At 6 miles, the Wold Newton Link is the shortest of the Silver Lincs Way's 5 circular link walks. Starting and finishing in the charming village, it passes through Hawerby Hall Farm, Beesby and The Valley.
Friday 1st June, 6 miles
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
No. 15: Silver Lincs Way - Wold Newton Link
At 6 miles, the Wold Newton Link is the shortest of the Silver Lincs Way's 5 circular link walks. Starting and finishing in the charming village, it passes through Hawerby Hall Farm, Beesby and The Valley.
Friday 1st June, 6 miles
Sunday, 3 June 2012
The Pivot
As dawn broke on the morning of January 1st and I took those first steps along the track from Hagworthingham to start the Tennyson Twenty, I knew that the months to follow would almost certainly bring their share of good moments and bad times. In setting myself the challenge of running all the LDPs that started, finished or passed through Lincolnshire, I knew that I'd embarked upon a collosal adventure. By stipulating a time limit - the project to be completed within a year - I knew also that I'd applied a pressure that was arbitrary but one that would provide a focus in my efforts to achieve the success I desired. My planning had highlighted the fact that consistency would be the crucial in making the challenge attainable - lengthy periods of injury would inevitably spell the end of the project.
I knew all this before I started, and I was confident in my plans. 'Don't worry - I know what I'm doing', became my stock phrase to anyone who questioned me.
As the Sixth Statement's sixth month starts, however, I can confidently look back and state that I was wrong. I thought the miles of running would teach me valuable lessons. I was wrong there too. It turns out that it's the time I've spent not running that has taught me the most.
After six weeks of injury, I return to my beloved footpaths this weekend. My legs seem in decent shape. My foot and ankle injuries from earlier in the year have all but gone. The groin pain I've experienced is still there, and will eventually need surgery, but, for the time being, I can cope with the discomfort it brings. Physically then, not bad.
What excites me, however, is not the physical freshness I've rediscovered, but something else that the success of my challenge will depend on just as much. I return to the paths with a new way of looking at things, a new approach - I've found The Pivot.
We all know of the existence of The Pivot. What's difficult is finding it, and, once you've found it, keeping it in the right place.
The first three months of this year saw a distinct lack of balance. I was ticking off big miles at the weekends, slowly working my way through the paths, and continuing my efforts throughout the week, feeling tired but satisfied. My Sixth Statement was progressing at a pleasing rate. When not running or working, I was planning. I carried my chart in a cardboard tube between work and home, and spent countless hours slotting different footpath runs onto the calendar in an organised manner that I thought would optimise success.
A blog post I read recently came too late for me. It stated that plans - year plans, five year plans, ten year plans - were to be avoided at all costs. By planning over any lengthy period, you were virtually guaranteeing failure. Unforeseen events inevitably occur - that's life - the plan goes out the window, and you're left feeling like a loser for no obvious fault of your own. One of the best pieces of advice I've received all year. Unfortunately, by the time I'd read it, my own year plan had already gone tits up.
Having hit a low point in the middle of March, I was forced to take a couple of easy weeks. Had I been doing too much? Maybe? Whatever caused my breakdown on the 'Beat' run, it set alarm bells ringing. I'd become too pre-occupied with this one scheme and all sorts of things were suffering. Most importantly, my running was becoming tiresome. I'd planned this challenge as a celebration of empty miling - a vehicle to enable me to focus on the intrinsic beauty in each run. But the constant mulling over the calendar, and the temptation to push the boundaries in my non-footpath running activities, had started to dull the very essence of what I'd wanted to embrace. I promised myself a rethink after the Viking Way Ultra - try and balance things up. As it turned out, a knee injury I acquired as a consequence of this run stopped my running for the best part of six weeks. Whilst frustrating, it seems that this enforced absence from running may have saved me. It gave me the time I needed, but had previously not had, to find The Pivot.
