-of-print text. It seemed so far - 97 miles, with nearly 2500m of ascent. Way out of my league. Chris and I had reccied it to death. On top of that, we had run it as a club relay, which was an awesome experience.<br />
<br />
I don't know why but I got the idea to have a go myself. I have a bit more experience of big miles since my attempted BGR a couple of years ago. Now that was ambitious. My first ultra - one of the hardest in the UK. Whatever made me think I could do that? Like the first race I ever ran - a marathon?? Way too ambitious. I suppose I am vain. I suppose that I like to test myself and, after all, there is no point in attempting something that you know you can do. Or more to the point, you know how to do. After a couple of successful ultras, and a couple that weren't, I had more confidence. A winter Loop. I would give it a go. My previous limited experience had taught me that most of the running is in your head. 'One foot in front of the other'. Believe it, feel it and live it. One step at a time<br />
<br />
It had been a busy year and the only time that I could fit it in was the winter. The first continuous winter Loop, as Chris had pointed out. (No pressure then!) I feel that the key to big runs is not to over-analyse and definitely do not stress. After a hard year, training had gone out the window. Virtually no running in the months leading up to the Loop. Would it matter?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The 1st leg, starting in the dark, flew by with only a couple of errors, like when I lost the girls - nothing serious. Missed Maz, one of my support runners on Leg 2. I could have waited, but didn't. I knew Chris would take him to the next village en route, and I was right.<br />
<br />
Horncastle- the start of Leg 3. Lost Trena just before the CP and Maz urged me to run on while he went back for her. She wasn't far behind, just enough for me not to want to wait. On arrival at the CP, Maz and Treana were already there because they had taken a short cut to catch me up. Treana had done an outstanding job pacing me on the first 2 legs, a distance PB for her. I'm very proud of her and she will make a great ultra-runner. She's a Hockham and doesn't know when to quit!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Overwhelmed, I looked around me - the crossroads CP seemed massed with people. People I cared about and loved. This Is Your Life! Close friends and loved ones. I love seeing my family on these runs. They are fuel to me - they give me the strength and will to carry on. Dennis, with his inane banter. My Dad, with the not-so-wise words. Christopher Rainbow, who I am always happy to see. My inspiration and my safety belt. Dave and Deb travelling over from Lancashire. Christ - these people must actually like me! I am always humbled by the lengths friends and family will go to help me fulfill my dreams. Neil: a guy who's skill is easily outstripped by his confidence. A person I don't know really well, but hope to in the future. Real understanding. The kind that is forged and galvanised by being lost on a bleak hillside in torrential rain with only your mates to rely on. A trust and friendship that counts in the hills and is transported to the lowlands where our lives are played out. My Mum: supporting me as always, reluctant to smile in case she lets on how she really feels, always there, humbling me with her loyalty and forgiveness. Tammy: like me in so many ways, ocassionally too quick to say what's on her mind. Her blinding care and supprt, obvious, hard as nails - she can't fool me! The gentle and caring side that I can see in her eyes as she fusses around making sure everyone has what they need. My girls: the reason I get up in the morning, always there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Confusion, the good kind. Where you don't need to understand. The kind that is brought about by pointless, empty, useless miles. The pain has gone, replaced with a feeling rather than understanding; an understanding of sorts, but not in the literal sense; understanding one's place in the universe, a sense of belonging to the animate and inanimate; the beauty, cruelty and, above all, the indifference of the universe. Indifference could inspire panic, it could make you seek a higher power. This is my church, I am the preacher; my supporters are my congregation, believers. There is no reason to believe, yet they do.<br />
<br />
Sleeping on my feet; unbelievable until you have the experience. Somnambulism or noctambulism, a sleep disorder. In a state of low consciousness, sufferers perform activities that are usually performed in a state of full consciousness. Although their eyes are open, their expression is dim and glazed over. A sleep disorder.? No, running close to 100 miles in the winter is a disorder and somnambulism is merely a symptom.<br />
<br />
The sound comes and goes. That haunting sound. I can't make up my mind whether I like it or not. It sounds familiar. My mind's playing games. South Thoresby - last leg, about 10 miles to go. Home may as well be on the far side of the moon. I don't like the sound, it seems out of place. Rory should be here somewhere...I'm impatient. I need to get to that van. That sound again - 'WATERLOO... WATERLOO...' Where is that rusty Transit? Turning the corner, Chris and Dave laughing. Then, the penny drops - Rory having an impromtu rave, music blaring from speakers. The Best Of Abba?? What else would you be doing at 4am on a lonely Lincolnshire road? I did not understand. No coffee stop this time. Dave looks disappointed; I an perturbed. I need to get home. Feeling like a child who is late for tea. My 24 hour, highly optimistic, unrealistic and masochistic schedule is out of the window. I don't care anymore. Got to get home. I'm waiting for a delivery.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The man in the coat, the bright coat, has gone to be replaced with three figures approaching. On towards Rigsby - village on a ridge, harking back to when the North Sea lapped against the white cliffs of Alford. To when Alford was an aquatic town. I will be able to see the windmill soon - the finishing line, something to aim for.<br />
<br />
Getting closer. Still can't make them out. Focus has gone.The glazed expression; a symptom of my ultra-running disease.Who are they? There you are! My existential soul and my two reasons for getting up in the morning. My girls. The man in the van, wearing his sunshine jacket ,the uniform of the Transit man, he made his last delivery of the day. It is addressed to me. They are for me. A gift from the gods - to lead me home. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-64702478064164683462015-02-11T13:16:00.000-08:002015-02-11T23:06:46.934-08:00Slow Ultra-Training: A Paradigm Shift<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfufJtUYvOgEHx6aatzu4tJ5BRSso12VnmLU9yEKS2DInXLt7BBry5WBytzWWhqjbPI7KSCYNZyer7ut0mjR_9Z2jWYNep3lOCl22nM25yS_yJJWLI9JN_oa2KpJXaZbBicY5UmWvf0U/s1600/slow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvfufJtUYvOgEHx6aatzu4tJ5BRSso12VnmLU9yEKS2DInXLt7BBry5WBytzWWhqjbPI7KSCYNZyer7ut0mjR_9Z2jWYNep3lOCl22nM25yS_yJJWLI9JN_oa2KpJXaZbBicY5UmWvf0U/s1600/slow.png" height="240" width="400" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>'The Slow Movement is a cultural revolution against the notion that faster is always better. The Slow philosophy is not about doing everything at a snail's pace. It's about seeking to do everything at the right speed. Savouring the hours and minutes rather than counting them. Doing everything as well as possible, instead of as fast as possible.'</i><br />
Carl Honore, 'Slow'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's 1986 and Carlos Petrini isn't happy. Fast food giant, McDonalds, are proposing to open a new store near the Spanish Steps in Rome, and it pisses him right off. So what does he do? He establishes a direct alternative to fast food - Slow Food - with an aim to promote local foods and centuries-old traditions of gastronomy, and to oppose the modern-day clamour for convenience food, along with industrial production and globalisation.<br />
<br />
Starting out as a bit of 'a game', Petrini's Slow Food organisation touches a nerve and becomes more popular than he could ever have imagined. In 1989, the founding manifesto of the International Slow Food Movement was signed in Paris by delegates from 15 countries. Since then, it has expanded to include over 100,000 members with branches in over 150 countries.<br />
<br />
Over time, the philosophy behind Slow Food has developed into a widespread movement that advocates a cultural shift towards slowing down life's pace. An internet search will provide details of how the ideas behind Slow have expanded to many facets of everyday living. Wikipedia gives details of sixteen Slow subcultures, ranging from Slow Cities, Slow Travel and Slow Design to Slow Parenting, Slow Education and Slow Science. What Wiki doesn't list, however, is Slow Ultra-Training.<br />
<br />
That, dear reader, is where I come in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>SLOW ULTRA-TRAINING</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Background</u><br />
<br />
Six months ago, a dog came into our lives. Elsie, a border terrier, quickly became a much-loved member of our family. In spite of many people reminding me of what a chore it was to walk a dog, I quickly came to the realisation that dog-walking, an activity I'd never really done before, ranked as one of the most enjoyable things I'd ever experienced. Equally, if not more enjoyable than running. (That's saying something.)<br />
<br />
Whilst there's a definite joy to moving quickly over ground, the contemplative joys of life at 3 miles per hour are astounding. In no time at all, the dog-walk was the highlight of my day. (I lead a simple life.)<br />
<br />
Over the Christmas holidays, I began to yearn for being out longer. My weekly plans for the next year, I decided, would include lots of running, but would be supplemented by a good deal of walking. Initially, this idea was inspired by pure enjoyment and the thrill of the detachment from the busyness of life that walking provides. Gradually, however, as I tramped through fields, lost in thought, Elsie by my side, I started to contemplate if a Slow method of training could be utilised to facilitate a 'fast' time in an ultra race. The outlines of Slow Ultra-Training began to take shape.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Common (Mis)Conceptions</u><br />
<br />
In recent months, a lot of people I know have thrown their hats into the training ring with the 'science' camp. They're taking lactate threshold treadmill tests, following precisely engineered running schedules and running to heart-rate. Although I hold a degree in Sports Science and accept that this approach works in training for shorter long-distance races (marathon, 50k, 100k), I began to question if such an approach could ever work for super-long ultra performances (races such as TP184, GUCR, C2C Ultra). My conclusion was, most probably not.<br />
<br />
Looking back on personal experience, when training for a super-long ultra, I've always stuck to the commonly-held conception of running a ton of miles at a moderate pace, with a couple of faster runs during each week, and a long run (5-6 hours) at the weekend. Off this sort of background, I've always done ok in races, but never come away feeling like I've particularly achieved what I set out to do. There comes a point when the sheer amount of time on your feet gets you. Muscles start cramping up, feet start swelling and aching, hips get tight, and you slow from a jog to a plod, done for.<br />
<br />
My race experiences suggest then, at least for me, that the widely-accepted way to do things just doesn't work.<br />
<br />
This nagging doubt is, perhaps, confirmed by the following information:<br />
<br />
- In a typical marathon training schedule, scientific studies have shown that the quickest athletes do around 80% of their training at a pace under their race pace (steady or easy running), and 20% at a faster pace. Some marathon runners might stretch this ratio to 65% / 35%, but evidence seems to suggest that an increased amount of fast running doesn't necessarily correlate to faster race times.<br />
<br />
- Compare this to a super-long ultra. If average pace per mile in a race is 10-12 minutes per mile (or slower), there's a good chance that by training in the conventional way,<i> all</i> <i>of your training</i> is done at quicker than race pace.<br />
<br />
Does this make sense?<br />
<br />
I'd say 'No'.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>An Alternative Approach</u><br />
<br />
I'm proposing that the key to super-long ultra-training is not miles per se, but the amount of time spent on your feet and moving forward. Of this time, a good proportion (more than half) should be done at a pace slower than race pace, ie. walking.<br />
<br />
Of course, this alternative approach has one serious drawback in regards to modern-day lifestyles, and that is the time needed to do it justice. To perform well on race day, you're going to be spending a vast amount of time outdoors. Most people don't have, or are unwilling to devote, the time that's needed to achieve a decent race performance. It's my theory that the reason runners train for super-long ultras in the traditional way is, almost entirely, because it takes less time than this alternative Slow approach.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>So, What Is Slow Ultra-Training?</u><br />
<br />
The Slow approach is best not viewed as a 'training regime' but more in terms of a 'total lifestyle overhaul'. Accordingly, it might not be for everyone.<br />
<br />
Fundamental requirements include:<br />
<br />
a)<u> Lots of available time</u><br />
Slow Ultra-Training can't fit into the socially-accepted regime of work / leisure. In order to follow the approach properly, and still have time for the things more important than running (spending time with family and friends, for example), you might have to cut down on the amount of weekly time you spend at work. Drop down to a 4-day week or less. By working one less day, you might sacrifice 20% of your income, but you'll gain 50% more free time. Since this is a day you've gotten used to wasting at work, don't pencil in jobs or errands that you've never done on this day (because you're usually at work), use it to get outside.<br />
<br />
b) <u>A dog</u><br />
Slow Ultra-Training involves a great deal of walking. Whilst it might be unreasonable to take a dog along on a weekly 40 mile+ walk, shorter outings of 1 1/2 - 2 hours are always better with a canine companion.<br />
Bear in mind that the essence of Slow Ultra-Training lies in enjoyment of the present moment. The typical 'reluctant marathon runner's mindset' of 'I don't really fancy a training run tonight, but if I drag myself out the door now and get my head down for an hour it won't seem long before I'm back home in the warm' is a way of thinking that is totally alien to the Slow approach. A walk with a dog, I'm sure you'll find, is always a pleasure.<br />
<br />
Once you've arranged to work less and bought a dog, you'll be ideally placed to embark on Slow Ultra-Training.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Getting Down To Nuts And Bolts</u><br />
<br />
Let's assume you've decided to target a 150 mile race and aim for a time of 35 hours.<br />
<br />
I'd suggest an average of 35 hours of training a week, starting from a base of 20 hours per week, and increasing incrementally over 6 months.<br />
<br />
At least half of this time will be spent at training at slower than race pace, a fair portion of this being done with a dog in tow.<br />
<br />
A sample mid-block week might look like this:<br />
<br />
SUN - AM: 3-4 hours hilly off-road run (steady)<br />
PM: 1 1/2 - 2 hours dog-walking<br />
<br />
MON - PM: 2 hour run-commute from work (easy)<br />
<br />
TUES - AM: 2 hour run-commute to work (easy)<br />
PM: 1 1/2 - 2 hours dog-walking<br />
<br />
WED - PM: 2 hour run-commute from work (easy)<br />
<br />
THURS- AM: 2 hour run-commute to work (easy)<br />
PM: 1 1/2 -2 hours dog-walking<br />
<br />
FRI - 12 hours steady walking (3.5 mph)<br />
<br />
SAT - AM: 1 hour jog<br />
PM: 1 1/2 - 2 hours dog-walking TOTAL- approx. 32 HOURS<br />
<br />
This assumes a work week of Monday-Thursday. As can be seen above, much of my own running during the week involves commuting to or from work. Not only is this a tremendous way to start or finish your work day, it also saves you money on fuel and reduces your carbon footprint. If such a routine is impractical for you, I would suggest that you strive to run at different times of the day during the week. By getting your body and mind used to running both in the early morning and in the evening, you'll cope better in an actual race when you'll be running right through a night and day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>A Personal Perspective</u><br />
<br />
I adopted the Slow Ultra-Training approach at the start of the year, and, already, I'm beginning to see benefits. On a typical Friday 12 hour walk, I'm finding my legs and feet are in much better shape at the end (and the day after) than they were just a month ago. Of course, if I ran a shorter race now, I'm sure my times would be well short of what I'm used to. This approach doesn't have the faster running required for a decent marathon / 10k etc. But, then again, focus is required. The aim of the approach is to complete a super-long ultra in as quick a time as possible, not to run a marathon PB.<br />
<br />
I intend to dedicate this year to Slow Ultra-Training. At the start of next year, I have my eye on a race where I'll put my theories into practice. As of now, I'm confident of the outcome.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>A Plug</u><br />
<br />
Once I've personally proved the merits of Slow Ultra-Training next year, I shall be available for on-line coaching consultations at extortionate prices. Get your money ready.<br />
<br />
Details to follow in due course.<br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-17364029701807245892015-01-31T05:59:00.001-08:002015-01-31T09:34:49.255-08:00The Walker<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWy86ps2sH4TuwHxiAOs1rmVrBOTnWRDFIk7q5YnUB824gWZxqsMA6e3oYkaY-Z9Tog_ddVDpV711qQckXfEYwNEvk0XvD9WAgwNS3e9ea6TBUGSVJBKzn0HXTcNXMTOEfh4Nu9Zd-Rs/s1600/the+walker+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWy86ps2sH4TuwHxiAOs1rmVrBOTnWRDFIk7q5YnUB824gWZxqsMA6e3oYkaY-Z9Tog_ddVDpV711qQckXfEYwNEvk0XvD9WAgwNS3e9ea6TBUGSVJBKzn0HXTcNXMTOEfh4Nu9Zd-Rs/s1600/the+walker+3.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
I think about him often. Even now, after all this time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We'd ran together a few times on a club night, and, after I'd heard the bad news, I really should have called round. But, to be honest, I didn't know him that well back then, so I didn't.<br />
<br />
It was a chance encounter in the street months later that led to him becoming my best friend.<br />
<br />
'Hey. Ok?' I'd said.<br />
He'd nodded, kind of uncertain.<br />
<br />
'What you up to nowadays?' I'd said.<br />
'Whatever it is you do when you've lost everything,' he'd replied, matter-of-factly.<br />
<br />
'Still running?' I'd asked. Dumb question.<br />
'Not a lot,' he'd answered. 'Busy with something else.'<br />
<br />
We'd made uncomfortable small talk for a few minutes more, and he'd invited round to his place. On a Wednesday night two weeks after, I'd found myself standing in the rain, knocking on his front door.<br />
<br />
The table in the kitchen was large. Spread upon it was a map. Ordnance Survey, Landranger 122.<br />
<br />
'Those dotted red lines,' he'd said, running a finger over the shiny paper, then looking up at me. 'They're footpaths.'<br />
<br />
I'd nodded, mug of hot tea in hand, wondered where this was going.<br />
<br />
'I'm going to walk them all,' he'd continued.<br />
<br />
<i>Why?</i> I'd thought, but his face read <i>Why not?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Every Wednesday for the next three years I'd sat at that table. I'd stared at the map blu-tacked to the kitchen wall, studied the spider-lines of fluorescent yellow marker - the paths he'd walked - and listened as he spoke of weekend adventures.<br />
<br />
One time, he'd mentioned his wife. 'It must be hard, I know,' I'd told him, 'But you can't walk away from what happened. It just won't work.'<br />
<br />
He'd just shrugged and smiled.<br />
<br />
'When I walk, I'm walking with her. She's with me, and it's real,' he'd said. 'The rest...' - he'd gestured around him - '...the rest of it all - it's just dreaming.'<br />
<br />
Weeks passed. Months passed. One step at a time. He grew thin, his face more weathered. But his eyes sparkled.<br />
<br />
The map on the wall became a sea of fluorescent yellow.<br />
<br />
And then, he was done.<br />
<br />
That night, over a couple of hours and a few beers, he'd told me everything. And now what he'd been doing made some sort of sense.<br />
<br />
Before I'd left, he'd got up from the table, carefully unpicked the map from the wall, folded it neatly and handed it to me.<br />
<br />
'I won't be needing this now,' he'd said. 'And, you never know, it might come in useful some time.'<br />
<br />
As I'd stood on the step by the front door, he'd extended his right hand. 'Thankyou,' he'd said as I shook it.<br />
<br />
It was the last time I saw him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
No-one knows what happened. The next morning, it appears, he put on his boots, picked up his sack, closed the door behind him and never came back.<br />
<br />
I think about him often.<br />
<br />
And I hope.<br />
<br />
Maybe, somewhere, he's still walking. <br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-16872103728449454522015-01-27T07:34:00.002-08:002015-01-27T07:36:39.462-08:00'Ahoy!'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8olDr9NkGwciaxJvciU8EcCUdvR1jLSvGvpTvxJVoxXrBXhV-MD6SfrnyoKR894UsJwmfluXP6OmngHhhD3fbPJvTIdjmuUeDSfr7kPfSLNqeyQ_Kvid2NRsEpNsniGPogotpaBduo30/s1600/phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8olDr9NkGwciaxJvciU8EcCUdvR1jLSvGvpTvxJVoxXrBXhV-MD6SfrnyoKR894UsJwmfluXP6OmngHhhD3fbPJvTIdjmuUeDSfr7kPfSLNqeyQ_Kvid2NRsEpNsniGPogotpaBduo30/s1600/phone.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I've never been a big fan of the telephone. Not even in the days when it lived at home, with a dial and a bell. Certainly not in its modern incarnation - a device into which you install your life in return for which it will rule that life for you.<br />
<br />
Growing up, our house phone was a novelty one. A frog sat on a lily pad. When someone called, the frog would croak. You'd pick the frog up off its lily pad, hold it to your ear and speak into its belly.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's what put me off phones at an early age. That, or the fact that I don't really like talking to people. Especially people I don't know very well, or not at all. I heard Josie Long - the comedian - talking the other day about a project she once embarked on, where, for one hundred consecutive days, she attempted to strike up a conversation with a total stranger. I honestly cannot think of anything worse.<br />
<br />
In the days when I lived by myself in a flat I'd bought by a river, a mate lent me a phone because he was fed up of never being able to get hold of me. He didn't need it, he told me, since he still lived at home with his mum and dad and they already had a phone. I kept it for four years until I gave up my job, sold my flat, moved away and lost touch with him.<br />
<br />
That phone was the coolest I've ever had. It was long and sleek and had buttons instead of a dial. It was made out of pink plastic and was see-through, like a jellyfish Swatch. Although I didn't like to use it very much, I did like to look at it.<br />
<br />
The front room of my flat was sparsely furnished. There was a bookcase, one of those wicker chairs you can buy in garden centres, a large desk and a stool. My record player sat on the carpet in one corner of the room, accompanied by plastic boxes full of records and tapes. There were a few of those trendy scatter cushions in the alcove by the window. On the desk was an old colour TV and the telephone.<br />
<br />
During my time at this flat, I had a brief fling with a schizophrenic, narcoleptic girl from Stoke. When you looked into her eyes, you could tell that she was mad. I found this hugely attractive. I, myself, was going slowly insane at this time, so, for a while, we were a good match for one another.<br />
<br />
She liked to ring me in the middle of the night. This presented a problem as my bedroom was separated from the front room by a kitchen and a bathroom. If someone rang and I was asleep in bed, the chances were that I'd not even hear the phone ring.<br />
<br />
For three months, I took to sleeping on the floor of the front room just in case the phone rang after bed-time. Some nights it rang. Some nights it didn't. One night it rang and she was at a nightclub. I'm thinking she was drunk. She said, 'I shouldn't tell you this, but I think I've fallen in love with you.' A bit drastic, I thought. Three or four weeks later, she dumped me while we were enduring a few days away in Amsterdam. I ended up spending the last day moping round the canal sides by myself playing The Beautiful South's 'I'll Sail This Ship Alone' on repeat on my Walkman. When I got home, I gave up sleeping on the front room floor straight away and took to my bed again.<br />
<br />
One time that phone rang early one morning. It was a Friday, I think - early December. When I answered it, my mum told me that her husband had suffered a massive heart attack during the night. He'd died as she'd held him. They'd been married for five weeks.<br />
<br />
Once, I was at the cutting edge of mobile phone technology. During the time that the Nokia 3110 was almost space-age, the market stall I ran with Our Kid creamed a good profit from the sale of fake leather cases for the new breed of handset. For a short spell, I was fluent in phone lingo. I could identify any mobile put before me - Nokia, Philips, Alcatel, you-name-it - and recommend a handy case that would not only protect it from damage but would also look mighty fine clipped onto a jeans' belt loop and dangling at your hip.<br />
<br />
When our market business burned to the ground and we decided to become the UK's largest manufacturer of flock-lined colouring boards for children, I was talked into taking out my first-ever contract. The phone that came with it was almost as good as that pink, plastic, see-through thing I'd had years back. A Motorola Razr, it had a lid that flipped up and a ring tone that sounded like a police siren. Finding myself at the helm of a business turning over a few hundred grand a year, I'd no choice but to use it more than I would have liked. Indeed, everyday I seemed to spend all my time on the phone. It was terrible. I made sure the situation didn't last too long.<br />
<br />
Eventually, Tammy came on board and I was able to slip into my present role as someone who runs a fairly successful company without ever having to speak to anyone on the phone. It's great.<br />
<br />
I stopped using a mobile about 8 years ago. It was one of the most liberating decisions I've ever taken. I still have a phone. If I'm out all day in the hills (fairly good chance of getting lost, arriving late at a pre-arranged rendezvous point, breaking a leg, falling off a cliff face etc.) or taking my VW bus for a spin (very good chance of breaking down), I'll take it with me. I'll make sure, though, that it's always turned off if I'm not actually speaking into it. (Nothing worse than a long run or a short drive being disturbed by a ringing phone.) I do send texts, however. Last year I sent 20. These were:<br />
<br />
-<em> 'Hi mate, fancy a little run in the morning? easy 5,6,7?? Den could come too. Cheers, chris'</em><br />
<br />
- <em>'Ha! Text as much as you like - only have the phone on about 10 minutes a week! Ten 8 sounds good. 9ish in the morning?'</em><br />
<br />
<em>- 'Cool!'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Hi dave, on hols now, can't get onto my hotmail, is it still 9am at cutthroat bridge? Cheers, chris'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Thanks dave, see you tomorrow'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- ' Fucking hell dave, you sure you're all there?! Not seen your map, mine stayed in my pack all day! Hope you find it. Good run out today. Let us know if a night recce is on when you've spoken to mr. A. Cheers mate.'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Lovely!'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Ok'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Ok? Off fb?'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Just done. Long day! Ring tomorrow. Love you xx'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Hi! Did you remember to buy debbie some flowers or something? X'</em><br />
<br />
-<em> 'Yeah, be glad to see you all. Legs sore today after feeling ok all week. Missed you. How was show?'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Hi dave. Don'y worry, you'll be right. Give us a ring anytime. Take it easy. Chris'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Any chance of picking me up an a4 page per day diary, or similar? Love chris x'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'O found it now'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Ok - parked and ready at this end! Thanks.'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Cheers'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Great camping spot. Nice and cosy. Don't forget my running gear in morning. Good night and god bless. Love youxx ps, the tree we're camped under in this little wood has a pentangle carved in its bark, blair witchstyle!'</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>- 'Just opened the tent door. Dennis has disappeared. On the mat he was sleeping on is a small corn dolly, attached to which with a hat pin is a handwritten note stating, 'you're next.' do you think i should call the police?'</em><br />
<br />
- <em>'Fos bridge xx' </em><br />
<br />
<br />
Next time you call our land-line number and the phone keeps on ringing and eventually you hang up thinking there's obviously no-one at home, you may be right, but you'll probably be wrong. It's perfectly possible that I'll be the only one in, that I'll be laid on the settee reading a book, half-listening to the phone ringing and thinking to myself, 'There's no way I'm answering that.' Please don't take it personally.<br />
<br />
Now and again I hear folks saying that you should face your fears, do the things that make you uncomfortable more often - that doing just this will make you a better person. Sometimes I think talking on the phone more, or at least answering it now and again, will make me a better person. But then I think that life's too short, that you're free to make your own choices, and why do something that you don't like doing when you have the choice not to do it at all. So, I'm happy to demote anything to do with the phone to the pile that contains all the things I never do if I can help it - speedwork, reading The Daily Mail, watching any version of NCIS, mingling with people who drive Range Rovers with personalised plates etc.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * *<br />
<br />
<br />
When I picked up this biro an hour ago, I'd got no intention of writing about telephones. It just happened. What I originally wanted to go on about was 'resolutions'.<br />
<br />
So here goes.<br />
<br />
I'm a bit late for New Year's Resolutions, but as I've been rambling through fields over the last three weeks, I've felt a bit guilty about not making one for 2015.<br />
<br />
I've mulled a few over, but ultimately dismissed them for one reason or another:<br />
<br />
1. Run every day - already do that;<br />
<br />
2. Cook more often - not really into food enough to get excited about that;<br />
<br />
3. Work less hours - been on that for a year now. Any fewer hours and we'll be living on benefits (not necessarily a bad thing);<br />
<br />
4. Pioneer a new method of super-long ultra (100 miles +) training based mainly on dog-walking - more a project than a resolution.<br />
<br />
Then, a couple of days ago, I found it.<br />
<br />
Helen Zaltzman's new weekly podcast is called The Allusionist. It's brand new - three weeks old. Over 15 minutes she takes an interesting and irreverent look at words. In her first show, I learned something truly monumental.<br />
<br />
Apparently, our everyday greeting, 'Hello' (it's not my everyday greeting - I tend to prefer 'ey-up mate', 'howdy' or 'alreight cocker') only became really popular after the advent of the telephone. It was Thomas Edison - the bloke that invented the lightbulb who suggested that the standard greeting when answering the telephone be 'Hello'. It quickly caught on, and, as the say on the TV, the rest is history.<br />
<br />
But what about the chap who actually invented the telephone - Alexander Graham Bell? You would have thought he'd have had first dabs at calling the shots for the standard telephone greeting. Obviously not. And it's a real shame, because his suggestion was 'Ahoy!'<br />
<br />
Hearing this immediately put me in a very good mood.<br />
<br />
There's an old chap I've known for many years who goes by the name of Roy. I first met him almost 20 years ago. Me and Our Kid were on the market selling cheap shit for children. He was on the market selling not-quite-as-cheap shit for adults. Nowadays, he does a bit of business with us during the summer months. From Easter till October, he'll appear at the factory unit at least once a week. You always know when Roy visits. As soon as he pulls open the shutter doors, he's always greeted warmly by the lads on the shop floor. 'Ahoy Roy!' they'll all yell in unison. If I'm sat in the office, pretending to do some work, and I hear this salute, I can't help but grin.<br />
<br />
You get a lot of righteous New Year's Resolutions - things to do that you think will make you a more worthy person or improve your health. I always find these a bit tiresome. What can be better, I say, than making a resolution that makes the world a happier place? Imagine how great it would be if everyone answered the phone with an 'Ahoy!'<br />
<br />
Now, as I've mentioned earlier, I hardly ever answer the phone. (In fact, it was this 'Ahoy!' thing that got me thinking about telephones in the first place.) But I'll not let that get in the way of a brilliant idea.<br />
<br />
My New Year's Resolution, then, for 2015 is simple:<br />
<br />
- At least once a day, greet someone with a hearty 'Ahoy!'<br />
<br />
<br />
It won't change the world. But it's sure to put a smile on my face. And if you're on the receiving end of an 'Ahoy!'ing, maybe it'll put a smile on your face too?<br />
<br />
That's got to be a good thing, hasn't it?saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-7992578520131347232015-01-01T08:11:00.000-08:002015-01-01T12:39:17.572-08:00Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rABtcWJ-plDTapL3M8gNrMIw46OP6A3-m-vnUSTByTnpEonRepd-2EwrhVEbK3scbyLcuSwQTTOPbGcvA9Jv3fCG51c9X0ZReSMF66u30LwyohVShOkUcfEEjzrnNSCYvSplBJgCR34/s1600/school+sucks+Pictures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rABtcWJ-plDTapL3M8gNrMIw46OP6A3-m-vnUSTByTnpEonRepd-2EwrhVEbK3scbyLcuSwQTTOPbGcvA9Jv3fCG51c9X0ZReSMF66u30LwyohVShOkUcfEEjzrnNSCYvSplBJgCR34/s1600/school+sucks+Pictures.jpg" height="400" width="375" /></a></div>
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/>
<w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
<w:Word11KerningPairs/>
<w:CachedColBalance/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="267">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0cm;
mso-para-margin-right:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0cm;
line-height:115%;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";
mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>'For, if we think of this existence of the individual as a
room—be it large or small—it is evident that most people only get to know a
corner of their room, a corner by the window, a strip on which they walk up or
down. In this way they have a certain security: yet far more human is that
perilous insecurity which drives the prisoners in Poe's stories to take hold of
the shapes of their fearful prison and not to be strangers unfamiliar with the
unspeakable horrors of their sojourn there. But we are not prisoners, no traps
or snares are set around us and there is nothing that should frighten us or
torment us.'</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Letters To A Young Poet'</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so,<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I start to disappear<i>,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There'll be no more words,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just pictures...<i><br /></i></div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-19736103772428523592014-12-06T07:45:00.000-08:002014-12-06T08:18:06.928-08:00The Point Of Pointlessness<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Y_jZSjs5R4Z0Hr0hUe_NQLFsY-qVCd2PO6ZOc7CTtTm3hqVhR3hrW6Pf8E3xubkLHkOWHNQXnv_E9umzdn3kdclvCkKeGSTPlFYV2P__8cVMqG9J9oR_HnYgmuHgIzGELX1upxu-HP4/s1600/tommy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Y_jZSjs5R4Z0Hr0hUe_NQLFsY-qVCd2PO6ZOc7CTtTm3hqVhR3hrW6Pf8E3xubkLHkOWHNQXnv_E9umzdn3kdclvCkKeGSTPlFYV2P__8cVMqG9J9oR_HnYgmuHgIzGELX1upxu-HP4/s1600/tommy.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>The first brew of the day is usually good, but today it's more than good. As the jetboil cools in the porch of my one-man tent, I sip the strong coffee from a plastic cup and listen to the continuing sounds of this morning's alarm: water rushing from the pumping station's pipes on the opposite bank into the sludgy Haven; the occasional bark of wetland birdlife I'm too ignorant to identify; the heavy breathing of Our Kid outside my simple nylon sanctuary which transforms for minutes at a time into muffled snoring before eventually relaxing back into deep sighs.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Half-way down my cup, but still not all there, I zip open the tent and let the new day inside. Turning off my headtorch, I watch the world wake up.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Our Kid's laid on an inflatable sleeping mat, cocooned neatly in a cheap sleeping bag and slightly less cheap bivvy bag. He pulls his woollen beany up from over his face, opens one eye and grunts, 'Where's my brew then?'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEx02Yv9a3uJ5MJHji8PYMQBDOhANTDO1uvvSlp0PHMw4rXAeZqh-BLGJs8HprH_XUrEYJY2d9nj59x4pQV3ITzoWuxqdBIFpXXYIslTUTEBZBbIT1ESaB5q6ZfcnNhXdl9s4NFMA2JdA/s1600/005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEx02Yv9a3uJ5MJHji8PYMQBDOhANTDO1uvvSlp0PHMw4rXAeZqh-BLGJs8HprH_XUrEYJY2d9nj59x4pQV3ITzoWuxqdBIFpXXYIslTUTEBZBbIT1ESaB5q6ZfcnNhXdl9s4NFMA2JdA/s1600/005.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>'Morning, mardy arse,' I reply and add the remains of the hot water to a large spoonful of instant coffee. Whilst he comes to, I slip on some shoes and shuffle off to explore our overnight location in the growing light.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'd spotted the small copse of trees just off the Seabank a few weeks ago, and thought then that it would make an ideal spot for a night's camping sometime. And so it had proved to be. We'd arrived in the darkness, just after 10 last night, set up in the shadow of a tree bizarrely emblazoned with a Blair Witch-style pentangle and enjoyed a night in the outdoors that seemed unfeasibly comfortable given the late November date of our trip.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkANPMtnk3fhCaiTsayWK-sQkHcHZza2HkNhoWs9S0KcVV6VxumAtPjAfSiyQDrB1K6QcWsr06SeA4q98-wLUpfEVVq8IkpxWW5Co1HUctUyMPfAEl3axTHMiVbmX24LOMWs-4c5Y280/s1600/004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkANPMtnk3fhCaiTsayWK-sQkHcHZza2HkNhoWs9S0KcVV6VxumAtPjAfSiyQDrB1K6QcWsr06SeA4q98-wLUpfEVVq8IkpxWW5Co1HUctUyMPfAEl3axTHMiVbmX24LOMWs-4c5Y280/s1600/004.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>I clamber up the bank and watch the sky warm up like the picture on an old-fashioned television. The sun, not quite risen over the North Sea, tints the clouds in colours that promise beautiful weather. Flocks of wading birds settle on the muddy banks of the river only to move on seconds later in unkempt, screeching murmurations. Wild horses gallop, riderless, free, on the far bank.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There's a fence up here, and I sit on it, following the progress of a small dingy from the direction of Cut End towards the Port of Boston. Its outboard motor leaves a scribble behind it in the water. A man at the back, a man at the front, a dog sat contentedly in the middle. The man at the front waves as the boat passes, and I wave back. Before long, the engine noise retreats and I'm left, alone for a while, with just the natural sounds of The Wash.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In its isolation and bleakness, there's a beauty here. It's real, seeping into me. I feel it.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeH3M-M3PZS9xaxWcE_5Ge4U1F83ITFrfZQgbw8OsglMx8-Z2bt_s63RHiJWTIxN1tsgEo9VMdepVVhNBO3ywCPbkwn8r_Mb6Lm5CYAkGG-BSfXv1Z_2NHlPfrXrTi0IYHnc8tMNQEtM/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdeH3M-M3PZS9xaxWcE_5Ge4U1F83ITFrfZQgbw8OsglMx8-Z2bt_s63RHiJWTIxN1tsgEo9VMdepVVhNBO3ywCPbkwn8r_Mb6Lm5CYAkGG-BSfXv1Z_2NHlPfrXrTi0IYHnc8tMNQEtM/s1600/010.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglj1M38QqG-M6Dh7U_XV2ihF_3M98dD4BIbG9aBvBzL-6eaYM5TGOnZxe98UzDMD2zc1tsE8oXx-xaHrjr9HyDeTT4GmnWmF_x6YYbP3PV_0lcw6O4ce1AtNV90WIXBIq4SCtF22DUGEE/s1600/012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglj1M38QqG-M6Dh7U_XV2ihF_3M98dD4BIbG9aBvBzL-6eaYM5TGOnZxe98UzDMD2zc1tsE8oXx-xaHrjr9HyDeTT4GmnWmF_x6YYbP3PV_0lcw6O4ce1AtNV90WIXBIq4SCtF22DUGEE/s1600/012.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1StB3NDUWejkRAg05tgpuDUI_ddZ3DxU0QifgrU7D-1rsJENNjohNP_zpkRfKSiA6gM-uPs8S5OodX5O49NKHFsxQrGppNSyCEDyFN3b4Ro9_9H4iaOuw6DmEJoSZ2mSbydwHIiDF-nE/s1600/014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1StB3NDUWejkRAg05tgpuDUI_ddZ3DxU0QifgrU7D-1rsJENNjohNP_zpkRfKSiA6gM-uPs8S5OodX5O49NKHFsxQrGppNSyCEDyFN3b4Ro9_9H4iaOuw6DmEJoSZ2mSbydwHIiDF-nE/s1600/014.jpg" height="300" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjDcj_jAIQA2UDnv3sMlo6Xuce21idZ2xReudiAq-RJmGwQyXL_DWBi1NYSh6IPb4gTlg6-GbJ1NTNg_Wug8rKRuNZxgdI-3rww4yxgyZi2iyk0TaGSWa3UxlzoAXdGstGFxygBl7YGo/s1600/015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjDcj_jAIQA2UDnv3sMlo6Xuce21idZ2xReudiAq-RJmGwQyXL_DWBi1NYSh6IPb4gTlg6-GbJ1NTNg_Wug8rKRuNZxgdI-3rww4yxgyZi2iyk0TaGSWa3UxlzoAXdGstGFxygBl7YGo/s1600/015.jpg" height="300" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmL-6YAStOiMmlhyQHS3p-AauTI2-lm3pjbKxaFKS2NYIhc6XCxlTdOTIoqR5MoibZYoJDbAdXweBn49c0feC6PYYE49mm800XZYVcT0wxBRbadZlRVGt6yB4tPp6j7GHRjtx-w1M9sk/s1600/019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmL-6YAStOiMmlhyQHS3p-AauTI2-lm3pjbKxaFKS2NYIhc6XCxlTdOTIoqR5MoibZYoJDbAdXweBn49c0feC6PYYE49mm800XZYVcT0wxBRbadZlRVGt6yB4tPp6j7GHRjtx-w1M9sk/s1600/019.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BI1etqTAfCMqfwBc7pj1WCHsmtMnBS9tbHTqtIdkIoIN684Mj6Cw-7chHStbOS4KDPUUrIMqBQuL6krXqmQeoMx7sKJfH4vYxWi_Ihq2PUVsHMbRE9nIZKoUBBq1PvnnfBQ4ZxYIIbs/s1600/022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BI1etqTAfCMqfwBc7pj1WCHsmtMnBS9tbHTqtIdkIoIN684Mj6Cw-7chHStbOS4KDPUUrIMqBQuL6krXqmQeoMx7sKJfH4vYxWi_Ihq2PUVsHMbRE9nIZKoUBBq1PvnnfBQ4ZxYIIbs/s1600/022.jpg" height="300" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdlNPRwnSQ3foYtEA89mBbBCWNlc95J8xohY5UZI-IRrnbI-uAG86QyASDwHCom71_Qx_y47dukjIZPMN9v-fAUENWrKOKh3L9ZclqFlQ40zvlyjXnjgrOPGdvHnbklqDk6K0YWRFR5tY/s1600/025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdlNPRwnSQ3foYtEA89mBbBCWNlc95J8xohY5UZI-IRrnbI-uAG86QyASDwHCom71_Qx_y47dukjIZPMN9v-fAUENWrKOKh3L9ZclqFlQ40zvlyjXnjgrOPGdvHnbklqDk6K0YWRFR5tY/s1600/025.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>My mind wanders to the adventure of the previous day, then a tingle of expectancy casts my thoughts towards what we're about to do today.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It's not long, though, till a quiet internal voice speaks to me. As I sit on that fence, as the dawn merges into early morning, I listen to what it says and know that it's the truth. 'This is it,' it says, 'Surely. This is the point.'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In the immediate aftermath of this summer's C2C Ultra, I'd felt almost cast adrift. After two or three weeks of active recovery, my body and mind were both itchy for action. Although I'd no intention of plunging straight into training for another big race, I needed a little more focus than just going out as and when I could be bothered. And so, in those moments when I'd nothing better to do but just jot notes on random sheets of scrap paper or doodle on the back of used envelopes, a phrase came to me - 'Totally Pointless Challenges' - and a plan began to take some sort of shape. Before long, I'd got the start of a short list of snappy titles and one or two vague ideas:<br />
<br />
<u>The Totally Pointless Challenges</u><br />
<br />
1. <u>The Moonlight Marathon</u><br />
A run from Boston to Skegness along the Seabank (probably the loneliest landscape in Lincolnshire), to be completed on the night of a full moon without the aid of any artificial light.<br />
<br />
2. <u>The Kayak Commute</u><br />
A journey from my home in Saleby to my workplace in Spilsby (a distance of only 10 miles as the crow flies) done entirely by foot or kayak. Using the Wold Grift drain, the North Sea and the River Steeping, I'd link these stretches of water by hauling my boat on wheels by foot until I eventually arrived at work. Using this rather out-of-the-way and rambling route (around 40 miles), the trip would be a long commute - probably one best not undertaken on a work day.<br />
<br />
3. <u>The Lincolnshire Grand Tour</u><br />
A 7-day cycle trip of 150 miles devised by Penny and Bill Howe in their book 'Cycling in Lincolnshire', which had sat, largely unread, on my book shelf for the best part of 20 years. As a route, taking in, as it did, most of Lincolnshire, it looked perfectly ok, but it needed a twist to give it sufficient fizz. The twist would be this: could I do the whole thing as one continuous ride?<br />
<br />
4. <u>Source To Sea</u><br />
A long distance kayak trip paddling the length of Lincolnshire's grandest river - the Witham - from its source at South Witham to the sea, east of Boston. Best done over a long weekend, I'd carry sufficient food and water to last the 3 or 4 days it would take and wild camp at night.<br />
<br />
5. <u>The Darkest Night</u><br />
A self-supported run of about 90 miles around The Wash, starting from Hunstanton and finishing in Skegness. To be completed over the weekend of the Winter Solstice, when, coincidentally this year, the moon is in its lowest phase. Starting at 9am on Saturday 21st December, the night we'd run through before finishing would truely be the longest and darkest of the year.<br />
<br />
<br />
Other ideas came and went, but it was these 5 that always seemed to stick. I'd do them in no particular order and they'd probably keep me entertained for the next 6 months or so.<br />
<br />
It's unfortunate that when I get an idea, I find it hard to put down. In addition to the challenges themselves, I also found myself drafting out a set of rules - a sort of ethos that the trips must meet:<br />
<br />
a. They would be low key and non-competitive. None of them would be timed or raced against the clock. Success would be measured merely in finishing the challenge, regardless of how long it took.<br />
<br />
b. The planning would be minimal - sufficient, but only just - and each challenge would be done, ideally, on an adhoc or spur-of-the-moment basis.<br />
<br />
c. The challenges would be 'anti-gear'. I'd buy no new clobber for any of the trips and none would require exorbitantly expensive kit. I'd do each with the stuff I already owned, even it it made any particular trip a little more uncomfortable or slowed me down a bit.<br />
<br />
d. I'd welcome company. Although I was sure I'd end up doing some of these challenges by myself, it would be brilliant to think that I'd be in the presence of good friends or interesting strangers for some of them.<br />
<br />
Sorted. The scene was set. Or so I thought. That was until the prospect of a Totally Pointless Challenge no.6 reared its head - an idea for a trip that wasn't my own at all.<br />
<br />
I'd been scrolling through Fb on a work day tea-break when a link from Alastair Humphreys' MicroAdventures page had caught my eye.<br />
<br />
Read it <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/derbyshire/3090539.stm">here</a>, why don't you?<br />
<br />
I can't remember the tag-line that accompanied the article, but it was something like, 'Fancy cycling here to the coast for a swim?' To be fair, if the nearest sea hadn't have been so close to home, the idea wouldn't have been so attractive. But it was, and it seemed a shame not to do something in such circumstances.<br />
<br />
By the end of the day, another adventure had been added to The Totally Pointless Challenges list, company had been sought, and a free weekend in November had been pencilled in:<br />
<br />
6. <u>The Landlocked Triathlon</u><br />
Setting out from Coton-in-the-Elms - the place furthest from the sea in the UK mainland, we'd head to the coast at Boston. No-one in their right minds would consider swimming in the sea off The Wash (check out Roger Deakin's wild swimming classic, 'Waterlog' - even he wimped out of doing just that). Therefore, we'd camp overnight on the Seabank, run a marathon the next day to the bracing seaside resort of Skeggy, and finish off our extreme triathlon with a quick trip in the sea.<br />
<br />
Crazy? Certainly. Pointless? Most definitely. Exciting? You bet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Totally Pointless Challenges season kicked off at the start of November. On a Friday evening, the night after a full moon, Tammy drove 4 of us (and a dog) to Boston town centre and dropped us off near the market place. It was pissing down. The cloud cover was dense. The moon that we'd be depending on for this Moonlight Marathon was nowhere to be seen. Nevermind, I'd reasoned, plenty of experience of trips not going to plan had left me with the capacity to look on the bright side at even the worst of times. The forecast looked promising, and even if the moon failed to materialise, we'd be able to run the Bank with our headtorches, still guaranteeing a good night in the back of beyond.<br />
<br />
A mile out of Boston, leaving the ominous orange glow cloud of the town behind us, the sky cleared and a halogen moon appeared that would remain with us until we'd reached our destination. A landscape I knew so well was transformed under the natural light, and our run was brushed with magic. Jogging into the lamp-lit streets of Skeg at the end of our adventure, I felt like a man returning from the moon. We'd been to a strange place - this familiar place on our doorstep, but made fantastically alien by just the moon's light - that no-one I knew had been to before. And it had been wonderful. Our next jolly - The Landlocked Triathlon - couldn't come soon enough.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fast-forward to the morning of Saturday 29th November and a country lane by a large farm, south-east of the Derbyshire village of Coton-in-the-Elms.<br />
<br />
It's a shame that everyday life has a tendency to impinge on our non-everyday pursuits. As a result of this, two good mates had been forced to drop out of the trip in the days leading up to the weekend. That left us a triathlon party of three - a magic number some would have it. Our Kid and myself would aim to complete all of the disciplines, and we'd spend this first cycling day in the company of a little Rainbow, Lightning - still not quite 13, but a veritable veteran of just 'getting out and doing it.' He'd been unfazed by the 95 mile route I'd mapped out ('That's ok, Dad. We do 10 miles every week on the bike at triathlon club!), and was so positive he could do the distance that I'd never have had the heart to turn him down.<br />
<br />
It was a mucky start to the day, rain drizzling down as we'd got the bikes out the van. Lightning was lucky - he'd got the cool retro BH road-bike, lightweight and newly-serviced. Our Kid and I were less lucky. However, the rules of The Totally Pointless Challenges had to be adhered to. Our Kid's choice of steed was a cheap mountain-bike that one of the guys he worked with had given him for free after it had sat in a back garden, unused for two years. To this, he'd attached his 'surf-mat surfari' trailer, loaded with all sorts of stuff that he figured he'd need, but probably wouldn't. My ride for the day was Radford - an old friend. Bought for less than £200 over 15 years ago, I'd cycled across Australia on it over the millennium and had recently started re-using it daily for my work commute. It was smooth and trustworthy (good points), and now a single-speed machine (maybe not such a good point). The gears had packed in a couple of years ago and with my local riding being predominantly flat, I'd never bothered to get them fixed.<br />
<br />
Having loaded up for the overnight camp, Tam took a couple of corny photos and we were off.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseUJXk7ECl7Lcnv6ok6DUYQzk2xVaivYwUHgBH7CzHV_IPJwTpWv5wfNVSrxlD0l_w3fWL5frqcGB1-IJkeEVVlap3ygfpeFZWlUKRzPwqSLsDXzVdvOS6Yc8_7srGgO46s2y8SPv1o8/s1600/WP_20141129_002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseUJXk7ECl7Lcnv6ok6DUYQzk2xVaivYwUHgBH7CzHV_IPJwTpWv5wfNVSrxlD0l_w3fWL5frqcGB1-IJkeEVVlap3ygfpeFZWlUKRzPwqSLsDXzVdvOS6Yc8_7srGgO46s2y8SPv1o8/s1600/WP_20141129_002.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXrQ1XYzIeh5X1TIwKrr48CYIIfFj6mbqNgiMBIHOFD-iwb_vgPQU_GGJgDINBhfXCiSSXg9sCPy9kniyaAOlGCUKi4Mna9b5rK_b7ETWFMv54ii1TmOF4zzEusLYE7e9CuPWSpaT28U/s1600/WP_20141129_004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXrQ1XYzIeh5X1TIwKrr48CYIIfFj6mbqNgiMBIHOFD-iwb_vgPQU_GGJgDINBhfXCiSSXg9sCPy9kniyaAOlGCUKi4Mna9b5rK_b7ETWFMv54ii1TmOF4zzEusLYE7e9CuPWSpaT28U/s1600/WP_20141129_004.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OgRMoxEKBQrZJYDlyXwBS6pLy2d6UPNY13H-L_zpbqm9zG-4LceNuyKqGtwauRRBaVyGgno3yh2auBoJvAqAz9-dfr8beR1vYy_i1vzzMazyBd5Dl090LaYS23W-0GNZTNYzq1VEF-E/s1600/WP_20141129_006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OgRMoxEKBQrZJYDlyXwBS6pLy2d6UPNY13H-L_zpbqm9zG-4LceNuyKqGtwauRRBaVyGgno3yh2auBoJvAqAz9-dfr8beR1vYy_i1vzzMazyBd5Dl090LaYS23W-0GNZTNYzq1VEF-E/s1600/WP_20141129_006.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Cycling 95 miles is a tough job. Cycling 95 miles when one of you is 12 years old, one of you is riding an old bike with no gears, and one of you is pulling a trailer full of junk is a very tough job. But memorable too. Indeed, there's moment after moment you know you'll remember for a long, long time even when they're actually happening in real-time:<br />
<br />
- getting lost on an alarming frequent basis in the first three hours;<br />
<br />
- Our Kid's inspired attempts at educating the 'youth of today'<br />
(Scene: outskirts of Bradgate Park, Leicestershire -<br />
Lightning: 'These houses are amazing, eh Dad? I don't think I've ever seen so many Mercedes cars in one day!'<br />
Me: (rudely interrupted before I can get a word in)<br />
Our Kid: 'These houses, mate - you know what the people do who own them? (No pause for any reply) I'll tell you. The man of the house will have a job in London. He'll leave for work on a Monday morning and get back late on Friday night. At the weekend, he'll be too knackered to get out of bed before dinner, and when he does, all he'll do is yell. The lady of the house might have loved her husband at one time, but, since he's never about, she'll divide her time between shopping for stuff she thinks will impress the neighbours, getting drunk during the day-time, and knocking off the gardener who's younger and cuter than the sad sap she's stuck with. The kids'll be occupied with getting screwed up by a private education, before following in their parents' footsteps. Posh houses? Fancy cars? Better off spending time with your family and living in a caravan, mate! Anyone fancy a banana?);<br />
<br />
- sagging spirits towards the half-way point being miraculously revived by the best trays of chips we've ever tasted as we sat on a dirty bench opposite the Millennium Fish Bar in Melton Mowbray;<br />
<br />
- as darkness fell, fog so thick between Corby Glen and Dowsby that you could only figure whether you were going uphill or downhill by the pressure you needed to apply on the pedals;<br />
<br />
- a long rest for Skittles and pop at Gosberton, Lightning laid out on the grass verge, before embarking on the last 10 miles into Boston<br />
(Me: 'Hey mate - better sit up. These folks passing in cars'll think you're dead!'<br />
Lightning: 'They'd be right Dad!)<br />
<br />
- Lightning's version of 'Are we nearly there yet?' on this last stretch: 'Dad, do you think we're a third of the way to Boston?'!<br />
<br />
- the smiles on the faces of Tam and Whirlwind as we finally reached Boston McDonald's nearly 12 hours after setting out;<br />
<br />
- Lightning's obvious pride at what he'd achieved - a big trip for a little man - even though he was totally shattered (so tired that he even let his younger sister give him a kiss. That never happens!)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxAk26j_uc0u1lH97YWPmeaIFgYiiNVOnToEWKa45l0YLZrDU0mzALP2zYcrMvDMVH5gS6EQIpKJh9ibATUE9ND2vjtVNvMzgHG-RK2mWJ8wM3g63cBbBwBMhMLYXv03AsautwmN1_JU/s1600/WP_20141129_010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxAk26j_uc0u1lH97YWPmeaIFgYiiNVOnToEWKa45l0YLZrDU0mzALP2zYcrMvDMVH5gS6EQIpKJh9ibATUE9ND2vjtVNvMzgHG-RK2mWJ8wM3g63cBbBwBMhMLYXv03AsautwmN1_JU/s1600/WP_20141129_010.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
We'd stayed in McDonald's a little too long. It looked cold outside. The knowledge that my wife and kids were going home to our warm house suddenly made a night outdoors with Our Kid (of all people) on a deserted seabank on the outskirts of a run-down town seem less attractive than it had days earlier. But, eventually we'd drunk the last dregs of coffee, dunked the last French fries into syrupy red gloop, and had run out of excuses. Two of us had rode a back road to the middle of nowhere, pushed our loaded bikes across a couple of fields and found our secret spot. It hadn't taken long for spirits to rise again. 'This is always the best bit!' Our Kid had said, maybe a touch too enthusiastically, as he'd blown up his sleeping mat and dug out his sleeping bag.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JmUHrjhyfOjDlfa3qF60soQcbnd5LGLFODPYXO0e9vJOE-4qMQYguGVUXP-P0creWaxZSl2VE2eaZQmAqQE9uW2bBDpKlI_1MPO56L5e_ATGDhZQ7Pl8ntnTm6eRrkGA3Fw-WiIf2YQ/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JmUHrjhyfOjDlfa3qF60soQcbnd5LGLFODPYXO0e9vJOE-4qMQYguGVUXP-P0creWaxZSl2VE2eaZQmAqQE9uW2bBDpKlI_1MPO56L5e_ATGDhZQ7Pl8ntnTm6eRrkGA3Fw-WiIf2YQ/s1600/photo+2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYc9JkUdL-pJA-mHzhdlDLlUkhyAzWwjL_LcJrjDXhQXD8O281J8zNo_WaFYyLX8lXX9B_K5BQeyH9dLkvy-E7T2Bjp_-xB87lammdnkk02ukuXqwjoP72GswTMT1lBXQgmQvCdGwbol4/s1600/photo+4+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYc9JkUdL-pJA-mHzhdlDLlUkhyAzWwjL_LcJrjDXhQXD8O281J8zNo_WaFYyLX8lXX9B_K5BQeyH9dLkvy-E7T2Bjp_-xB87lammdnkk02ukuXqwjoP72GswTMT1lBXQgmQvCdGwbol4/s1600/photo+4+(1).jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>We slow to a walk at the stile. Leverton pumping station. Nearly half-way. The sun as high in the sky as it gets this time of year. An almost-perfect day.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I unzip the front pocket on my back-pack, take out a couple of peanut butter wraps, bandaged in tin foil, and offer one to Our Kid.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'We could sit on that bench for a couple of minutes,' I tell him. In the dozens of times I've been here, I've never noticed it before. Perhaps it's new.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'May as well keep moving,' he replies, but stops when he notices the bench's inscription.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I look too, hands over eyes to shield them from the sun's glare.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'Be still and know that I am God'.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We don't say anything, but I know we're thinking the same thing. A few weeks ago, we'd bounced e-mails between us on the subject of Tom Blake, author of 'Voice of the Atom'. 'Nature = God,' he'd carved onto a rock in Wisconsin. Looking out onto the salt-marsh, it's difficult to deny that this is true.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz77DJ-i1ckw96XeZpx2z4CZT8zyExMkmRCSzBID20zxGe_VGG3CPYEIYh-Wpf_kKUpc0Js_zHtrYLUKFvGtlupC1fd8oOfsgxQJDRgsSTp5ZFmi4nOMlUSINn0sLHgjZ6PfLYbCAPMbA/s1600/026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz77DJ-i1ckw96XeZpx2z4CZT8zyExMkmRCSzBID20zxGe_VGG3CPYEIYh-Wpf_kKUpc0Js_zHtrYLUKFvGtlupC1fd8oOfsgxQJDRgsSTp5ZFmi4nOMlUSINn0sLHgjZ6PfLYbCAPMbA/s1600/026.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We sit on the bench anyway. The feeling - it's here again. That same sense of interconnectedness I've been experiencing all too often recently.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Here, on this bench, eating my sandwich, I look upon God.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And a quiet, internal voice speaks to me once more. I listen to what it says, and know that it's the truth. 'This is it,' it says. 'Surely. This is the point.'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We'd met Tam at the Pilgrim Fathers' Memorial car-park at 8am. I think she was surprised we'd survived the night. We'd loaded the bikes, trailer and tent into the van, waffed down the croissants she'd kindly brought along, and changed into running gear. We'd set off jogging just after the sun had appeared over the horizon.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0XuopCMdrUk5-w9TigRa_9Xk6MALtuH93MrlL2GH7KDiDpCe2YfEKi9jPuIYIKhkAfJGxkYBrrKA3jNKwVJgNBPuLwuamVkIYzwvSeeSDMAvle9IS0odR03vIGejGbbC_CMTjB2nWx8/s1600/WP_20141130_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0XuopCMdrUk5-w9TigRa_9Xk6MALtuH93MrlL2GH7KDiDpCe2YfEKi9jPuIYIKhkAfJGxkYBrrKA3jNKwVJgNBPuLwuamVkIYzwvSeeSDMAvle9IS0odR03vIGejGbbC_CMTjB2nWx8/s1600/WP_20141130_001.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWO-3ZS14EO1GvXpMvPqw85uXn2TZNr61yggHTdnOc4sHYflfM1qHY2LRIoYsTmVqNeEPROHeBz_uBHZDPJwTsa5KCgFPop0hN3PyEArktuULNNmTEm9jMrnMl4qOr3RzDC4h5AeS7Jc/s1600/WP_20141130_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWO-3ZS14EO1GvXpMvPqw85uXn2TZNr61yggHTdnOc4sHYflfM1qHY2LRIoYsTmVqNeEPROHeBz_uBHZDPJwTsa5KCgFPop0hN3PyEArktuULNNmTEm9jMrnMl4qOr3RzDC4h5AeS7Jc/s1600/WP_20141130_003.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's rare when you don't have the Seabank to yourself, even on a day as lovely as this one. Today was no different. Enjoying our utter detachment from the modern world, the miles had passed steadily.<br />
<br />
Our Kid had been in fine form. Pulled along by threads of conversation, the running seemed effortless. For 20 minutes he'd spun a tale about The Mavericks of The Wash - a secretive, hard-core group of farmer-surfers who rowed out to ride a sand-bar break that was only surfable twice a year when the alchemy of swell, tide and an off-shore wind mixed up a potent potion of awesomeness. Like all of Our Kid's conversational topics, I'd figured the chances of the story being true was about 5%. Nevertheless, it was most entertaining.<br />
<br />
He'd then proceeded to lay down his theory of successful marathon running. 'To do well in the Seabank Marathon (he'd run the second fastest time in the race's 30-odd year history, so he was well qualified to offer appropriate advice), you have to become someone else.'<br />
<br />
Eh?<br />
<br />
'Well, the year I came third, the weather was crap- rain, strong winds - proper fell-running weather. So in that race I was Billy Bland. Tough bugger. The weather just bounced off me.'<br />
<br />
Oh right.<br />
<br />
'And the year I won - you know when I ran the second fastest time ever...'<br />
<br />
Yeah, ok.<br />
<br />
'Well, that year, I was Anton Krupicka. I don't mean I thought I was Anton Krupicka. I actually was Anton Krupicka.'<br />
<br />
Things were getting surreal. I was glad to get to the stile at Leverton.<br />
<br />
The second half of the Bank is neatly partitioned by a succession of watch-towers. Arriving at the first of these on our recent Moonlight Marathon, we'd been surprised to be greeted by a 'NO ENTRY' sign. The outer bank, it seemed, was now out of bounds. Arriving here in daylight, however, it had been immediately clear why this was the case. Huge chunks have been cut from that outer bank, leaving the sea free to invade. The land between the outer bank and the next inner bank has now been given over to wetland flooding. It's a phenomenon seen across the length of the Seabank. Whereby over the last century banks were built, land reclaimed and a further bank built to keep the North Sea at bay, it's now apparent that Man is no match for Nature. The tide, in its relentless march, is steadily taking back what was once stolen from it, and Man is powerless to resist.<br />
<br />
Eventually we'd jumped the Gib Point gate and started on the tarmac run-in to Skegness, my battered trainers squeaking, metronomically hypnotic. I smiled as I recalled the irony of spending Black Friday bolstering them with yet more Shoe Goo. I'll get 3000 miles out of them if it kills me.<br />
<br />
Soon, Barbara Road had beckoned - the Seabank Marathon finish line. Our Kid, by his own admission, was as tired as he'd ever been. We ran the last steps towards Tammy and the awaiting fell-wagon, our adventure almost, but not quite, done.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>We race out the sea, small waves lapping our backs, big bounds back to the shore. Electric shock cold, yelling, 'Arghh...!' between cartoon deep breaths. Our Kid grinning madly, Tam laughing uncontrollably. She passes me a towel as I start to shiver.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The wind's picked up. Fine, golden sand blows across the beach. Out at sea, storm clouds beckon.</i><br />
<br />
<i>A family walking a dog looks across. 'What're they up to?'</i><br />
<br />
<i>I stand on the shore, look out to the wind turbines. There are voices in the air, muffled by the messy crash of waves. I listen to what they say, and know that it's the truth. 'This is it,' they say. 'Surely. This is the point.' </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
I'd asked Our Kid before we arrived in Skeg if he'd packed his wetsuit. He'd replied in his usual direct way. Something like, 'A wetsuit? You fanny!' There was no way, however, that I was going for a swim in November without my winter suit. Not great, then, that when I'd pulled the neoprene package out of my bag, I'd realised it was, in fact, Lightning's summer shorty. We'd bought it from Doncaster services some months back. Funny the stuff they sell at motorway pit-stops nowadays.<br />
<br />
It took some doing to squeeze a 6 foot torso into a 12 year old's wetsuit, but I'd managed it somehow, and succeeded in reaching the sea's edge without a complete loss of circulation. The water had looked cold. It had felt even colder. But a triathlon just isn't a triathlon without a swim.<br />
<br />
Strictly speaking, our dip could only be called a 'swim' with a stretch of the imagination. But we'd got wet, and that had been enough for us.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgYB7cXCC19Ngbs9fXcWZGa0DKfoWsLidTJjLgNyg8YVzbGlh_C6fWzm_n9NtrKQsfLcrKqylycSrgQGbhNXSaJ8R597kPpgpaNnj01sXxJ2nPKKfb1RisZxpl8CqBB58QxBiogqa2vA/s1600/WP_20141130_015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgYB7cXCC19Ngbs9fXcWZGa0DKfoWsLidTJjLgNyg8YVzbGlh_C6fWzm_n9NtrKQsfLcrKqylycSrgQGbhNXSaJ8R597kPpgpaNnj01sXxJ2nPKKfb1RisZxpl8CqBB58QxBiogqa2vA/s1600/WP_20141130_015.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl73ITVoU3muJGmiFJXS8QHmbz6-TQwEMhthGGI7jPLp0MaUw2KLUapmWnuJ0RagLL3cYsm-iRVdTuHBVc39SEk68QsCUjT7fXzt1H4BU9y0rakmmT6KBHLkneOWswNRRoBYenq59f1tY/s1600/WP_20141130_016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl73ITVoU3muJGmiFJXS8QHmbz6-TQwEMhthGGI7jPLp0MaUw2KLUapmWnuJ0RagLL3cYsm-iRVdTuHBVc39SEk68QsCUjT7fXzt1H4BU9y0rakmmT6KBHLkneOWswNRRoBYenq59f1tY/s1600/WP_20141130_016.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwXjJ73MmljjrdGz3rgEzFjF83JkxrLfIaAj-qrDhdrOAdY79ni8clyJq60kmQevIGjOiO9N9qRrem_sA3KviUVENBm3sn0X2f2_FmYYqUsTDNLLIuUJTKhDHfFzIWYmTSzlhIVh29c0/s1600/WP_20141130_018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwXjJ73MmljjrdGz3rgEzFjF83JkxrLfIaAj-qrDhdrOAdY79ni8clyJq60kmQevIGjOiO9N9qRrem_sA3KviUVENBm3sn0X2f2_FmYYqUsTDNLLIuUJTKhDHfFzIWYmTSzlhIVh29c0/s1600/WP_20141130_018.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVoPYocSe4JFQIStaf8iL6YiaQQVzpqVEici7f4fauM1cTfXvJ0vAWQ_SMAJVxsWfHf0Aq9rMVA4zpM0ER9fr-OIjuKkdMHjw673kEV4P4Mf3SBvLsn2YiwPGiT_I3WivcEHXXTKqM0E/s1600/WP_20141130_020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVoPYocSe4JFQIStaf8iL6YiaQQVzpqVEici7f4fauM1cTfXvJ0vAWQ_SMAJVxsWfHf0Aq9rMVA4zpM0ER9fr-OIjuKkdMHjw673kEV4P4Mf3SBvLsn2YiwPGiT_I3WivcEHXXTKqM0E/s1600/WP_20141130_020.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcehQ1xufc3yYJam9_bu4bnhHdyWbfwS4LqWIHonzqau5MekYkLw0kpoFs96n7h8doQ2hG5jvxwsDZaYgt2fEDKsD_zpV6KytYzUnwyUM8b_BDib23BRxeHtrk4P_NXNEamv-mB3gwU_0/s1600/WP_20141130_021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcehQ1xufc3yYJam9_bu4bnhHdyWbfwS4LqWIHonzqau5MekYkLw0kpoFs96n7h8doQ2hG5jvxwsDZaYgt2fEDKsD_zpV6KytYzUnwyUM8b_BDib23BRxeHtrk4P_NXNEamv-mB3gwU_0/s1600/WP_20141130_021.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOArKZ-FBuvX2D52uQtMFoNsy5pGpFxk5-BSGltENIu7vlPT2ncFYIobUC8CKrS0zHbf-QAy3MGGMqKRFZU3zgTOkSOT-i19TwETxepxwN8IxyCfUofkdFKY0g7hMRwhxJlqc6NP85aE/s1600/WP_20141130_023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOArKZ-FBuvX2D52uQtMFoNsy5pGpFxk5-BSGltENIu7vlPT2ncFYIobUC8CKrS0zHbf-QAy3MGGMqKRFZU3zgTOkSOT-i19TwETxepxwN8IxyCfUofkdFKY0g7hMRwhxJlqc6NP85aE/s1600/WP_20141130_023.jpg" height="400" width="223" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3A64QxOX0wggYPkB3rn_WDYczxALFM2BLtbltWzYgLDWvFhWelzuIIErfhguPnOx8-irhM_MvOsLvFZqq5HT7-zhlKmv3GjqkUK0qk5WF15jtK8z4hBgMknM16owtAEO5p4v-ZGky01k/s1600/WP_20141130_029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3A64QxOX0wggYPkB3rn_WDYczxALFM2BLtbltWzYgLDWvFhWelzuIIErfhguPnOx8-irhM_MvOsLvFZqq5HT7-zhlKmv3GjqkUK0qk5WF15jtK8z4hBgMknM16owtAEO5p4v-ZGky01k/s1600/WP_20141130_029.jpg" height="400" width="222" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The Landlocked Triathlon had come to an end.<br />
<br />
If you know Our Kid, you'll know he usually gets the last word. As we'd sat back in the fell-wagon, heater on full-blast, he'd been quiet for a bit, then piped up,' You know the next challenge - that winter solstice run you're on about? I'm bloody glad I'm working that weekend!'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>A few years ago, two words became part of me. 'Empty Miles'. I've been banging on about them ever since. That's because, to me at least, they're important. In those 'empty miles' that many dismiss as worthless or pointless, that's where I find the reason for being.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It's the same with The Totally Pointless Challenges. When I mentioned my ideas to certain folks, that was their stock comment - 'What's the point of that?'</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Well, there is no point. What I'm doing - what some of us are doing together - is totally pointless.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Or is it?</i><br />
<br />
I<i>'ve tried for a good while in the writing of this post to articulate what it is that adventures like these Totally Pointless Challenges give to me. Whatever I wrote just didn't seem to do the job. Then I remembered that strange Australian bloke from Byron Bay.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Tommy Franklin dances. Go to the Byron Bay foreshore and you'll see him do just that. I don't know how he earns a living. I don't care. I only know that when I watch him dance, he's feeling what I catch glimpses of on these pointless adventures of mine. The pure joy. The elemental, unfettered sense of freedom. The blending of external surroundings, internal landscapes and the very act of movement into the delicious champagne of Flow.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Watch what Tommy does <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJFt5YwAFZ8">here</a>. Or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7wDbOV-LK0">here</a>.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Do you get it? Do you know what I'm saying?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe you do.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe you feel it too?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We're conditioned from an early age into thinking that valuable activities must have a point. Work hard at school and you'll get a good job. Get a good job and you'll accumulate the money needed to make you happy, because we all know that spending money on stuff will make us happy. Right? We're bombarded from all sides by advertisements telling us just that.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But look arou</i>nd.<br />
<br />
<i>How many people you see are smiling?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Look at them, frantically scrolling through social media on their smart phones in a desperate attempt to connect. To feel less lonely. Less trapped. Less fucking miserable. To feel loved.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How many of your friends are<u> not</u> on anti-depressants?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Perhaps now is the time, like Tommy Franklin, to see the light.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We need to dance. We need to run. To career down a hill on a bike with no brakes, the rain in our faces. We need to plunge into an icy ocean in the middle of winter even though it's fucking freezing. We need to sleep outside, stare at the stars, feel the world turn. We need to sit in silence and feel our hearts squeezed tight by the beauty of our surroundings.</i><br />
<br />
<i>What you find in pointless activities is a Value you no longer feel as much as you should. It's where you find <u>that feeling</u>. The one you get when you hug someone you care about. The one you get when you kiss your kids goodnight. The one you get when someone special says, 'I love you.' The feeling you crave - you need - but which the modern way of living has all but snuffed out.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That feeling is found in pointless activities. In these Totally Pointless Challenges. That's the point. Buried deep within them is the meaning of life.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>My main-man, runner and philosopher, George Sheenan would have had a name for these pointless challenges. He'd have just called them 'play.'</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So, I'll leave the last words to him, because he can say it better than I ever could:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'In play you realise simultaneously the supreme importance and the utter insignificance of what you are doing.</i><br />
<br />
<i>You accept the paradox of pursuing what is, at once, essential and inconsequential.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Play is the answer to the puzzle of our existence.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Play is where life lives.'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>That's it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Surely.</i><br />
<br />
<i>That's the point. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That's the point of pointlessness.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-45984551550733034502014-11-11T12:49:00.001-08:002014-11-11T23:26:36.298-08:00Moments Of Weakness (1)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtY8m9BFJiTw4-bl9anD9X07IB_wHPNvg0cHYQlnQ-D9umzfHWLaAJYMDk1zXVXvzzHhKbVVb9oy0cuFKfwPDtYtPhQWOCZxhroVm-XYshitlZ-18Xwh3lY6mBYjemKTfo22Od_gnW2Ws/s1600/rory1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtY8m9BFJiTw4-bl9anD9X07IB_wHPNvg0cHYQlnQ-D9umzfHWLaAJYMDk1zXVXvzzHhKbVVb9oy0cuFKfwPDtYtPhQWOCZxhroVm-XYshitlZ-18Xwh3lY6mBYjemKTfo22Od_gnW2Ws/s400/rory1.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
We all have moments of weakness, and I'd just had one.<br />
<br />
After banging on to Tammy and Our Kid about 2015 being my 'year of no gear', I'd let myself down badly. The plan I'd concocted was sound enough. In an age where excessive and vulgar consumer spending is encouraged, is normal, I'd attempt to clock up my usual 4000+ miles next year without buying any running gear at all. It wouldn't be difficult, I'd reasoned. I'd got a rack full of shoes that could be coaxed through to 2016 with the help of old cycle inner tubes, duct tape, superglue and ShoeGoo, and enough clothes to keep me comfortable through both the benign heat of an English summer or the worst conditions that a winter weekend in the Lakes or the Peak District could throw at me.<br />
<br />
But in spite of the best intentions, I'd let my guard down. My imagination had run away with me, and before I knew it. I'd typed that bloody debit card number into that little box on the computer screen and pressed 'CONFIRM ORDER.' Another pair of trainers. I'd justified the purchase beforehand - tried to ease my guilt over spending more money on shit, and, more importantly, the fact that I have a worrying tendency to often say one thing but do another - by correctly stating to myself that it was fine since it wasn't even 2015 yet. All I was doing was the running equivalent of what all the youngsters do on a Friday and Saturday night nowadays. Instead of getting pissed at home before hitting a club to save money like they did, I was just pre-loading my quiver of shoes to save any unnecessary purchases when my experiment started in earnest on January 1st next year.<br />
<br />
Of course, like a great deal of my internal reasoning, this was utter bollocks.<br />
<br />
The truth was that I'd been seduced by the dream duo of Rob Krar and Rory Bosio. Weeks of reading about their extra-ordinary performances through the summer had led to me becoming the fawning filling in a tasty North Face sandwich.<br />
<br />
It was the beard that had turned me onto Rob. I'd grown my own version in sycophantic homage to him. He'd had an outstanding season, and the '<a href="http://vimeo.com/105194950">Depressions</a>' film of his Rim 2 Rim 2 Rim FKT that had done the rounds on social media had only deepened the extent of my man-crush. Although obviously sponsored by The North Face, he had managed to hold onto a little dignity (in contrast to my other main man, Anton Krupicka, who's every Facebook post now seemed to end with a variation of '<i>@newbalance@buffusa@zealoptics@ultimatedirectionusa@petzyl_official</i>'.) This unwillingness to fully prostrate himself to corporate whoredom - whilst being a quality that exalted him in my eyes - was a pain in the arse when trying to ascertain exactly which pair of shoes I was going to splash out on. Type 'What shoes does Rob Krar run in?' into Google, and all you'll unearth is vague soundbites like, 'I like to run in light, minimalist shoes.' Not a great help when you've got a burning desire to spend money on those exact same shoes (whatever the hell they are), the contrary bugger.<br />
<br />
Rory Bosio had been a bit more forthcoming, however. In amongst reading about her multi-coloured cruiser bike, her frog shower cap, her love of crosswords and her taste for kale porridge and Cherry Coke, I'd managed to track down an interview where she'd spoken briefly of the shoes she'd worn during this year's UTMB. You know, that race where she'd wupped the women's field for the second year running and beaten AK by, literally, hours (even though he'd been equipped with New Balance trainers, Buff headwear, Zeal Optic sunglasses, an Ultimate Direction backpack and a Petzyl headtorch.) Good enough for super-cute, kooky Rory, I'd reasoned, as I'd found a pair on the internet reduced from £110 to £66, then good enough for a no-mark like me.<br />
<br />
Hitting that 'Enter' button on the computer keyboard and seeing that web page spin off into cyber space to be replaced by the 'Your order is being processed' page that always follows hot-on-the-heels, I'd briefly wallowed in the refreshing and invigorating anticipation of how these new shoes would change my life. Firstly, they'd make me a better runner - probably not as fast as uber-speedy Rob, but certainly within touching distance of the delightful, beautiful and dainty Ms. Bosio. Not only that, but just by wearing them, I'd become more like the esteemed duo in other ways. Put on those new shoes and I'd be enveloped by supernatural forces beyond my control, a bit like that young lad in the old Ready Brek adverts. By doing absolute naff-all apart from wear those lovely trainers, I'd become humble, yet ultra-tough like the Krarmeister - able to work a full working week then push through the pain barrier on mega-long runs with a determination that simply made lesser rivals wither and fall by the wayside. Put on those crisp, blue, almost kissable babies, and I'd be unavoidably invaded by the energy of the Bosioster. I'd start listening to crazy podcasts, pulling faces during races, star-jumping at finish lines and getting all my half-arsed opponents to kiss butt big-time in any race I goddamn liked.<br />
<br />
It's a con, though, you know.<br />
<br />
Sponsorship is just advertising. Advertising is just brainwashing - an incitement to spend money on an object in which you invest, for a moment, magical properties - that makes you happy for a tiny moment - before it becomes, yet again, just an 'object'.<br />
<br />
As soon as I'd ordered them, I knew, deep down, that I'd been mugged. I guess, in theory, that I could have cancelled the transaction straight away. But my personality doesn't work like that. In much the same way as I've never DNF'ed a race, once I've started something, I can't turn round and go back. I just have to keep ploughing forwards no matter how bleak my prospects may appear.<br />
<br />
Before the advent of mobile phones, the following scenario used to play itself out on occasions:<br />
<br />
Lying in the bath before a Saturday night out, swigging from a bottle of the cheapest wine the local shop had on sale, a record would come on the radio that would spark sparkly memories of some girl you'd loved, but had dumped you, fucked you over or just simply fucked off. 'Her loss,' you'd think as you followed up that statement with a stream of derogatory adjectives and unbecoming nouns to describe said girl that are simply too vulgar to repeat in a civilised blog such as this. <br />
<br />
Seven or eight pints later, however, after failing dismally, yet again, to woo a young lady - any lady at all - not too choosy - with witty banter or loose-hipped dancefloor devastation, you'd arrive back at your poky flat, try to put together a cup of tea in a drunken stupor and suddenly come up with the idea that calling up an old flame, who clearly wants nothing more to do with you, and telling her you love her, might well be the cleverest thing you've ever done. Two minutes later, when you've done just that and been told in no uncertain terms to piss right off, you sort of realise what a sad tosser you've been.<br />
<br />
That feeling -'I'm such a prick but I just couldn't help myself' - well that's exactly how I felt immediately after buying those shoes.<br />
<br />
I proceeded to check out a few online reviews (it might have been a decent idea to do this before I'd bought them, not after), and my anguish was salved somewhat by a few glowing ones. I'd read somewhere though that up to 70% of online reviews are fake, planted serreptitiously by the manufacturer or retailer to make that cash slide out of your feeble bank account more easily. That'll be most of the good reviews then, I'd reasoned. Which left only a handful of dire ones, all complaining about the durability of my newly-purchased footwear. 'Fell to bits after only about 40 miles,' one of them said. Proper put a smile on my face that one.<br />
<br />
I'll not launch forth now into a rant of apoplectic rage at being ripped off by a company that clearly manufactures goods to fit perfectly with that fine capitalist ethos of 'planned obsolescence.' No, I'll just state simply - and with only a hint of bitterness - that these shoes, bought in a moment of weakness, were, indeed, crap.<br />
<br />
After 72 miles on The Cumbria Way, the uppers were trashed, respendent with holes and fabric tears that I'd like to associate with a thousand miles, not a hundred miles, of wear. If I were the CEO of The North Face, I'd be mortified at the abject woefulness of one of my flagship products.<br />
<br />
But, of course, I'm not the CEO of The North Face. I'm just the idiot at the end of the chain, who occasionally puts my trust in the promises spewed out by someone in the world of globalised big-business, only to discover, much sooner rather than later, that he's a complete lying bastard.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38RIpDBgbFPUtvE3aOkSl2nNivanoFzc1U-zHcryVW6pD2a5HB7lv1HrbfcdcryydRC5AsmLr92B1Jl1RZo4OUTnJW6o7H0tKh4Z-FF7YCoZUToZLBkWWBZHjqQHaERNEjy0Zh0YEPQg/s1600/rory+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38RIpDBgbFPUtvE3aOkSl2nNivanoFzc1U-zHcryVW6pD2a5HB7lv1HrbfcdcryydRC5AsmLr92B1Jl1RZo4OUTnJW6o7H0tKh4Z-FF7YCoZUToZLBkWWBZHjqQHaERNEjy0Zh0YEPQg/s400/rory+2.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Rory Bosio. Ace.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ztHqSGItPLIJ_GcRv8UsUA6P0RjsZTX7IT-0SY5c3NxMFoOgvaK4cxnjnyNGv5f7eqvC11F3IfiBvnGROV561HdF-EyzUy4XtRJVjh3eRxaytMznif3AxtRkvVj2ZJ1kGzxm3JBEgzo/s1600/rob+krar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ztHqSGItPLIJ_GcRv8UsUA6P0RjsZTX7IT-0SY5c3NxMFoOgvaK4cxnjnyNGv5f7eqvC11F3IfiBvnGROV561HdF-EyzUy4XtRJVjh3eRxaytMznif3AxtRkvVj2ZJ1kGzxm3JBEgzo/s400/rob+krar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Rob Krar. Ace.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMv975W_4eYF4_NeCPnkMtq65i8Ul9xi_jOm0h4kxW0IEldULCb_UN84aKd8QbDtHICQm2rayZJciPAkqcZsLWkhYa-UjvkXvIsQ_mcJ6uVigziTFHw6qZTZnh-OSBb04evLwZsoTd1-o/s1600/tnf.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMv975W_4eYF4_NeCPnkMtq65i8Ul9xi_jOm0h4kxW0IEldULCb_UN84aKd8QbDtHICQm2rayZJciPAkqcZsLWkhYa-UjvkXvIsQ_mcJ6uVigziTFHw6qZTZnh-OSBb04evLwZsoTd1-o/s400/tnf.png" width="400" /></a></div>
The North Face Ultra-Trail. Crap.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Which brings me round, somehow, to what I originally intended to write about when I came up with the title, 'Moments Of Weakness' on this morning's long run...saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-58089873571569368092014-10-18T11:44:00.001-07:002014-10-18T12:09:12.585-07:00A Jog Around The Water Towers (4)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMNTlcYwSf9vG78jitBXZ4hs61ynJaevtZVSt61lsoGuHg1C4Vq36ZPWfctzFhpstsL4ebCVckNVKu3QsLrK9hOl1Zlwr-0SSV0E5YaY7d96f3RxOi1Cdb69boNFKLCZ91yqYN3nbinI/s1600/paddy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLMNTlcYwSf9vG78jitBXZ4hs61ynJaevtZVSt61lsoGuHg1C4Vq36ZPWfctzFhpstsL4ebCVckNVKu3QsLrK9hOl1Zlwr-0SSV0E5YaY7d96f3RxOi1Cdb69boNFKLCZ91yqYN3nbinI/s1600/paddy.png" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>17.10.14</u><br />
<br />
Old Leake - Sibsey - Cowbridge - Boston - Cut End - Freiston Shore - Leverton - Old Leake <br />
<br />
<br />
After expressing a desire to listen to more music and less news a while back, Tammy bought me an mp3 player for my birthday in June. Put off by the vast black hole that 'synchronisation' means, however, it's sat, unused, in its little, white plastic box until I dug it out last Sunday night and faced my fear of the unknown head-on.<br />
<br />
Two frustrating hours later, I'd not managed to add any songs, but I had succeeded in downloading a few free episodes of my favourite podcasts - <a href="http://www.dirtbagdiaries.com/">The Dirtbag Diaries</a>, <a href="http://answermethis.wordpress.com/">Answer Me This</a> and <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/podcasts/series/kermode">Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode's Film Reviews</a>. (I don't tend to watch many films, but I do find their show most entertaining. Any 50-odd year old who can pull off a quiff and Buddy Holly glasses whilst professing a love of skiffle is someone worth listening to in my book.) I'd also stumbled across something new to me - <a href="http://www.sodajerker.com/">Sodajerker On Songwriting</a> - and added episodes dedicated to Paddy McAloon and Johnny Marr to spice up a couple of my daily 75 minute one-way cycle commutes during the week.<br />
<br />
We live in a world where news is omnipresent. It's clear, though, that there's not nearly enough news worth knowing to flesh out 24 hour coverage. My default setting of listening to 5Live, with its rolling programme of repeated news stories, whilst on my bike had begun to do my head in recently. Adding in the fact that most modern news tends to be bad news (and generally not the type of bad news that excites me - stock markets free-falling, Tesco in crisis, a member of the Royal family being accidentally killed by a run-away Range Rover on the Sandringham Estate, etc.- that sort of stuff's fine), I'd begun to find that a constant 75 minute bombardment of it was spoiling the enjoyment of my cycling. An informative, irreverent or interesting podcast, in contrast - I figured - would surely have the opposite effect.<br />
<br />
Which, unsurprisingly, it has.<br />
<br />
So, what's all this got to do with running between two water towers in the backwaters of rural England? Not a great deal, to be honest, but a little bit.<br />
<br />
I'll explain.<br />
<br />
In the excellent Sodajerker episode on Paddy McAloon (It really is a superb listen. If you like music and are interested in the craft of creating a song, this podcast will, almost certainly, transform your dreary commute into something worthwhile), he talked, at length, of the prolific amount of work he'd recorded since the general public forgot about Prefab Sprout straight after they'd hot-dogged-jumping-frogged their way into the pop charts at the back end of the '80s. The idea that intrigued me the most was his explanation of the motivation for his songwriting. He worked best, and most creatively, he explained, when he'd an idea to hang a song or a set of songs upon. This might take the shape of a theme, around which he'd compose a series of songs, or, most simply, a title - a single word, a few words perhaps - which would stimulate the creation of three and a bit minutes of beauty.<br />
<br />
On listening to this, it immediately struck a chord with me. I've always loved bands who have great song titles. I've always more than loved bands that have great song titles which seemingly have no relevance to the songs themselves. (New Order's 'Technique' LP is a fine example of this.) I've often found, also, that a lot of the time I'll just start with a title when thinking of writing a story or a blog post. 'Good title,' I'll think, 'Better write some old shit to go with it.'<br />
<br />
It's a similar habit to my preferred method for creating a long run. To get motivated to do something slightly less monotonous that run the same old roads that I've shuffled down a thousand times before, I'll start with something physical to hang a run around. Usually this will lead me to pastures new. Sometimes it'll transform what could have been a slog into an adventure worth remembering. The 90 mile '50 Chuches' route I put together a couple of years ago for my running club's summer relay started off like this. Earlier this year, I spent a good few hours linking together the pillar trigs in East Lindsey by foot. A few months back, also, inspired by a fine water tower in Fulletby that I seemed to be passing regularly, I'd embarked on a mission to plan a series of runs linking all the existing water towers in Lincolnshire, each run visiting at least two different ones. This project had started promisingly, but once I'd eye-balled the most local ones and the continuation of the task involved more driving and a little more non-running effort, things had waned somewhat.<br />
<br />
At the start of last week, having finally decided to shelve The Plogsland Round until longer days grace us again next summer, I was at a loss at what to do on my next Free Friday. Inspired by Paddy McAloon and heart lifted by a smattering of fine Prefab tunes on Wednesday, however, the long-redundant idea of water tower bagging re-emerged. I now had a plan of attack for my day-off that was more appealing than mowing the grass for the final time this year.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Parking by the church at just gone 9, my chosen route takes me out of Old Leake and into the heart of the best agricultural land in the UK. It's warm. Mid October, and still in shorts and T-shirt. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdgPLqlVYqaar1hXJbUCp3j8xTAYnWUv0pSha8rH3VX0DjcIAumiEFhrSUKa8C59RiOm81J1rSM-aUV8Ubl1AeFFanMR8SX-DtlsxGGQk9xMhrjDN5ndbxU8mkSybArD9lrm-fsuq1xI/s1600/old+leake.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdgPLqlVYqaar1hXJbUCp3j8xTAYnWUv0pSha8rH3VX0DjcIAumiEFhrSUKa8C59RiOm81J1rSM-aUV8Ubl1AeFFanMR8SX-DtlsxGGQk9xMhrjDN5ndbxU8mkSybArD9lrm-fsuq1xI/s1600/old+leake.png" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>The Old Leake water tower is a belter - a fine example of a classic design that can be seen for miles around. Having drove the A52 between Skegness and Boston any number of times, it's a tower I'm familiar with. Indeed, when I'd first thought of Lincolnshire water towers all those months ago, this was the one that immediately sprung to mind.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Moghal's Auto's now occupies a commercial unit that sits directly under the tower. I pull out the phone that I left charging all night, to take a photo, but the display briefly reads 'Battery low', before the phone turns off. 'Never mind,' I console myself, 'There'll be plenty of pictures on the internet.' Without photographic evidence though, I ponder, there goes my proof that I've actually been here. Suffice to say that you'll just have to take my word for it. I'm fond of lying and tend to embellish most of the slightly interesting things I've ever done into something more, but who-on-Earth is going to be bothered whether I really visited a god-forsaken ancient water tower in a dead-end Lincolnshire village, for Christ's sake? </i><br />
<br />
<i>It's all road till Boston. I'm in Sibsey before too long. A side-street that I've not been down for 21 years revives a lost memory. In the dank and dingy days of 1993, I'd visited a shop here with my Australian fiancee. It had been recommended by my mother's good pal, Janice Sutton - Skegness dancing school impresario - as somewhere we could buy a wedding dress for next to nothing. After walking one drizzly Sunday afternoon in the middle of winter to Sibsey (a trek of a couple of hours - neither of us had a UK driving license, or a car for that matter, we only had one bike between us, and buses didn't run that way at the weekend), we eventually located this tiny, run-down place that specialised in theatrical costumes and fancy dress. Amongst the rails of tat were a couple of passable wedding dresses. Lucky for me - each one was only £50. Not so lucky for my beau - both were a bit old-fashioned, the better of the two being at least a couple of sizes too big. We left the shop with that one. My powers of persuasion had been working a treat that particular afternoon. Mind you, I suppose she got her revenge a few months later. (I noticed that when she returned to Perth after deciding that she didn't want to marry me after all, she didn't take the dress with her.)</i><br />
<br />
<i>Passing the spectacular windmill on the other side of the village, I follow the Sibsey Trader to Boston Golf Club - Jaguars in the car park, bad slacks in the clubhouse - and onto the Horncastle Road at Cowbridge. It must be over 20 years ago too since I'd last run down this road - a staple training route in my Boston days.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSYfWINZuLWgcvMTnwZtcTksKakNLVA4B_EaCusYYv4351xkYCLmfYBjRfgFRmzOf4UQG3Fkro8JChlvx_Q-j3dXXoZgKxZIJ2a5jiqL0M2QkiPuXDyQZxi-rrykYHMBpQjj9B5rq5Ts/s1600/hr+water+tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifSYfWINZuLWgcvMTnwZtcTksKakNLVA4B_EaCusYYv4351xkYCLmfYBjRfgFRmzOf4UQG3Fkro8JChlvx_Q-j3dXXoZgKxZIJ2a5jiqL0M2QkiPuXDyQZxi-rrykYHMBpQjj9B5rq5Ts/s1600/hr+water+tower.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The Horncastle Road water tower is slightly set back from the road and as impressive as its Old Leake counterpart, but in a different way. Lose concentration and you'd run straight past it without noticing. Reaching my destination, I take a mental picture - always the longest lasting - and head over the main road, down Windsor Bank and onto the Seabank.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Whilst the majority of my running colleagues hate the Seabank - it's rough underfoot, desolate, lonely and just goes on forever - I find myself constantly drawn to it. In planning this Free Friday run, I'd been keen to get on it. Indeed, the two big adventures I've got planned before Christmas both involve lengthy sections on the bank.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The Seabank had been a big thing when I was a kid. Although never accurately measured, the Seabank Marathon, run over around 26 miles, had captured my 14 year old kid's imagination at the start of the '80s. Roy Marshall - a moustachioed local long-distance legend who was a member of Holbeach AC - was my first big running hero. Regularly trouncing the opposition over the route, he'd become the first person to win the race three times. I often wonder what became of that Goliath of the Seabank.</i><br />
<br />
<i>My first marathon - aged 15 or so - was over the Seabank course. Traditionally, the race was run in different directions on alternate years (a tradition that, sadly, no longer holds true - the race always starting in Boston nowadays), and that particular year, a massive group of us from the Skegness Grammar School set off from the Clock Tower, Boston-bound, ready to do battle with a distance that was unimaginable back then. 5 hours later, Our Kid and I arrived as first back from the school, nearly 2 hours behind the race winner, starting off strongly, but having been reduced to a walk through the long grass of the last 10 miles.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Ending up in Boston at the start of the '90s after a couple of years of doing the global-traveller-thing, the Seabank still held me in its spell. As a club runner, however, participation was frowned upon. Never having possessed an official AAA race license, the threat bandied about was that taking part in the Seabank Marathon could result in severe disciplinary action, such as being banned from competing for your club.</i><br />
<br />
<i>In 1995, though, having just gone under 2.40 for the first (and only) time in the London, and feeling flush with a ton of training miles put in for an up-coming John O'Groats to Land's End run, I decided to throw caution to the wind. Jogging to the start, incognito in yellow T-shirt and Hawaiian shorts, I'd entered on the day, run the race, and jogged the 5 miles from Skegness to my mum's house in Ingoldmells after finishing. Running with Shaun North, who later became a local runner of some note (and still nowadays could whip my butt over most distances), I'd taken advantage of a dog attacking him as we passed the half-way point and put on a surge that lengthened to a gap of 14 minutes by the end. Coming in first at Skeggy's Clock Tower, my winning tme of 2.59 was the first under 3 hours since the heady days of the mid-'80s and my old hero, Roy Marshall. It's still one of my proudest moments.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Fifteen years later, returning to running after a few years of working too hard, raising a family and generally arsing about, I decided to have another go. In a stroke of luck which played straight to my strengths, the weather was bloody awful. Early June felt more like February. After only a handful of runners had finished, the race would later be abandoned over health and safety concerns, with runners and walkers removed from the Seabank and minibused to safety. I'd run the first 17 miles with Mark Sands and the previous year's winner - a gobby bloke from Sheffield who regaled us with constant stories of his distance-running prowess whilst he tucked in at the back as Mark and myself gallantly took it in turns to front up into a particularly vicious head-wind. Mark had eventually conked out at the RAF Wainfleet watch tower at Friskney, and I'd had to endure 6 more miles listening to Yorky telling me how good the winner's cup would look over his fireplace for the second year running. At Gibraltar Point, with 3 miles to go, my ears could take it no more and I took off, feeling both relieved and full of running, to open up a 6 minute gap by the finish. My time of 3.01 was the fastest on the 'new' route, adopted after the flooding of the marsh at Frieston Shore for wading bird habitats had forced the traditional route to be substantially diverted.</i><br />
<br />
<i> Pleased again with my victory (I've had very, very few in 30 years of running), I was, nevertheless, aware that my finishing time was a soft one compared to the days of yore. The Garmin I wore that year confirmed my gut feelings. The new course was over a mile short of true marathon distance. (The old route had been up to a mile longer than 26.2 miles, depending on the position of the start or finish at the Boston end, which seemed to change every couple of years.) I was sure a decent runner could hammer home well under 3 hours. My suspicions were confirmed the very next year when Our Kid, off the back of his 'Trial of Miles' winter months of 200+ miles a week, clocked the Seabank Marathon's fastest ever time of 2.52 in a run that stands as one of the most impressive in its 30-odd year history. The bastard.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Last year, I was due to be in Scotland for a mate's Ramsey Round over the Seabank weekend. It was unfortunate that an e-mail pinged through on Thursday lunch-time postponing the attempt, and leaving the forthcoming Sunday free. If I had migrated north, as planned, my unbeaten record in my favourite race would still have stood intact. But, hey-ho. With a sudden rush to the head, I'd told Tam that I'd have a third go at my own personal big-one. Becoming the first person to win the Seabank three times since the days of Roy Marshall was the clincher here. Once I'd done that, I could leave it alone.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Come the Sunday, I did my best to hold onto Mark Sands, who'd won the race the previous year, for a good 19 miles, before he broke me. Not by a lot. But enough. He crossed the line in 3.01 (a change in the start line in Boston had added over a mile to the 'new' course distance, making it a little longer than 26.2 miles again), whilst I arrived in 3.02, knackered but surprisingly upbeat in the knowledge that a better man than me had deservedly won the race that day. Mark added another victory to his belt this summer, to win 3 Seabanks on the bounce. He is now, undeniably, a Seabank legend.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That's the beauty of the Seabank. The wide-open landscape encourages a wide-open mindscape. Lost in reminiscence of past glories, I'm soon at Cut End - the point at which the River Haven joins the sea, and where the bank takes a sharp left in the direction of Skegness. I sit for 5 minutes, back resting against a pillar trig, and enjoy a drink and a sandwich. The wind makes patterns through the long grass. Out at sea, a container ship lurks, bound for King's Lynn perhaps, whilst a fishing boat chugs in the opposite direction closer to land. On the wide, muddy banks of the river, huge flocks of birds I don't know the name of settle and scatter in endless, swooping repeat. I think of my usual working-week lunch-break - sat at a desk, hurried, distracted, scrolling through shite on Facebook - take a final drink of water, and jog off slowly, buoyed by a feeling of freedom and the knowledge that, today, I've got all this to myself.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Pushed by a strong back-wind, the miles pass quickly. And with them, memories, stories and future plans - soaring kites tethered to terra-firma by ropes wove from the recognition of the beauty of Now. </i><br />
<br />
<i>I drop off the bank at the Leverton pumping station and head inland in the general direction of Old Leake. Carrying no map, I figure I'll just keep running west on the muddy back lanes until the water tower appears and I've something to aim for. It's a section of my run that I'd not been looking forward to, but today I'm courting fortune's favours. Footpath signs keep appearing and I just keep following them. Drain-sides, dyke-edges, heavy tracks through plough - a rights-of-way jigsaw that leads me, by total fluke, straight to the A52.</i><br />
<br />
<i>A arrive back at the car a couple of minutes later, almost done in, but not quite. At 4 and a half hours, it's my longest run for a while. I change my shoes, walk over to the village shop to buy some pop. Then, sitting on the church wall in the afternoon sun, sipping Irn Bru from a plastic bottle and humming Prefab Sprout's 'Faron Young', I reflect on a perfect and pointless way to spend a day. </i>saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-75297567431170581142014-10-10T12:30:00.001-07:002014-10-10T12:41:05.081-07:00More Of This<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK15r7PcjfxJSnuAr5xr8nY3EzzQ4_zZwVjFyN9PKOvZ9fN4sqqk6_eQXOIrA1AmEYcdDdVYvWru_0WvVfEWQU33PLFl3F4XwHUwbUuJ7YucV6SWvoa5CzZ3r_7oa1-vlh7bI8YiwTU_I/s1600/stevie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK15r7PcjfxJSnuAr5xr8nY3EzzQ4_zZwVjFyN9PKOvZ9fN4sqqk6_eQXOIrA1AmEYcdDdVYvWru_0WvVfEWQU33PLFl3F4XwHUwbUuJ7YucV6SWvoa5CzZ3r_7oa1-vlh7bI8YiwTU_I/s1600/stevie2.jpg" height="197" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's dark on The Terrace. I park up facing the sea, watch the blackness become grey on the horizon, finish the dregs of tea from the old travel flask that someone lent me years ago and I never gave back.<br />
<br />
It's 5.50am and I'm alone up here. The fringe-dwellers, motorhome nomads and 'piss-takers' that have made this free beach-side car park home for many of the previous summers are conspicuous only by their absence. Relentless local council harassment, hastily-passed byelaws and draconian measures by the boys-in-blue seem to have achieved their aim. Park through the night now and you'll probably be rewarded with an 'overnight ASBO' and a court appearance.<br />
<br />
I turn on the radio and wonder where all these people have gone. Vagrants. Bums. Drop-outs. People who have chosen to live on the edge of this bloated tyrant we call 'normal society'. People who own enough possessions to fill only a couple of cupboards, who have come to the conclusion through first-hand experience that Cameron's glorification of 'strivers' and 'workers' and the admirable folk that 'work all the hours God sends' is hollow, blinkered bullshit. People who have chosen to side-step a modern world where the weak are made weaker, the strong are handed concessions to make them stronger, and the principle of looking after the ones that need looking after is forgotten in favour of lessening the burden on those who have plenty and bombing the fuck out of the Middle East.<br />
<br />
Perhaps they've been driven back to soulless bungalows on the outskirts of Leicester and Rotherham? To council tax? Sky TV? A zero-hours contract with B & Q? To the banal mundanity of the way everyone else lives; an annihilation of a life?<br />
<br />
But maybe not. I hope so, anyway. As I look out onto the very beginnings of a perfect day, it's painfully obvious just who's got things sussed in this world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's nearly light enough now. I pour milk into a plastic tub of sugar puffs and eat them slowly. My spoon has half a handle. Stevie Nick's 'The Dealer' starts playing, and somehow it's so right. I picture the gorgeous girl on the front of the Buckingham Nick's LP - eyes betraying individuality, creativity, energy and a heart that just needs love - and feel lifted somehow. It's a new morning and I'm here to be with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's two months since I stopped playing the role of 'ultra-runner' and started telling myself a different story. Whilst I've still run everyday, it's not the chase for longer, harder, faster that I've pandered to, but rather the pursuit of happiness. By taking off a self-imposed blindfold and opening myself to to new experience, I've come a fair way. By adopting Rory Bosio's mantra of 'fake it until you make it', I'm sure I'll go much further. In changing my internal monologue from negative to positive, I felt an imposter at first. But already things are changing. It's hard work, but tell yourself the same story for long enough and eventually it becomes real.<br />
<br />
Which is why, I guess, I'm sitting here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As the busy summer season draws to a close and work hours return to a more manageable four days a week, I'd vaguely considered plans on this first free Friday for a leisurely jaunt round The Plogsland Round - a 47 mile long-distance route around Lincoln. However, as Thursday had gone on, this particular day-out had seemed less and less appealing, the main downer being the two hour round trip by car to the start and finish point. Talk on the weather forecasts through the day had been of the impending end of the Indian summer. Friday would mark the end of the long spell of unreasonably warm late-season weather with Saturday signalling a return to the low pressure, strong winds and changeable weather usually associated with autumn. It didn't take me long to make up my mind. If Friday was to be the last day of summer, there could be no better place to spend it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There's only the sound of the waves lapping the shore as I pull the kayak out the back of the van and carry it the few yards to the beach. After changing into winter wet-suit and neoprene boots, I grab my paddle and start the drag to the sea's edge. In that in-between time between night and morning, the water looks, at once, tantalising and inviting, foreboding and more than a little scary. I hesitate for a moment. But only a moment. Then I push the boat out into the white-water, jump into the seat and make my way into the gloom.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As the seasons change and the nights shorten, the last couple of weeks have seen a return to running in the dark. In much the same way as I hanker for the emergence of light mornings and evenings in March after months of running in darkness, I find myself looking forward during September to morning runs where the sun's not yet risen or evening runs that are impossible to complete before the sun sets. With the use of a decent head-torch, the onset of winter no longer means months of sticking to the roads like it did in my younger days. Instead, the farm-tracks, field-paths and off-road rights-of-way are just as accessible as they are in the lighter summer months. The added bonus is that, in the dark, they take on a new life. They feel different. Indeed, running itself feels different. Senses are heightened, concentration more focused, internal monologues more meaningful. Running through the countryside in the dark, by yourself, I would suggest is an ultimate exercise in meditation.<br />
<br />
After reading Alastair Humphrey's account of a <a href="http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/a-moon-walk/">walk under a harvest moon</a> a little while back, as the days have shortened this year, I've felt an increasing desire to get rid of any artificial light at all. On the most familiar of my off-road routes, I've simply left the head-torch turned off. Granted, forward progress is often much slower, but is that necessarily a bad thing? The rewards more than compensate. In no time at all, you discover your night-vision is more developed than you would imagine. Feedback loops that are hardly used in the daytime are switched on full. Proprioceptive systems are fully engaged. It's as if even if you can't see your way clearly, you can <i>feel</i> your way. From the start of the run till its end, you're <i>in it, </i>totally absorbed. You're part of everything around you - interconnected - equals. Turn the head-torch on and all that changes. Running's easier, that's for sure, but now something's missing. You're back in the bubble, enclosed, cut off, wrapped in a sphere of lumens against the blackness that makes up<i> out there.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The splish of paddles in the water accompanies me towards the horizon. I hadn't dare go in while total darkness remained. Now, as I head ever-further east, at least I'm able to distinguish where the sea ends and the sky starts. And that feeling's here again. The feeling that I sensed in those recent runs into the night, the one that pulled me, against common sense perhaps, into the sea at this time of day.<br />
<br />
I continue paddling, my heart racing, deep breaths to calm myself, until I've reached as far as I want to go. I spin the kayak round and look towards a shore that I can no longer see. Adrift, a quarter-mile from land, invisible, there but not there, I let everything in.<br />
<br />
Petrified. Exhilarated.<br />
<br />
It all becomes clear. <br />
<br />
I need more of <i>this.</i> Not gadgets, gear, three consecutive nights of fucking X-Factor. Not Facebook, Snapchat, sound-bites from self-serving royals, magazines full of the useless, ignorant tossers we label 'celebrities'. No, I need more of<i> this.</i> Times when my senses are alive, my heart's beating up a drum solo and my head's crammed full of Now. Times when I'm unsure if what I'm doing is the worst experience or the best experience of my life. Times spent on the edges of lost maps. Times when I'm tiny, insignificant, a minute cog in the way the natural world turns - not a Master of the Universe, merely a speck within it.<br />
<br />
<i>This</i> is where I need to go.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
After who-knows-how-much time, it's light enough to make out the shore. At the limit of my distance vision, the white van sits alone on the car terrace. The wind's got up. I spin the kayak round, heading south, into it, against the current. Beginning with a brew, a bit of Stevie and a paddle into the darkness, I'd planned a full day of just being. A trip down the coast to Chapel Point and back. Hot coffee from a Jetboil on the beach, a couple of hours in the sun, finishing my book, snoozing. A short drive to the North End and a long run through the dunes in the direction of Paradise. Maybe finish off with an evening paddle to watch the sun set. All this passes through my mind as I start moving through the water. Then the sun rises and the future just disappears.<br />
<br />
More of<i> this</i>.<br />
<br />
I turn my kayak to the horizon once more. Watch the orange globe start its daily journey. I take a couple of hasty photographs on a hopelessly-out-of-date phone. I hear the wind, the slap of the sea against my boat, the barking of dogs on an early-morning walk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSyqRewtdVQSheWCiQEwPjaEf6ywLWie0PRhRBCfaS8yb6Mj5nXLvsiywehsaplWittGUzPzygEgx03Bdr-yyTz3U3ZA1kKlEwKMLIuFUZ8ap-wHEdtNgO85eZgltYwtrlZ6mppZrgDY/s1600/013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSyqRewtdVQSheWCiQEwPjaEf6ywLWie0PRhRBCfaS8yb6Mj5nXLvsiywehsaplWittGUzPzygEgx03Bdr-yyTz3U3ZA1kKlEwKMLIuFUZ8ap-wHEdtNgO85eZgltYwtrlZ6mppZrgDY/s1600/013.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Above me - the sky blue, reds, yellow, softened by cloud - a pair of seagulls swoop. The words from the end of Lightning's latest English assignment enter my head. The musings of a man unjustly imprisoned in the last century for a crime he did not commit:<br />
<br />
'As I peer between the bars in my window, I see birds flying, gliding and dancing in the sky. They are free. They were me.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'd been a bit concerned but more-than-a-bit amused when Tammy had mentioned to my mum earlier in the year, albeit in a light-hearted way, that she thought 'Chris was having a mid-life crisis'. I'd remembered the words of Our Kid when he'd given everything up to go and live in a touring caravan a couple of years ago.<br />
<br />
'They call it a mid-life crisis, don't they?' he'd said. 'But it's really a waking up. You spend the first half of your life doing what it is you're supposed to do. Then, when you're old enough to know the score, you can't help but see through it. Everything you've been taught or told since the day you were born is just total bollocks. If you're lucky, you've got the second half of your life to gradually unlearn all that shit.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's 8am. A gorgeous September day on the east coast. At this time on any given Friday ten years ago, I'd be two hours into the fifth straight 16 hour day of the working week. Arriving home just before 11pm, I'd kiss the sleeping superheroes goodnight. Lightning under his Liverpool bedspread. Whirlwind - our baby girl who I'd hardly gotten to know - asleep in her cot. I'd fall, exhausted, into bed. After a bad-tempered Saturday, hung-over with tiredness, I'd leave the house at 5am on Sunday to stand all day on Cleethorpes' indoor market. Come Monday, I'd start again.<br />
<br />
<i>Work hard. Be successful. Get a good job. Earn good money. Buy a house. Buy a car, an i-phone 6. </i>That's what they say. And that's what we do. But it's wrong. And even if you're doing it now, you still know deep-down that it's wrong. Because you can feel it in your gut. Feel it in that desperate longing for two weeks of freedom on a yearly foreign holiday. Feel it in that Sunday night sinking feeling, in that brief moment of perfect clarity when the alarm clock goes off ('What the fuck am I doing this for?, before you realise, with a heavy heart, that you do it because it's just what you do.) Feel it in that constant dissatisfaction<i> </i>with your lot, the gnawing feeling that any amount of spending can't get shut of. Feel it when you fill out another repeat prescription for the tablets that help you cope. Feel it in your hankering for overtime you'd rather not do, but will come in handy to pay off the credit card, of course.<br />
<br />
You know the feeling. I did too and still do, but less so now. Slowly, the prison bars are disappearing. And if this is what a mid-life crisis does, then let me have it all. And more.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The sun shines on the water. It's 8am. Friday morning. The last 'work' day of the week. Anderby Creek's skyline in the distance, salt water on my face, shoulder muscles pleasantly burning. With time on my hands, I paddle south. And I keep paddling.<br />
<br />
Away from the things that imprisoned me for so long, the life I just got used to living. Away from the 'societal norms', the expectations, the accumulation of stuff we're led to believe we must have to make our lives worthwhile. Away from the way that they tell us we all should be.<br />
<br />
Away from all that crap.<br />
<br />
And into more of <i>this.</i><br />
<br />
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-24067466108396458472014-08-30T12:29:00.001-07:002014-08-30T13:25:59.007-07:00A Step Forward Or A Kiss?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsbmkTgCIBs7P4gu_otOkoyUt4i1-5Q-f0oiZJC3byHSPKbON1B6uVhDzLkBR0GOZPDbFeAhPiu3N5LGXO6lNweMEihc1qhQBqNuEeTTsReYVyXOk3IFC45tQz-NqHsb0bz8N0HUnulY/s1600/forrest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsbmkTgCIBs7P4gu_otOkoyUt4i1-5Q-f0oiZJC3byHSPKbON1B6uVhDzLkBR0GOZPDbFeAhPiu3N5LGXO6lNweMEihc1qhQBqNuEeTTsReYVyXOk3IFC45tQz-NqHsb0bz8N0HUnulY/s1600/forrest.jpg" height="289" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
It had just started raining when the text came through. We were somewhere on the A1, bound for Whitehaven, the starting point of the next day's inaugral <a href="http://www.c2cultra.com/">Coast 2 Coast Ultra</a> - a 140 mile foot race across the UK.<br />
<br />
I'd been quiet on the journey. I'd invested a lot of miles in this race, and although I was looking forward to it, the event had taken on an extra significance. It had become a signpost for change. Having become increasingly disillusioned with the long-distance racing scene (and competition in general), I'd identified the C2C as the date that everything would change. Today I was 'Chris Rainbow, Ultra Runner'. After the weekend was done, I'd be becoming just 'Chris Rainbow'.<br />
<br />
Whilst undoubtedly exciting, leaving behind a scene I knew so well - indeed a scene that almost defined me - was a little unnerving. Lost in thought, I knew that what I needed most was a chat with Our Kid. We worked on the same wavelength. He'd know what to say.<br />
<br />
He must have known..<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As Tam's phone vibrated and played its annoying little jingle, I reached over and grabbed it.<br />
<br />
'Text message received. Dennis,' the display read.<br />
<br />
I opened it and read it aloud to Tam as she carried on driving...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> I spent an easy day yesterday , amongst other things, reading about travel and adventure. Things like Ali Humphreys microadventures, Sean whateverhisnameis run across Britain etc, etc. I like that Seans attitude about lack of planning. That's always been my way. I think to Australia when the only plan was to make it to Sydney. We could of planned to dive on the barrier reef etc, etc, and probably missed out on the classic things to 'do' in Oz, but the adventure was none the less. The adventures we had there were ones we just stumbled on, like you say in your blog, just because we were in the right place at the right time and because of the circumstances at the time - the van always breaking out, the World surfing your in MR and Burleigh Heads, the weather in Townsville, the roads being cut off. When I went to Mexico the amount of travel preparation I had was non existent compared to some mainly because of the attitude that ' what was the worst that could happen?' I had money and access to money which would get me out of most situations. I remember you saying about my training for the canyons - no structure - but, I guess, that sums me up. Gran Canaria with just a tourist map, until a lad gave me a travel guide when he was going home.<br />Anyway, all these things got me thinking. Adventure is everywhere. Walk a mile from your house and camp is an adventure ( why don't we organise something like that on a weekend before the kids start back?). Anyway, I know that you know all these things anyway - long running in the country is an adventure etc.<br /><br /><br />I had a dream last night where I was abroad. It was the bottom of Portugal in my mind, but scenery wise, was Morrocco / Africa. I was walking and was being tagged along by this blonde girl from Germany / Scandinavia. She was the typical type in batik pants, bit disheveled, but totally beautiful, to me at least. We'd heard about this chap who was walking and attracted a bit of a following ( Forrest Gump from earlier in the day?). The press had given a name to these walking people - 'The Nike Hike.' We joined the end of the line. We didn't know where we were going or how long we'd do it for. Nobody did. I laughed as I told the girl that nobody was wearing Nikes and that Nike would probably sue and forbid use of a name which no one at the time cared about, but would do if the mega company told them not too. Anyway, as is the stuff of dreams, I fell in love with her, she fell in love with me and I woke up just after our first kiss.<br /><br />The upshot of this is that I've just spent a couple of hundred quid on a decent bike trailer, which packs down to nothing. Carrying the SUP to Mabo? Little tours round the Wolds? Few weeks looking for 'The Nike Hike' in Morrocco? Who knows?<br /><br />You are on an adventure this weekend. Timmy Olsen showed at Hard Rock that the best adventures have nothing to do with results. Keep the ego at bay and the ' I'm having a great adventure,' at the front of your mind and the weekend will be memorable whatever.<br /><br />Me? I'm having a walk over the fields to your house. Haha! <br /><br />Love you,<br />Den xx </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Rushed with emotion, I felt like crying. I looked over at Tam and she smiled back at me. 'He's a daft sod, isn't he?' she said.<br />
<br />
I stared out the window for a good while and then read it again.<br />
<br />
I couldn't help but think of the rambling letters that he used to send me when people wrote letters. Letters that I'd look forward to and cherish when I was thousands of miles away from him.<br />
<br />
Picking out points, I started to talk about some of the things he'd mentioned:<br />
<br />
- <a href="http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/">Alastair Humphreys'</a> everyday mini-adventures;<br />
<br />
- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Unf-QJYZw40">Sean Conway</a>, who'd swam the length of Britain last year, and had just set out on a Land's End to John O'Groats run sporting a huge beard, red shorts, yellow tee-shirt and a 'Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.' truckers hat;<br />
<br />
- the scrapes we got in together in Australia all those years back;<br />
<br />
- <a href="http://www.timothyallenolson.com/2014/07/29/acceptance-hardrock-100/">Timothy Olsen's</a> performance at the Hardrock 100 the previous weekend, where going in as a pre-race favourite, he'd stolen the limelight from eventual winner, Killian Journet, by enduring such a nightmare of suffering that to finish, broken but still moving forwards, had become the stuff of US ultra-running legend.<br />
<br />
On and on.<br />
<br />
By the time I stopped talking, we'd reached Keswick.<br />
<br />
Just then, another text arrived, also from Dennis.<br />
<br />
I read it out.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">'Oh- I forgot to say. The leader of The Nike Hike was you!!</span>'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As I lined up on the start line on the drizzly Saturday morning, about to undertake one of the longest runs of my life, it was odd how calm I felt. That phrase, 'The Nike Hike', kept meandering into my mind. Somehow Our Kid's text from the day before had transformed this brutal 'race' into something to be enjoyed, savoured and eventually remembered for the experiences it provided, rather than for my position on the results page after the event was over.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47VpTW6-udQqTrb8zaV0SB9lZF2O9N12ZjM5mFPCwzzF71cK8zJiDNtVgE_77mc-SLkJa83dMWC-y-CTbXgQMW9yVTSDEi0Z9dPXXvk0ZFZmDwiIG9j06Izmap-AOH6SNoxC4vz1T-_Y/s1600/start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47VpTW6-udQqTrb8zaV0SB9lZF2O9N12ZjM5mFPCwzzF71cK8zJiDNtVgE_77mc-SLkJa83dMWC-y-CTbXgQMW9yVTSDEi0Z9dPXXvk0ZFZmDwiIG9j06Izmap-AOH6SNoxC4vz1T-_Y/s1600/start.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
At 7am, the horn sounded, and this most strange creation - a race that was no longer a race - began.<br />
<br />
Early miles went smoothly. I fell into step with Jason Lewis and ran, slightly too quickly, with him for 10 miles or so. Meeting Tam for the first time at Kirkland, I took a couple of minutes to change my drinks flasks while Jason pushed on. I ran the next 20 miles by myself, enjoying the hills, the Lake District lanes I was discovering for the first time, and the soothing chill of the steadily increasing rainfall.<br />
<br />
Just before Portinscale, Jason came back into view, and we ran into the Keswick swimming pool car park together, where Tam had sorted out the first of my four 'big stops'. My plan had been to break the route into 30 mile segments (corresponding to the sections on the Sustrans C2C map we'd been provided with), and take a BG approach, stopping for 10 minutes at the end of each one of these segments, having a sit down, slugging a coffee and getting in a bowl or two of the bean, pepper and cheese stew I'd concocted and used successfully in training over previous months.<br />
<br />
Whilst I sat down and chatted with a few good friends who had kindly popped along to offer support, Jason made it clear he was going to keep going (obviously the stew didn't look that good!), and left on the railway path with the words, 'You'll probably catch me up in a bit!' As it turned out, unfortunately, that was the last I'd see of him.<br />
<br />
An enjoyable, wet and windy hike over the Old Coach Road followed, after which the weather brightened and the charming rural lanes led me out of the Lake District, through Penrith and beyond to my second 'big stop' on Langwathby village green.<br />
<br />
The stew took a bit more getting down this time, but, physically, things were still in pretty good shape. With 60 miles covered, it was at this point in 2012's Viking Way Ultra that things had started to unravel. This time, everything seemed better. The super-cushioned shoes I'd chosen to wear appeared to be keeping my feet in decent nick, even though they'd got over 1000 miles on them and had needed bolstering with the liberal use of superglue and ShoeGoo in recent weeks. My stomach, too, seemed happier. Cutting out all meat and fish from my diet (entirely for ethical reasons rather than health or performance-related ones) seemed to have had no detrimental impact on my running, and my decision to stay off junk and sugar until after 100 miles appeared to be paying dividends. Instead of the jelly sweets, cake, flap jack and gels I'd downed in the early stages of the VW (and which had led to an inability to keep any substantial food down after 81 miles), here I'd grazed on bean tortillas, flat bread with almond butter and mixed fruit and raisins. My strategy seemed to be doing the trick.<br />
<br />
Knocking back a coffee, Tam informed me that Jason had been through 10 minutes earlier, but was struggling to eat anything solid and felt rough. Behind me, according to the tracker, she said, Martin Terry seemed to be moving well and was probably 10 or 15 minutes back.<br />
<br />
I set off back into the oppressively warm early evening knowing that this stretch, Langwathby to Allenheads, was the crux of this Coast 2 Coast route. I'd ran this section on fresh legs a few months back, and knew it was both the most beautiful and most taxing stretch. After a wildly undulating first 60 miles, now we were to tackle real hills. The next 30 miles would cross the four biggest climbs of the route, including a steep drag up Hartside and a slog over Black Hill, at 609 metres, the highest point of the journey.<br />
<br />
I chipped off the miles to the bottom of Hartside, passing through Renwick feeling hot, dehydrated and weary. Dressed in just vest and shorts, the warm weather was taking its toll. By the time I reached the summit cafe, however, things had changed dramatically.<br />
<br />
The violent storm hit with full effect on the hairpin, half-way to the top. By the time I'd reached the main road a mile or so from the top, the tarmac was an inch deep in water. Half a mile from the top, I was met by Tam driving down from the cafe car park. Perplexed, I waited till she wound down the window. 'Mark's sent me down too see if you're ok,' she said, 'He doesn't want anyone getting hypothermia.'<br />
<br />
'Fuck me,' I thought,'If Mark Cockbain, race organiser and legendary hard man, is worried, things must be bad!'<br />
<br />
Arriving at the summit, the storm was still raging. Mark greeted me. 'I've changed the rule about being disqualified if you enter your support vehicle,' he said. 'If you want to get in for a few minutes and warm up, that'll be fine.' He seemed genuinely concerned. He even offered me a cup of coffee.<br />
<br />
I didn't fancy the idea of taking cover. Once inside that warm car, I knew it would be hard to get out. Instead, I changed by the tail-door, shed my drenched clothes, replaced them with dry ones and a waterproof coat, and set off again. But the weather had got me, My running action had become jerky and stiff, my upper body had been seized by the shivers. I'd been here before, and knew I needed to take action sooner rather than later. As Tam drove past 5 minutes later, I flagged her down and told her I needed more clothes - loads more clothes. And so it was, as darkness fell on a warm August evening, that I ended up running down to Leadgate clad in full-on winter mountaineering garb - waterproof pants, thick thermal base layer, Buffalo Special Six, Lowe Alpine mountain cap and winter mitts. But a wobble had been averted. By the time I met Tam in the valley near Garrigill, the shakes had subsided and it was time to take all the stuff off again.<br />
<br />
In a long journey, the onset of darkness always brings doubt. I actually enjoy running in the dark, but that time when day is being replaced by night is always a dodgy one for me.<br />
<br />
The climb out of Garrigill is tough and steep. By the time I'd reached the top, I'd had enough. For many weeks I'd worked hard on running mindfully - emptying my head and existing only in the present moment - now this footstep, now the next. I'd purposefully avoided running this race with any gadgets - no Garmin, music device, radio or earphones - in order to encourage this meditative state. And so far, things had gone perfectly. But now, things were falling apart. '80 miles in,' I kept thinking, '60 miles to go.' Unlike the Viking Way, my collapse wasn't physical - I was tired, for sure, but still felt ok. This time it was a mental one.<br />
<br />
Questions appeared out of the shadows. <i>'What's the point?' 'What have you got to prove?' 'Just who are you doing it for?'</i><br />
<br />
Tammy would be at Nenthead. I'd just get in the car. 'That's it,' I'd tell her. 'Let's go home.'<br />
<br />
I jogged on, seemingly happy with my decision. It was then that another phrase appeared. One that I'd not thought of since the start. 'The Nike Hike'. I thought of Our Kid's text and recalled a couple of important sentences:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">' You are on an adventure this weekend. Timmy Olsen showed at Hardrock that the best adventures have nothing to do with results. Keep the ego at bay and 'I'm having a great adventure' at the front of your mind and the weekend will be memorable whatever.'</span><br />
<br />
I jogged on. Answers from the darkness. <i>'There is no point, but does that mean it's not worth doing?' 'I've nothing to prove - I'm just doing this because I want to.' 'I'm doing it for myself, I guess. I need to. To try and make things clearer.'</i><br />
<br />
In the space of ten minutes, I'd gone from running in the C2C Ultra to simply travelling in an easterly direction on The Nike Hike.<br />
<br />
My next 'big stop' came at the Northumberland border, a mile or so out of Allenheads. Tam let me know that Jason's tracker had been still for ages. She guessed he might have called it a day. After some grub and a drink, I got ready to leave as Martin's headtorch came into view. I'd no doubt that he'd pass me soon, but for now, as I left the lay-by heading for Rookthorpe, I was - just as Our Kid had seen in his dream - the leader of The Nike Hike.<br />
<br />
In the following miles, the darkness allowed me to inhabit my imaginary world.<br />
<br />
There were other people with me - I wasn't alone on this trip; a crazy tribe of folks who probably didn't know why they were doing this, but were going from here to there anyway, just following in some bearded guy's tracks.<br />
<br />
I didn't look round, but I could hear footsteps, could see the torch light behind me. And uncomfortable, unworthy as I felt to lead these people, to take them with me, I knew that they were on this journey because they wanted to be. We hiked as one.<br />
<br />
As the next couple of hours passed, I lived in this world - a world no more real or unreal than the one I usually dwelt in. I led my people and they followed. Lost souls on The Nike Hike. Clueless, hopeful, enlightened. Looking for something (or nothing?) Hoping we could find it in movement from one place to another.<br />
<br />
By the time Martin eventually passed me at 103 miles on The Waskerly Way, the daylight had returned and my nocturnal dreamworld began to melt away. I bade farewell to my fellow travellers. Little did I know that they would reappear later, creeping into the fuzzy, warm, hazy bubble that physical exhaustion and sleep deprivation enable you to linger in during such long, continuous journeys. This time they would bring answers that I'd been looking for for ages:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>114 miles. The Derwent Walk footpath.</i><br />
<br />
<i>One foot in front of the other. A breath. A heartbeat.</i><br />
<br />
<i>As I pass a pub car park, Tam appears. She puts a thumb up. I reply with the same gesture as I move on. Neither of us says a word.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I'm tired now. It's an effort to carry on. I've that trippy sensation of being slightly detached from my physical body, existing purely as energy. It's wonderful.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Martin Terry must be miles in front now. But that's ok. Because I'm the one leading The Nike Hike. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. Why didn't I tell Tam how much I love her back there?</i><br />
<br />
<i>I can't help but think, distractedly, of Peter Bakwin, one of my personal heroes. How did he describe that moment - that moment of clarity - that moment of transcendence - during his successful Double Hardrock journey in 2006?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>“Walking through the wide meadows above Pole Creek [183 miles into the run] I notice something gnawing at my chest. What is this? There is a softness here, tenderness. Sensing deeper, it is like an ocean of sweetness in my chest. Love. So many people came out to selflessly help me in my quest for the Double Hardrock. No one ever complained, they just did exactly what needed to be done. And, all these volunteers are here to help the runners achieve their dreams, no questions asked. No one says ‘Why?’ No one says these dreams are not worth it. The RD puts in hundreds of hours a year so we can be here in communion with the mountains, so we can challenge our limits and test ourselves to the core.”</i><br />
<br />
<i>“This feeling has grown deeper. There is a universal support, a loving, unconditional support for each and every one of us. I see that the true nature of the universe is tender and compassionate. All we have to do to experience this is open our hearts. There is no need to struggle and fuss. There is no need for fear. We are all one, and that oneness is beauty and love. As we talk, Stephanie feels it too.”</i><br />
<br />
<i>“We are at the Cunningham Gulch aid station [195 miles] before dark! I am astonished by our progress. I have surrendered completely to the loving support that is all around me, all around everyone and everything; it is the true nature of everything. And it’s time to do the last climb.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />
<i>I'd read the article so many times, and it always seemed so far-fetched. </i><br />
<br />
<i>But not any more. Now I feel it. Now I understand it.</i><br />
<br />
<i>It's then that I feel his presence. Not an hallucination, a product of my imagination, a figment of a desperately tired mind. No, an actual physical presence.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Peter Bakwin taps me on the shoulder, and I stop. For the first time since the start of this journey at Whitehaven, I stand dead still. I turn, and together we look back upon the trail. To the people that are following me. A rag-tag line of youthful exhuberance, weathered faces, beards and tangled pony-tails. A winding snake of barefoot dreamers, long-haired chancers and kind faces in worn-out shoes. The people who I choose to surround myself with. These people who always follow me to the finish line. These people who, like me, have no answers. These people who are the answer.</i><br />
<br />
<i>As I stop and stare, I realise that Peter is no longer there. Perhaps he's hiked on. Maybe he's realised he doesn't really belong here. I stand for a while, smiling. And the people traveling with me stop hiking too and do the same. At the back of the line, I spot Our Kid. He stands hand-in-hand with a beautiful, disheveled blonde girl. I suppose he thinks he may as well take advantage of this pause in proceedings. While everyone else is looking in my direction, he turns to the girl and leans in for their first kiss.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I got to the end of the C2C Ultra in 32 hours and 12 minutes. Martin Terry had reached the finish line 14 minutes earlier for a well-deserved victory. If he'd not got lost a couple of times in the last 25 miles, his winning margin would have undoubtedly been much more impressive. Jon Steele finished third to achieve an amazing first-ever Cockbain Events 'Grand Slam'. Three other hardy chaps also finished inside the 38 hour cut-off, and another crazy guy carried on for over 50 miles with a knackered IT band to complete the route just outside of the cut-off time.<br />
<br />
You can find the results <a href="http://www.c2cultra.com/results/4586013820">here.</a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOmYGB5T7lp2Tb_MYFgQnQd99rDvaWCk1VCZnbsybzWnqsiCb2T4rHKfNfgldo-e-zDvi1VmHiu-oXdb8AKenSOqKQhBUymL-Gqm7rz5wEyNbmxo_TjsJHI1YlVFt-41C2mBXb52yVX4/s1600/end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOmYGB5T7lp2Tb_MYFgQnQd99rDvaWCk1VCZnbsybzWnqsiCb2T4rHKfNfgldo-e-zDvi1VmHiu-oXdb8AKenSOqKQhBUymL-Gqm7rz5wEyNbmxo_TjsJHI1YlVFt-41C2mBXb52yVX4/s1600/end.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUJfTJv-NkSwWf2tSL1WYI-JXKp8cwSQs15tNgSL9aRRVgrzFTaxIHe_sqI-L31qDUmoRiRcc9qmmfV69xSCQmQbHTddYYmXBvq20vXR1Iv1aA63JDyW1O6t43rxjJT5VRATIEzdonPA/s1600/end2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUJfTJv-NkSwWf2tSL1WYI-JXKp8cwSQs15tNgSL9aRRVgrzFTaxIHe_sqI-L31qDUmoRiRcc9qmmfV69xSCQmQbHTddYYmXBvq20vXR1Iv1aA63JDyW1O6t43rxjJT5VRATIEzdonPA/s1600/end2.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
On the way home, Tam told me of how much she'd enjoyed chatting to the race organisers, Mark and Alex, both over the weekend and at the finish whilst waiting for us to arrive. Tam had commented on how, in spite of racing so infrequently, I found certain Cockbain Events races difficult to resist. That the no-nonsense, low-key style perfectly suited my preferences for running long distances. She then told me of something Mark had said about his vision for what he was doing. Of how he wanted to avoid the crass commercialism of the majority of ultra races, to put on no-frills events where there was little guarantee of everyone, or indeed anyone, finishing - to host races that were so hard that to finish would entail testing your limits, maybe even finding out something about yourself that you'd not stumble across in any less-challenging scenarios.<br />
<br />
It's a while now since I completed the C2C Ultra, and the reason for my silence has been due to one question: 'Just what did I find out about myself during that race?'<br />
<br />
I look back on The Nike Hike interludes with a certain disbelief, but with the certainty that, however strange, what happened in those moments of absolute clarity contain the answer to what I've been trying to grasp for many, many months.<br />
<br />
Now, four weeks after the race, I know what that answer is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For most of my life, I've been a serious runner. For much of that time, I've pushed myself to achieving results and challenges. There's always been something else. And when I've worked hard to achieve that something else, there's something else still.<br />
<br />
To do anything at a high level requires time, effort, sacrifice and selfishness. The time - well that I've stolen from my wife, my children, my family, my friends. Whilst the effort to achieve these things has been mine, the sacrifice involved has been, to the greater degree, just theirs. I've lived my life for myself. In spite of this, the people I love have followed me. For The Nike Hike isn't just a dream or imaginary wanderings conjured from exhaustion, but also a metaphor. The Nike Hike is Life.<br />
<br />
Since the start, I've trod my own path. I've gone my own way, unsure of direction, content in the knowledge that I'll come to the finish sometime. And some people, in spite of my selfishness, my perfectionism, my tiredness, moods and all the other baggage that doing the things I've done has entailed, have followed me. There's only one reason why they've done that, and this is it: <i>They love me.</i><br />
<br />
I'm giving up the chase. It's easy to do now, because it's only now that I truely see that whatever it is I'm chasing will never bring me what I want. No, that will only be achieved by cherishing the company of those people who hike with me.<br />
<br />
A PB isn't going to make you happy for long. A promotion at work isn't going to make you a better person. A podium finish in an ultra-race is never going to change you, really. Spending time with the people you've gathered around you, however, almost certainly will.<br />
<br />
So, for me, there'll be no more big races. My projects will be small, off-the-cuff, spontaneous and inclusive. My fulfillment will come from helping rather than expecting help. By exploring the magical, overlooked adventures of the everyday.<br />
<br />
It's going to be difficult - after all, it's hard to change the habits of a lifetime. But I hope I can grow to be as good at returning love as I have at feeding on it for all these years.<br />
<br />
And when The Kid starts to whisper his Keep On Burning monologues - as I'm sure he will - and plans for a fast marathon, an all-encompassing challenge or a long ultra begin to occupy my mind, I hope I can return to that moment on The Nike Hike and, looking towards that couple together at the back of the line, ask myself what is most important:<br />
<br />
A step forward or a kiss?<br />
<br />
<br />
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-68670693904676226392014-07-28T10:11:00.000-07:002014-07-28T10:11:23.096-07:00Two Moths<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJUbNcT-NqYUwLAJyTSxCF1dQ-A9L7XQvXGiaRro5XffgqFQW-6L-lqXm9vN-3nSQV5a9ojAYFQqfCjCzHUgFyZQU2cVgrDxePpPsCyW9kmG1Q5Z7ycy2zo_OQkDhyAcGsFLQPhrB6b4/s1600/two+moths.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJUbNcT-NqYUwLAJyTSxCF1dQ-A9L7XQvXGiaRro5XffgqFQW-6L-lqXm9vN-3nSQV5a9ojAYFQqfCjCzHUgFyZQU2cVgrDxePpPsCyW9kmG1Q5Z7ycy2zo_OQkDhyAcGsFLQPhrB6b4/s1600/two+moths.jpg" height="224" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
We're with the superheroes at the swimming pool. It's the first time we've been in ages.<br />
<br />
In the water are the same assortment that you'd get anywhere on a summer Sunday afternoon. Mums and Dads splash around with little ones in the shallow end, whilst teenagers with buzz cuts and quiffs preen themselves and dive off the side, playing up to a group of girls giggling in the seating area behind the glass wall. A sixth-form couple wrap themselves around each other by the rope separating the general swimming area from the lap lane. On the far side, a lifeguard in yellow tee-shirt and baggy shorts barks commands to a group of kids dressed in wet clothes. He throws things in the water and gets one of them at a time to dive in and retrieve them.<br />
<br />
In the deep end, I hang onto the side, under strict instructions from my daughter.<br />
<br />
'Daddy,' yells Whirlwind. 'Daddy, watch me!'<br />
<br />
She pushes off and swims five or six strokes front crawl before disappearing from sight. After an age, she reappears, surfacing like a performing dolphin at a seaside show. Eyes hidden by mirrored goggles, her smile's huge.<br />
<br />
I give her the thumbs up. 'That was ace!' I tell her.<br />
<br />
'Much better, Ellie,' her mum says. 'Well done!'<br />
<br />
Whirlwind smiles even wider, before turning and splashing towards the other end of the pool in search of her big brother.<br />
<br />
I rest my back against the edge of the pool and, elbows bent in front of me, grab hold of the rim that runs round its perimetre. Legs straight, but still a way from the bottom, and chin resting in the water, I close my eyes.<br />
<br />
I'm unsure of the cause of the tickling sensation against my right ear - there, gone, in an instant - but when I open my eyes, it all becomes clear.<br />
<br />
'Can you reach it?' an old lady in a one piece swimsuit asks me.<br />
<br />
Looking forward, I see it. A moth on the surface of the water. I watch as it backstrokes crazily, spinning in a wide arc, just out of reach. Its limbs move in staccato, panic-stricken bursts while its wings remain useless, weighted down with moisture.<br />
<br />
By some miracle its course of movement brings it straight back to the old lady beside me. She reaches out with a spread palm and scoops the moth up.<br />
<br />
And then it flies. Just like that.<br />
<br />
We're both as surprised as one another. The old lady laughs in delight. 'Oh my,' she says, her voice a song. 'Fly away, little one, fly away!'<br />
<br />
I rest my head back against the rim of the pool as the moth soars in glorious spirals towards the leisure centre roof.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * * * *<br />
<br />
<br />
It's not even dark when I decide to go to bed. But I'm tired and an early night will do me good.<br />
<br />
The bathroom light's been left on. Attracted by the brightness, a couple of flying insects have got in through the not-quite-closed window and are flying laps round the bare bulb.<br />
<br />
As I brush my teeth, I can't help but notice the merest flicker of movement somewhere else. There, resting on the inside of the toilet bowl, of all places, is a tiny moth. I watch it for a while, but decide to leave it where it is.<br />
<br />
Back in the bedroom. I lay for a while, finishing Scott Jurek's book, until my eyelids are heavy.<br />
<br />
When I return to the bathroom for a good-night piss, I'm surprised to see the moth again. Drowning in the water inside the toilet bowl, it's awkward, hurried movements betray its fear. Try as it will, it just can't get out.<br />
<br />
There was a time when I'd just pull the chain, flush this little life away, but not tonight. I think of this afternoon, of that beautiful creature heading for the swimming pool roof, flying free.<br />
<br />
There's an unopened box of toothpaste on the window ledge. I tear off one of the ends and use it to gently lift the moth from the water. Then, opening the bathroom window a little wider, I place it on the outside window sill.<br />
<br />
I hear that old lady's laugh of delight. I hear her sing-song voice.<br />
<br />
'Fly away, little one, fly away!' I whisper.<br />
<br />
I watch as the moth tries to flutter its wings. Tries to escape.<br />
<br />
I watch as the once-vigorous movements grow slower and more laboured.<br />
<br />
<i>How much of this movement is just instinct?</i> I wonder, <i>Does this little creature know it's dying?</i><br />
<br />
I watch until it's dark outside, the moth mustering just the occasional half-hearted flurry of its wings and legs, until, eventually, it's quite still.saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-11095994630726213062014-07-20T08:14:00.000-07:002014-07-20T08:14:01.642-07:00The Cloud Wall<div abp="601">
<div abp="602">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_E_gePL4y9SO3PGTGKdDk1OPwfnqi0RWAOfXsJwv_qnDaR5BqPdvYs1qBOjbrK-cdWnN847J07ytGfVpFAMU9kQdj2ZXk8hfR75O7oLWpJRbQC67rUwxvlF92CxOMGvH1C-mdmERTXhU/s1600/cloud+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_E_gePL4y9SO3PGTGKdDk1OPwfnqi0RWAOfXsJwv_qnDaR5BqPdvYs1qBOjbrK-cdWnN847J07ytGfVpFAMU9kQdj2ZXk8hfR75O7oLWpJRbQC67rUwxvlF92CxOMGvH1C-mdmERTXhU/s1600/cloud+wall.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There's been several times in my life that a novel has changed me, just a bit.</div>
</div>
<div abp="602">
<div abp="604">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="603">
<div abp="606">
Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road'. William Wharton's 'Birdy'. David Guterson's 'Snow Falling On Cedars'. Donna Tartt's 'The Goldfinch'. All of these, masterpieces that have taken me to places from which, on reading the final page, I've returned a slightly different person.</div>
</div>
<div abp="604">
<div abp="608">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="605">
<div abp="610">
None of these, however, have transformed me in quite the same way as Mark Helprin's 'Winter's Tale'.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9ryVmAPD4mX7Jv4U_5jVdltQn60KSdNDLYmWO69pDqxEUX3t54mM_nRl4DHbEWpcX2DaREWCmAWCxS09Da69whRs-JJ4QIJVoWt57wZsc-ibm0A9brzs3edkCTzvd1HQPj0GuRXqbHE/s1600/winter's+tale.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9ryVmAPD4mX7Jv4U_5jVdltQn60KSdNDLYmWO69pDqxEUX3t54mM_nRl4DHbEWpcX2DaREWCmAWCxS09Da69whRs-JJ4QIJVoWt57wZsc-ibm0A9brzs3edkCTzvd1HQPj0GuRXqbHE/s1600/winter's+tale.png" height="400" width="254" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
<div abp="606">
<div abp="612">
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="607">
<div abp="614">
What do I mean by that?</div>
</div>
<div abp="608">
<div abp="616">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="609">
<div abp="618">
In her blog post on <a href="http://www.sheilaomalley.com/?p=9832">'The Sheila Variations'</a>, Sheila O'Malley states,</div>
</div>
<div abp="610">
<div abp="620">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="611">
<div abp="622">
<i abp="612">'One of the best parts of 'Winter's Tale' is that it gave me 'scenes' unlike anything I have ever seen in any book, in life, in theatre, movies. So specific, so fantastical, that they could only have come from the expansive imagination of one man...</i></div>
</div>
<div abp="613">
<div abp="625">
<i abp="614"></i><br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="615">
<div abp="628">
<i abp="616">I am forever grateful to Mark Helprin for showing me these things from his beautiful dreamscape, because now they are mine. Forever.</i></div>
</div>
<div abp="617">
<div abp="631">
<i abp="618"></i><br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="619">
<div abp="634">
<i abp="620">They are not nothing. Nothing goes away. Even things of the mind, the imagination, the dream, are important information to have as we try to navigate our way through the world.'</i></div>
</div>
<div abp="621">
<div abp="637">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="622">
<div abp="639">
What do I mean by that? That's what I mean by that.</div>
</div>
<div abp="623">
<div abp="641">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="624">
<div abp="643">
Of all the wonderful images the book brings alive, the one that intrigued me the most was that of the cloud wall - the mysterious, whirling barrier of cloud that surrounds the mythical New York City. Sheila O'Malley writes,</div>
</div>
<div abp="625">
<div abp="645">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="626">
<div abp="647">
<i abp="627">'Nobody knows what the cloud wall is. It sometimes picks up the sun, glinting with gold, and the wall reaches into the atmosphere. Sometimes it sweeps over New York City, and when that happens, chaos breaks loose. But for the most part, the cloud wall surrounds the city, a barricade, and people forget its existence. In the 20th Century section of the book, people have become so accustomed to the cloud wall that they don't 'believe' in it any more. Nobody even sees it. But maybe the cloud wall is a clue.'</i></div>
</div>
<div abp="628">
<div abp="650">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="629">
<div abp="652">
But to what?</div>
</div>
<div abp="630">
<div abp="654">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="656">
<i abp="632">'...and although the whirling white cloud wall may not be mentioned for pages at a time, you always feel its smothering presence. You never stop wondering about it. What is it? And what might be out there, in the world, that is working on me, without me even realising it? Don't we all have a whirling cloud wall, to some degree?'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="659">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="662">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="664">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="666">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="668">
I lay in the bath one Saturday afternoon, deliciously exhausted after a long morning run, with the cloud wall in my head. And in that half-world between sleep and wakefulness, my own cloud wall became clear. The brooding, whirling barrier that surrounded my life was fear.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="670">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="672">
Although my wife, my children (and my running?) keep me sane, I'd fallen into a default life that I never wanted. I'd become immersed in the same old shit as everyone else. Working too hard in a job that bored me, manufacturing a product that I couldn't give a toss about, saying one thing but doing another, sacrificing precious time to earn money to spend on stuff we'd all be better off without.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="674">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="676">
In a moment of insight, I realised that the reason I was doing this was down to the cloud wall. In that instant, the cloud wall became a barrier for me between <i abp="677">what is</i> and <i abp="678">what might be</i>. A creeping fog of fear that is at once immensely comforting and cloyingly suffocating.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="680">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="682">
Surely I owed it, both to myself and the people around me, to walk into the cloud wall. To confront its challenges in the hope that things will work out, but with the knowledge that it might make things worse?</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="684">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="686">
But how would I do this?<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="688">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="690">
The steps I would take into the cloud barrier would have to be small at first. I couldn't afford to leave any of the people I love behind. And gradually, over weeks, months or years, I might see what lies beyond.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="692">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="694">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="696">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="698">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="700">
When you're a coward at heart, it's always easier to stick to the familiar first. (If you're an idiot too, then why not choose the very area of your life that might (or might not) be part of the problem you're trying to crack?) For much of the next few days, therefore, the cloud wall became inexplicably bound in my mind with running. It would be in the field of running that my bid to charge the cloud barrier would start. Get it right, and then - but only then - could I push deeper.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="702">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="631">
<div abp="704">
I came up with this idea of just running one weekend to destruction. Keeping going until I could no longer, mentally or physically, move forward any further. I'd mark out a 5 mile flat route from my front door and after starting off, just keep running, stopping only to eat or drink when I arrived back home. I googled the longest distance ever run continuously to give me a ball-park figure of how long I could possibly go.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
The more I thought about it, however, the more this idea seemed dumb. I'd run 140-odd miles continuously in the past, but paid for it with months of injury and knackeredness. Maybe there was a difference between not doing something because you're scared to and not doing something because it's just bloody stupid. (But maybe not - I guess this dilemma also lies behind the everyday inertia most of us live our lives with.) Whatever - I knocked this idea on the head, confident that something better would turn up.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
I've made a resolution in recent times to read less shit on the internet. To be fair, though, I do struggle. And although I'll continue to persevere in my mission to rid my days of modern technology, I have to admit that amongst the mass of sows' arses, you do sometimes come across a silk purse.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
I chanced across a blog post by US ultra-runner, Dominic Grossman, entitled <a href="http://www.dominicgrossman.com/2014/04/the-merits-of-full-blarney.html">'The Merits of the Full Blarney'</a>. It was to change my life for the next three weeks. The start of Grossman's blog is great:<br />
<br />
<i>' I have to admit, I have a problem:<br /><br /> I can't take anyone's word for it; "it" being defined as any truth about life, running, work, relationships, etc. I have to empirically prove it to myself multiple times to thoroughly know the truth inside and out.<br /><br /> My training is an especially true testament to this; I can never accept truths that I haven't dramatically proven to myself. I have to put stress on my body in every possible way until I understand what's really going on. So, when I read that former pupils of Jim O'Brien had done blocks of ten 100 mile weeks, I had to try it for myself.'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
Now, I'd come across Grossman before in my overexhuberant following of the US ultra scene, but I'd never heard of Jim O'Brien, his 80's disciples (Larry Gasson , Bruce Hoff - amongst others) and his fondness for prescribing a block of ten consecutive 100 mile weeks in his training programmes. A couple of hours later, however, I knew a fair bit about them all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
Jim O'Brien's athletic career was shaped by several standout performances, but defined by one unbelievable record that still stands as a benchmark to this day. His 17.35.48 Angeles Crest 100 record of 1989 has never been threatened since it was set. Remarkable in itself, what makes it even more special is that the course was almost two miles longer in those days than it is now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpocCB61NsPr7n70LcvMzVfA3VlcE9t38ieLtyAs7IWoNRHniwoMXray0jKB17dyN11RFc3unf7TUjWjjDvh1RUreahEN8MdgEmL8lDXIcwkm95YvfigTgOjQC2jk0d-4wWc8ZUv5nWao/s1600/jim.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpocCB61NsPr7n70LcvMzVfA3VlcE9t38ieLtyAs7IWoNRHniwoMXray0jKB17dyN11RFc3unf7TUjWjjDvh1RUreahEN8MdgEmL8lDXIcwkm95YvfigTgOjQC2jk0d-4wWc8ZUv5nWao/s1600/jim.png" height="400" width="316" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
O'Brien's preparation for this race was extreme.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
'I<i> really prepared for Angeles Crest in 1989. I sacrificed for six months before the race. I had meticulous planning; crew, pacers and nutrition, all dialled in. I had three plans. Plan 'C' was to run close to the record. Plan 'B' was to run conservatively and break the existing record. The secret plan 'A' was to go under 18 hours. The training began a year before the race. My mileage for the six peak weeks, nine weeks prior to race day, was 150 to 200 miles in a continuous build. I then tapered downward from 200-100-75-50 per week.' </i><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
Although O'Brien's athletic achievements are something else, there's scope to suggest that he left an even bigger impression in the world of coaching. Starting at the University of San Diego from 1982 to 1984, onto Cal Tech through to the mid '90's, and then at Arcadia High School till 2013 (whereby he was sacked as victim of an internal politics bullshit battle), O'Brien became one of the most successful and charismatic coaches in the US education system, credited with always getting the most out of his athletes.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
It was during the '90's that O'Brien also took on coaching private clients. In time, this became 'Team Blarney' - a name synonymous with running achievement in Southern California. At Team Blarney, O'Brien coached a spectrum of runners from 10k speedsters to those wanting to run a trail 100 miler, and included runners from their late teens to mid 60's.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
O'Brien's coaching philosophy was pretty simple. He pinpointed the biggest mistakes long-distance runners made:<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
<i>'Not taking the distances seriously, not treating the training seriously, and being self-coached with no serious direction. Also, a blind willingness to replicate mistakes, and a resistance to positive ideas.</i>'<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
Suffice to say, I probably wouldn't have made Team Blarney.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
<i>'In order to get the most out of your ability, you have to run at a higher level of seriousness. Why? To maximise your ability to finish the distance in the shortest possible time. The runner must be willing to train at a higher intensity, and to properly prepare for the rigours of the distance. This is unavoidable.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i>'Running 20 miles a week isn't going to cut it. Distance runs aren't enough either. Most ultra-runners run their training runs slower than their race pace. This isn't good. This is where speed work comes in. But speed work must be understood as an efficiency-building exercise. Nobody does speed work at 12-15 minute miles; it's too slow. Speed work is designed to reinforce efficient running habits</i>.'<br />
<br />
Bearing the above in mind, central to his athletes' preparation before a long race was the 'Full Blarney' - a ten-week block of consistent back-to-back 100 mile weeks wherein speed was focused on as much as distance run.<br />
<br />
An example month block can be seen from the training diary pages of Bruce Hoff - one of O'Brien's most successful athletes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxcTye1Ji7oaBk3EwY7xHYZ9lZSrFc3T-3U1mdI08cGnop4TJ-cKFzuWAJAvFkbpP785ZOBO6TtzoPmT8Q482dgBiiUoXbgEO4EMYSDEwWFbvWGnK1A336IsF_6uxOdnmTbsXZJtFcFc/s1600/blarney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxcTye1Ji7oaBk3EwY7xHYZ9lZSrFc3T-3U1mdI08cGnop4TJ-cKFzuWAJAvFkbpP785ZOBO6TtzoPmT8Q482dgBiiUoXbgEO4EMYSDEwWFbvWGnK1A336IsF_6uxOdnmTbsXZJtFcFc/s1600/blarney.jpg" height="290" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have to admit, I always feel a strange excitement at the prospect of running myself into the ground, and the discovery of the Full Blarney got me properly buzzing. Through this trial of miles, I would take my first steps into the cloud wall.<br />
<br />
I've done big weeks in the past. Plenty of 100 mile weeks, the very occasional 200 mile week, but never 10 100+ mile weeks in a row. The reason? It scared me. It scared me in its prospect of the time commitment necessary and the mental discipline needed. It scared me because it was so removed from typical modern-day running coach advice (ask anyone - run 100 miles for 10 weeks and you're just asking for trouble - 'your body just won't cope!) and, moreover, it scared me because whenever I'd tried in the past to run back-to-back 100 mile weeks, my body hadn't coped. I'd succumbed to tiredness and injury, and reverted - retreated, tail between legs - back to my normal 'sweet spot' of 60 -70 miles.<br />
<br />
The Full Blarney was taunting me. In a short time, it began to take on a symbolic significance that perhaps it shouldn't. Fine - a Blarney might set me up for this summer's race. Fine - a Blarney would determine if I was physically anywhere as near as good as I hoped I could be. But more, more than this, the Blarney began to mean something else. If I was to change my life in the way I desired in the future, if I was to tackle my fears of doing something radically different (not in my running, per se, but in the whole way I go about living) I needed, first, to finish this stupid challenge.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
On June 28th - the day after my 47th birthday - I arrived back at the step at the end of a 13 mile evening run (and a 29 mile day). I was tired, but not done in. And my Full Blarney was complete.<br />
<br />
For ten weeks, I'd averaged between 103 and 116 miles without missing a day (my streak, started on February 22nd, is still intact - 149 days and counting). It had been hard, but not impossible. Admittedly, I'd foregone O'Brien's emphasis on speed work - the only time I ever run fast in training is by accident - but I'd done my ten weeks nevertheless.<br />
<br />
And what had the Blarney taught me? A few running-related things probably:<br />
<br />
- as long as you're flexible, you can always find the time to run 100 miles in a typical week;<br />
<br />
- sometimes, the runs where the first miles are the most frustratingly painful end up as the ones where the last miles are delightfully effortless;<br />
<br />
- consistency hardens you. Run every day and niggles rarely become injuries. Refuse to rest and, after a day or two, they magically go away;<br />
<br />
- it's possible to run 100 miles in the week after a gruelling 60 mile trail race;<br />
<br />
- running a lot of miles makes it easier to run a lot of miles (I completed the afore-mentioned 60 mile race at the end of week 9 of my Blarney in a time 1 hour and 45 minutes quicker than last year.)<br />
<br />
There's a few others, I guess, but rather than reading about them, it'll certainly be less boring - and infinitely more rewarding for you - if you go out and have a crack at a Blarney yourself.<br />
<br />
These running-related things, however, mean bugger all in the grand scheme of things. The most important thing the Blarney taught me was that earlier throw-away sentence: <i>It was hard, but not impossible.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
It is this, over everything else, that I need to remember.<br />
<br />
To break through the cloud wall, <i>it will be hard, but not impossible.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.raptitude.com/">David Cain</a> writes so insightfully on the subject of fear - the very grey matter that makes up the cloud wall:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i></i>
<i>'When you decide you’ll walk into your moments of truth — your project launches, race days and blind dates — with an unconditional willingness to see what happens, fear doesn’t have much to do.</i><br />
<br />
<i>For some reason we interpret the presence of fear as a trustworthy reason to be tentative, to delay our arrival at a result. This gives fear time to make the unhappiest possibilities bigger in our minds, seemingly more worthy of respect. Yet fear is your mind at its dumbest and least articulate. All it knows how to do is shout “Get away!”</i><br />
<br />
<i><span id="more-6461"></span></i><br />
<i>It designs endless disaster scenarios, not just of failure or setback but of complete ruin. It understands your options only in terms of how they could bring on your annihilation, and therefore is blind to everything else that your experiences can do for you: wisdom gained, doors opened, and particularly the possibility of success. It just doesn’t see it.</i><br />
<br />
<i>So it always bets on death and irreversible consequences without even reading the odds sheet. But like any idiot conspiracy theorist, when it guesses right its confidence explodes, and you can’t shut it up. (“See! They didn’t like your poem! How stupid that you tried!”)</i><br />
<br />
<i>When you point out any of the million instances in which fear was wrong, it changes the subject to its most recent victory, or it makes a brand new prediction. If you’re not thinking for yourself, you’ll start to parrot its paranoid convictions — “It doesn’t matter what I do, things never work out for me! Nobody can love me!” and other beliefs so asinine they would require a global conspiracy to be true. You might even find yourself actively looking for evidence to support fear’s claims, not for any logical reason, but because you wish you were as confident as it is.</i><br />
<br />
<i>And once you’re confident fear is usually right, you’ll be right so often that you’ll never want to bet against it. That’s the great irony of fear: give it too much respect and it becomes the paralysis and annihilation from which it ostensibly protects you.</i><br />
<br />
<i>We are smarter than fear. Walk into the thing it tells you to cower from — or “Feel the fear and do it anyway” as <a href="http://amzn.to/1vhHsZ0">Susan Jeffers</a> would say it — and fear dies, because you ignored its only wish, which is to keep you from going certain places to see what’s actually there.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Unless you have a rational expectation of grievous bodily harm or financial ruin, respond to fears with curiosity about what life actually looks like beyond the moment of truth. Pass through the door and see what’s there. You can take it. The sky has fallen a thousand times already.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Even if you do find what fear warned you about, you’ll notice it had none of the details right. It doesn’t look like, feel like or require of you what you thought. That’s because fear doesn’t know anything about the future. Fear only ever has old material to work with; it makes its predictions out of the past. It’s desperate to prevent you from getting to the future to see what’s really there, because then it will quickly lose your respect</i>.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
As I've gotten older, I've matured a long way from the shy, introverted, lost kid that I once was. I'm more confident, have less inhibitions, take less notice of what others think or say. But, interestingly, when it comes to the way I live my day-to-day life, my fear has increased.<br />
<br />
I'll give you just one example.<br />
<br />
During the winter of 1989, I flew with my sister to Perth, Australia, to meet Our Kid who'd gone out to Oz six months previously. After bumming around on the fringes of the Pro Surf Tour in Margaret River for a few days, we returned to the northern suburbs of the city and slept in a car-park near Scarborough Beach for a while until we secured a cockroach-infested flat a couple of hundred yards from the Indian Ocean. Two or three dead-end jobs and a month's grape-picking later, with barely enough spare cash to finance a daily food spend of 10 dollars a day between the three of us, we drove across the Nullabor Plain to Port Augusta, before heading to Alice Springs and the remote heart of the continent. From there, we drove to North Queensland, sat out a tropical cyclone for a week and followed the coast south to arrive in Sydney two days before Our Kid's flight home, totally skint.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3S_hBgIDGqg9ooRoHeSgFQnuFD29hREN34KV_bHG4wu9f1kEEGQjy3KdCMM_S6tM7EKlRlbYtFNVwNvt77xe5QhdG9cVLBeCwEiuqNzRdg8OfqfRYLRoqqsSexlnUbx0Ot1nYlNMbWEw/s1600/img039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3S_hBgIDGqg9ooRoHeSgFQnuFD29hREN34KV_bHG4wu9f1kEEGQjy3KdCMM_S6tM7EKlRlbYtFNVwNvt77xe5QhdG9cVLBeCwEiuqNzRdg8OfqfRYLRoqqsSexlnUbx0Ot1nYlNMbWEw/s1600/img039.jpg" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
With zero knowledge of basic mechanics, it had been a concern when the van failed to start at a roadhouse a hundred miles or so short of Ayer's Rock. Fortunately, a drunken trucker, taking a shine to my sister's English accent and blue eyes, had showed us how to bang a starter motor back into life with a hammer, and we'd used that new found skill on more occasions than I care to remember for the rest of the trip. It seems strange to me nowadays, looking back, how strong our belief in everything turning out alright had been. Somehow, we always knew - or convinced our young selves that it was so - that wherever we were - middle of nowhere, holding up traffic after stalling at traffic lights on Sydney Harbour Bridge - we'd manage to get that old bus started again. And we always did. For that year, we acted first and feared later.<br />
<br />
I'd not yet learnt to drive during those long-gone months of adventure. As the Kombi putt-putted into the Outback, I'd either be sleeping in the back or sprawled in the passenger seat reading 'Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance' or 'The Fountainhead', listening to one of our collection of three cassettes we'd bought from Target before departure - The Sundays' 'Reading, Writing and Arithmetic', The Smiths' 'Louder Than Bombs' and James Taylor's 'Greatest Hits'.<br />
<br />
When I arrived back in the UK in 1992, it took me a few more years to get round to taking my driving test. Spurred on by the memories of that Australia road-trip, I eventually passed in 1996 and bought my first vehicle - a split-screen yellow VW bus - for £1800 from a bloke in Boston. On its last legs since Day One, I drove that bus everyday for the next two years, knowing that I'd break down more often than just now and again, but not really giving a toss. Although the Sound Of Fire was never far away, in the area of just getting on with it, the cloud wall was almost non-existent. If it had been, I guess I would have never given up everything in 1998 and fucked off to Africa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUffkqDjZOCIizIXvE24T_ofspNFhMKcF8nP8MEFdGQebxhE_uOp2IL2KTrKzLf3CLzV8bgA3dlsFdwVKjDuU5y_o_phtJzDKLNzKyvn9zbKktW9eMKbLhLkiF-48VUyZAl619dwJXC0/s1600/img040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUffkqDjZOCIizIXvE24T_ofspNFhMKcF8nP8MEFdGQebxhE_uOp2IL2KTrKzLf3CLzV8bgA3dlsFdwVKjDuU5y_o_phtJzDKLNzKyvn9zbKktW9eMKbLhLkiF-48VUyZAl619dwJXC0/s1600/img040.jpg" height="261" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In recent weeks, it's a VW bus that has become the mascot of my own cloud wall - the benign symbol of everything that's wrong.<br />
<br />
After my original bus rotted away, I chopped her in as part-payment on a 1967 Splitty - the same age as me. But when, after a lengthy restoration, I eventually drove her home, things had changed. My circumstances had changed. I had changed.<br />
<br />
I was now thirtysomething. Married. Two small children. Mortgage. Most of the stuff I'd always wanted. Some of the stuff I'd never wanted but had got anyway. And without me noticing, the cloud wall had crept in, insidiously encroaching waves, surrounding my life, keeping me 'safe'.<br />
<br />
The bus was a totem of how things had changed. For the last 8 years, this amazing piece of iconic styling and minimalist engineering has done less than 1000 kms each year - less than I'd do in a month in my old wagon. And when I sit back and ponder the reasons why, the answer is simple - fear. Fear that on a long journey, I'll break down (all that waiting around and inconvenience, you know, when I've things to do!) Fear that using this bus on a day-to-day basis will only encourage rust and cause so much wear and tear that its extortionate value will decrease (but what of it's real value? It's value to me, not it's nominal monetary value. Protectively cocooned, but hardly used, it's real value to me is a tiny fraction of what it could be.) Fear that if I leave it parked on the roadside, some knob will nick it or scratch the paintwork.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryqcrBOApqUCZKAO7xIOAEyyoK4SmS5LhqaM6Ckvhi4Py3JJYuq_qic5jCWJ91sYr0kMIAv1JZrRSPdTT9dZGmxpL4DiH_FU_EhlGYVD85IFQGjqkmbaQmu3729K2ADkh09vc12VIdxA/s1600/greenbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryqcrBOApqUCZKAO7xIOAEyyoK4SmS5LhqaM6Ckvhi4Py3JJYuq_qic5jCWJ91sYr0kMIAv1JZrRSPdTT9dZGmxpL4DiH_FU_EhlGYVD85IFQGjqkmbaQmu3729K2ADkh09vc12VIdxA/s1600/greenbow.jpg" height="261" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
So, it sits in the garage, loved but hardly enjoyed, like an expensive ornament or a wedding dress. That's just not on.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I've been reading through old <a href="http://www.bumfuzzle.com/adventures/">Bumfuzzle</a> posts recently. Check out the site - they're cool folks. People like this have no cloud wall surrounding them. But it never just disappears of its own accord. Rather, by making brave and bold and life-changing decisions, by living more consciously, more mindfully, not just going through the motions, some folks are able to burst through the hazy barrier that encloses most of our lives and experience living for how it really should be.<br />
<br />
I'll be the first to admit that my life's pretty good. I've people who love me, I've people I love, I can do many of the things I want to do. But, still, there's something limiting me. There's a direction in which I must travel if ever I'm to find whatever it is I'm looking for. It's the cloud wall that stops me.<br />
<br />
I'm no fool. I know it's rarely true that the grass is greener on the other side. I know running away is not the answer. And I've no misconceptions that what lies on the other side is a life that's just -well- better. I know that.<br />
<br />
In my imagination, beyond the cloud wall is light. A bright, bright light that, at the moment, is being obscured.<br />
<br />
Break through the clouds - make the changes I need to make, travel in the direction I need to go, face the fears that prevent me from really living - and the light will come through, sunstreaming in glowing shafts through stormy clouds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAh6dYEMYv4C9eWtOxOr-RpnzCcNi3fmRYNtJpyygKBSipOJQ3ax0K3CN1fn88LWM-ZSD4PAqmjjSA3dmMxDui_w5kjJyCYyicMIjOVWuvhtvrkFz-pfBO5RFFpGfnuwX2mIx7o9S1pQ/s1600/sun-shining-through-the-clouds-1920x1080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAh6dYEMYv4C9eWtOxOr-RpnzCcNi3fmRYNtJpyygKBSipOJQ3ax0K3CN1fn88LWM-ZSD4PAqmjjSA3dmMxDui_w5kjJyCYyicMIjOVWuvhtvrkFz-pfBO5RFFpGfnuwX2mIx7o9S1pQ/s1600/sun-shining-through-the-clouds-1920x1080.jpg" height="225" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
And maybe, just maybe, under this light, what I have here, right now, will be illuminated so brilliantly that I'll be staggered by its beauty.</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
<div abp="704">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="633">
<div abp="710">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="634">
<div abp="712">
<br /></div>
</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-34803403399186001782014-06-07T13:35:00.000-07:002014-06-08T04:49:58.747-07:00BeginningMiddleEnd<div abp="3838">
<div abp="1129" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="1130" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f1HHBrowoyVfOqQIjMO3jnV9_hmDDszJMwEj2ukYWaLgKDefPy_rQTPPSn7VQETCrqMLlw6xyPTIe1QdTxf8Z62ZMiV-kivUXjvFfW-1BfvXkjZzvZ-1TSROjiZifB8WUWanwwmLoMo/s1600/beverley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="1131" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f1HHBrowoyVfOqQIjMO3jnV9_hmDDszJMwEj2ukYWaLgKDefPy_rQTPPSn7VQETCrqMLlw6xyPTIe1QdTxf8Z62ZMiV-kivUXjvFfW-1BfvXkjZzvZ-1TSROjiZifB8WUWanwwmLoMo/s1600/beverley.jpg" height="229" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="604">
</div>
<div abp="604">
</div>
<div abp="604">
</div>
<div abp="604">
</div>
<div abp="604">
</div>
<div abp="604">
<br />
<br />
<b abp="800"><u abp="801">Beginning</u></b></div>
<div abp="605">
<br /></div>
<div abp="606">
It all started so promisingly, I seem to remember. The Art Of Empty Miling. But where did it all go wrong?</div>
<div abp="607">
<br /></div>
<div abp="608">
<br /></div>
<div abp="609">
<br /></div>
<div abp="610">
<br /></div>
<div abp="611">
<b abp="802"><u abp="803">Middle</u></b></div>
<div abp="612">
<br /></div>
<div abp="613">
Take four scenes:</div>
<div abp="614">
<br /></div>
<div abp="615">
1. The phone rings. It's Sunday morning. I look at the clock on the little table by the bed. 7.50. Tam gets up and runs downstairs muttering something like, 'Who's this ringing at this time?'</div>
<div abp="616">
<br /></div>
<div abp="617">
I hear her voice as she talks on the landline, making her way back up to the bedroom. I gather it's Our Kid she's talking to. There's no other reason he'd call this early except to pass on bad news.</div>
<div abp="618">
<br /></div>
<div abp="619">
When Tam's finished talking, she lays the phone on the duvet and looks over at me. I'm waiting for it.</div>
<div abp="620">
<br /></div>
<div abp="621">
'It's your Mum, Chris. She's had a heart attack. They're taking her to Lincoln.'</div>
<div abp="622">
<br /></div>
<div abp="623">
Twenty minutes later, we're on our way out the house. We'll drop the superheroes off at Nanny and Grandad's, and get straight to the hospital. Tam double-takes as I come down the stairs clutching a tee-shirt, shorts and a pair of running shoes.</div>
<div abp="624">
<br /></div>
<div abp="625">
'What you doing?' she says.</div>
<div abp="626">
<br /></div>
<div abp="627">
'Just taking my running stuff,' I tell her. <i abp="804">We could be there all day</i>, I think. <i abp="805">May as well take my gear. If there's no time while we're waiting, I could always get Tam to drop me off somewhere and I'll run home. Whatever, I could do with getting a run in sometime.</i></div>
<div abp="628">
<br /></div>
<div abp="629">
Tam rolls her eyes. 'You were out all bloody day yesterday, Chris,' she says, 'Your Mum's in hospital!'</div>
<div abp="630">
<br /></div>
<div abp="631">
As we're approaching Lincoln an hour later, a worst-case scenario passes through my head. It seems unreal, but it's a possibility. <i abp="806">What if - just what if - we get to the hospital and we're ushered aside by a</i> <i abp="807">nurse with unthinkable news</i>. I think back to the last time I saw my Dad alive. Kissing him goodbye - the first time I'd ever kissed him. Telling him I loved him - the first time I'd ever done that too. Driving home to the flat in Boston, Our Kid behind the wheel and the Sasha remix of M People's 'How Can I Love You More?' on the stereo.</div>
<div abp="632">
<br /></div>
<div abp="633">
I glance down at the running gear by my feet in the passenger footwell, and wonder how my priorities have gotten so skewed.</div>
<div abp="634">
<br /></div>
<div abp="635">
It turns out Mum's ok. A blockage in an artery caused a heart attack, but a stent's already been fitted. In a couple of days she'll be allowed to go home.</div>
<div abp="636">
<br /></div>
<div abp="637">
We leave the hospital mid-afternoon. Tam drops me off in Harrington and I run ten miles home.</div>
<div abp="638">
<br /></div>
<div abp="639">
<br /></div>
<div abp="640">
<br /></div>
<div abp="641">
<br /></div>
<div abp="642">
2. It's lunchtime at the factory. I open the office door and plonk myself down on the swivel chair with an exaggerated sigh of desperation.</div>
<div abp="643">
<br /></div>
<div abp="644">
Tam's in no mood for giving sympathy today.</div>
<div abp="645">
<br /></div>
<div abp="646">
'What's up with you?' she says. </div>
<div abp="647">
<br /></div>
<div abp="648">
'I'm fucked,' I tell her.</div>
<div abp="649">
<br /></div>
<div abp="650">
In the course of three or four weeks, the workload at the factory has gone mad. The summer season is on us, a staff member's got a job round the corner, and I've moved from doing not a lot for 24 hours a week to full-on grafting for between 40 and 50 hours. On top of 100 mile running weeks, I'm totally spent.</div>
<div abp="651">
<br /></div>
<div abp="652">
'All that bloody running you're doing,' Tam says.</div>
<div abp="653">
<br /></div>
<div abp="654">
'All the working I'm doing,' I tell her.</div>
<div abp="655">
<br /></div>
<div abp="656">
'You need to get things in perspective,' she goes on, totally ignoring what I've said. 'You're your own worst enemy. I know you're training for this race, but you keep on adding other stuff on top. First it's that <i abp="808">'I'm going to run every day for a year</i>.' Then it's that, <i abp="809">'I'm going to do a full Blarney'</i>. 100 miles every week for 10 weeks? Bloody stupid. No wonder you're tired. You need to listen to your body.'</div>
<div abp="657">
<br /></div>
<div abp="658">
I make some weak attempt at arguing back, but really can't be arsed.</div>
<div abp="659">
<br /></div>
<div abp="660">
I eat my lunch in silence and go back to work well before the half-hour's up, just to get out of the way.</div>
<div abp="661">
<br /></div>
<div abp="662">
My mood's no better by the time I get home. After a few barbed exchanges, I get out the door for my second run of the day when I'd much rather be taking a nap on the sofa.</div>
<div abp="663">
<br /></div>
<div abp="664">
Surprisingly, after 3 or 4 miles, I've run the fatigue from my legs and I'm looking forward to the next hour before I arrive back. It's then that I think of the superheroes.<i abp="810"> Is this the first time I've ever come</i> <i abp="811">home and said not one word to them?</i> So caught up in this running fiasco, it was as if I'd forgotten they were there. Then I remember it was Lightning's first day of school exams. I imagine how he would have been waiting for Dad to come home just to ask if he'd done ok. Instead all that mattered were myself and my miles.</div>
<div abp="665">
<br /></div>
<div abp="666">
I stop for a moment. Literally stand still for a few seconds. <i abp="812">'What am I becoming?'</i> I think. I don't hang around for an answer, however. I still have another 7 miles to do.</div>
<div abp="667">
<br /></div>
<div abp="668">
<br /></div>
<div abp="669">
<br /></div>
<div abp="670">
<br /></div>
<div abp="671">
3. It's more like an October morning than one in mid-May. The mizzle hangs low over the road ahead, the wind blowing the fine rain against the flimsy fabric of my running jacket, causing it to stick to the sodden tee-shirt underneath. I'm wet through. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm half-way through a dawn 12 miler.</div>
<div abp="672">
<br /></div>
<div abp="673">
The unmistakable sound of an engine ahead automatically steers me to the edge of the narrow country lane. I look forward and see an orange sports car tearing towards me. For a second, I'm tempted.<i abp="813"> Take two steps to the left, Chris. Just stand still. And pretty soon your run will be over.</i></div>
<div abp="674">
<br /></div>
<div abp="675">
Back at the office sometime later, I'm eating my breakfast. A hot shower has restored my spirits. I can't help though but think of the morning's run. I put my thoughts down to the 'urge to jump'. I'd talked to Tammy about whilst we were on holiday at Christmas. I'd been unable to lean on the railings on a cliff-side walkway. It hadn't been a fear of heights that had freaked me out when glancing down at the hundred foot drop to the rocks and the crashing waves beneath, it was that little something inside my head that told me, <i abp="814">'Go on then - jump!</i>' The same little something that made me uneasy on balconies, caused me to stand well away from the track at railway stations and tempted me to pull on the handbrake when driving in the fast lane of the motorway. I'd done some <a abp="816" href="http://bodyodd.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/03/13/10657767-that-weird-urge-to-jump-off-a-bridge-explained?lite">research</a> on the phenomenon on my return home and found it was fairly common. It's origins are hazy, but it appears it's unrelated to a true desire to end it all.</div>
<div abp="676">
<br /></div>
<div abp="677">
But as I think of this morning's run, this knowledge is cold comfort. For the fact is, at the moment that car approached, I would have given anything for that run to end, rather than continue.<i abp="818"> How on earth has an activity I've loved for so long become so stale?</i></div>
<div abp="678">
<br /></div>
<div abp="679">
<br /></div>
<div abp="680">
<br /></div>
<div abp="681">
<br /></div>
<div abp="682">
4. It's half-past 6 and the evening's getting away from me. It was nearly two hours ago when I'd made to get off from work and get my mid-week long run in. Just about the same time as a couple of old customers decided to drop by to stock up on some colouring boards for the forthcoming Bank Holiday. After half an hour of pleasantries, I'd left them to scour the shelves and put together an order for themselves whilst I slunk off to the office, my temperature rising, my core becoming more agitated. To hit 110 by the end of the week - my target for week 4 of The Blarney, I'd need to do at least 15 tonight. At this rate, I won't be home till 8. I hadn't even had time for tea. Hungry, wound-up, pissed-off, I sit in front of the computer and check my e-mails.</div>
<div abp="683">
<br /></div>
<div abp="684">
Nothing new, but a recent one entitled 'Game Changers' nudged at me. Since Christmas, Cainey, Our Kid and I had been on this 'game changer' kick. We'd take it in turns to nominate a person who we thought had really made an impact on their chosen field - had 'changed the game' - and the remaining two would, after some research either accept or reject the nomination. Any person receiving a majority vote made the list, that would grow as the year progressed.</div>
<div abp="685">
<br /></div>
<div abp="686">
I'd really enjoyed our little game, and through it had come across some staggeringly inspiring people. Cainey's last nomination, however, had left me cold. Jill Taylor Bolte. When I'd initially received his e-mail, a quick Wiki search had enabled me to suss that she was some sort of brain scientist. That was enough to totally put me off. I'd kept putting off any further research - just wasn't inspired - but now I figure it's a good time to get stuck in and at least use this time stuck at work to do something mildly productive.</div>
<div abp="687">
<br /></div>
<div abp="688">
An hour passes. I'm knocked for six.</div>
<div abp="689">
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
A connection has been made. I now know what to do. I now know what's gone wrong. I now have a vision of how to put it right.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<b abp="819"><u>End</u></b><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Jill Bolte Taylor is an American neuroscientist. She studies people's brains. Her <a abp="979" href="http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight">TED talk</a>, A Stroke Of Insight, is just over 18 minutes long, and with 15 million views is the 2nd most widely viewed TED talk of all-time. If you are at a loose end for just over 18 minutes sometime soon, may I suggest you take a look?<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
If you think, 'That's just not for me' (just like I did), or just can't be arsed, I'll cover the main points for you.</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Jill Bolte Taylor starts with an examination of the human brain and the fact that it is clearly divided into two hemispheres. The right hemisphere works as a parallel processor, whilst the left works as a serial processor. Thus, the two hemispheres think about different things, care about different things. They process information differently, and therefore have different 'personalities'.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Taylor goes on to describe the two hemispheres. Hers is not the stilted language of a scientist, however. It is obvious she has been somewhere most of us haven't. (Her language reminds me of the feeling I had for three weeks recently whilst reading Mark Helprin's 'Winter's Tale'. The feeling I have when listening to The Waterboys' 'The Whole Of The Moon' - this feeling of the interconnectedness of everything - something that I can appreciate in theory, but, up till now, has escaped me in reality.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
On the right hemisphere:<br />
</div>
<div abp="690">
'<i abp="820"> (This) thinks in pictures and it learns kinaesthetically through the movement of our bodies. Information in the form of energy streams in simultaneously through all of our sensory systems, and then explodes into this enormous collage of what the present moment looks like, what it smells like, tastes like, feels like and what it sounds like.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
<i>I am an energy being connected to all the energy around me by the consciousness of my right hemisphere. We are energy beings connected to one another through the consciousness of our right hemispheres as one human family. And - right here, right now - we are brothers and sisters on this planet, here to make the world a better place. And, in this moment, we are whole and we are beautiful.'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
On the left hemisphere:<br />
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
'(<i abp="821">This) thinks linearly and methodically. It's all about the past and it's all about the future. The left hemisphere is designed to take that enormous collage of the present moment and start picking out details, details and more details about these details. It then categories and organises that information, associates it with everything in the past we've ever learned, and projects into the future all our possibilities.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
<i>The left hemisphere thinks in language. It's that ongoing brain chatter that connects me and my internal world to my external world. It's that little voice that says to me, 'Don't forget to pick up groceries on the way home.' It's that calculating intelligence that reminds me when I have to do my laundry. But, most importantly, it's that little voice that says to me, 'I am. I am.' And as soon as my left hemisphere says to me, 'I am,' I become separate. I become a single individual separate from the energy flow around me, and separate from you.'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
On the morning of December 10th 1996, Jill Bolte Taylor, aged 37, suffered a massive stroke. Although she made a remarkable recovery over the course of the next 8 years, it was to change her perception and her life totally.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Conscious and calm throughout the initial stages, she, as a brain expert, figured out that her left hemisphere was shutting down. Rather than panic, she remembered thinking, <i abp="822">'How many brain scientists have the opportunity to study their own brain from the inside out?'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
The events that followed form the emotional crux of her TED talk.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i abp="823">'As I lost my left hemisphere, I experienced a totally silent mind. I was captivated by the magnificence of the energy around me. Because I could no longer identify the boundaries of my body, I felt enormous and expansive. I felt at one with all the energy that was, and it was beautiful there. Imagine what it would be like to be disconnected from your brain chatter that connects you to the outside world. Imagine what it would be like to loose 37 years of emotional baggage. All my stress was gone, and I felt lighter in my own body. I felt a sense of peacefulness. I felt euphoria.'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Somehow managing to call an ambulance, she remembers curling up into a foetal ball and letting go, surrendering to the 'transition'. But it wasn't her time. On waking, she says:<br />
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i abp="824">'I could not identify the position of my body in space. I felt...like a genie just liberated from her bottle, and my spirit soared free, like a great whale gliding through a sea of silent euphoria.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i>And I thought, 'I'm still alive, and I have found Nirvana. And if I'm alive and I have found Nirvana, then anyone who's alive can find Nirvana. And I pictured a world filled with beautiful, peaceful, compassionate people who knew they could come to this space anytime, and that they could purposefully choose to step to the right of their left hemispheres and find this peace.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i>I realised what a tremendous gift - a stroke of insight - this could be for how we lived our lives, and it motivated me to recover.'</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Her final words are the most important:<br />
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i abp="825">'We have the power to choose, moment by moment, who or what we want to be in the world - right here, right now. I can step into the consciousness of my right hemisphere, where we are, I am the life power of the universe. Or I can choose to step into the consciousness of the left hemisphere where I become a single individual, a solid - separate from the flow, separate from you.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i>These are the 'we' inside of me. Which would you choose? Which do you choose? And when?</i></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i>I believe the more time we spend choosing to run the deep inner peace circuitry of the right hemisphere, the more peace we will project into the world, and the more peaceful our planet will be.</i></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
<i>And I thought that this was an idea worth spreading.'</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Jill Bolte Taylor's words had a devastating effect on me. To say that in the last two weeks, I've felt the stirrings of a spiritual awakening sounds clichéd and ridiculous. Nonetheless, it's true.<br />
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
What I'm experiencing affects the whole of my life, of which running is just a facet. However, since this blog is a running one, or has been up to this point in time, it's my relationship with running that I shall consider first.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Having been right in the first place, my running in recent times has gravitated away from Empty Miling and towards the false concept that we now universally acknowledge as 'running'. Always up for self-experimentation, at the back end of last year, in a post entitled <a abp="923" href="http://salebyjoggingcentre.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/acts-of-erosion.html">'Acts Of Erosion'</a>, I outlined my intention to examine the fine distinction between running as work or play. Blown away by the legendary preparations of Kyle Skaggs and Pam Smith, I wanted to know what it must be like to spend months working towards one goal. I chose a race, and for the last few months I've been obsessively training with a single objective. Although I'm still a few weeks from the end of this trip, it's taught me many lessons, the most important of which is that I'll never do this again.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
I don't break promises. I shall run my race, but after hearing Jill Bolte Taylor's words, never have I been so convinced of the power, and the truth, of my 'empty miles'.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
By gearing my running around a future performance, my daily miles had moved from a valuable right hemisphere-based activity - the value of which was simply the here and now, the union between myself and my surroundings - to a left hemisphere-based act of drudgery, constantly accompanied by the internal commentary of what I should be doing for that all-important, up and coming race.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Think back to the four scenes I described earlier. That's just not fucking right. Is it?<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
In the two weeks since I watched that talk I've continued to run many miles, but my perception of them has changed. And - just like that - with a change in perception, my running has become enjoyable again.</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
After this race is done, my running will be unshackled by the constraints of 'performance' or future events. My miles will be entirely empty. None of them will be run with a goal in mind. My movement will be daily meditation.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
Bullshit? You may think so. But ask yourself a question. When someone asks you, that next time, 'What are you running for?', rather than gushing out the same old, same old like, <i abp="826">'I'd like to break 3</i> <i abp="827">hours for a marathon'</i>, <i abp="828">'I want to beat my 10k PB'</i>, or <i>'I'm after coming in the top 3 in my next ultra'</i>, wouldn't it be great - liberating - just to say, <i abp="829">'It just makes me happy</i>.'</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="690">
</div>
<div abp="692">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="693">
There's this feeling I keep writing about. It's been with me all my life. The Sound Of Fire. Keep On Burning. Call it what you will. This deep-seated restlessness that pushes me onto the next thing. (That pushes me onto the next thing - that future goal which is bound to make me happier, right? - but detracts me from fully experiencing what I'm doing right now.) I've spoken about it before in positive terms. This force that drives me to ask questions, to seek endlessly, seemingly confident in the fact that an end result at some point is bound to bring satisfaction. To bring contentment - a word I've previously scorned, but now know is my ultimate goal. Love is contentment. And contentment is Nirvana.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="703">
There's no escaping it. I hold my hands up. All along, I've been wrong.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="706">
I've wasted the precious moments of my life too caught up in the thoughts of the past and the hopes for the future. I need to kill Keep On Burning if I'm really to live. For Keep On Burning is just left-brain chatter, white noise drowning out constantly what is real. What is now.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="709">
I've never been truly happy. It's only now that I realise that this is not because my life doesn't contain all the ingredients for happiness, for it does. No, it's because, for any time longer than snatched fragments, I've never been able to silence that inner voice that's always pushing me on.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="712">
A future achievement would always make life better. That's what it said. And so I wasted my teenage years studying obsessively for the highest exam results. And so I wasted my 20's and 30's working the longest hours I could. And yet, once I'd arrived at the destination, things were always the same.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="715">
My return to running after a break of several years was with the best intentions. Empty Miles. Some time each day when I'd feel stillness, when that voice would go away. Until I fucked that up too, and the voice started guiding my running away from what I deep-down knew it should be into something more in line with this crazy society, warped out of shape by 'competition', where foregoing the present in favour of the future is drummed into us from nursery school.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="718">
I look at Tammy and the superheroes, and see their happiness. I've got the same things as them. Why can't I feel it in the same way?<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="721">
The voice has been with me for as long as I remember. I guess it's a sad reflection of my priorities that only when it began to impinge on my enjoyment of running did I truly realise that it was time to make a change.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="724">
I knew something was wrong. In honesty, I've probably known for a long time. And it was Jill Bolte Taylor's words that finally- in an almost revelatory fashion - made me decide to do something about it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="730">
That word - 'journey'. It's a word that makes me cringe when other people use it, but one that I use all the time. In this particular case, I can think of no other word to adequately describes what I now face.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="733">
With this public admission, I embark upon the most important and difficult trip of my life. A journey in search of the present moment. A step to the right. I have little idea of how to get there as yet, although that uncertainty is part of the indescribable pull. Google searches over the last couple of weeks have included: Eckhart Tolle, Buddhism, the Findhorn community, Russell Brand, Tommy Franklin, David Cain, Sri Chinmoy, transcendental meditation, soul surfing, slacklining, yoga and loads of other stuff that offer me just the merest of clues. The information I've gleaned has enabled me to take the initial steps I need to.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="736">
Phrases from unlikely sources have also pointed my direction of travel:</div>
<div abp="737">
- Jeremy Vine stating on his Radio 2 show that should he ever address students about to embark on life after university, his advice would just be two words, <i abp="830">'Seize Love'.</i></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="739">
- a caller to a 5 Live phone-in after the death of Stephen Sutton who outlined her 'meaning of life' as simply, <i abp="831">'Do as much good as you can. Have as much fun as you can</i>.'</div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="741">
- the lyrics from Duke Dumont's new song, <i abp="832">'Ask me what I did with my life. I spent it with you.</i>'<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="744">
And running? I've a feeling that running - Empty Miling - might play an important role in the years to come. But I could be wrong. It will either fit or it won't. If it doesn't, it's something I'll gladly give away.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3838">
</div>
<div abp="3838">
<div abp="747">
After all, for one journey to start, the previous one has to end.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="747">
</div>
<div abp="747">
</div>
<div abp="747">
</div>
<div abp="747">
</div>
<div abp="747">
<b abp="833"><u>Beginning</u></b> </div>
</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-84820831020175572982014-05-05T04:45:00.002-07:002014-05-05T04:45:42.792-07:00A Jog Around A Hill: The Kinder Killer<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3rDT4bXsHat6VW2kTa0_eA9y089qCYBq0aJhV-Yy7iExzh2CgvU-b02mKUKL4li6Wi_uTA-YASUPdqm_qI_cQC2d-ndtSdWIBei1QDPnyKWXHtXKFmhqgLEuigez7p1r7dIWd8BB7uE/s1600/037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3rDT4bXsHat6VW2kTa0_eA9y089qCYBq0aJhV-Yy7iExzh2CgvU-b02mKUKL4li6Wi_uTA-YASUPdqm_qI_cQC2d-ndtSdWIBei1QDPnyKWXHtXKFmhqgLEuigez7p1r7dIWd8BB7uE/s1600/037.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Whilst undeniably majestic, over the last couple of years, the Lake District appears to have been demoted to a distant second as my favourite away-day playground for long days in the hills. Instead, the Peak District has increasingly become my preferred location.<br />
<br />
The distance of the drive to Cumbria from Saleby (anywhere between 4 and 5 hours) means a visit to the Lakes is only justifiable if the length of stay is a weekend or longer. The drive to the Peaks, however (2 - 2 1/2 hours), means it's still accessible as a hit-and-run one dayer.<br />
<br />
I've come to know the Vale of Edale and its surrounding hills fairly well. Runs on the Pennine Way and recees of race routes such as the High Peak Marathon, the Edale Skyline and the Ultra-Tour of the Peak District have acquainted me with the true pleasures of the High Peak - an area very different in character to the Lakes, but equally rewarding in terms of challenging and satisfying long journeys on foot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The village of Edale - the starting point for a good number of my days out - is overlooked on the southern side by the Great Ridge, an imposing geological slice that runs from Lose Hill, through Mam Tor and onto the furthest reaches of Rushup Edge. On the northern side, it is the equally impressive Kinder Scout that casts its shadow on this quaint Derbyshire village.<br />
<br />
A vast and wild upland moorland plateau, Kinder Scout is a rare beast, by turns both exhilarating and terrifying, beautiful and impossibly bleak. Get lost in mist on that mighty plateau, I always imagine, and there's a chance you'll never be seen again.<br />
<br />
The website<a href="http://www.peakdistrictinformation.com/"> www.peakdistrictinformation.com</a> provides a good overview of what Kinder is all about:<br />
<br />
<i>Kinder Scout is a high windswept upland gritstone plateau, most of which
stands at around 600 metres above sea level. The highest point is
Crowden Head, which at 631 metres is also the highest point in the Peak
District. This is the largest and grandest of the great upland areas of
the so-called 'Dark Peak' and it forms an imposing and fascinating area.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The Kinder plateau rises steeply from the surrounding ground and the
edges are studded with rocky outcrops and crags. At the western side the
Kinder River flows straight off the edge of the plateau in a
spectacular waterfall, Kinder Downfall, but this is just the largest of
a whole series of crags. The northern edge of the plateau is a long
series of rocks and there are several crags on the southern edge too. To
the east the level of the plateau gradually lowers and tapers to a
narrow neck of high land at Hope Cross which connects Kinder to Win Hill.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The edge of the plateau is scored by deep cloughs or river valleys - on
the west side the Kinder River and William Clough lead down to Hayfield,
on the north side the Ashop and Fairbrook streams and on the south side
the various branches of the River Noe - Crowden Brook, Grindsbrook,
Lady Booth Brook and Jaggers Clough</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Kinder is most popularly approached by walkers either from Edale
village, up Grindsbrook, or via Jacob's Ladder and on to Kinder Low, or
from Hayfield up William Clough and on to the north-west corner of the
plateau. In general the eastern and northern parts of the plateau are
less accessible and therefore less busy. A circuit of the whole plateau
is a long day by any standards but a very enjoyable outing.</i>'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
During last summer, I grew increasingly fascinated by various long distance routes regularly attempted by the Peak area's fell runners, most noticeably those aligned with the Dark Peak mob. Challenges such as 'The 15 Trigs' and 'The 3 County Tops' checked onto my mental 'must have a go at sometime' list. However, two routes in particular really appealed to me. Devised by Ken Jones, 'The Kinder Dozen' and 'The Kinder Killer' were long distance journeys entirely based around this one hill. A relatively short, but impressively brutal route, The Kinder Dozen involves climbing and descending the Scout twelve times, each ascent and descent taking a different line to or from the top. At 33miles / 9000 feet, The Kinder Killer involves circling the Scout by ascending and descending the summit plateau seven times. Whilst I intend to both both routes in forthcoming weeks, it was The Kinder Killer that I decided to tackle first.<br />
<br />
The route details of The Kinder Killer can be found here: <a href="http://forum.fellrunner.org.uk/showthread.php?1193-Kinder-Killer">http://forum.fellrunner.org.uk/showthread.php?1193-Kinder-Killer</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
True to this year's spirit of just getting out and doing stuff on the spur of the moment and with just the most rudimentary necessary preparation, I'd decided a few days ago to give it a whirl on the forthcoming Saturday. A quick check on the weather promised a warm, sunny day with excellent visibility. We were on.<br />
<br />
I'll not bore you with a blow-by-blow account of how it went, but I will tell you that I arrived in Edale just under 8 hours after setting out, feeling strong though suitably knackered, having enjoyed<i> one of those days</i>.<br />
<br />
On the drive home, I couldn't help but think of a post on a walking forum I'd read the night before on the subject of The Kinder Killer:<br />
<br />
'<i>I know a couple of forum members that have had a go at walking it and given up, not so much from fatigue, but just through a building lack of enthusiasm to putting the energy into completing it.</i><br />
<i>It's (apparently) just a soul-destroying route, and not much fun as a walking challenge.'</i><br />
<br />
Don't believe it for a second. With its breathtakingly beautiful lonely cloughs, a sketchy scramble from beneath the Downfall, stupendous views across the Vale of Edale, Ashop Moor and further afield to Glossop and Manchester, a wonderful traffic-free trot along the largely-ignored northern edge and a final gruelling, hands-on-knees climb to the summit of Grindsbrook Knoll, The Kinder Killer is the exact opposite of 'soul-destroying' and is heartily recommended. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwtjqDP-YvRW-bvhVyHbN3o8l11gt7vkclBAaG_stzksrWU-wmn4y1oUlAfmzph6RQNVw5fy8DmMN1OTeFawD-ezDG_RAXI3BAFYzvSbIxN2R5lbGrkQxDTg_chGuG9iuzcjt-X_-dE4/s1600/018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwtjqDP-YvRW-bvhVyHbN3o8l11gt7vkclBAaG_stzksrWU-wmn4y1oUlAfmzph6RQNVw5fy8DmMN1OTeFawD-ezDG_RAXI3BAFYzvSbIxN2R5lbGrkQxDTg_chGuG9iuzcjt-X_-dE4/s1600/018.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Looking down on Edale at the start of the first climb.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eutnT-rVP81Bv1l6ouwjy0mA3g7lyvDMV2rkOYpar6m6dCoDzEwylPzOgLAEXl-IRbkxbCRWhoBKFdji4mq4E_1fa7YSb6dMW2nstfDk8qeHK16bSwGzDMRg_Z4vAjRx93PfejwZwKQ/s1600/019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2eutnT-rVP81Bv1l6ouwjy0mA3g7lyvDMV2rkOYpar6m6dCoDzEwylPzOgLAEXl-IRbkxbCRWhoBKFdji4mq4E_1fa7YSb6dMW2nstfDk8qeHK16bSwGzDMRg_Z4vAjRx93PfejwZwKQ/s1600/019.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
A gorgeous day for active travel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQS5vci9xIKfuV0WCY8C9UsGd-POnAcztrC3JBoT5jSBf_CbyMNSqFuQ7dspnXmZNyCn6_FRyIKdXyryeSj4RtTQRPp8x3JKEAxfa_XuTIut26jS4fZzYBvrYVbtKE5gymHgDc8pQXPJg/s1600/020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQS5vci9xIKfuV0WCY8C9UsGd-POnAcztrC3JBoT5jSBf_CbyMNSqFuQ7dspnXmZNyCn6_FRyIKdXyryeSj4RtTQRPp8x3JKEAxfa_XuTIut26jS4fZzYBvrYVbtKE5gymHgDc8pQXPJg/s1600/020.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Take the path to the Druid's Stone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCpG9Uca-_lr4VT64lwN3pRQagX-btYZjzOgufVx_HAl69RV1K1E7Z_IHJr92yx5Jq0vG41qU5NJDNuXFVjS54u682wvWgF4ZR039kLYhdUM917Stu_0J2ChgFKvD2N5Zap63-Lbti28/s1600/021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCpG9Uca-_lr4VT64lwN3pRQagX-btYZjzOgufVx_HAl69RV1K1E7Z_IHJr92yx5Jq0vG41qU5NJDNuXFVjS54u682wvWgF4ZR039kLYhdUM917Stu_0J2ChgFKvD2N5Zap63-Lbti28/s1600/021.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Descend on faint trods to Lady Booth Brook.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFk9gCegMsOGg_FKWxcsVEk8fjlU50sWZ0gCrlG5DPL80t06x5kq7ev0yX3dREQod1JR6oFAHyW_8o4L7xWxtqRsWOh5gPSsUpp0nXgNojCThrF8ZqH5faoVaZJ7tJbK2ssob2uRkOPU/s1600/023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFk9gCegMsOGg_FKWxcsVEk8fjlU50sWZ0gCrlG5DPL80t06x5kq7ev0yX3dREQod1JR6oFAHyW_8o4L7xWxtqRsWOh5gPSsUpp0nXgNojCThrF8ZqH5faoVaZJ7tJbK2ssob2uRkOPU/s1600/023.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Next up - the climb up Jaggers Clough.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4glyOWI9K48dfPMLT5LRdbLrjfwa5KusttqwhDqaMTD-mA3gOC4_wHgCG2OaN1wLoubsMRSVH0BiETKsOfa7xCXRXBNl9iwZZFz0qxQqQc_hh72EaqT43of6eTWDgb7InBTbS4HA_cfE/s1600/024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4glyOWI9K48dfPMLT5LRdbLrjfwa5KusttqwhDqaMTD-mA3gOC4_wHgCG2OaN1wLoubsMRSVH0BiETKsOfa7xCXRXBNl9iwZZFz0qxQqQc_hh72EaqT43of6eTWDgb7InBTbS4HA_cfE/s1600/024.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Away from the crowds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38lVW0i8ZHip1rYYleKxeV1Ay1toskwCgtnxDnlY2NTrCA5Sub3QvxhwP88NVMF5RcXHgQoCFpJJLSTil_UyKerBm7JM9GTGiX8anS1eoTpGPGjwWd-EIaZlRF5X9H8RPnTa0SXOVAZ4/s1600/025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38lVW0i8ZHip1rYYleKxeV1Ay1toskwCgtnxDnlY2NTrCA5Sub3QvxhwP88NVMF5RcXHgQoCFpJJLSTil_UyKerBm7JM9GTGiX8anS1eoTpGPGjwWd-EIaZlRF5X9H8RPnTa0SXOVAZ4/s1600/025.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
A fun scramble at the top.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiq27zaRuefFAcqz8ul3HIiKvrgQUC-2Su5klUQu3WdCMQ5MPl8t9VkQtlW343BCIsCEIjFBcKfVVwfgj7NFTWcjH4NeHHa5u2tpnQj98_SDHx5RUmNqA11v5nUjwPC4nn4s8OqSYn-RA/s1600/026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiq27zaRuefFAcqz8ul3HIiKvrgQUC-2Su5klUQu3WdCMQ5MPl8t9VkQtlW343BCIsCEIjFBcKfVVwfgj7NFTWcjH4NeHHa5u2tpnQj98_SDHx5RUmNqA11v5nUjwPC4nn4s8OqSYn-RA/s1600/026.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Good running to Crookstone Hill.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWecyot9U6VYdfpZWSXygbvdF2Fadru88jRKv1GF9XdbGN12d4htZPKvbq8VJdbcIblY7sjaSBwVkG2uDDb5RSh_nVm8spWYexnyBwhQ7q1Rhx-1exb7Yqu4a1uUn3uqKRltAqsJDt1-Q/s1600/028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWecyot9U6VYdfpZWSXygbvdF2Fadru88jRKv1GF9XdbGN12d4htZPKvbq8VJdbcIblY7sjaSBwVkG2uDDb5RSh_nVm8spWYexnyBwhQ7q1Rhx-1exb7Yqu4a1uUn3uqKRltAqsJDt1-Q/s1600/028.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Climbing Blackden Clough.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2XU7FuV6MDWkGa4dNALiBVpQdUdL1IKGK15g1XM039gpK3SaZ0AzmLkTcppjPo8uclItHHYkfzjMg-TTmzMs_d_slccGPvjLYrb6mICjeQE2wtqfgVAzCyfGghgV4VDywvbNOOgxQDU/s1600/029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2XU7FuV6MDWkGa4dNALiBVpQdUdL1IKGK15g1XM039gpK3SaZ0AzmLkTcppjPo8uclItHHYkfzjMg-TTmzMs_d_slccGPvjLYrb6mICjeQE2wtqfgVAzCyfGghgV4VDywvbNOOgxQDU/s1600/029.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Summit plateau in sight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJEkawRgpoI58BjOCB4coT0_yPY6rgvqi1RlGo9umHjq7vOPuWgLXTCwoR3LzReS3jTo-vwyQQhqGE6SBA5j_SO5sz0XlwCKq4clcu3xvKh6FUAefdAOry2n_4T8ndlGkyAHcBw7enFU/s1600/030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJEkawRgpoI58BjOCB4coT0_yPY6rgvqi1RlGo9umHjq7vOPuWgLXTCwoR3LzReS3jTo-vwyQQhqGE6SBA5j_SO5sz0XlwCKq4clcu3xvKh6FUAefdAOry2n_4T8ndlGkyAHcBw7enFU/s1600/030.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Hidden treasures.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli4htGScWrBOt2iEY5yqIiiJcWcrhZIpW-hzTAP3KNz3ZSARUjBKjT7WwTf1Qo87v5X7xHdU-fVtZA70XudBh8Vl40a7VtPoC_PzKn7CkJGK_mabL98zJhWOp9rG785hbcj-iSCpK4e0/s1600/032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli4htGScWrBOt2iEY5yqIiiJcWcrhZIpW-hzTAP3KNz3ZSARUjBKjT7WwTf1Qo87v5X7xHdU-fVtZA70XudBh8Vl40a7VtPoC_PzKn7CkJGK_mabL98zJhWOp9rG785hbcj-iSCpK4e0/s1600/032.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Fascinating geology.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglI5xLVGQ25xTxKitJZIxcOm9ForwOcc2WnIPpgjsEVDMpc6mc4ad31p_6SpRf_GW1G6Ept3puObkh3648o_s0TEjHRvxtXPE0ApBX8k04orTkVtClxasnO0uhM7gh5OKEHt4uoKtM4uM/s1600/033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglI5xLVGQ25xTxKitJZIxcOm9ForwOcc2WnIPpgjsEVDMpc6mc4ad31p_6SpRf_GW1G6Ept3puObkh3648o_s0TEjHRvxtXPE0ApBX8k04orTkVtClxasnO0uhM7gh5OKEHt4uoKtM4uM/s1600/033.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The next destination,Fairbrook Naze, before the descent via Gate Side Clough.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib1-o_RynblxA3lRLumHuv94cjTx0-7bBt4aL3qYy6kg1PVvBKq0ayKRG9gneNBE-jKZCUvjabW9_3lj7MdX2VZUnCrVonraTeOzUXl8wMxyIn2WQ0VKdZIcJA_XkhEvj3JuEKfpxH2w/s1600/034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib1-o_RynblxA3lRLumHuv94cjTx0-7bBt4aL3qYy6kg1PVvBKq0ayKRG9gneNBE-jKZCUvjabW9_3lj7MdX2VZUnCrVonraTeOzUXl8wMxyIn2WQ0VKdZIcJA_XkhEvj3JuEKfpxH2w/s1600/034.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Looking back at where I've been.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCkay-tpTdaPrYs1JuJhc4h2UwIHQAB5yzBuMOkMJyvpy583jCs4JBcmybclavx6xbn9nUpSKkfiz6aGjAlqvsuGIcwPvg5vNd5XRuP_D2u5rErKIexvZ604nWq2YDzfWYWjfQiX9Bww/s1600/035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCkay-tpTdaPrYs1JuJhc4h2UwIHQAB5yzBuMOkMJyvpy583jCs4JBcmybclavx6xbn9nUpSKkfiz6aGjAlqvsuGIcwPvg5vNd5XRuP_D2u5rErKIexvZ604nWq2YDzfWYWjfQiX9Bww/s1600/035.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Criss-cross skies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEime7ZSqZOIctt4n5N09yZ2xTSlSWSopaNnRnTqF6TsqVOkFiyScjw2eVnkFe-cCHDi29p5TtcwuCcBDGQnEkii-RFWKONuBv4pP-1p-4aCUBbzFsWEbe0u4F6xGy0wFDSsRAbK9ZVgH6M/s1600/039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEime7ZSqZOIctt4n5N09yZ2xTSlSWSopaNnRnTqF6TsqVOkFiyScjw2eVnkFe-cCHDi29p5TtcwuCcBDGQnEkii-RFWKONuBv4pP-1p-4aCUBbzFsWEbe0u4F6xGy0wFDSsRAbK9ZVgH6M/s1600/039.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Ashop Moor from the northern edge.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB_gosI81rYg42HICrnjQ_JJV7stCbVFLmjgr7nHQnclOEy54_HsBB1-V0NMWnix8IfBkvhjTzz_801NAV8xGO7P3rYDJ0UxkdoJoDORjTSzTgUgqeBSZQMCYpzweWknR_QlKAZEV3QA/s1600/041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnB_gosI81rYg42HICrnjQ_JJV7stCbVFLmjgr7nHQnclOEy54_HsBB1-V0NMWnix8IfBkvhjTzz_801NAV8xGO7P3rYDJ0UxkdoJoDORjTSzTgUgqeBSZQMCYpzweWknR_QlKAZEV3QA/s1600/041.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Strange shapes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6fg54j4aS4QWP3VEPFQAmxB5xpGNgkoEEQ9Ymn45klmOkHCc4E4QZqQUAuc8aaMgiK4sM9pAAgHu61Ii1e3_sO_haD4pzHdohWg5ZntuUjZ0XPdqYi2dBHCjgVH8MZ6ZMkONvsKgW5Y/s1600/042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6fg54j4aS4QWP3VEPFQAmxB5xpGNgkoEEQ9Ymn45klmOkHCc4E4QZqQUAuc8aaMgiK4sM9pAAgHu61Ii1e3_sO_haD4pzHdohWg5ZntuUjZ0XPdqYi2dBHCjgVH8MZ6ZMkONvsKgW5Y/s1600/042.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Joining the Pennine Way near Mill Hill.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhtKGP8Us2p3DZz7ZumQRGLpVkjwjPyOGdbM9_8WEx5rBnU3Yvjh7vi8Sc6iM3l1NwI4a2OA_7ArNr8TLv4uZC6ZjLXUeKMgAJh7CGxVpwBmlITHaiayCAIJy5yC0GhCRkH5RIjnNyU0/s1600/043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhtKGP8Us2p3DZz7ZumQRGLpVkjwjPyOGdbM9_8WEx5rBnU3Yvjh7vi8Sc6iM3l1NwI4a2OA_7ArNr8TLv4uZC6ZjLXUeKMgAJh7CGxVpwBmlITHaiayCAIJy5yC0GhCRkH5RIjnNyU0/s1600/043.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Down William Clough to the Kinder reservoir.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkUH5e0nVmHKn26bHOgBmZUfqk0SNlvRflb1FOCFgcXKgT7Vs3icJh0UgZ10tBDQ7Nz1yaDEj2PvqzfHefrdouxIPR7p2-BJZHEio7PwoDTEiTB2e2ZNdHja17JxWsFcvWBIbfZzA8FI/s1600/045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkUH5e0nVmHKn26bHOgBmZUfqk0SNlvRflb1FOCFgcXKgT7Vs3icJh0UgZ10tBDQ7Nz1yaDEj2PvqzfHefrdouxIPR7p2-BJZHEio7PwoDTEiTB2e2ZNdHja17JxWsFcvWBIbfZzA8FI/s1600/045.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Following the River Kinder - climb number 5.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc68LuPQWleHOGuU3A-UhgE4sILBu4-1C8U8uhjKZZYvH1k-j2zKmWqMC75FtbGT-lG8WbyenpDGVVtUHDPfXmHVJenOXjWNBCD_ifwQaSeckekqJUMenNtv4HCl2opQWhb666J88DdE/s1600/046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc68LuPQWleHOGuU3A-UhgE4sILBu4-1C8U8uhjKZZYvH1k-j2zKmWqMC75FtbGT-lG8WbyenpDGVVtUHDPfXmHVJenOXjWNBCD_ifwQaSeckekqJUMenNtv4HCl2opQWhb666J88DdE/s1600/046.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The Downfall in the distance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w7gqtpIgMi-oT_sBP9QWmr_kyXP6Ja6DhoCPXpj1KTxPh0IwxajMmYtBOZSzLaG6xufa8AGsLut3AttEuUsN1DD7D05-INq9T7r2zEFx6CfH1fS7z0bik7CSz59u8a0wRHpPpzfQ5Fo/s1600/047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w7gqtpIgMi-oT_sBP9QWmr_kyXP6Ja6DhoCPXpj1KTxPh0IwxajMmYtBOZSzLaG6xufa8AGsLut3AttEuUsN1DD7D05-INq9T7r2zEFx6CfH1fS7z0bik7CSz59u8a0wRHpPpzfQ5Fo/s1600/047.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
How the hell do I get up there?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiF9mCN0UI_9PHHd1R-jifCelRu36-v8smf1EmGAJ5ZFAey0u-GPqyg6beHmiOEe4K1E37h8YlIEbq089YXLyahAEwefY1rOgXgI9p_ZkzXDL0IRKB5J1aTeTIsliQJ2QNtM7rUhCNVM/s1600/048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisiF9mCN0UI_9PHHd1R-jifCelRu36-v8smf1EmGAJ5ZFAey0u-GPqyg6beHmiOEe4K1E37h8YlIEbq089YXLyahAEwefY1rOgXgI9p_ZkzXDL0IRKB5J1aTeTIsliQJ2QNtM7rUhCNVM/s1600/048.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Moonscape near the Kinderlow trig.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqe42EfvxtoXydwjHqsaTRsAUbhzSLt2wgu6Qj3xlC6hvWGjaO1DVO45reoUS9ANjNpHWT1M1VLzd9AtvQJFuNLsALyjnaJ725ufby_bpOgKVHgyhG1ghvBSkeLRVuR8LDfAMICrSrVM/s1600/050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqe42EfvxtoXydwjHqsaTRsAUbhzSLt2wgu6Qj3xlC6hvWGjaO1DVO45reoUS9ANjNpHWT1M1VLzd9AtvQJFuNLsALyjnaJ725ufby_bpOgKVHgyhG1ghvBSkeLRVuR8LDfAMICrSrVM/s1600/050.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Edale cross.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLFB1FtVI7U1U7JVJ6PZwLT8DHn0kX-j7U_OjZssobwQMLLabuYpNlV2njg3iYQYiz-wQhb283GAHmsFeoFNFm1DhApKqsWyvQbrV3B9UH3nB4FD7lPfu09ShXdH4H6uBkRMUnPbAZUQ/s1600/051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSLFB1FtVI7U1U7JVJ6PZwLT8DHn0kX-j7U_OjZssobwQMLLabuYpNlV2njg3iYQYiz-wQhb283GAHmsFeoFNFm1DhApKqsWyvQbrV3B9UH3nB4FD7lPfu09ShXdH4H6uBkRMUnPbAZUQ/s1600/051.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Jacob's Ladder from the 6th climb to the Woolpacks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPt9NeTOq7N4-TV_PjcD_AZyZm4TwPYCvhoWPRz8oj0hpg7w6Znmh_k-l2bgoH_W7Sly19s9X1I9JbRrptmVjqF9Vwbw5aePZGIgsm6Y6EPpEmywaYk98uI-b5bDNgP9EAnrsDN4suj0/s1600/053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPt9NeTOq7N4-TV_PjcD_AZyZm4TwPYCvhoWPRz8oj0hpg7w6Znmh_k-l2bgoH_W7Sly19s9X1I9JbRrptmVjqF9Vwbw5aePZGIgsm6Y6EPpEmywaYk98uI-b5bDNgP9EAnrsDN4suj0/s1600/053.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The last summit - Grindsbrook Knoll.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kXKI91sEPcDXBblhsdrjdv3xrughk16UgQ2jVexmbSYjfT2D6xaRmjy_F6kKraAW2YLIedCw2-ZaCg0mBgV0IfkvurKV1JUgbPe4EiSEGx1ea2xZH9reAPXBj7UGVlVItRqeKI8FfH4/s1600/056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kXKI91sEPcDXBblhsdrjdv3xrughk16UgQ2jVexmbSYjfT2D6xaRmjy_F6kKraAW2YLIedCw2-ZaCg0mBgV0IfkvurKV1JUgbPe4EiSEGx1ea2xZH9reAPXBj7UGVlVItRqeKI8FfH4/s1600/056.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Edale awaits.<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-76068545651384600562014-04-11T09:38:00.002-07:002014-04-11T09:38:36.132-07:00A Bit More Than Two Miles <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3ZpC0bEhNisOw5HyeQbrZgvPBYeftki3pp_B4Y_pVICQySOBgQCgvB1lLiQhN_rzIL0fVw-xLOPZHrG0_rvbycZw3Hzthn8whmbPyhrezU_mG3i2_9XhROV5aDszE9lU9X2WI_b0H9k/s1600/img037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3ZpC0bEhNisOw5HyeQbrZgvPBYeftki3pp_B4Y_pVICQySOBgQCgvB1lLiQhN_rzIL0fVw-xLOPZHrG0_rvbycZw3Hzthn8whmbPyhrezU_mG3i2_9XhROV5aDszE9lU9X2WI_b0H9k/s1600/img037.jpg" height="400" width="305" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's Day 43, and if I can run today, I can run any day.<br />
<br />
I've just got home. My biggest week ever. 260 miles and 36,000 feet over 7 days.<br />
<br />
I'd been buoyed during the trip by how well my body had held out, but when I woke this morning to the hangover of another dream accomplished, it was apparent straight away that things weren't right.<br />
<br />
My feet are fucked. The tendons joining the top of the foot to the lower leg are inflamed and sore. Any flexion, up or down, causes a grimace of pain. In addition, my right foot has swollen overnight to a grotesque charicature of its healthy self, whilst my calf and ankle have lost all definition, resembling now a semi-inflated balloon with the texture of play-doh.<br />
<br />
Still, I've a promise to keep. And the promises you make to yourself are ones which should never be broken.<br />
<br />
I slowly slide on my socks, grab the most cushioned shoes I own and lace them as loosely as I can without them slobbing off. Then I leave the house to start my run. Two miles. That's all I need to do.<br />
<br />
By the time I reach the end of the lane, my impossibly awkward gait has regained some semblance of a running action. As I jog up the hill to the crossroads, I ponder - not for the first time this week - how much the human body can take when you give it no choice.<br />
<br />
It's a beautiful afternoon - the day still blossoming with the promise that putting the clocks forward always seems to hand over at this time each year. On the way down to the footbridge, I'd usually soak up the splendour of the view before me, breathing in the subtle narcotic of well-being it can't help but provide. Today, however, my mind's elsewhere.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>There's four or five of us waiting in a cramped room in the Old Gymnasium building on the Birmingham University campus. Eager 'A' level students looking to secure a place on the almost-prestigious Sports and Exercise Science degree course.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Nervous chit-chat, fake laughter and long silences.</i><br />
<br />
<i>After a while, a woman calls us through together to meet the interviewing panel. I can't help thinking it's an odd arrangement - in the trawl of University interviews so far, I've gotten used to facing the interviewers alone.</i><br />
<br />
<i>We sit on plastic chairs on one side of a long wooden table, whilst the panel face us from the other side. They seem your average University lecturer fare - middle-aged, in decent shape, slightly fusty. Except the old guy at the end. His dishevelled grey, balding, curly hair and his bushy beard give him the look of an eccentric, a weathered hermit, someone who just might be interesting. He wears a white cotton tee-shirt that could do with an iron, and a pair of blue Ron Hill tracksters.</i><br />
<br />
<i>We get asked the same old questions, and we supply the same old answers that the teachers back at school have taught us to provide. Just another interview. Then we're done.</i><br />
<br />
<i>But not quite.</i><br />
<br />
<i>After we've been informed that letters outlining conditional offers of entrance to the degree course would be posted in due time, there's one last question.</i><br />
<br />
<i>'So, what are you going to do this summer?'</i><br />
<br />
<i>There's silence amongst our group, everyone waiting for everyone else to speak first. Eventually, I take the plunge.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Knowing that 'I'm going to work on a caravan site for the summer holidays cleaning toilets and emptying bins' might not strike the right tone, I come out with a complete lie:</i><br />
<br />
<i>'I'd love to walk the Pennine Way.'</i><br />
<br />
<i>At this, the bearded guy's eyes light up. For the next five minutes, he asks me question after question. I reply as best as I can - it was a good job I'd watched that Yorkshire tele documentary over the half-term holidays about a group of youngsters walking the Way - and come out feeling like I've done a right good job.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It so happened that although my intention to walk the Pennine Way that forthcoming summer was a lie, my desire to do it was anything but. That TV programme had stirred something up. A journey like the one it portrayed was challenging, exciting, but - I was sure - totally beyond the reach of my 17-year old self<i> . </i>I'd no money, few organisational skills, zero knowledge of navigation and not a trace of mountaincraft. These issues would all have to be rectified first, but I felt sure that doing the Pennine Way would be something I'd get round to sometime. Probably sooner rather than later.<br />
<br />
A few months into the University course, it became obvious why the bearded guy had been so interested in my Pennine Way intentions. For this man turned out to be Mike Cudahy. The now-legendary Mike Cudahy.<br />
<br />
During the 80's, Cudahy took off-road ultra-distance running to heights never previously witnessed in the UK. Specialising in obscure routes over moor and mountain, Cudahy was part of the winning team in the first ever High Peak Marathon. He broke the record for the 120 mile route between England's two highest pubs - The Tan Hill Inn and The Cat and Fiddle, and knocked hours off the previous fastest recorded time for the 190 mile Wainwright's Coast to Coast route.<br />
<br />
However, more than anything else, Mike Cudahy's life was dominated and defined by just one path. The Pennine Way was something that he couldn't leave alone. His quest to become the first person to complete the Pennine Way in under 3 days took nearly a decade and 8 attempts, but eventually came to fruition in 1984 with a mind-blowing run of 2 days, 21 hours, 54 minutes and 30 seconds. Although since bettered by Mike Hartley ( the only man to run the UK's 3 big Rounds back-to-back), Cudahy's effort remains one of the greatest ever runs in British long distance history. The book that tells its story - 'Wild Trails To Far Horizons' - is, perhaps, the most inspiring book about running that you'll ever read.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I return from a world of reminiscences and realise that my feet don't seem to hurt anymore. As I jog along the Wold Grift, the thought of why I'm in such a state at the present, though, can't fail to make me smile. After thirty years of not quite getting around to it, I've finally made good on my word. I've just run the Pennine Way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The sun's low over the farm buildings to the west. The rape has yellowed over the week I've been away. The sky is thick with birdsong. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.<br />
<br />
<i>I've a blog to write about this, </i>I acknowledge to myself as I move slowly, so slowly in the direction of the windmill, and snapshots of seven days on the PW start to move through my head on a mental slideshow:<br />
<br />
<i>- </i>Debbie's smiling face at support stops and end-of-days. A sandwich, a pork pie<i>, </i>a hot coffee and a few words of encouragement;<br />
<br />
- joking, piss-taking and the odd serious conversation with Dave and Chris A., two of the best running comrades a man could ever ask for;<br />
<br />
- the highs and lows (literally) of Hoka and Adidas Contintental running shoes ('Hoka, Hoka!')<br />
<br />
- the awe of experiencing the natural wonder that is High Cup Nick for the first time;<br />
<br />
- the sun setting over Dufton on our way down from the high ground;<br />
<br />
- slogs over Great Shunner Fell and Cross Fell;<br />
<br />
- the amazing standard of the YHA bunkhouse accommodation;<br />
<br />
- the joys of being lost in a forest at night;<br />
<br />
- the moors, the bogs, the slippery slabs;<br />
<br />
- a final, free, pint at Kirk Yeltholm's Border Hotel - the end of a long journey.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Before I know it my two miles are done. But I'm not.<br />
<br />
These memories are treasure. I need to go on. Experience them, live them again, hold onto them for just a bit longer before I file them away.<br />
<br />
<i>I've a blog to write about this</i>, I acknowledge to myself as I jog on. <i>Or have I?</i> Just as the native Red Indians believe that a photograph steals part of your soul, what if writing about my experiences, sharing them with strangers, takes away a little piece of each memory's magic?<br />
<br />
<i>Maybe I'll just keep them to myself.</i><br />
<br />
Scenes from the last week keep appearing as I carry on. Part of me wants to run forever.<br />
<br />
<i>Today,</i> I realise, <i>perhaps I'll do a bit more than two miles.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i> * * * * * * *</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Dave Swift and myself set off on our bid to complete the Pennine Way in a week from The Nag's Head in Edale at 9am on Saturday 29th March. We were superbly supported by Dave's partner, Debbie Sullivan, for the week and joined by Chris Armour (mountain Round superstar, comedian and stat obsessive) on the Tuesday, Thursday and Friday of the trip.<br />
<br />
Our schedule was as follows:<br />
<br />
Day 1: Edale - White House Inn (Blackstone Edge), 34 miles<br />
<br />
Day 2: White House Inn - Malham, 42 miles<br />
<br />
Day 3: Malham - Keld, 41 miles<br />
<br />
Day 4: Keld - Dufton, 42 miles<br />
<br />
Day 5: Dufton - Greenhead, 37 miles<br />
<br />
Day 6: Greenhead - Byrness, 38 miles<br />
<br />
Day 7: Byrness - Kirk Yeltholm, 26 miles<br />
<br />
I extend my heartfelt thanks to both Dave and Debbie. Without either, fulfilling this particular ambition would have taken many more years. xx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-57733283686517546462014-03-06T12:03:00.000-08:002014-03-06T21:53:28.495-08:00An Album, 2 E.P's And Other Things I Never Got Round To<div abp="1320">
<div abp="4543" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="4544" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggUsJ1PkQSfSG_RBwe6sgkbKw8voGVTe0W3l_GmaQZ6rOheWJriqp5xnB153l6qN83M6Z_m_7b_Fx7_ziYguU1yhsX6wks4_s3Iul7eOrpwyf6ZdM84zMcAbTto6dZK_yb7TWeUlbuQY/s1600/2eps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="4545" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggUsJ1PkQSfSG_RBwe6sgkbKw8voGVTe0W3l_GmaQZ6rOheWJriqp5xnB153l6qN83M6Z_m_7b_Fx7_ziYguU1yhsX6wks4_s3Iul7eOrpwyf6ZdM84zMcAbTto6dZK_yb7TWeUlbuQY/s1600/2eps.jpg" height="400" width="396" /></a></div>
<div abp="3851">
</div>
<div abp="3854">
</div>
<div abp="3855">
</div>
<div abp="3856">
</div>
<div abp="3857">
I went to bed early that night.</div>
</div>
<div abp="1320">
</div>
<div abp="1320">
<div abp="3860">
The words which I'd read in the morning had stayed with me all day.</div>
<div abp="3861">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3862">
<b abp="3863">'You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch.</b></div>
<div abp="3864">
<b abp="3865">Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You t</b><span abp="3867" class="text_exposed_show"><b abp="3868">hink you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy.<br abp="3869" /><br abp="3870" /> You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.<br abp="3871" /><br abp="3872" /> If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.<br abp="3873" /> Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.<br abp="3874" /><br abp="3875" /> Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.'</b></span><br />
<br />
<span abp="3867" class="text_exposed_show"><b abp="3868">-Julien Smith- </b></span></div>
<div abp="3876">
<span abp="3877" class="text_exposed_show"></span><br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3878">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3879">
I'd come across it on some Tumblr blog, had no idea who Julien Smith was, and although it teetered on the verge of being overly-dramatic, it had, nevertheless, struck a chord.</div>
<div abp="3880">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3881">
And it had made me think of him. The person that a younger me had imagined he would always be.</div>
<div abp="3882">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3883">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3884">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3885">
The notebook I took from the bedside table's only drawer had an opaque blue plastic cover. Pocket-sized and ring-bound, it had been perfect for tucking in an empty space in a cycle pannier. A tatty sticker still stuck to the bottom right corner: 'A6 notebook. Narrow ruled. 80 leaves. Made in the UK by Thomas Wyatt, Manchester, M11 3HB.'</div>
<div abp="3886">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3887">
I'd bought it from Woolworth's in 1999, and for most of the last fifteen years it had lay discarded, unread in the bottom of a bag, somewhere in a cardboard box or stuffed behind some socks, Lightning's first football kit and the floppy hat I wore on my BG Round at the back of a bedside table drawer.</div>
<div abp="3888">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3889">
The intention - the reason for buying the book - had been simple. I'd use it to record a journey, to tell the story of a trip. It would be something I could look back on in the future when I fancied reminiscing.</div>
<div abp="3890">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3891">
This little book was supposed to record an adventure - a three-month solo ride on a cheap silver bike from Sydney to Perth over the turn of the millenium. What it actually recorded was something totally different.</div>
<div abp="3892">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3893">
I'd not read it for a long time, and although I vaguely remembered odd fragments of stories and sketches I'd written back then, I was genuinely surprised at what I found within its pages. For although it started off conventionally enough with a notated description of 'Day One, Kingsford - Bundeena', it rapidly degenerated into a verbal collage of everything else that had been important to me:</div>
<div abp="3894">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3895">
Endless words about Tammy, who I'd met just months previously ('Perhaps I'll ask her to marry me?');</div>
<div abp="3896">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3897">
First paragraphs of the children's books I imagined I might write in the future ('No-one likes to be laughed at, but Billy Maybe got laughed at so much, he'd almost, just almost, learnt to ignore it.</div>
<div abp="3898">
Billy Maybe was exactly the same as you or me - inside, that is - but his appearance marked him out and made him the butt of everyone's jokes. For the whole of the left side of his face was covered in a strawberry red birthmark.</div>
<div abp="3899">
'It's a special mark,' his Mum used to tell him. 'It means you're different - not better - but individual, Billy. There's only one of you, Billy Maybe, and I'm so proud that you're my son.'</div>
<div abp="3900">
Billy would smile when his Mum said that, stop crying. 'There's only one of you, Billy Maybe,' he'd say to himself time and time again, 'There's only one of you.'</div>
<div abp="3901">
But when the other children started pointing and laughing, he forgot these words, and wished, harder than he'd ever wished for anything else, that he was just the same as them.');</div>
<div abp="3902">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3903">
Plot outlines for an imaginary 70's detective show, 'Basil Israel, Esperance Lawyer';</div>
<div abp="3904">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3905">
Isolated phrases from who-knows-where ('A rock feels no pain and an island never cries', 'Sherbet to Skyhooks, Lost in the 70's.');</div>
<div abp="3906">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3907">
Hastily scrawled band names and song titles that I'd heard on my personal radio and had blew me away (Tim Rogers - Happy Anniversary, Ice Cream Hands - Nipple, Augie March - The Mothball E.P., REM - The Great Beyond, Elvis Costello - New Amsterdam...);</div>
<div abp="3908">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3909">
And woven in between all of this, the story of a musician - a banjo-playing rock-star - and his comically-named band.</div>
<div abp="3910">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3911">
No-one's ever heard of Chris Rainbow and The Folk Country Hi-fi Soul Combo. That's hardly surprising since they never existed. I've never written a song. Never learned to play an instrument. In real life, that is. But not in my head.</div>
<div abp="3912">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3913">
Back then, that was where I was. For three months of sometimes inspiring, sometimes painful solitude, I became someone else - someone I could be (if only in my imagination), simply because there was no-one around to tell me different. I lived out a whole fictional life over 3000 miles of pedaling. By the time I reached the west coast, it had sparked, burned so brightly, then turned to ashes. After an album and 2 E.P's, The Folk Country Hi-fi Soul Combo had realised their time was up and gone their different ways. I'd changed musical direction too, as well as my name - 'Filter Disco by Bernard Wondercloud' - but that's a whole different story not ready for telling right now.</div>
<div abp="3914">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3915">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3916">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3917">
There's that phrase people use: 'You can't have you cake and eat it.' It's said to put you in your place - to condition you to a mindset that dictates you should be happy with your lot.</div>
<div abp="3918">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3919">
As I get older, I often reflect on my good fortune. I've spent a lifetime having and eating more cake than I thought possible. I've a Home, a girl I love and two beautiful children. But there's something else that's always there - the burning feeling that I've described <a abp="4626" href="http://salebyjoggingcentre.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/keep-on-burning.html">before</a> - the burning feeling that's led me to disaster and guided me gently towards salvation. The voice of The Capuccino Kid:</div>
<div abp="3920">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3921">
<i abp="4629">'We have this one brief life - this last chance - and then we are gone, and an opportunity lost is an eternity of regret.</i>'</div>
<div abp="3922">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3923">
The motto around which I live my life. The wisest words ever written.</div>
<div abp="3924">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3925">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3926">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3927">
It was late when I finished my Australia Diary. Tired, but excited, I settled down to sleep knowing that tomorrow would be slightly different to any one of my 17,000 other days.</div>
<div abp="3928">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3929">
Tomorrow would be the day I started doing the Things I Never Got Round To. </div>
<div abp="3930">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3931">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3932">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3933">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3934">
<i abp="3935"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3936">
<i abp="3937">I wake just after 8, but exhaustion weighs me down, making it impossible to drag myself out of bed. I'd missed a full night's sleep on Friday at the High Peak Marathon, and despite a good 10 hours last night, this Sunday morning still feels fuzzy. I listen to the radio for a bit, read some of my book and drink the tea that Tam brings me. Well past 9, I eventually muster the energy to go downstairs.</i></div>
<div abp="3938">
<i abp="3939"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3940">
<i abp="3941">Scrolling through Facebook whilst eating my breakfast, it's not long till I'm drawn to the padded black carrying case behind the settee. There's nothing else I'd rather do for the next half-hour. I go over, unzip it and take out my brand new Ozark 5-string banjo. Pulling out my thumb and finger picks from a side pocket, I settle myself down on the sofa and start to play.</i></div>
<div abp="3942">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3943">
<i abp="3944">It's over a week since it arrived, and up till now I've kept my promise of practising a little every day. As a total beginner, YouTube tutorials have been a godsend, and I start to run through the basic drills they've taught me. Forward and backward rolls on an open fret, followed by alternating thumb rolls. Strumming from an open fret to a D7 chord and back again. Rolls over the D7 and C chords. It's difficult, but as rewarding as anything I've ever done, and I'm getting a bit quicker all the while. For the first time in my life, I'm learning to play a musical instrument.</i></div>
<div abp="3945">
<i abp="3946"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3947">
<i abp="3948">After 10 minutes, Tam comes in. 'Bloody hell!' she goes, 'When you going to learn to play a different tune?'</i></div>
<div abp="3949">
<i abp="3950"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3951">
<i abp="3952">'It's not a tune,' I tell her, all defensive. 'It's just practice.' Just wait - I'll show her!</i></div>
<div abp="3953">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3954">
<i abp="3955">Lightning pipes up. 'I'm learning a new tune at school, Dad.' He's been learning to play the guitar since September. 'I'll go and get it.' As he scoots upstairs, I try and guess what the song will be. Something basic and straight-forward, I'd imagine - 'Three Blind Mice' or 'She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain'. A minute later, he's stood before me and handing over three sheets of A4. 'Here you go Dad.'</i></div>
<div abp="3956">
<i abp="3957"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3958">
<i abp="3959">I take them off him and have a look. It's proper music - notes on lines, treble clefs, the lot. 'Whoa! I didn't know you could read music now!' I say.</i></div>
<div abp="3960">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3961">
<i abp="3962">He just looks at me, puzzled. 'Well, I am learning to play the guitar.'</i></div>
<div abp="3963">
<i abp="3964"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3965">
<i abp="3966">I look at the song title. 'Back in Black'. No, don't know that one. The only 'Back in Black' I know is the AC/DC song.</i></div>
<div abp="3967">
<i abp="3968"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3969">
<i abp="3970">I hand it back over. 'Don't know that one, mate,' I tell him.</i></div>
<div abp="3971">
<i abp="3972"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3973">
<i abp="3974">'Oh, I thought you would, Dad - it's an AC/DC song!'</i></div>
<div abp="3975">
<i abp="3976"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3977">
<i abp="3978">Suddenly, the pride over my musical achievements are put firmly into place. I've spent a whole week practising the same drills with only minimal improvement. My 12-year old boy has been playing guitar for less than 6 months and is already rocking AC/DC tunes. I sigh as he turns to head back upstairs. 'Hey, fancy a little run later?' I ask him before he disappears.</i></div>
<div abp="3979">
<i abp="3980"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3981">
<i abp="3982">'Ok,' he replies</i>.</div>
<div abp="3983">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3984">
<i abp="3985">Almost immediately, Whirlwind whizzes in. (She doesn't like to miss out.) 'Can I have a go, Dad?'</i></div>
<div abp="3986">
<i abp="3987"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3988">
<i abp="3989">'Course you can,' I say and pass the banjo over. She rests it on her lap and I teach her the basic forward backward roll. Within minutes, she's cracked it and is playing at the speed it's taken me a week to reach.</i></div>
<div abp="3990">
<i abp="3991"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3992">
<i abp="3993">'You're getting better, Babe!' Tam shouts to me from the kitchen. I look back down at Whirlwind, absorbed in what she's doing, and shrug my shoulders.</i></div>
<div abp="3994">
<i abp="3995"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="3996">
<i abp="3997">'Thanks, Tam!' I shout back. 'It must be all this practice I'm doing.'</i></div>
<div abp="3998">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3999">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4000">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4001">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4002">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4003">
<span abp="4004" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">WEDNESDAY 22nd DECEMBER 1999 </span></div>
<div abp="4005">
<span abp="4006" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4007">
<span abp="4008" style="font-family: Georgia;">NME REVIEW</span></div>
<div abp="4009">
<span abp="4010" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4011">
<span abp="4012" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4013">'Our Modern Traditions' Chris Rainbow and The Folk Country Hi-fi Soul Combo</u></span></div>
<div abp="4014">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4015">
<span abp="4016" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Soon everyone will have heard his story. Whether his record crosses over to huge mainstream success, or remains a precious, undiscovered gift, in the vein of Dexy's third album - highly rated, but never heard - remains to be seen.</span></div>
<div abp="4017">
<span abp="4018" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4019">
<span abp="4020" style="font-family: Georgia;">Chris Rainbow set out from Sydney, Australia in December 1999 on a bicycle. In order to finance his travels, he secured from ABC Radio National a grant of $10,000 on the pretext of creating an audio documentary of Native Australian music. For the next two years, he was invisible. When Rainbow eventually re-emerged in October 2001 at the Perth Triple J offices, it was together with 37 assembled musicians - his Combo - and the demo of this extra-ordinary album.</span></div>
<div abp="4021">
<span abp="4022" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4023">
<span abp="4024" style="font-family: Georgia;">In the words of its creator, 'Our Modern Traditions' is a 'rustic symphony'. Eschewing the rules of the modern 'rock' or 'pop' record, it's almost certainly unlike anything you've ever heard. Split between the four sides of a double LP, the 'songs' (I use that word loosely) are mostly instrumental, run in and out of each other, and are underpinned by the repeated melodic tour-de-force of the 'Banjo Vibes' refrain.</span></div>
<div abp="4025">
<span abp="4026" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4027">
<span abp="4028" style="font-family: Georgia;">Listening to this record is truly an epiphany - calming, intoxicating and ultimately heart-breaking. The dark moments we all know are explored and scored in almost sentimental beauty. 'You took the world from me,' Rainbow sings in 'Floors', 'Closed every door, Left me with ceilings that will always be floors.' Everyone has experienced these feelings, but no-one has sound-tracked them so perfectly.</span></div>
<div abp="4029">
<span abp="4030" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4031">
<span abp="4032" style="font-family: Georgia;">'Our Modern Traditions' is an important record. It's not perfect - at 86 minutes, it's a little too long, and odd moments are too steeped in McCartney/Bacharach territory - but if you need one record this year to fall in love to, split up to, make love to, cry to, this is it.</span></div>
<div abp="4033">
<span abp="4034" class="text_exposed_show"><br abp="4035" />
4/5.</span></div>
<div abp="4036">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4037">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4038">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4039">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4040">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4041">
On the first day of doing The Things I Never Got Round To, it was obvious what my first priority would be. I'd never realistically wished to be a rock-star, but I'd always fancied the idea of playing an instrument. It was Sean O'Hagan who started my banjo fixation. In 1996, his band, The High Llamas, released possibly the most perfect LP of all time - 'Hawaii'. For months after it's release, I listened to nothing else. When they played Nottingham and Leicester on consecutive nights, me and Our Kid were at both gigs. It's true to say we were obsessed. The banjo-led vibes of 'Nomads' and 'Sparkle Up' led us to their earlier recordings, and then onto the Smile-era Beach Boys out-takes on which they'd based their sound. And, I suppose, it was this that led me to my album and 2 E.P's of Folk Country Hi-fi Soul.</div>
<div abp="4042">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4043">
Some people make 'bucket lists'. I don't. I hate the phrase. The things you tend to see on these lists are stuff like, 'See the pyramids. Swim with a dolphin. Go on a cruise.' Stuff, really, that any old Tom, Dick or Dora could do if they wanted, given some spare time and a bulging bank account.</div>
<div abp="4044">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4045">
Rather than a 'bucket list', I've always had 'Things I'd Like To Do'. I suppose what makes them different is that none of them can really be bought. All need hard work to achieve. It's probably this factor that has tended to make what's left on my 'Things I'd Like To Do' list pretty much the same as The Things I Never Got Round To.</div>
<div abp="4046">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4047">
There's a laziness - or a certain apprehension - in me that encourages me to stick to the things that I know I'm good at and find easy. That's the reason why my current list of The Things I Never Got Round To is so large. A fair few are outside of my comfort zone. The majority of them involve sacrifice, patience, practice and determination. When faced with this, I've been surprisingly good at coming up with excuses for most of my adult life.</div>
<div abp="4048">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4049">
As time goes on, however, the sound of the ticking clock gets louder. It was only after reading my Australia diary that I truly realised that all of my excuses were worth nothing. If I was to put the icing on that cake I've enjoyed having and eating over a lifetime, it would be now that I'd start to do the things I'd always wanted to, but could never, honestly, be bothered to do.</div>
<div abp="4050">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4051">
Learning to play the banjo would be just the first.</div>
<div abp="4052">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4053">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4054">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4055">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4056">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4057">
<i abp="4058">A run's the last thing I want, to be honest - but I've a promise to keep.</i></div>
<div abp="4059">
<i abp="4060"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4061">
<i abp="4062">It's freezing outside and blowing a gale. I zip my coat to the top, pull down my hat and pull up my gloves. Look over to Lightning. 'Ready then?'</i></div>
<div abp="4063">
<i abp="4064"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4065">
<i abp="4066">It takes me till the end of the road before my running action becomes vaguely normal. Stiff-legged, awkward and just so tired, I vainly hope that things will improve somewhere into our 4 mile loop.</i></div>
<div abp="4067">
<i abp="4068"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4069">
<i abp="4070">By the time we hit the drain-side, my legs feel slightly better, but the headwind makes forward progress painfully slow. Funnily enough, I'd felt ok back at Edale village hall yesterday morning. The last 24 hours though have obviously colluded against me. I'll be glad when we're back.</i></div>
<div abp="4071">
<i abp="4072"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4073">
<i abp="4074">Only a year ago on our runs together, I'd be the one conscious about keeping the pace easy. 'Ok, mate?' I'd keep asking, checking things weren't too much for a growing 11-year old body. Now, it seems, the tables are turned. In front of me, Lightning's striding easily - no gloves, no socks, shorts and unzipped jacket flapping around as always, despite the chilly weather. He looks round now and again. 'Ok, Dad?' he keeps asking, checking things aren't too much for an ailing 46-year old body.</i></div>
<div abp="4075">
<i abp="4076"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4077">
<i abp="4078">After 20 minutes of the sort of talk that only seems to get talked on a run (Dad - you know people's eyes can be all sorts of colours - blue, green, brown - yeah? Well, why don't people have red eyes?), we arrive at the footbridge. From here, the footpath goes straight up the hill and down the other side. As I struggle to get my legs over the stile, however, I'm certain that any uphill running is off my agenda today. 'I'm sticking to the field edge,' I tell Lightning, 'It's flat.'</i></div>
<div abp="4079">
<i abp="4080"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4081">
<i abp="4082">'Ok,' he replies, unfazed. 'I'll run up the hill and meet you at the road.' Off he goes. It's like he's been let free. As my body groans into slow-mo action, I watch him sprint up the hill - effortless, joyful, yellow jacket billowing behind him like a superhero's cape.</i></div>
<div abp="4083">
<i abp="4084"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4085">
<i abp="4086">There are the odd days when I feel like that too, I try to convince myself.</i></div>
<div abp="4087">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4088">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4089">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4090">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4091">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4092">
<span abp="4093" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">SATURDAY 9th JANUARY 2000</span></div>
<div abp="4094">
<span abp="4095" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4096">
<span abp="4097" style="font-family: Georgia;">MELODY MAKER</span></div>
<div abp="4098">
<span abp="4099" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4100">
<span abp="4101" style="font-family: Georgia;">Last night...</span></div>
<div abp="4102">
<span abp="4103" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4104">
<span abp="4105" style="font-family: Georgia;">And a morning all about last night. A morning when you lie, wallow, repeating last night, making it worse, unable to stop yourself - like switching to rum and cokes when you're already pissed.</span></div>
<div abp="4106">
<span abp="4107" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4108">
<span abp="4109" style="font-family: Georgia;">Drowning in the recollection of unnecessary cocktails and the wrong words. Words that, once spoken, can never be taken back. Sinking in the memories of fights with best friends. And of the girl you love, loved, leaving.</span></div>
<div abp="4110">
<span abp="4111" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4112">
<span abp="4113" style="font-family: Georgia;">Through the blur of self- pity and half-light, I realise I've work to do, deadlines to meet. I look through the mail for anything that might take away the scenes that keep playing, things I'd rather not see, things I'd rather forget. Amongst the junk and brown envelopes, there's a parcel of this week's releases for review. Opening it, I find the standard indie fare, the odd possible pop gem, and an E.P., the title of which intrigues me. Chris Rainbow and his ridiculously-named band (when is he going to change it?) - 'The Stones With Holes E.P.' I lazily scan the plain orange cover. Dedicated to the memory of Donny Hathaway, it contains just one piece of music - 'A Requiem For A lost Day' - 46 minutes long and split into three 'moods' - 'Morning', 'Afternoon', 'Evening'. Same clever, clever bollocks, I think. Pretentious twats.</span></div>
<div abp="4114">
<span abp="4115" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4116">
<span abp="4117" style="font-family: Georgia;">I'd never rated them. Their last mess of a record just moved over me, not <i abp="4118">through </i>me. But I take the disc, put it in the stereo, press play and lie on the floor. And, in no time at all, I now<i abp="4119"> understand.</i></span></div>
<div abp="4120">
<i abp="4121"><span abp="4122" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4123">
<span abp="4124" style="font-family: Georgia;">'Morning'...blissful and forlorn, a mute trumpet filtered down to a single, faultless ray of sound... a sun clouded by an oboe as deep as October...strains of Chet Baker's 'My Funny Valentine' tune in and out on a forgotten short-wave radio...a morning after a night you'd rather forget, but need to remember, dive into, immerse yourself in before things can get better.</span></div>
<div abp="4125">
<span abp="4126" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4127">
<span abp="4128" style="font-family: Georgia;">'Morning' moves into 'Afternoon'...languid jazz...the pureness of a piano's minor keys drifting through a breeze of percussion which shimmers the surface of smooth waters, crystalising loneliness with a French horn's plaintive, desperate call.</span></div>
<div abp="4129">
<span abp="4130" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4131">
<span abp="4132" style="font-family: Georgia;">'Evening' comes...a whole day lived in a matter of minutes...a Spanish guitar winding spirals of bats around skyscrapers...the comforting medicine of a baritone saxophone, reassuring you that when you awaken from this dream, things will be fine...mellow, warm, subtly uplifting.</span></div>
<div abp="4133">
<span abp="4134" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4135">
<span abp="4136" style="font-family: Georgia;">And then the kiss-off. A young girl's voice implores:</span></div>
<div abp="4137">
<span abp="4138" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4139">
<span abp="4140" style="font-family: Georgia;">'It may be heavy in here</span></div>
<div abp="4141">
<span abp="4142" style="font-family: Georgia;"> But nothing's so bad</span></div>
<div abp="4143">
<span abp="4144" style="font-family: Georgia;"> You can't turn it around.</span></div>
<div abp="4145">
<span abp="4146" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Stay a while</span></div>
<div abp="4147">
<span abp="4148" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Lift these stones</span></div>
<div abp="4149">
<span abp="4150" style="font-family: Georgia;"> For these are stones with holes.'</span></div>
<div abp="4151">
<span abp="4152" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4153">
<span abp="4154" style="font-family: Georgia;">The disc finishes.</span></div>
<div abp="4155">
<span abp="4156" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4157">
<span abp="4158" style="font-family: Georgia;">I awaken from a dream. And I know - I don't know how, but I do. I know that things will be fine. </span></div>
<div abp="4159">
</div>
<div abp="4161">
<span abp="4162" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4163">
<span abp="4164" style="font-family: Georgia;">Reviewed by Ian Orr.</span></div>
<div abp="4165">
<span abp="4166" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4167">
<span abp="4168" style="font-family: Georgia;">'The Stones With Holes E.P' (Book Early Recordings) is out now.</span></div>
<div abp="4169">
<span abp="4170" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4171">
<span abp="4172" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4173">
<span abp="4174" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4175">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4176">
<span abp="4177" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4178">
<span abp="4179" style="font-family: inherit;">My promise of practising the banjo every day immediately stirred another latent desire. Something else I've never got round to, but this time, not through want of trying.</span></div>
<div abp="4180">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4181">
On 20th December 1964, when The Beatles 'I Feel Fine' topped the charts and 'Z-Cars' was the most popular show on the nation's two TV channels, Ron Hill - an international marathon runner, aged 24 - went for a run. On each day since, he's done the same thing. By the end of this year, he'll have run every day for 50 years, clocking up over 160,000 miles - or more than half-way to the moon.</div>
<div abp="4182">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4183">
Americans call Ron Hill's behaviour 'streaking'. They even have a club for streakers. The United State's Running Streak Association lists 435 currently active run streakers. Top of the list is Jon Sutherland, who's run an average of 11 miles per day since 26th May 1969.</div>
<div abp="4184">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4185">
From November 2009, I strung together a run everyday until Christmas. Once I reached Christmas, I read an article documenting how detrimental running every day was for training and performance. It was then that I'd decided to carry on to complete a calendar year.</div>
<div abp="4186">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4187">
By October 2010, a good running year had come almost to a halt. Nursing a serious chest infection that lasted for weeks, I'd continued to get out every day, fully aware now - physically, as well as in theory - that this streak was almost killing me. Eleven months in, I gave up. It's a decision I've done nothing but regret since. Instead of running every day for a year being one of the dumb things I'd always wanted to do and eventually succeeded in doing, it just became another of The Things I Never Got Round To.</div>
<div abp="4188">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4189">
I think it's time for that to change.</div>
<div abp="4190">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4191">
February 22nd 2014 was my new Day One. Until February 21st 2015, I'll run at least 2 miles each day.</div>
<div abp="4192">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4193">
This time the result will be different.</div>
<div abp="4194">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4195">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4196">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4197">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4198">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4199">
<i abp="4200">I'd rung Our Kid from the airport after Christmas, and one of the first things he mentioned was a post by Brendan Leonard on <a abp="4631" href="http://semi-rad.com/2013/12/do-things-and-make-things-next-year/">semi-rad.com</a>. Leonard had decided to follow two resolutions during 2014:</i></div>
<div abp="4201">
<i abp="4202"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4203">
<i abp="4204">1. Do Things</i></div>
<div abp="4205">
<i abp="4206">2. Make Things.</i></div>
<div abp="4207">
<i abp="4208"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4209">
<i abp="4210">Our Kid, he informed me, was going to follow his lead by doing something productive or creative everyday. It didn't have to be something big - it didn't need to take a great deal of time - the important thing was to do it each day.</i></div>
<div abp="4211">
<i abp="4212"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4213">
<i abp="4214">In the car, on the way home, I'd decided that I would write each day. That would be my New Year's resolution.</i></div>
<div abp="4215">
<i abp="4216"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4217">
<i abp="4218">And I tried. For a while. Then gave up.</i></div>
<div abp="4219">
<i abp="4220"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4221">
<i abp="4222">But now, I'm here again. This time, I've a purpose.</i></div>
<div abp="4223">
<i abp="4224"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4225">
<i abp="4226">Runners keep training diaries, right? And a run every day means I should record it each day. Jot down details in this hard-backed book I've bought for the purpose. That's how I start each time. Sometimes the words just stop - all I'm left with is a factual paragraph of an ordinary or extra-ordinary run.</i></div>
<div abp="4227">
<i abp="4228"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4229">
<i abp="4230">Sometimes, though, something else happens. The run stuff is just a warm up. And once I'm writing - once I'm there - I find I can't stop. Ideas. Stories. All sorts of rubbish. Like that Australia diary (I've a lot to thank it for.)</i></div>
<div abp="4231">
<i abp="4232"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4233">
<i abp="4234">And so I write. I write about this afternoon's run with Lightning. I write about this morning's banjo practice. And a title appears - 'An Album, 2 E.P's and Other Things I Never Got Round To.' And a</i> story...</div>
<div abp="4235">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4236">
<i abp="4237">I need to get it down, words on paper, while it's here.</i></div>
<div abp="4238">
<i abp="4239"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4240">
<i abp="4241">Black biro on A4 loose leaf.</i></div>
<div abp="4242">
<i abp="4243"></i><br /></div>
<div abp="4244">
<i abp="4245">'I went to bed early that night...</i></div>
<div abp="4246">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4247">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4248">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4249">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4250">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4251">
<span abp="4252" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">WEDNESDAY 19th JANUARY 2000</span></div>
<div abp="4253">
<span abp="4254" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4255">
<span abp="4256" style="font-family: Georgia;">THE TAMWORTH GAZETTE</span></div>
<div abp="4257">
<span abp="4258" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4259">
<span abp="4260" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4261">'The Magpie E.P.'</u> </span></div>
<div abp="4262">
<span abp="4263" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4264">
<span abp="4265" style="font-family: Georgia;">Chris Rainbow and The Folk Country Hi-fi Soul Combo return later this month with an E.P. which pays tribute to their favourite song-writers. Originally set aside for the aborted 'Fans' album, these songs borrow the themes, the feelings and the emotional scenery of the artists most important to the Combo, and represent them in their own style.</span></div>
<div abp="4266">
<span abp="4267" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4268">
<span abp="4269" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4270">'Coalmine Beach'</u></span></div>
<div abp="4271">
<span abp="4272" style="font-family: Georgia;">The E.P.'s true, all-out-summer-pop-gem. Think 'Here Comes The Sun' crossed with 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer.' In a fantasy-land where everything's possible, Rainbow spins out the scene over gorgeous Beach Boy harmonies:</span></div>
<div abp="4273">
<span abp="4274" style="font-family: Georgia;">'Turn left at Eastwood,</span></div>
<div abp="4275">
<span abp="4276" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Straight on till the sun's in reach,</span></div>
<div abp="4277">
<span abp="4278" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Second exit at the round-about,</span></div>
<div abp="4279">
<span abp="4280" style="font-family: Georgia;"> That's where you'll find it - Coalmine Beach.'</span></div>
<div abp="4281">
<span abp="4282" style="font-family: Georgia;">Wildly optimistic, gloriously dumb, and - <i abp="4283">finally -</i> a proper song. Their very own 'Wake Up Boo!', this could break them chart-wise, or (as in the case of The Boo Radleys) predict their ultimate demise.</span></div>
<div abp="4284">
<span abp="4285" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4286">
<span abp="4287" style="font-family: Georgia;">'<u abp="4288">Arkan'</u></span></div>
<div abp="4289">
<span abp="4290" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A funereal, brooding electronic portrait borrowing heavily from Bowie and Eno's 'Low' compositions. Drawing you in slowly, but leaving you vaguely unsatisfied.</span></div>
<div abp="4291">
<span abp="4292" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4293">
<span abp="4294" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4295">'Caravan Of Power'</u></span></div>
<div abp="4296">
<span abp="4297" style="font-family: Georgia;">An oddity, utterly ridiculous, strangely subversive. A modern jewel. Over the backdrop of The Brighouse and Rastrick Colliery Band's pastoral brass accompaniment, the narrator delivers a laconic and deadpan account of a two day caravanning holiday to Fleetwood, Lancashire.</span></div>
<div abp="4298">
<span abp="4299" style="font-family: Georgia;">'We towed the caravan of power</span></div>
<div abp="4300">
<span abp="4301" style="font-family: Georgia;"> A few miles past the Tower</span></div>
<div abp="4302">
<span abp="4303" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Set up camp on a seaside site</span></div>
<div abp="4304">
<span abp="4305" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Walked around the slots at night.'</span></div>
<div abp="4306">
<span abp="4307" style="font-family: Georgia;">Not since The Velvet Underground's 'The Gift' has there been a 'story song' so senseless and compelling.</span></div>
<div abp="4308">
<span abp="4309" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4310">
<span abp="4311" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4312">'Like Smilla'</u></span></div>
<div abp="4313">
<span abp="4314" style="font-family: Georgia;">Apparently named after the icy heroine of Peter Hoeg's acclaimed novel, 'Like Smilla' steals melodically from Aztec Camera's 'We Could Send Letters'. A full-on love song, it's just too cute to impress. Pretty, but pointless.</span></div>
<div abp="4315">
<span abp="4316" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4317">
<span abp="4318" style="font-family: Georgia;"><u abp="4319">'Back For Good'</u></span></div>
<div abp="4320">
<span abp="4321" style="font-family: Georgia;">After provoking widespread disbelief when naming Gary Barlow as 'perhaps the most important composer of the 90's' in a recent London Evening Standard interview, Rainbow stays true to his words with a cover of what many regard as Take That's finest moment.</span></div>
<div abp="4322">
<span abp="4323" style="font-family: Georgia;">Stripping back instrumentation, and accompanied only by banjo and piano, Rainbow lends this an emotional rawness that is almost too much to take. When you've lost everything and it seems like there's no way back, some of us turn to songs. Rainbow sings the words with the desperation that they, in themselves, will make things change.</span></div>
<div abp="4324">
<span abp="4325" style="font-family: Georgia;">We all know they won't.</span></div>
<div abp="4326">
<span abp="4327" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4328">
<span abp="4329" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4330">
<span abp="4331" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4332">
<span abp="4333" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4334">
<span abp="4335" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4336">
<span abp="4337" style="font-family: inherit;">By the time I hit my middle teens, I was already running 50 miles a week. Although I was immersed in music, I never really expected to become a musician (although, surely, I'd learn to play an instrument some day?) With writing, however, it was different. I wrote a lot - to escape, to make sense, to become invisible, to be someone - religiously keeping a <a abp="4635" href="http://salebyjoggingcentre.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/tardis.html">journal</a> (which I'd continue to do until my 30's.) And somewhere in my future, I was sure, I would be a writer. I would write a book. Not a best-seller, but a book that would change the lives of kids out there just like me.</span></div>
<div abp="4338">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4339">
I spent much of my spare time in 1995 trying to write a novel ('The Apple Chorus' - a terrible Brit-Pop influenced rehash of Poalo Hewitt's 'Heaven's Promise'), but eventually became disenchanted. My best writing only came when I was in dark places. The act of writing itself grew to paralyse me.</div>
<div abp="4340">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4341">
By the time I set off to cycle across Australia, I'd already been to the point of no-return, but had come back. Writing no longer scared me. I'd started playing with words again, and my desire to write had been reignited. A children's book was now my aim. A sinister, moving and stupid allegorical tale that would work just as well for adults as the offspring they'd read it to.</div>
<div abp="4342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4343">
The Australia diary scrapes the surface of a few ideas. What it doesn't document, however, is what happened in Mount Gambier. For at a small, independent book store in that town, I bought John Irving's novel, 'A Widow For One Year'. Although far from my favourite Irving book, it contained within it's pages a children's story written by the character, Ted Cole. 'A Sound Like Someone Trying Not To Make A Sound' was the story I'd been dreaming of writing. Irving had already written it - and not even as a stand-alone story (it's since been released as so), but a throw-away story hidden in the pages of his latest adult novel. He'd done it brilliantly, too - much better than I knew I ever could. The bastard.</div>
<div abp="4344">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4345">
I gave up again.</div>
<div abp="4346">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4347">
The last few years have frittered by. I've written the odd Christmas story for the Superheroes, and creating a blog has been good for both my creativity and my sanity. However, writing something 'proper' has always got away from me.</div>
<div abp="4348">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4349">
This year, I will try and start putting this right. As yet, I've no idea of the shape that it will take, but the discipline of writing (something, anything) each day, I'm hoping, might serve as a springboard to something worthwhile.</div>
<div abp="4350">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4351">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4352">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4353">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4354">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4355">
My life is, generally , great. And I wonder why my list of The Things I Never Got Round To is so big.</div>
<div abp="4356">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4357">
Never satisfied? Maybe.</div>
<div abp="4358">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4359">
Restless and suspicious of the inertia of 'contentment'? Probably.</div>
<div abp="4360">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4361">
Or is it something else? Just the plain old desire to squeeze every drop out of this thing called life? To set fire to my old self and be replaced by someone who makes a difference?</div>
<div abp="4362">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4363">
There's plenty of Things I Never Got Round To. But they've now become a pile of Things I Will Get Round To. A Paddy Buckley, a Ramsey, the National Trails, the Wainwright tops, a beard, a song, a handstand. There's loads more, and although I've got time, I've probably not got as much as I'd like to think.</div>
<div abp="4364">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4365">
Right now, though, I've got three to be getting on with.</div>
<div abp="4366">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4367">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4368">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4369">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4370">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4371">
Humans, like water, seek the path of least resistance. Accept it, and this path becomes your life. Sleep-walk through your days. Convince yourself you're happy. Embrace what you're given, but demand nothing else. Wave goodbye to the things you never got round to, and now never will.</div>
<div abp="4372">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4373">
Or wake up.</div>
<div abp="4374">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4375">
It doesn't have to be this way,</div>
<div abp="4376">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4377">
Does it?</div>
<div abp="4378">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4379">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4380">
</div>
<div abp="4382">
<span abp="4383" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4384">
<span abp="4385" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4386">
<span abp="4387" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4388">
<span abp="4389" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4390">
<br /></div>
<div abp="4391">
<span abp="4392" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4393">
<span abp="4394" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4395">
<span abp="4396" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4397">
<span abp="4398" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4399">
<span abp="4400" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="4401">
<span abp="4402" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br /></div>
<div abp="1320">
<div abp="4404">
<span abp="4405" class="text_exposed_show"><br abp="4406" /></span><span abp="4407" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
</div>
<div abp="4408">
<span abp="4409" class="text_exposed_show" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
<div abp="1320">
</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-54642560982941416652014-02-12T09:40:00.001-08:002014-02-12T09:56:16.520-08:00A Jog Around The Water Towers (2)<div abp="3837">
<u>9.02.2014</u><br />
<br />
<u>25 miles</u><br />
<br />
Ludford - Girsby Top - East Wykeham - Biscathorpe - Stenigot - Donington-on-Bain - Biscathorpe - Burgh-on-Bain - Ludford - Binbrook - Brookenby - Stainton-le-Vale - Kirmond-le-Mire - Thorpe-le-Vale - Ludford <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Donington-on-Bain</u><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoYDSnYnLHni67lnHeraH7ffYqcMCNr-_i8m0jsRcHxF-W0r_KCLxmq-hxz30UMPuK3IwZhZpyM7LTN_9deNX0hu0d_OBRkllEJDHEbehGACOOmofMqbvQEYnbo2as6sGp46bh0hYa1E/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoYDSnYnLHni67lnHeraH7ffYqcMCNr-_i8m0jsRcHxF-W0r_KCLxmq-hxz30UMPuK3IwZhZpyM7LTN_9deNX0hu0d_OBRkllEJDHEbehGACOOmofMqbvQEYnbo2as6sGp46bh0hYa1E/s1600/001.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9UoshXfX0-3V__jS2NUdwzXqA-mVL3oLbfub1kxxqlpbEdN2Z3U197ATPMlHng8BYXho0H3yGcV1PAtzgqwm2WWUkjsUJQr4Wk2BxWeJwfdpEkKwUMif59T0oL88SOKdAv0E-yY63hw/s1600/004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF9UoshXfX0-3V__jS2NUdwzXqA-mVL3oLbfub1kxxqlpbEdN2Z3U197ATPMlHng8BYXho0H3yGcV1PAtzgqwm2WWUkjsUJQr4Wk2BxWeJwfdpEkKwUMif59T0oL88SOKdAv0E-yY63hw/s1600/004.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFqbzXuPVAkAzuloxdcjUW0crlhQ_fXjzmAmqDnWxwdfuK3wETFZyu048GXUaiED8hfklZjrLrsgCph4sxeb_KOWXm0MRGj2aisjS0qhUTqqqE4Oj9LNYmXUbtwPKnBkrB3rmsuUn50Y/s1600/005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPFqbzXuPVAkAzuloxdcjUW0crlhQ_fXjzmAmqDnWxwdfuK3wETFZyu048GXUaiED8hfklZjrLrsgCph4sxeb_KOWXm0MRGj2aisjS0qhUTqqqE4Oj9LNYmXUbtwPKnBkrB3rmsuUn50Y/s1600/005.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoLi5-iylwmfZCEQUPsaYDWU318wc84PhUp2losUJjvQOMs-JFBOEE8nEhRZkvhRa5R6iyPTOk0d4ujFZW3NKwIVHrAloP5ecAUZITv8pZ4mUHr-IQixh8jX0QojwrEftRtFJrX4VvAg/s1600/006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoLi5-iylwmfZCEQUPsaYDWU318wc84PhUp2losUJjvQOMs-JFBOEE8nEhRZkvhRa5R6iyPTOk0d4ujFZW3NKwIVHrAloP5ecAUZITv8pZ4mUHr-IQixh8jX0QojwrEftRtFJrX4VvAg/s1600/006.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Binbrook</u><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPzdV8IrMrHybwE3MwlfIJj1OrOuJpCmlQzViQUUGYC5uQDLw4h5gwp0n7fqL3yESfdX2sfopZN5mj2edhhnChn7FB5N7fYXV0bJ3ycucWoDVMnJMoBcCDp-av8bJAtKQ-84v6oOuz18/s1600/008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPzdV8IrMrHybwE3MwlfIJj1OrOuJpCmlQzViQUUGYC5uQDLw4h5gwp0n7fqL3yESfdX2sfopZN5mj2edhhnChn7FB5N7fYXV0bJ3ycucWoDVMnJMoBcCDp-av8bJAtKQ-84v6oOuz18/s1600/008.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbFJFzxr2b7n6_hKaagLblnZD5MHhwRa0Jw8myTl6zpjhh464ylPQ55MFvXhq0WyVgyT73KueeL46ioVDzuP9pMyBfctG4dj-PntO8d5jA2lGAHGkrh9jUSMU3yUewBgQUzGMvzABEZQ/s1600/011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbFJFzxr2b7n6_hKaagLblnZD5MHhwRa0Jw8myTl6zpjhh464ylPQ55MFvXhq0WyVgyT73KueeL46ioVDzuP9pMyBfctG4dj-PntO8d5jA2lGAHGkrh9jUSMU3yUewBgQUzGMvzABEZQ/s1600/011.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtXF67xY1bRrYJcat4z9mTfAtIJhr7AoP1Y3nOxxHHPKY_z3hTgzi_Mi7DxfNkvoy6pXfCchWMmgoH3UuYTVQvPEY-h9-MVX_Uz8P0D6Ns-uB4RctKGQtuv8IEvqG1E1UVi8W2fCDrSY/s1600/012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtXF67xY1bRrYJcat4z9mTfAtIJhr7AoP1Y3nOxxHHPKY_z3hTgzi_Mi7DxfNkvoy6pXfCchWMmgoH3UuYTVQvPEY-h9-MVX_Uz8P0D6Ns-uB4RctKGQtuv8IEvqG1E1UVi8W2fCDrSY/s1600/012.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuRMxd83EBRAbuv5SedflWWigQu4Ffh1e4O6K4I1mrvVaQID725jRo9FOPLcnaRmFiS_bkJI6MGVERpdKQ_ZqzDxvSKpyoEq_i2pekIQJ8C1x6TA0DXYIUHhcnz7cRk9sKmGJYTYKPPk/s1600/013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuRMxd83EBRAbuv5SedflWWigQu4Ffh1e4O6K4I1mrvVaQID725jRo9FOPLcnaRmFiS_bkJI6MGVERpdKQ_ZqzDxvSKpyoEq_i2pekIQJ8C1x6TA0DXYIUHhcnz7cRk9sKmGJYTYKPPk/s1600/013.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkz4dSeUUNAs6-8_I5EYUmzBBdIVZGr2OfL1EWD-bK4jyHfx86I65tm5WxpcBb38x6Gu6Cepqeid1BrYpUcZ1-i0p1wIGzaaackT_6Tb-MNv99s9O2gWJ9x9VkMHurC9yoYRXQs7yeovU/s1600/014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkz4dSeUUNAs6-8_I5EYUmzBBdIVZGr2OfL1EWD-bK4jyHfx86I65tm5WxpcBb38x6Gu6Cepqeid1BrYpUcZ1-i0p1wIGzaaackT_6Tb-MNv99s9O2gWJ9x9VkMHurC9yoYRXQs7yeovU/s1600/014.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
</div>
<div abp="3837">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Having mapped out a figure-of-eight route from Ludford to take in the Binbrook and Donington-on-Bain water towers, I set off last weekend in the Binbrook direction, but, feeling tired and demotivated, called it a day before the half-way point and retreated home. Some call it 'listening to your body', but, in all honesty I'd not felt that bad physically. It was more a case that I just got bored. Maybe it was the drag-over effect of a 135 mile week a couple of weeks ago. Maybe it was just 'one of those days'. The older I get, the more this seems to happen..</div>
<div abp="3838">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3839">
Off the back of a more sober 99 miles this week, I drove back to Ludford this morning to give it another crack. Leaving the van by the village hall, I decide to make towards Donington this time, making the most of a stiff back wind for the first part of the run.</div>
<div abp="3840">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3841">
I head along the Viking Way to Girsby Top and on towards East Wykeham, before turning south on the track that leads to Grim's Mound. Usually good going, this track has been mashed by a combination of rain and off-road traffic. Before reaching the A157 crossing, I'm passed by four trail bikes, scouring deep ruts and kicking shit with no regard. It seems - depressingly so - that footpaths and bridleways are now the refuge of motorised traffic as well as foot travellers such as myself. There's no escape. It's no good thing.</div>
<div abp="3842">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3843">
Dropping down into the Biscathorpe estate, my mood is lifted considerably by the beautiful dwelling by the gorgeous little church. I'm sure that when I last passed this way it was disused, abandoned and becoming increasingly dilapidated. Now it glows with new life. Tastefully repointed brickwork, new window frames and landscaping. A wooden stable block set back in a small yard. This must surely be one of the desirable houses in all of Lincolnshire. Make the most of it. While the powers that be have denied the <a abp="3919" href="http://transitiontownlouth.org.uk/frack.html">frackers</a> from the grounds for now, I somehow think it won't be long before the promise of cheap gas bribes an about-face, leaving the residents of this beautiful home with the less-giddy views of heavy goods vehicles and nodding donkeys.</div>
<div abp="3844">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3845">
I take the Lindsey Trail along the ridge line, the rusting Stenigot radars to my left, Donington-on-Bain in the valley to my right. The wind so strong that it threatens to take my feet from underneath.</div>
<div abp="3846">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3847">
The water tower lies a couple of hundred yards from the Stenigot mast, just off the Bluestone Heath road. A curious off-white golf tee, it stands behind a series of wire and metal fences which are hung heavily with signs of threat and warning.</div>
<div abp="3848">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3849">
The downhill into Donington is good running. A short stretch along the infant Bain, back through Biscathorpe and a short, steep climb to Burgh-on-Bain's church leads me eventually to the Girsby road again. By the time I arrive back in Ludford, the wind's gathered further force but the sun's out. I take my hat off.</div>
<div abp="3850">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3851">
I head north to Binbrook along a high-level path that spills out into the village near the church. Jogging past the Manor View Stores and through the deserted village centre, I run in the direction of the old airfield, part of which was renamed as 'Brookenby' during the 80's. To call Brookenby a village would be to lie. A housing officer's good idea on paper. In reality, a disaster. The Lincolnshire Wolds' very own 'sink estate', a weeping boil on a beautiful face.</div>
<div abp="3852">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3853">
Row upon row of cheap, terraced, bottom-end housing - ex-servicemen's quarters utterly devoid of architectural charm. Corsa's with wide-bore exhausts and ugly fibre-glass car kits line the roads and sit in driveways. Old bits of carpet, pop bottles, plastic bags and screwed up pages from porno-mags litter the hedgerows.</div>
<div abp="3854">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3855">
The water tower's located behind the housing. I enter the optimistically named 'Binbrook Trading Estate' on a road which passes a children's playground. The equipment is broken. A rotting wooden fence relies on string and a nearby tree to stop it falling down. A pile of rubble lies next to a climbing frame. The playground is deserted. Any child using it would surely lose an eye, a leg or maybe their life. How long would it be in this god-forsaken place before the body was discovered?</div>
<div abp="3856">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3857">
My research into the Binbrook tower had thrown up little information about the tower itself, but a fantastic (most probably made-up) <a abp="4010" href="http://www.uk-ufo.org/condign/secfilcapshaff.htm">tale</a> surrounding a most mysterious night in the RAF base's history. I'd been looking forward to having a look round.</div>
<div abp="3858">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3859">
Now I'm here, surrounded by empty hangers, deserted buildings and old white Transit vans pock-marked with rust, the urge to take one of the broken bricks discarded on the verges to dash my brains out is almost overwhelming. I thought Lincolnshire could do no worse than Immingham. I was wrong.</div>
<div abp="3860">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3861">
I take a couple of photos of the tower, pull my pack tight and get the hell out of there.</div>
<div abp="3862">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3863">
Within five minutes, the beauty of the Wold's once again reaffirms my love of this county. The minor road to Stainton-le-Vale is undulating and glorious. The field path descending to Kirmond-le-Mire is a delight. Past the fishing lakes at Thorpe-le-Vale and back to the village hall car park.</div>
<div abp="3864">
<br /></div>
<div abp="3865">
Sitting in the van, the wind blowing cardboard cartons across the adjacent playing fields, I scan through the photos on my phone whilst pouring coffee from a flask and digging out the remains of a bag of midget gems. I polish both off before turning the ignition and heading to Saleby. The sweets taste great, but the coffee's cold. </div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-41170840275849903862014-02-06T10:54:00.000-08:002014-02-06T11:43:45.221-08:00The Other Hundred Hours<div abp="4236" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="4237" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIvTRXPXAU8JsuNhhzfmuW2Q0kZHwIUBXHx5JJjtl-jCCS8uO69j8WXJkY-F-kV65KfcsLKVBPGDeEmeE_iftcNzkPcwSWqzv6kXnrjOmdEysBBaqjbdR1oq4VzIcvPkdT8YShDh9E7To/s1600/other+100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="4238" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIvTRXPXAU8JsuNhhzfmuW2Q0kZHwIUBXHx5JJjtl-jCCS8uO69j8WXJkY-F-kV65KfcsLKVBPGDeEmeE_iftcNzkPcwSWqzv6kXnrjOmdEysBBaqjbdR1oq4VzIcvPkdT8YShDh9E7To/s1600/other+100.jpg" height="313" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="3842">
<div abp="3836">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3845">
<div abp="3838">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3846">
<div abp="3840">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3847">
<div abp="3842">
I'd never heard of Wyn Fountain's 'The Other Hundred Hours' till a few days ago. As it's a Christian text, I have no doubts that I'll never read it, but the title intrigued me and made me want to find out more. As a result I spent the majority of my miles this week idly pondering the idea of what I do with my time.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3848">
<div abp="3844">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3849">
<div abp="3846">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3851">
<div abp="3848">
It turns out that the title of Fountain's book stems from a simple formula to determine how much time church-going folk have each week. Of the 168 available hours (7x24), deduct 8 hours per day for sleeping (a weekly total of 56 hours) and a further 12 for formal worship. What remains each week is 100 hours. The book, I gather, discusses ways that believers can use these 'other hundred hours' in the best way possible.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3852">
<div abp="3850">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3853">
<div abp="3852">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3855">
<div abp="3854">
Fountain writes,<em abp="4333"> 'The Other Hundred Hours are where we live the most important part of our lives. They are the hours where our creativity is channelled into our careers and family life. These are the hours that mainly make us what we are.'</em></div>
</div>
<div abp="3856">
<div abp="3857">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3857">
<div abp="3859">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3858">
<div abp="3861">
Now, we all need something to believe in. Whilst I'm not sure that I believe in God, I do know that if there is one, the closest I get to him is when I'm running. Just like the equation, I'd guess I spend roughly 12 hours too putting one foot in front of the other in my own form of 'worship'.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3862">
<div abp="3863">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3863">
<div abp="3865">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3865">
<div abp="3867">
When you do nearly all of your running in the dark by yourself, as I tend to do this time of year, you have a lot of time to think things through. <em abp="3866">These hundred hours each week to use wisely - what the hell do I do with them? </em>By a couple of runs into my week I'd plotted a mental chart of how I used my time, but the more I ran, and the more I thought, the more I thought I'd got things wrong. So I ran some more, and thought some more, and by the end of the week my blueprint was complete. A 5 point plan for using my hours in a different way:</div>
</div>
<div abp="3867">
<div abp="3870">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3868">
<div abp="3872">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3869">
<div abp="3874">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3869">
<div abp="3876">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3872">
<div abp="3878">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3873">
<div abp="3880">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3874">
<div abp="3882">
1. <u abp="3875">Work Less</u></div>
</div>
<div abp="3876">
<div abp="3885">
<u abp="3880"></u> </div>
</div>
<div abp="3881">
<div abp="3888">
The typical male working week in the UK is currently 36.8 hours. Over 5 days, that works out to between 7 and 7.5 hours a day.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3882">
<div abp="3890">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3883">
<div abp="3892">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3885">
<div abp="3894">
It is estimated that 19.6% of UK males work 45 or more hours each week.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3886">
<div abp="3896">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3887">
<div abp="3898">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3889">
<div abp="3900">
EU rules stipulate a maximum 48 hour working week. However, the UK has opted out of this particular directive meaning British workers can work more than 48 hours if they so choose, but can't be forced to legally. (That's the theory. Try saying 'no' to your boss asking for overtime too often and see where it leaves you.)</div>
</div>
<div abp="3890">
<div abp="3902">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3891">
<div abp="3904">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3893">
<div abp="3906">
In 2010, the New Economics Foundation produced a report called '21 Hours'. It was largely greeted with ridicule, scorned or just plain ignored. It proposed a 21 hour working week, suggesting that this would help with problems of unemployment, high carbon emissions, low well-being, entrenched inequalities, overworking, family care and the general lack of free time.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3894">
<div abp="3908">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3895">
<div abp="3910">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3896">
<div abp="3912">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3897">
<div abp="3914">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3898">
<div abp="3916">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3899">
<div abp="3918">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3900">
<div abp="3920">
I've always worked hard, but over the last couple of years, I've been working hard at working less.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3901">
<div abp="3922">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3902">
<div abp="3924">
You hear that old cliché trotted out every now and again - 'On your death bed, your last thought is never going to be <em abp="3903">I wish I'd worked more.'</em> I heard it a lot, but paid little attention. It wasn't until it was confirmed that my heart was knackered and would need a pacemaker, that I seriously reassessed my situation. The working class ethos had fucked me over good and proper, and it was only now that I began to wake up. At 45 years of age, this epiphany came too late, but I suppose too late is better than never at all.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3904">
<div abp="3927">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3905">
<div abp="3929">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3907">
<div abp="3931">
Since then, I have dramatically reduced my working hours and re-examined my whole philosophy of how to live a life. And from my position of 'semi-retirement', I've been able to look not only at myself, but at everyone else. Do that for a while and it's difficult not to conclude that the vast majority of us have got it catastrophically wrong.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3908">
<div abp="3933">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3909">
<div abp="3935">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3910">
<div abp="3937">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3913">
<div abp="3939">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3914">
<div abp="3941">
I was a teacher once. That's a tough job - a job that's so demanding that it defines you. If you're a teacher, it's easy to fall into a trap of teaching becoming all you do. It's all-consuming. It's not healthy. That's why I stopped being a teacher and did something else.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3915">
<div abp="3943">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3916">
<div abp="3945">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3918">
<div abp="3947">
I was a market trader once. It seemed like a good idea, but turned out not to be. Being self-employed is a tough job too. You're your own boss - true - but there's no paid holiday each year, no steady salary to lean on. If you're self-employed, it's easy to fall into a trap of just grafting all the time. I got sick of the stress, the long hours, the forced creativity of constantly cooking books, so I stopped being self-employed and did something else.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3919">
<div abp="3949">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3920">
<div abp="3951">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3922">
<div abp="3953">
I became a small business owner. A managing director of a limited company. And that was no fun either at first. However, 5 years of 16 hour days had one major benefit. It enabled me to put myself into the position whereby I was able to buy out my 3 business partners and mould the company into a shape that suited me.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3923">
<div abp="3955">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3924">
<div abp="3957">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3925">
<div abp="3959">
It took me a while for me to not feel guilty when I began spending less time at work. I soon got used to it though. The ideas in Yvon Chouinard's <a abp="4335" href="http://www.patagonia.com/us/product/let-my-people-go-surfing-paperback-book?p=BK501-0">'Let My People Go Surfing'</a> showed me that it's possible to be a worker, but not a slave.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3926">
<div abp="3962">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3927">
<div abp="3964">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3928">
<div abp="3966">
This winter I've been working an average of 24-30 hours a week over 4 days. (If you've never had a regular 3-day weekend, try it - it's ace.) For the business, it's the quietest time of year in the winter months, so keeping the same number of work hours through the summer season is a challenge, but not impossible.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3929">
<div abp="3968">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3930">
<div abp="3970">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3931">
<div abp="3972">
Yvon Chouinard practices what he terms 'MBA'. Management by absence. It's gist is straight-forward. Find highly-motivated people who are good at the job you give them. Treat them fairly, give them a decent wage and, essentially, they'll manage themselves.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3932">
<div abp="3974">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3933">
<div abp="3976">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3934">
<div abp="3978">
Being enlightened by a <a abp="4339" href="http://salebyjoggingcentre.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/ball-of-string.html">ball of string</a> some months back, I became aware that a fair amount of the time I spent at work was actually a waste of my time. I'd become adept at spreading out what I needed to do over a 'traditional' working day. With little effort, I soon found that the workload I personally needed to do could be compressed from a leisurely 8 or 10 hours into a more focused and productive 6 hours, leaving me scope to leave the office much earlier most days.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3935">
<div abp="3981">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3936">
<div abp="3983">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3937">
<div abp="3985">
By working less hours, and thereby paying myself a smaller wage, I was able to use this portion of the business' money to pay key staff members more per hour. By rewarding them, and by showing them that I trusted them to get on with it without hovering over their shoulders, I was able to encourage them to manage themselves more effectively, meaning there was more opportunity for me to go off and do stuff that interested me more than work.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3938">
<div abp="3987">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3939">
<div abp="3989">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3940">
<div abp="3991">
Of course, all of this is just a fledgling project, and without my watchful eyes, things could end in disaster. But I think not.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3941">
<div abp="3993">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3942">
<div abp="3995">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3943">
<div abp="3997">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3944">
<div abp="3999">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3945">
<div abp="4001">
We live in a society that revolves around work. A government's economic policy is judged by a nation's 'growth'. Treated universally now as 'consumers', not human beings, we are encouraged to work hard and spend money. It doesn't matter what we spend it on, just as long as we do. If society as a whole decided to make a conscious effort to work less (and thereby consume less), the whole capitalist system would quake. It only sustains itself by growing. Thwart that growth and everything falls apart.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3946">
<div abp="4003">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3947">
<div abp="4005">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3948">
<div abp="4007">
Government rhetoric divides those who agree to dedicate themselves to work, regardless of personal happiness or health ('the workers'), and those who make a conscious effort not to ('the shirkers'). Show little interest in building a career and working too hard at the expense of other, more important things, and you're branded a waster, a slacker, a non-conformist scumbag who only wants to take and never give back. Admittedly, there are some who take the piss ('benefit scroungers'? - I don't particularly agree with it, but it also doesn't wind me up in the slightest), but there are also many sussed individuals who have decided to live simpler lives, less defined by work and needless spending, with more time to spend on the activities that make them happy and the people they love. I want to be one of these. How can it be a bad thing?</div>
</div>
<div abp="3949">
<div abp="4009">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3950">
<div abp="4011">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3951">
<div abp="4013">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3952">
<div abp="4015">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3953">
<div abp="4017">
The factor that keeps most people working is money. We've become conditioned to comfort, blinkered by an all-prevailing ethic that spending money unnecessarily will not only make us feel better, but make us look better to the outside world. It's a scenario that I can't see changing anytime soon. Because whilst the government and corporations do their best to steer us in the direction they'd like to see us flock to, they're not the drivers in unnecessary consumption, it's us. We're the ones who willingly consume, view shopping as some sort of leisure activity. We're the ones who create demand..</div>
</div>
<div abp="3954">
<div abp="4019">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3955">
<div abp="4021">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3956">
<div abp="4023">
When most people moan about not having enough money, I agree that in some cases it's valid. Find yourself born out of grasp of the bottom rung of the ladder, and try as you might to climb upwards during your life, there's a good job you'll never make progress. Be really unfortunate and a TV company will do their best to portray you as some sub-human, lowlife trash to be vilified by lower middle class twats (who'll go on constantly about the dignity of paying their way, but would jump on the benefit train like a shot should they fall on hard times), upper middle class Daily Mail readers (who have always had it on a plate, ever since Ma and Pa packed them off to private schools) and Tory politicians (who label the needy as scroungers but pat their banker pals on the back, even as another few billion quid is put aside for compensation after purposely defrauding the public).</div>
</div>
<div abp="3957">
<div abp="4025">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3958">
<div abp="4027">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3959">
<div abp="4029">
Some people truly have it tough. Most of us, however, just think we have. The ability to handle personal finances must be the single biggest black-hole in the education system. It leads to a life where <em abp="3960">whatever I earn is never enough</em>. Most people are skint because they've spend a lifetime getting used to spending money on a whole skip full of shit they don't need. By carefully examining their lives, most people could get by just fine on a lot less money. And the equation's easy - need less money, need to work less.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3961">
<div abp="4032">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3962">
<div abp="4034">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4036">
In our free-market world, I'll be the first to admit that things look grim. However there are glimpses of sunlight now and again, and some of them from surprising sources. Returning to Yvon Chouinard, his company - multinational clothing corporation, Patagonia - should rightly be classed as the enemy. However, his vision has helped shape something a little bit different in the world of big business. Whilst constructing clothes that are designed to last one or two decades, not one or two years, as well as being totally transparent about the environmental impact of each item of clothing produced, Patagonia actively discourages unnecessary consumption and impulse buying. Their famous <a abp="4413" href="http://www.thecleanestline.com/2011/11/dont-buy-this-jacket-black-friday-and-the-new-york-times.html">'Black Friday' ad</a>' of a couple of years ago demonstrates this well.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4039">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4041">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4342" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="4343" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmG5kvN4QQtVi2y1mADRhhzraKllCHjPWXG7EUDFCIiYJpUWB4__GIuhXJ4KERttMpnN-OyUVX2LQrKYtVBWrHM-UOENi37Bscm6fM1RmmgTHg5ZJBNiYbrrYE1KEfY16_PDVorKmXSI/s1600/don't+buy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="4344" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmG5kvN4QQtVi2y1mADRhhzraKllCHjPWXG7EUDFCIiYJpUWB4__GIuhXJ4KERttMpnN-OyUVX2LQrKYtVBWrHM-UOENi37Bscm6fM1RmmgTHg5ZJBNiYbrrYE1KEfY16_PDVorKmXSI/s1600/don't+buy.png" height="400" width="227" /></a></div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4046">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4048">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="3963">
<div abp="4050">
Patagonia customers are encouraged to send in damaged clothing for repair (rather than discard and buy new), to sell unwanted garments on the company's <a abp="4417" href="http://wornwear.patagonia.com/">'Worn Wear'</a> e-bay site, or once a garment has truly reached the end of its life, to send it back to the company for recycling. Of course, for the cynical (I'm usually one of them), this may come across as just interesting marketing bollocks, but in this case, I'm prepared to take a punt that that they're truly game-changers. Whether other companies will follow their lead, I'm less sure about.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3964">
<div abp="4053">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3965">
<div abp="4055">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3966">
<div abp="4057">
What's needed is a retreat from the 'throw-away' culture. Money needs to be spent wisely on items that will last (easy in some areas, almost impossible in others). Forgotten skills of mending and repairing need to be retaught and reinstilled ( how many times have you been told 'getting it fixed will cost you more than getting a new one?) We need a total paradigm shift from the way we've grown accustomed to living.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3967">
<div abp="4059">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3968">
<div abp="4061">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3969">
<div abp="4063">
Move away from the modern way and the decreased need for money will almost certainly be a benefit. Cancel Sky subscriptions. Get rid of expensive phone contracts. Use energy more sparingly round the house. Use the car less - walk more, cycle more. Play a sport for real rather than on that fucking games console. Throw less food away. Where do you want the list to end?</div>
</div>
<div abp="3970">
<div abp="4065">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3971">
<div abp="4067">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3972">
<div abp="4069">
In essence, live more simply.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3973">
<div abp="4071">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3974">
<div abp="4073">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3975">
<div abp="4075">
That's what I'm trying to do. By living more simply, less money is needed. Less work is needed. You give yourself more time in which to <em abp="3976">really</em> live.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3977">
<div abp="4078">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3978">
<div abp="4080">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3979">
<div abp="4082">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3980">
<div abp="4084">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3981">
<div abp="4086">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3982">
<div abp="4088">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3983">
<div abp="4090">
2.<u abp="3984"> Sleep Longer</u></div>
</div>
<div abp="3985">
<div abp="4093">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3986">
<div abp="4095">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3987">
<div abp="4097">
Margaret Thatcher's got a lot to answer for. In addition to being a stony-faced, emotionless bitch, a war criminal and the ruthless destroyer of whole communities, she also famously declared that she was able to conduct the business of running the country on only 4 hours sleep a night ( if she'd slept longer, I suggest, she may have done a better job.)</div>
</div>
<div abp="3988">
<div abp="4099">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3989">
<div abp="4101">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3990">
<div abp="4103">
There's a lot of trumped-up machismo tied up with the number of hours spent sleeping each night. Get a group of people together and there'll always be some fool giving you, ' I only need 4 or 5 hours sleep a night.' In response to this, we're supposed to gaze fawningly, Bambi-eyed, thinking, 'Wow - you must live such a busy and exciting life - I wish I could be more like you.'</div>
</div>
<div abp="3991">
<div abp="4105">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3992">
<div abp="4107">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3993">
<div abp="4109">
But you don't need to be a genius to realise that this is all wrong. Whilst sleep has come to be viewed as a waste of your precious time on this mortal coil, it is, as we all know deep down, one of the most pleasurable activities you can possibly engage in.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3994">
<div abp="4111">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3995">
<div abp="4113">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3996">
<div abp="4115">
Not only does having an early night or a lie-in feel magic, but it also does you good. Research has shown that too little sleep disrupts hundreds of genes essential for good health. Less than 6 hours a night causes changes in the genes that govern immune response, metabolism, sleep and waking cycles and the body's response to stress. In turn, such changes have been linked to heart disease, diabetes, obesity, stress and depression. Less than 5 hours of sleep a night has been shown to result in a 15% greater risk of death from all causes.</div>
</div>
<div abp="3997">
<div abp="4117">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3998">
<div abp="4119">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="3999">
<div abp="4121">
Whilst the average time spent sleeping before the Industrial Revolution was 10 hours (people lived more closely to the day's natural rhythm of darkness and light), during the Twentieth Century this figure declined to 8 hours - a total that is nowadays universally recognised as the minimum for optimum health. But modern living has eroded this further. In the US in 2010, 30% of the population claimed to sleep less than 6 hours a night. In the UK, a survey conducted in August 2013 suggested that the average Brit slept just 6 hours and 27 minutes a night. 27% of the people surveyed reported that they slept less than they did a year ago.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4000">
<div abp="4123">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4001">
<div abp="4125">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4002">
<div abp="4127">
In using my other hundred hours more wisely, one of my aims is to nick a few for extra sleep. I get up early - on week days, around 5am. I don't go to bed late - most times between 10 and 11pm - but late enough to mean I'm generally more tired than I'd like to be when running a 100 mile week.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4003">
<div abp="4129">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4004">
<div abp="4131">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4005">
<div abp="4133">
By spending less of my hundred hours on other activities this year, sleeping will come near the top of my must-do-more list.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4006">
<div abp="4135">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4007">
<div abp="4137">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4008">
<div abp="4139">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4009">
<div abp="4141">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4010">
<div abp="4143">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4011">
<div abp="4145">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4012">
<div abp="4147">
3. <u abp="4148">Travel More On Foot</u></div>
</div>
<div abp="4013">
<div abp="4150">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4014">
<div abp="4152">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4015">
<div abp="4154">
It's often said that all travellers know that the journey is always more satisfying than arrival at the destination, but in a modern world littered with diesel engines, fuel-injection, fast lanes and high-speed links, the time taken to actually get somewhere is overwhelmingly viewed in the negative. All motorised transport is designed with the aim of getting you from here to there quicker. Yet, surely it's true that you only see things more clearly by slowing down.In addition to my existing 12 hours of running 'worship', I intend to use a handful of my other hundred hours to do just that.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4016">
<div abp="4156">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4017">
<div abp="4158">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4018">
<div abp="4160">
From the front door of my house to the yard gates of my factory is around 11 miles. My preferred route is about 80% off road, with close to 9 miles following the Lindsey Loop, Lincolnshire's most beautiful long distance path. This journey to work takes in country lanes, green lanes and field edges, steep hills, easy running and heavy plough. Stand still on the outskirts of the wood at the mid-point of the route and you can see the sea, far distant, and the coast from Gibraltar Point to Mablethorpe and beyond.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4019">
<div abp="4162">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4020">
<div abp="4164">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4021">
<div abp="4166">
This year, I aim to change the nature of my daily commute from a 20 minute dash in the work van to a long, easy run of between an hour and a half and an hour and three-quarters. It may not be possible every day, but I see no problem for the majority of the time with a little reorganisation and careful planning.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4022">
<div abp="4168">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4023">
<div abp="4170">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4024">
<div abp="4172">
And by these means, I'll give my running - this most pointless and beautiful of activities - a layer of added meaning. Throwing aside the Runners World-ism's that make me puke ('Train Harder, Train Smarter!', '10 Ways To Burn More Fat!', 'Smash Your 10k Best This Spring!'...), I'll return to an older, more authentic age where travel on foot was a legitimate means of transport, and a long run was simply a way of getting from somewhere to somewhere else.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4025">
<div abp="4174">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4026">
<div abp="4176">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4027">
<div abp="4178">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4028">
<div abp="4180">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4029">
<div abp="4182">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4030">
<div abp="4184">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4031">
<div abp="4186">
4. <u abp="4187">Limit Time On The Internet</u></div>
</div>
<div abp="4032">
<div abp="4189">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4033">
<div abp="4191">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4034">
<div abp="4193">
A 2013 report from the Open Thinking Exchange found that Americans aged 18-64 spend an average of 3.2 hours per day on social media. 1 in 5 users aged 18-34 claimed to spend more than 6 hours per day on social media.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4035">
<div abp="4195">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4036">
<div abp="4197">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4037">
<div abp="4199">
A 2013 first direct poll found that 30% of the UK's Facebook users are on the site for at least one hour a day. 13% were on for at least 2 hours. It also revealed that 26% of UK women check their pages at least 10 times a day, whilst 18% of men do the same.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4038">
<div abp="4201">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4039">
<div abp="4203">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4040">
<div abp="4205">
As for Twitter, the same poll found that of the 26 million users in the UK, 31% spend at least an hour on the site, whilst the daily usage of 16% exceeds 2 hours.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4041">
<div abp="4207">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4042">
<div abp="4209">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4043">
<div abp="4211">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4044">
<div abp="4213">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4045">
<div abp="4215">
I got rid of my mobile phone a few years ago. I was fed up of customers ringing me when I wasn't at work. Overnight, customers could only get hold of me when I was actually at work - not great for business you could argue, but amazingly effective for getting rid of a whole heap of work-related hassle.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4046">
<div abp="4217">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4047">
<div abp="4219">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div abp="4048">
<div abp="4221">
Since then, the way things go is that I generally give friends Tammy's mobile number. Most of the time I think they'd prefer speaking to her anyhow, but if they insist on my voice boring them to tears, Tam can always hand the phone over if I'm there or take a message if I'm not.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4049">
<div abp="4223">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4050">
<div abp="4225">
Life without a mobile is no big deal (or is it a big deal nowadays?) I'd survived 35 years without one before they became commonplace, and I survive perfectly well now, although I do admit to a cheap pay-as-you-go job that I stick in my pack on long days running or trips to the hills ('just in case'). </div>
</div>
<div abp="4051">
<div abp="4227">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4052">
<div abp="4229">
Fortunately, smartphones and apps didn't come along until after I'd gotten used to being out of touch again. I count it as a blessing that I've never purchased an app, never accessed the internet with a phone, never done that odd thing with my fingers and thumbs that everyone seems to do on an i-phone's touch-screen; never instagrammed, mapmyrunned, runkeeped, Snapchatted or Strava'ed. (I'm no Luddite, however - I generally send between 5 or 10 text messages a year.)</div>
</div>
<div abp="4053">
<div abp="4231">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4054">
<div abp="4233">
I've escaped the curse of the smartphone. But if I'd still been using a mobile when they burst onto the market, I'd be pretty much addicted I reckon. Just like all of you.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4055">
<div abp="4235">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4056">
<div abp="4237">
In spite of this, I have got bad habits. We've got a PC at work and at home and I'm forever wasting time on it. Facebook. Twitter. Tumblr. Blogs by people I know. Blogs by people I don't know. Blogs by people I wish I knew. Blogs by people I'm glad I don't. FRA forum. irunfar. Mud, Sweat and Tears. Barefoot Running University. Loads of stuff - some of it interesting, educational and inspiring, most of it total pish.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4057">
<div abp="4239">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4058">
<div abp="4241">
Over the last 3 or 4 years, I've fallen into a dodgy default. I don't watch tele much, but every time I have some free time, I seem to find myself on that swivel chair in front of the computer, looking at 'nothing in particular'.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4059">
<div abp="4243">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4060">
<div abp="4245">
How much pleasure do I really get from following live Twitter updates on obscure US ultra races? Not much. Do I really need to constantly refresh the live tracking page on this weekend's next big race? Certainly not. Do I really need to click onto Facebook every time I use the computer - spend 5 minutes scrolling through stuff I scrolled through an hour ago, when I've got work to do? No.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4061">
<div abp="4247">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4062">
<div abp="4249">
I deactivated my Facebook account after Christmas, but it didn't last long. I felt liberated but cut adrift at the same time. In spite of its myriad faults, it seems it is handy sometimes. It's a reflection of the times that I have a few good friends for whom Facebook is my only point of contact. Folks I've met on runs in the hills especially. People who I've got to know and respect, but have no idea of their address or phone number. Friends who, without the common ground of Facebook between us, would probably become 'people I knew once, but lost touch with.'</div>
</div>
<div abp="4063">
<div abp="4251">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4064">
<div abp="4253">
So, my hundred hour challenge is simple in theory, but most probably very hard in practice. From now on (Today? Tomorrow? Next Monday? The start of March?) - no, from now on - today! - my computer usage will be strictly rationed. I'll only look at Facebook between 7.30 and 8am on weekdays when I have my breakfast at work. If someone posts a status of how long they've run, how great their night-out was, how tasty that new recipe was or what an arse their boyfriend is, it will be hard, but I'm sure I'll be able to wait till the following morning before devouring hungrily or stifling a yawn.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4065">
<div abp="4255">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4066">
<div abp="4257">
In addition, I'll only log onto the internet between 12 and 12.30 - dinner time - during the week. That's plenty of time to look at anything that really interests me. At weekends, and at home, I'm going nowhere near the computer (except to type these blogs up, or maybe check the Liverpool score.) Then, I swear, I'll use the hours I save in better ways.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4067">
<div abp="4259">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4068">
<div abp="4261">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4068">
<div abp="4263">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4068">
<div abp="4265">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4069">
<div abp="4267">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4070">
<div abp="4269">
5. <u abp="4270">Do More Other Stuff That I Don't Generally Do</u></div>
</div>
<div abp="4071">
<div abp="4272">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4072">
<div abp="4274">
'What's this one about?' says Tammy about 5 minutes ago.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4073">
<div abp="4276">
'It's about hours,' I tell her.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4074">
<div abp="4278">
'What about hours?' she says.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4075">
<div abp="4280">
'You know - the hours I spend doing different things,' I tell her.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4076">
<div abp="4282">
'What - like the hours you spend running?' she says.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4077">
<div abp="4284">
'Yeah - stuff like that,' I tell her.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4078">
<div abp="4286">
'Not about the hours you spend washing, ironing, cleaning, cooking, hovering, putting the bins out? Do you want me to go on?' she says.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4079">
<div abp="4288">
<em abp="4080">( 'Well no - I don't spend any time doing any of those,' I say in my head.)</em></div>
</div>
<div abp="4081">
<div abp="4291">
<em abp="4082">'</em>Well - I'm getting onto that in the last bit,' I tell her.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4083">
<div abp="4294">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4084">
<div abp="4296">
And since this is the last bit, I better get on with it.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4085">
<div abp="4298">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4086">
<div abp="4300">
When I spend a moment to think about the hours I spend my life doing, there's a whole list of things that just don't figure, because I almost never do them. For example, whilst I try and spend lots of good time with Tam and the Superheroes, I generally (and I'm not particularly proud of it) do naff all around the house. I also probably spend more time thinking about myself and what I'd like to do, than thinking about other people. I'm crap at making an effort to keep in touch with friends. There, that's three - the list could go on.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4087">
<div abp="4302">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4088">
<div abp="4304">
If anything positive comes out of this little experiment to do things differently, it would be nice to think that not only do I have more time to do the things I want to do, but that I also have more time to spend with, and do things for, others.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4089">
<div abp="4306">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4090">
<div abp="4308">
For every hour I create to read a book, learn to play a new instrument or listen to an old LP, it would be nice to make the equivalent time to ride my bike with Lightning, dance round the back room with Whirlwind or tell them both tall stories. For any extra time I spend in the hills or up a mountain, it would be nice to have the equivalent time to cook once in a while, mow the lawn without moaning or write a cute poem for my wife, like I did when we first met but never seem to get round to nowadays.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4091">
<div abp="4310">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4092">
<div abp="4312">
Ultimately, I think it's right to believe, it's around these criteria that the success of this experiment in realigning my life succeeds or fails.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4093">
<div abp="4314">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4094">
<div abp="4316">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4094">
<div abp="4318">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4094">
<div abp="4320">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4094">
<div abp="4322">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4095">
<div abp="4324">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4096">
<div abp="4326">
We live in crazy times. A busy, hectic, mad, bad world bombards us with information around the clock and forces upon us technology that is meant to save us time, make things easier, make us happy. We should be smiling, right? 'Cause modern life is awesome. ISN'T IT?</div>
</div>
<div abp="4097">
<div abp="4328">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4098">
<div abp="4330">
So awesome that the rates of depression, anxiety and general lack of satisfaction with 'our lot' are soaring.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4099">
<div abp="4332">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4100">
<div abp="4334">
In truth, however awesome the modern world is or isn't, it's obvious there's something wrong. There has to be, otherwise why are so many of us so fucking miserable?</div>
</div>
<div abp="4101">
<div abp="4336">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4102">
<div abp="4338">
Well, I'm sick of it.</div>
</div>
<div abp="4103">
<div abp="4340">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4104">
<div abp="4342">
But what do I do about it?</div>
</div>
<div abp="4105">
<div abp="4344">
</div>
</div>
<div abp="4106">
<div abp="4346">
Maybe a change in the other hundred hours is the answer. </div>
</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-17078743940417674872014-01-24T08:54:00.004-08:002014-02-12T09:11:43.349-08:00A Jog Around The Water Towers (1)<div abp="13">
<u abp="14">24.01.2014</u></div>
<div abp="15">
</div>
<div abp="17">
25 miles</div>
<div abp="18">
</div>
<div abp="20">
Fulletby - Horncastle - Thornton - Langton - Thimbleby - Horsington - Wispington - Baumber - Hemingby - Belchford - Fulletby.</div>
<div abp="21">
</div>
<div abp="22">
</div>
<div abp="23">
</div>
<div abp="24">
<u abp="25">Baumber (disused)</u></div>
<div abp="26">
</div>
<div abp="168" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="169" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJb1bIdRPGDPL32tGZ1DBqPlp3nfpIahFWlgFgbA64fXJRUdo1ZXamvXXOvV7vDVJ8u-pgf3vbDv2CyUdetLkfZOjMUtZTOaa-1Vazb72Z69ltIAduYVh3ZqFMbWJKPCS6lf2EH0jEfPE/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="170" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJb1bIdRPGDPL32tGZ1DBqPlp3nfpIahFWlgFgbA64fXJRUdo1ZXamvXXOvV7vDVJ8u-pgf3vbDv2CyUdetLkfZOjMUtZTOaa-1Vazb72Z69ltIAduYVh3ZqFMbWJKPCS6lf2EH0jEfPE/s1600/001.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="173">
</div>
<div abp="174" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="175" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX_yySFp9q0jsexUWsuoQ59_kAq0SW3OjGFNgh5YdLB_rjJLh9MGTsq5U6iFIHOsH2T9fza0itzgcyGc0FLmhrSF_s-gso0pvMzplEj7Af2sr8ljg9lE9vm0HuVkiKBe8-YXObxuCc9w/s1600/002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="176" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX_yySFp9q0jsexUWsuoQ59_kAq0SW3OjGFNgh5YdLB_rjJLh9MGTsq5U6iFIHOsH2T9fza0itzgcyGc0FLmhrSF_s-gso0pvMzplEj7Af2sr8ljg9lE9vm0HuVkiKBe8-YXObxuCc9w/s1600/002.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="201">
</div>
<div abp="202" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="203" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJMnQ-dDDAwHyykJ1_omTuk7D2LyNl75CzgPRxtyLETWe5sfy0bZeFYWKmSZrFd63Zfo798-uINWl16i7M5mSKeX5m6Ut_DOWgwtlSOQhJ3owJZk6DWlXkSgjExIZHLZKAKm9_CnOSQk/s1600/003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="204" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJMnQ-dDDAwHyykJ1_omTuk7D2LyNl75CzgPRxtyLETWe5sfy0bZeFYWKmSZrFd63Zfo798-uINWl16i7M5mSKeX5m6Ut_DOWgwtlSOQhJ3owJZk6DWlXkSgjExIZHLZKAKm9_CnOSQk/s1600/003.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="228">
</div>
<div abp="229">
</div>
<div abp="229">
</div>
<div abp="229">
<u abp="261">Fulletby</u></div>
<div abp="229">
</div>
<div abp="262" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="263" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyRgHvwVok9VaEsxscqJl2OTdIVETPmuAOrABd81NPPAv4N2tyH62mQi0cDjssKaNceRg8HU8v-nX-kI4tueDdHtSvhFT38c_YRiP5qsTk8peCr5pngJ3v4OoBeFp4zb4-0dfIkg1dNs/s1600/006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="264" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqyRgHvwVok9VaEsxscqJl2OTdIVETPmuAOrABd81NPPAv4N2tyH62mQi0cDjssKaNceRg8HU8v-nX-kI4tueDdHtSvhFT38c_YRiP5qsTk8peCr5pngJ3v4OoBeFp4zb4-0dfIkg1dNs/s1600/006.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="287">
</div>
<div abp="288" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="289" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdurffJ9jkErKnODs-I3aBxo3g0ynR1pjXXeO40nUY_jqyk3d57YQ2VhsHMkSPB0yx3aEPfPEL2Jv5ABQJ6B_WxuORVBYWAv42aHzPSpTBjWUUWI1ruRqo8N7gKcV2j8VsVBdDvxBWVE/s1600/007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="290" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdurffJ9jkErKnODs-I3aBxo3g0ynR1pjXXeO40nUY_jqyk3d57YQ2VhsHMkSPB0yx3aEPfPEL2Jv5ABQJ6B_WxuORVBYWAv42aHzPSpTBjWUUWI1ruRqo8N7gKcV2j8VsVBdDvxBWVE/s1600/007.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="314">
</div>
<div abp="315" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="316" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZiL8zf3VKVmfrjJTVk5s5tF9F26LAOf18yzhPaeBFAsT53C-aAuBu4hnpfqL9IWMx0reP9eb940YxjodUiuDzc2osWR-IoUeTHcdh_eyDLtCHKpQUL8a3hNZ2cBW7JlyNZxS5lunt40/s1600/008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="317" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ZiL8zf3VKVmfrjJTVk5s5tF9F26LAOf18yzhPaeBFAsT53C-aAuBu4hnpfqL9IWMx0reP9eb940YxjodUiuDzc2osWR-IoUeTHcdh_eyDLtCHKpQUL8a3hNZ2cBW7JlyNZxS5lunt40/s1600/008.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="341">
</div>
<div abp="342" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="343" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmnJ31UCNNrOPbgYxatYzG2mu8pjWJHW1xkRCSRRqWGvMDSNyNB0q4z6ggH-cQrgoUZSYnpetzydffjprwrn6_JFq5hqofv1d3DWUqugDMYTCCHNiqmsxC-K2JzayhFlrV6RoVqrqeEfE/s1600/009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="344" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmnJ31UCNNrOPbgYxatYzG2mu8pjWJHW1xkRCSRRqWGvMDSNyNB0q4z6ggH-cQrgoUZSYnpetzydffjprwrn6_JFq5hqofv1d3DWUqugDMYTCCHNiqmsxC-K2JzayhFlrV6RoVqrqeEfE/s1600/009.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="368">
</div>
<div abp="369" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="370" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3bf38tS53VXI3opf6nkanu5iUe6dcQV6jcXLwIFalvxVx13BZa6KVWjcaFn7FUAnf4DLWnA6wkRd4XdaCKlz_Iv0f3nTlt08x7eZoXshLh64Ee3Epq1L4bAjFgas-JNnR2sE46LtTZg/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="371" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3bf38tS53VXI3opf6nkanu5iUe6dcQV6jcXLwIFalvxVx13BZa6KVWjcaFn7FUAnf4DLWnA6wkRd4XdaCKlz_Iv0f3nTlt08x7eZoXshLh64Ee3Epq1L4bAjFgas-JNnR2sE46LtTZg/s1600/010.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="372">
</div>
<div abp="345">
</div>
<div abp="318">
</div>
<div abp="291">
</div>
<div abp="229">
</div>
<div abp="205">
</div>
<div abp="177">
</div>
<div abp="28">
</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-37002105962335736692014-01-21T11:25:00.000-08:002014-01-23T11:08:27.194-08:00Thanks, But No...No Thanks.<div abp="257" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a abp="258" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagA1fcWeKIoj27lSJ0JDE0CXyhk7HFKdfaJBaKqHr6130w0pT1QfyjjZ-sNcftfKza6RQBzZOKvg8c8josaqbNwHBK_e1tMB4ocqiMMA71R2o14e_VjmGBtg-HFdUXeRt0YyApNiukts/s1600/nick+cave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="259" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagA1fcWeKIoj27lSJ0JDE0CXyhk7HFKdfaJBaKqHr6130w0pT1QfyjjZ-sNcftfKza6RQBzZOKvg8c8josaqbNwHBK_e1tMB4ocqiMMA71R2o14e_VjmGBtg-HFdUXeRt0YyApNiukts/s1600/nick+cave.jpg" height="257" width="400" /></a></div>
<div abp="17">
</div>
<div abp="20">
</div>
<div abp="21">
</div>
<div abp="22">
</div>
<div abp="23">
After shackling myself to the uncompromising, challenging but unimaginative grind of basing all my running for the next seven months on one event, it was a blessing that I came across a letter by Nick Cave this week.</div>
<div abp="24">
<br /></div>
<div abp="25">
In 1996, following the success of his band's ninth album, Murder Ballads, words reached Nick Cave that he had been nominated for an MTV Award as Best Male Artist. That nomination was soon withdrawn, however, as a result of the following rejection letter from Cave to the event's organisers:</div>
<div abp="26">
</div>
<div abp="26">
</div>
<div abp="27">
</div>
<div abp="32">
<em abp="33"></em><br /></div>
<div abp="34">
<em abp="35">21 Oct 96<br abp="36" /><br abp="37" /> To all those at MTV,<br abp="38" /><br abp="39" /> I would like to start by thanking you all for the support you have given me over recent years and I am both grateful and flattered by the nominations that I have received for Best Male Artist. The air play given to both the Kylie Minogue and P. J. Harvey duets from my latest album Murder Ballads has not gone unnoticed and has been greatly appreciated. So again my sincere thanks.<br abp="40" /><br abp="41" /> Having said that, I feel that it's necessary for me to request that my nomination for best male artist be withdrawn and furthermore any awards or nominations for such awards that may arise in later years be presented to those who feel more comfortable with the competitive nature of these award ceremonies. I myself, do not. I have always been of the opinion that my music is unique and individual and exists beyond the realms inhabited by those who would reduce things to mere measuring. I am in competition with no-one.<br abp="42" /><br abp="43" /> My relationship with my muse is a delicate one at the best of times and I feel that it is my duty to protect her from influences that may offend her fragile nature.<br abp="44" /><br abp="45" /> She comes to me with the gift of song and in return I treat her with the respect I feel she deserves — in this case this means not subjecting her to the indignities of judgement and competition. My muse is not a horse and I am in no horse race and if indeed she was, still I would not harness her to this tumbrel — this bloody cart of severed heads and glittering prizes. My muse may spook! May bolt! May abandon me completely!<br abp="46" /><br abp="47" /> So once again, to the people at MTV, I appreciate the zeal and energy that was put behind my last record, I truly do and say thank you and again I say thank you but no...no thank you.<br abp="48" /><br abp="49" /> Yours sincerely, <br abp="50" /><br abp="51" /> Nick Cave</em></div>
<div abp="34">
<em></em> </div>
<div abp="34">
<em></em> </div>
<div abp="34">
<em></em> </div>
<div abp="28">
<br /></div>
<div abp="29">
I was running when I came across the letter. It was being read out by Shaun Usher, the guy behind the 'Letters Of Note' website and book, on Richard Bacon's 5 Live radio programme. (I was listening to my radio on earphones.) Its effect on me was immediate and felt important. (Strangely enough, it didn't touch me in quite the same way once I tracked down the letter later on the internet and read it - running, it obviously heightens your perception, makes you more receptive to great words, deeds, sights or ideas - although it remains a fine piece of correspondence.) Between hearing the words half-way through my run, and arriving home at the end, I'd thought of little else except where, in the light of the tone of this letter, I was going with this running lark. I'd made a decision too.</div>
<div abp="29">
</div>
<div abp="29">
</div>
<div abp="29">
</div>
<div abp="29">
</div>
<div abp="29">
I've always regarded my running as a creative act. I don't run to 'keep fit' or to guarantee myself a long and healthy life. I'm no longer driven by a desire to better existing PBs or collect medals. No, I run because I'm an artist, and running is the medium in which I express myself.</div>
<div abp="57">
<br /></div>
<div abp="58">
Since returning to running the second time around, my endeavours on foot have been shaped, year by year, on the dissatisfaction with standing still and the need to do something different. I spent a year almost exclusively in the hills, pushed by an obsession to complete The Bob Graham Round. I spent a year idly contemplating trying to 'make a name for myself' in the trail ultra scene. I managed a top 5 finish in a fairly prestigious race, but soon became disillusioned, realising I preferred to be invisible. I spent an inspiring, physically exhausting and, ultimately, unsuccessful year chasing a dream - my Sixth Statement - of running all of Lincolnshire's Long Distance Paths within a calendar year. I spent a year where I returned to 'proper running' - competing in more races than I ever had, enjoying it, but honestly getting little out of it.</div>
<div abp="59">
<br /></div>
<div abp="60">
And this year, I decided to explore the boundaries of work and play by wholly dedicating its first seven months around one solitary performance at the start of August. It seemed a good idea at the time, and it probably is, but I've found it incredibly difficult to keep my mind still.</div>
<div abp="61">
<br /></div>
<div abp="62">
I've managed a bearable compromise on this year's task. As my event preparations involve little other than moving slowly for long periods, I've become fascinated by the notion of using running as a day-to-day means of transport ('utility running' Our Kid once called it). With no speed sessions to complete, no short races to divert my attention, this idea will work well within the framework of what I need to do, in terms of event preparation, for the first months of this year. By adopting a run-commute to work and back, not only am I achieving my goal of using my feet for my main necessary journeys each week, but I'm also clocking up over 3 hours of running daily, which can only put me in good stead for what I aim to do in August. Either that or break me.</div>
<div abp="63">
</div>
<div abp="64">
A chance encounter with a water tower in Fulletby luckily also provided me with the idea for another mental distraction from the humdrum of heavy mileage weeks. Mostly Facebook is shit, but sometimes it's great. In this instance it was great. After posting a query about the location of Lincolnshire towers, in no time at all a virtual friend linked me to a map of their whereabouts, and the outlines of a plan were concocted.</div>
<div abp="65">
</div>
<div abp="66">
I'd already envisaged a long wander on each forthcoming Sunday. Starting with 25 miles, I'd increase this by 5 miles each month, reaching a top limit of 50 by mid-June. What better way to make these journeys on foot more interesting than tying them to a tour of Lincolnshire's water towers? Each trip would include at least 2 different towers. Depending on public transport links, distance between my chosen towers and the willingness of someone to drop me off and pick me up, these runs would either be circular or point-to-point, covering the distance I'd pencilled in for that particular Sunday.</div>
<div abp="67">
</div>
<div abp="68">
All this stuff is stupid. But running is stupid. Life is stupid. Nothing means anything. All the same, it gives me a buzz. Not only am I 'training' for my particular goal, but I'm making something else at the same time. Come August, not only will I have done loads of long Sundays, but I will have spent hours creating routes, weighing up options, studying timetables, discovering the history of these interesting but overlooked structures. Come August, not only will I be fitter, but, by the act of creativity, I'll be <em abp="69">richer.</em></div>
<div abp="70">
</div>
<div abp="71">
</div>
<div abp="72">
</div>
<div abp="73">
But, back to Nick Cave and where all this is going.</div>
<div abp="74">
</div>
<div abp="75">
I'm not against competition, but the way the 'running scene' has evolved, specifically over recent years, has left me cold. It all started to go wrong with the big city marathons. Increasingly corporatized, hijacked by charities, stripped of their soul, the big city marathons are no longer the testing ground of serious athletes. Whilst I'm full of admiration for someone who can run further than they ever have before whilst raising a bucketful of money - you know, the type of people who run these races nowadays - I want no part of it. The London Marathon (or The Virgin Money London Marathon as it's known this year - 'make sure the 'Virgin Money' bit is more predominant on the logo than the 'London Marathon' bit please') encapsulates everything that my running is not about.</div>
<div abp="76">
</div>
<div abp="77">
Unfortunately, these are the events that runners are judged against by the general public. These races, for the lay man, are what 'running' is. Talk to anyone who knows little about running and the first question they'll ask you is, 'Have you done the London Marathon?' Tell someone - anyone - that you're training for a long race or challenge, and somewhere in the conversation will come that tricky query, 'Are you doing it for charity?' Say no and you'll be greeted by a look of total dumbfoundedness.</div>
<div abp="78">
</div>
<div abp="79">
The success of the big city marathons set a precedent. Big business saw dollar signs in participation numbers. Corporations saw another opportunity to squeeze more drops of blood. Steadily, business moved from involvement or financial support for races to becoming the race organisers themselves. In an area of athletics that traditionally was the reserve of the local athletic clubs, the creeping tide of companies formed to host races seems unstoppable. And, of course, when a company runs an event for profit, with the needs of runners secondary, the whole dynamic changes. You're no longer a race entrant, you're a consumer, ripe for ripping off with extortionate entry fees, ripe for being blackmailed with e-mail after e-mail to buy race branded kit, ripe for being treated as a number on an accountant's spreadsheet, a source of revenue, a stinking sheep in a crowded pen.</div>
<div abp="80">
</div>
<div abp="81">
When coming back to running, it was towards the fell scene that I was pulled. With its long heritage of no nonsense and no frills, it stood out as an area of running that had eschewed all the bollocks that road running had managed to get itself bondaged up with. To its credit, it still largely retains its attractive authenticity, but even here, business and big money have started to encroach. In terms of bad ideas imported from America, Halloween comes a close second to trail running. Now, I love running off-road (we don't have trails in Lincolnshire, we have footpaths - don't forget we're not in Colorado), and the type of people who prefer running up mountains, fells, fields and hillsides are generally closer in outlook to me than those who stick to the road. However, there's something about the 'trail running scene' that really winds me up. Maybe it's the fact that the majority of trail races are being put on by race promotion companies? Maybe it's the fact that 'newbies' seem more interested on forum groups about 'Which Salomon backpack is best for 100 miles?', 'Which is best - Pertex or Goretex?', 'Where can I buy some Hokas?' than they are in 'What do I actually need to do in training to get round 100 miles?' (I know a great proportion of ultra-running is mental strength, but the physical conditioning can never be underestimated. There's a massive DNF element in many trail ultras - people who keep failing again and again. A tip - if you DNF'ed in your last race, do something different next time round, learn from your mistake, turn that negative into a positive. Train harder, train smarter. A new backpack, jacket or pair of shoes isn't going to do that for you.) </div>
<div abp="82">
</div>
<div abp="83">
Off-road ultras are the new road marathons. In the last couple of years, companies hosting trail ultras has boomed disproportionately compared to the rest of the running scene. Check Google. There's almost certainly more off-road ultras than road marathons. I reluctantly accept it's possibly a force for good - there's a plethora of opportunities for people who've struggled round a marathon to take things just that one step further. But I can't help suspect that another familiar foe is at play - and whether we know it or not, the insidious and all-conquering forces of capitalism are rounding up to give us a right-royal shafting.</div>
<div abp="84">
</div>
<div abp="85">
There's some great races out there, and the odd great company doing a great job in this field. But there's a lot of dross. Log onto any ultra-running forum to be bombarded by tales of woe - extortionate entry fees for shambolically organised events, companies collecting money for races and going bust, leaving nothing behind but holes in innocent runners' pockets.</div>
<div abp="86">
</div>
<div abp="87">
A ball has started rolling, and I'm not sure where it ends. Last year's Western States 100 was widely lambasted for its too-large field, the utter lack of respect by some competitors to the natural environment (discarded gel wrappers are the modern-day banana skins) and the chaos at remote checkpoints caused by the traffic of supporters and pacers using roads which weren't designed for mass vehicular access. It's only a matter of time before this happens here.</div>
<div abp="88">
</div>
<div abp="89">
Already, there's mass participation races over ancient routes not best suited for several hundred runners and the ensuing circus of 'race support'. Whilst the Bob Graham Round gets its fair share of foot traffic in a season, it seemed to me, just so recently, too sacred a course for a possible race route. Yet this forthcoming summer, the calendar boosts a race over more or less exactly the same terrain. And what's more unfathomable (or is it?), is that respected stalwarts of the BGR scene actually seem excited by it.</div>
<div abp="90">
</div>
<div abp="91">
A world inhabited by a few is now the playground for the everyman. (Whether acceptable or not, I can't help but feel the same as I did when I was 17. My teenage years had been shaped by Bowie. There were no other Bowie fans my age around except for Our Kid, Chris Lovely from the secondary school over the way and the mysterious Sean who lived near Woollys and supplied us with US bootleg concert cassette tapes with photocopied covers and untidily typed song listings. Then 'Let's Dance' came out and every uncool kid in school was a Bowie fan. Just like that, everything that was so precious was spoilt.) </div>
<div abp="91">
</div>
<div abp="91">
The Lakeland 100/50 has grown from underdog upstart to juggernaut in the space of 5 years. Don't get your entry in hours after the race goes online and you're buggered - no chance of getting a place. (Last week, an extra 50 places for the 100, and 100 places for the 50 were released after the original allocation sold out in record time in October. The places became available at 9am. All had sold out by 9.15am.)</div>
<div abp="92">
</div>
<div abp="93">
The UTMB has gone from being a once-in-a-lifetime grand adventure in the Alps, to a year-long campaign staged with ruthless military efficiency ending with a still-naff-all chance of getting through a ballot at the end. It's harder nowadays to gain entry to the race than actually complete the course. And then there's the fairground carousel spin-off of choosing races simply for their UTMB qualifying points rather than the intrinsic qualities of the races themselves. Don't get me started on that - this blog post is long enough as it is.</div>
<div abp="94">
</div>
<div abp="95">
</div>
<div abp="95">
</div>
<div abp="96">
</div>
<div abp="97">
When I heard the words of Nick Cave, something became very clear. I realised that above everything else, it was the creativity in my running that I valued the most. The disillusionment over what running was becoming and my increasingly ugly cynicism were symptoms of that. Nick Cave's letter confirmed something that I'd suspected for a while. In order to retain my creativity - to protect it from all the crap surrounding it nowadays; in order to retain my spark, my <em>burning</em> - I must move away from the 'running scene' altogether. I must do something different.</div>
<div abp="98">
</div>
<div abp="99">
Whilst this 'something different' will revolve around travel on foot, I am unsure, as yet, of what it will entail. I do know, however, that racing will play a minimal part. In the style of Ziggy Stardust, that big race in August will not only be the last race of the year, but it may be the last race I ever do.</div>
<div abp="100">
</div>
<div abp="101">
I guess I'm announcing my retirement.</div>
<div abp="102">
</div>
<div abp="103">
</div>
<div abp="104">
</div>
<div abp="105">
Increasingly over recent months, my attention's been seized by the exploits of long-distance hikers, of ultra-pedestrians. My internet hours have focused on thru-hiking, fast-packing, ultra-light, self-sufficient, solo long distance travel. I've devoured articles on the likes of Heather Anderson and Scott Williamson with the same fire that I last experienced on reading 'Feet in the Clouds.'</div>
<div abp="106">
</div>
<div abp="107">
This, I think, is where the path is leading. And I surrender. This is my direction of travel. This is where I will now create.</div>
<div abp="108">
</div>
<div abp="109">
</div>
<div abp="110">
</div>
<div abp="111">
I've studiously followed The Spine Race over recent days. An epic race by all accounts, it involves a full traverse of the Pennine Way (268 miles) in the middle of winter. It's been incredibly inspiring to witness the feats of the brave souls who completed the course, but the inspiration I've felt has been slightly different to what I would, perhaps, have imagined. As I've tracked the competitors, I've felt little drive to actually enter the race in the future. Instead, the inspiration has led me down different avenues. How long would it take me to hike the Pennine Way self-supported? 7 days? (Assuming do-able daily distances of 40 miles, it's certainly possible.) How much kit would I need? How little kit could I get away with?</div>
<div abp="112">
</div>
<div abp="113">
The future holds the rest of my lifetime. I'm anxious to use it wisely. To tread new paths, not revisit old pastures. For the first time in a while, my head's so full of ideas that I don't know where to start (or stop). Speed-hiking the National Trails? Attempting Fastest Known Times on some of the local Long Distance Paths - The Nene Way, the Hereward Way, the Yorkshire Wolds Way? Completing all the Wainwrights in one continuous journey?</div>
<div abp="114">
</div>
<div abp="115">
Leaving something behind that has always been so important can be a difficult thing to do. And maybe it's because I'm not truly leaving at all that has made my decision all the easier.</div>
<div abp="116">
</div>
<div abp="117">
My running as I've known it is coming to an end.It's time to say, 'Thank you, but no...no thank you.'</div>
<div abp="118">
</div>
<div abp="119">
But my running as I've never known it is just about to start.</div>
saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-32963361022381868312014-01-09T11:05:00.000-08:002014-01-09T11:25:07.096-08:00This Year's Most Essential Bit Of Kit For Endurance Running<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJSVJN-1INB1kO2Mae25pCNU9UqKMXBZS7AlQqHBEgessvph5CbWsX9ksjctyQ2foeBUtAFYfJ6wkqXwIRessrvGjWfwGLQQMP420czdQ1c9FTr4w8nQcrannbCe1vY6ZBvxH-VdH8rA/s1600/casio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJSVJN-1INB1kO2Mae25pCNU9UqKMXBZS7AlQqHBEgessvph5CbWsX9ksjctyQ2foeBUtAFYfJ6wkqXwIRessrvGjWfwGLQQMP420czdQ1c9FTr4w8nQcrannbCe1vY6ZBvxH-VdH8rA/s1600/casio.jpg" height="400" width="224" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
In a bid to embrace change in 2014, as well as improve my running performance, I decided to tackle my distrust of modern technology head-on over the Christmas period and splash out on a wrist-worn device that I could wear during training sessions. After browsing the internet for products within my price range (less than £25), I decided to invest in the gadget with the longest name I could find, reasoning that a long name equates to great performance.<br />
<br />
I have now worn my <strong>Casio DBC-32-1AES Auto Illuminator Databank watch </strong>on all my runs for the last two weeks. I have also worn it at all other times, even in the shower, but I did take it off when I had a bath the other night, just to be on the safe side.<br />
<br />
Below is my in-depth review of my new purchase. I hope you find it informative. If you should have any questions after reading the review, please leave a message in the Comments section and I will do my best to help you out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>CASIO DBC-32-1AES AUTO ILLUMINATOR DATABANK WATCH</u></strong><br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<u><strong>First Appearances</strong></u><br />
<u></u><br />
The Casio DBC-32 (for short) is black, sleek and slimline. When attaching it to your chosen wrist (fits left or right wrists), its slightly curved contours ensure a precise and comfortable fit. This is one good-looking timepiece.<br />
<br />
Weighing in at a barely-there 32g, it is a whole 45g lighter than its nearest comparable training tool (Garmin Forerunner 205, 77g). Scientific studies have shown that each gram worn on the wrist equates to approximately a 0.5 second decrease in long-distance performance over 100 miles. By wearing a Casio DBC-32 instead of a Garmin Forerunner 205, a typical athlete will save themselves up to 23 seconds in a 100 mile race.<br />
<br />
Not only is the Casio DBC-32 very light and well-fitting, but it is also seriously cool when worn as a casual timepiece outside of running. Its futuristic styling coveys the message that its wearer is forward thinking, up-to-the-minute, and individualistic.<br />
<br />
The Casio DBC-32 secured 6th place in 'Men's Must Haves' in the GQ Magazine Awards (1983).<br />
<br />
Other prominent fashion writers have predicted that the Casio DBC-32 will become hip in 2014, after numerous celebrities have been spotted wearing them. These include the bloke in 'Breaking Bad' who was a teacher but started cooking up drugs to sell to his pupils, and Rob Halford, lead singer of ground-breaking Heavy Metal outfit, Judas Priest.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><strong>Functions </strong></u><br />
<u></u><br />
The Casio DBC-32 has a multitude of functions:<br />
<br />
1. TIME - handy if you want to know what time of day it is. By pressing just one button, you can change the display from a 12 hour clock to a 24 hour clock.<br />
<br />
2. STOPWATCH - handy for timing things, eg. the duration of a training run, how long you can hold you breath without becoming unconscious, when to turn the microwave off when preparing a tasty ready-meal-for-one.<br />
<br />
3. DATE - handy if you're competing in an extreme endurance ultra that lasts more than 24 hours.<br />
<br />
4. LIGHT - handy if you want to use any of the functions of your wrist-worn training tool in the dark.<br />
<br />
5. DATABANK - this feature enables you to enter and save a long list of people's names and their phone numbers. Handy if you should wish at any time to recall someone's phone number but don't have access to your mobile phone.<br />
<br />
6. CALCULATOR - handy for working out any stuff involving numbers.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><strong>How has it performed?</strong></u><br />
<br />
A).<br />
I've used the stopwatch function on a total of 20 runs and found it to be most effective.<br />
<br />
A detailed breakdown of this training data reveals:<br />
<br />
- On 6 occasions I used the stopwatch function on the same 10 mile route. Results show that on each occasion I ran the distance in a slightly different time.<br />
<br />
- On 8 occasions I forgot to stop the watch after completing a run, rendering my run data obsolete.<br />
<br />
- On 4 occasions I got half way round my course before realising that I'd not started the stopwatch, rendering my run data obsolete.<br />
<br />
- On 2 occasions I started the watch at the commencement of a run, but on completion of the run found that I'd caught the STOP button by mistake during the run, rendering my run data obsolete.<br />
<br />
<br />
Although I haven't yet explored the following, it is obvious that, for those of you of a more analytical bent, the stopwatch function can be extended for use in a host of informative ways:<br />
<br />
- If you've previously measured the length of your course using a calibrated bicycle wheel or the speedo in your car, you can use the figure provided by your stopwatch, along with the Casio DBC-32's Calculator function, to perform a simple arithmetic equation to work out your average pace.<br />
<br />
eg. The course is 5 miles long. Your total time was 35 minutes.<br />
<br />
Average pace = time taken / distance travelled = 35 / 5 = 7 minutes per mile.<br />
<br />
A Garmin device will also provide this information, but cost, on average, £100 more.<br />
<br />
<br />
- After gathering information of this nature over several days, it is then possible to buy some graph paper from WH Smith's and plot your training data in a chart. Such a chart is very effective as a means of performance feedback and looks just as pretty as the graphs on Garmin Connect, especially if you've invested in a large pack of coloured pencils.<br />
<br />
<br />
- Should the above personal feedback not be satisfying enough, it is possible to collate all the training data provided by the Casio DBC-32's stopwatch function and post it all on Facebook, along with a comment chosen from the following list:<br />
<br />
'Great long run this morning. Felt fantastic!'<br />
'Marathon training starts today!'<br />
'Thanks (insert name/names of your choice) for helping me get round those (insert number) miles. Very tough. but glad I did it!'<br />
'After this morning's run, I really enjoyed eating this cake. Nom nom. lol.' (Post comment and data along with a photograph of a cake.)<br />
<br />
By posting such information on Facebook, not only will you get all the external validation you need to feel worthwhile (somebody's bound to 'like' it, even if it's just through the guilt of potentially upsetting you), but it may also serve the handy purpose of making your running rivals jealous, or, even better, just winding them up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
B).<br />
The watch's Light function has performed admirably on a number of occasions. In order to test its effectiveness, I ran to the middle of nowhere on an unlit road round the back of my house. After turning off my headtorch to ensure total darkness, by pressing the Light button, I was clearly able to read the time on the watch's digital display.<br />
<br />
On an early morning off-road run to work this week, I found myself in considerable difficulty when my headtorch battery failed, resulting in a loss of visibility. Temporarily unable to find the path across the ploughed field I was in, I activated the Casio DBC-32's Light function. The resulting glow made it possible for me to re-find the path and navigate myself to a near-by road. Without the watch, and given the chilly air temperature at 6 am, I dare say the situation could have been very serious.<br />
<br />
The Casio DBC-32's Light function also performs well in a non-running environment. Just last night, I was able to use the watch's light to locate a pound coin that had fallen behind the back of the fridge. Whilst there, I was also able to retrieve a discarded hair scrunchie, a medium sized safety pin and a black sock.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
C). <br />
I have used the Casio DBC-32's Calculator function numerous times to work out hard sums and found the buttons easy to use, and the answers displayed to be very accurate.<br />
<br />
I intend to make extensive use of the Calculator function of the watch during my running this year.<br />
<br />
In 2012, I completed the Viking Way Ultra, a 147 mile footrace through Lincolnshire and Leicestershire. At numerous checkpoints, when provided with the information of 'miles completed', I had to use mentally-draining arithmetic to work out the number of miles still to complete. Whilst this was do-able in the early stages of the race, once exhaustion set in, I found this task increasingly difficult. If I had had access to the Casio DBC-32 during this race, this matter would never have been an issue - I could merely have used the calculator on my wrist to work out the answer to my problem. I envisage the Casio DBC-32 will be invaluable in any races I compete in this year where the total mileage is 100 miles or more.<br />
<br />
<br />
Over recent months, I have been researching the complex issue of 'association' and 'dissociation' during endurance races, in a bid to determine which cognitive coping strategy to utilise in an ultra.<br />
<br />
Both these psychological strategies involve what you think about when running.<br />
<br />
Associative thoughts are based on the race or performance itself. Schomer (1987) states that these thoughts could include monitoring of bodily sensations, such as respiration or muscle pain, as well as internal instructions, such as 'surge to that next person' or 'relax your shoulders.' Associative thoughts also include thoughts about pace or present emotional state. Athletes who associate are focused on the task at hand and this only.<br />
<br />
Athletes who dissociate, however, may think about things unrelated to the task at hand as a means of distraction. These dissociative thoughts could include reflection on past events or planning for future events. Runners who focus on the environment (scenery, the nice arse in tight, skimpy shorts in front of you etc.) or listen to music while running are also dissociating.<br />
<br />
A study of marathon runners by Morgan and Pollack (1977) found that whilst most used a dissociative style, the elite performers almost uniformly used an associative style. The monitoring of bodily sensations, according to Morgan and Pollack, helped runners to relax so that they could achieve performance goals.<br />
<br />
Smith, Gill, Crews, Hopewell and Morgan (1995) also found that the most economical distance runners reported dissociating less but focusing on relaxation more than did less economical runners.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, Morgan (1981) found that many elite runners drifted between styles, even during the same run. Gill and Strom (1985) also found that athletes in general do tend to rate dissociation as a preferred state during endurance exercise.<br />
<br />
Whilst it is undoubtedly true that an associative state is conducive for peak performance up to and including the marathon, it has been postulated that utilisation of both associative and dissociative cognitive strategies together could lead to increased performance in extremely long ultra races. Indeed anecdoctal evidence shows that even the world's best long distance athletes - Killian Journet, Timothy Olsen, Ryan Sandes, to name a few - will run whilst listening to music through earphones on certain sections of the races they compete in.<br />
<br />
Bearing all this evidence in mind, the Casio DBC-32 will play a vital role in both the preparation for this year's main target race, and during the actual race itself. Since I dislike listening to music whilst running, I plan on using my new watch's Calculator function extensively at the times during a run when I think the employment of a dissociative cognitive strategy will be beneficial to my overall performance.<br />
<br />
Whilst I'm still to fine tune my 'dissociative technique', I plan on using mental arithmetic and complicated mathematical problems as its backbone. Whenever I judge the use of dissociative thoughts to be necessary during a very long run, I will focus my mind on the setting, and the subsequent solving, of very hard sums in my head. Once I've arrived at an answer, I shall be able to use the Casio DBC-32's Calculator function to check my answer.<br />
<br />
By this means, I not only aim to drastically improve my running performance, but also to increase my level of mathematical mental agility and, thereby, my overall intelligence. I can think of no other running-related gadget on the market at the moment which is better suited for this task.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Conclusion</u> </strong><br />
<br />
At 323.97, the<strong> Casio DBC-32-1AES Auto Illuminator Databank watch</strong> is probably the best value piece of running kit you could purchase this year.<br />
<br />
I wholehearted recommend it and award it a mark of <strong>9 / 10.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
References:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Gill, D.L., & Strom, E.H. (1985). The effect of attentional focus on performance of an endurance task. <em>International Journal of Sport </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><em>Psychology, 16, </em>217-223.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Morgan, W.P. (1981). Psychophysiology of self-awareness during vigorous physical activity. <em>Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport, 52</em>,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>385-427.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Morgan, W.P., & Pollock, M.L. (1977). Psychologic characterization of the elite distance runner. <em>Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><em>301, </em>382-403.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Schomer, H. (1987). Mental strategy training programme for marathon runners. <em>Internationl Journal of Sport Psychology, 18, </em>133-151.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Smith, A.L., Gill, D.L., Crews, D.J., Hopewell, R., & Morgan, D.W. (1995). Attentional strategy use by experienced distance runners: </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Physiological and psychological effects. <em>Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport, 66, </em>142-150.</div>
<br />saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4689246358509851629.post-49059749042251141822014-01-05T12:06:00.000-08:002014-01-05T12:06:28.682-08:00Drop Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_W95qFdObef0chTogF1Xmpjah526ebZkJUI0YerEmUdM2dg24UOzQ1eHRkTDoEpeSfyeJrxyheNQ5T7sxspP7jGatSz8s2viQwOtJgq1W-n4ER8ruOeDEdqjUHqr7S5gshfoRTY9W8E/s1600/drops+of+water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_W95qFdObef0chTogF1Xmpjah526ebZkJUI0YerEmUdM2dg24UOzQ1eHRkTDoEpeSfyeJrxyheNQ5T7sxspP7jGatSz8s2viQwOtJgq1W-n4ER8ruOeDEdqjUHqr7S5gshfoRTY9W8E/s400/drops+of+water.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I awoke from a dream and remembered what he'd told me whilst I was sleeping.<br />
<br />
<em>'That's me. That's you,</em>' he'd said.<br />
<br />
<em>'Drops of water. And you're on top of the mountain. A success.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'But one day, you start sliding down the mountain. You think, "Wait a minute. I'm a mountain top water drop. I don't belong in this valley, this river, this low dark ocean with all these drops of water.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'And you feel confused.</em><br />
<br />
'<em>Then one day, it gets hot and you slowly evaporate into the air - way up - higher than any mountain top - all the way to the heavens.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Then you understand that it was at your lowest that you were closest to God.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'Because life's a journey that goes round and round. And the end is closest to the beginning.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'So, it's change you need. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Relish the journey.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Be a drop of running water.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Obey those invisible pools of your soul.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Gravity.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Evaporation.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'Love.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'Creativity.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'It's in the darkest moments that the cracks allow the inner light to come out.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>'But the spotlights don't let you see the inner light.'</em>saleby jogging centrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01801822313701584934noreply@blogger.com0