The Pivot is the point around which everything balances. It is as crucial to attaining your running goals as it is to living a happier, more fulfilled life.
I've had time to reassess my Life Pivot. The Ball of String facilitated a shift in thought that's already having overwhelmingly positive outcomes. A more difficult task, however, has been to find my Running Pivot - the balance needed in the activity I love most.
Since August last year, I've been plagued with niggles. Whilst not stopping me running, PF in my left foot, a partially torn ligament in my right ankle and numerous other minor injuries have dampened my enthusiasm for empty miling.
In a bid to remedy the situation, I've looked at a myriad of possible solutions - concentrating on my running form, altering my foot-strike, shortening my stride length, increasing my cadence, changing my footwear, increasing the hours I regularly sleep, tweaking my diet, purchasing compression clothing. It's difficult to assess if any or all of the above had some benefit or none at all. Suffice to say, though, that the problems didn't magically go away.
It was a Fb message from a fellow ultra-runner I met during the Viking Way run that finally brought me to the light. After winning this race, I'd been amazed at how quickly he seemed to recover and how soon he was ready to take on other runs of epic distances. Each weekend he seemed to be tackling distances of 60 miles and upwards - an incredible achievement. I sent him a message saying as much, and he replied with a short sentence: 'But remember Chris - I do little, if anything, in between. Rest is everything. Your endurance won't be affected.'
BINGO! The answer had been so obvious, but I'd chosen to ignore it all along. To run more, I have to run less. This, I was sure, would be the key to locating The Pivot.
I'm a runner. I love to run. My default setting is to run every day. There's been times when I've run for 10 or 11 months at a time without missing a day. Upon reflection, these periods have always ended in tears.
I've blinded myself to the words that presented themselves to me on the internet each time I googled a new problem. 'Over-use injuries'. Over use. The answer was there, but I couldn't see it. Over use. You do too much.
I've been forced to sit down and reassess. This year's plan was based on empty miles. Empty miles that would be run on Lincolnshire's paths, a number of which involved extreme distances. These were the miles that counted. Perhaps the rest were junk?
The notion of junk miles is alien to me. Every mile is a mile worth running. But if I'm going to complete my miles on the paths, it's essential that most of the rest have to go.
This, I'm sure, is the key.
The plan is straight-forward. The priority miles are the ones I'll enjoy as part of my footpath challenge. The distances involved inevitably mean that most of these will be completed at weekends. What I need to do during the week goes against everything that's ingrained in me - I have to not run. A couple of easy club runs will, no doubt, make no difference, but the essential thing will be to rest for the forthcoming weekend's big effort. I admit - it scares me a little, but I also have the gut feeling that it's right. Only this way will I get close to completing my task. The Pivot. I'm on it.
The regimented calendar has to go too. It's only by taking a more intuitive approach to the task - by listening to my body and not my head - that progress will be guaranteed.
Six frustrating weeks have ended. The weather's showing early summer promise. I hear the Sirens singing from the paths I've yet to tread. Instead of luring me to self-destruction, their songs entice me towards revelation.
Once more, The Sixth Statement awaits.
This time, I'm ready.
Three Big Ones
I remember Frank telling me that his other half, Caroline, thought he'd lost the plot when, 6 years ago, in his mid-forties, he'd informed her that he was going to start running. Half-an-hour later, as he lay, exhausted, on the floor of his conservatory after a mile shuffle around the block, she probably thought his announcement would be thought better of and his running carreer would be over before it really began.
I can imagine now that Caroline must feel glad that she was wrong. I can imagine also that she must have an immense pride in the incredible achievements that Frank has tallied up since that humbling introduction to long distance running.
In 6 years, Frank has completed several London marathons and raised close to £15,000 for charities close to his heart. Last year, he decided that a mere marathon wasn't enough. A couple of weeks after completing the London, he would run Wainwright's famous Coast To Coast route, crossing the English mainland from west to east. I was lucky enough to join Frank and his team - Simon, a fellow runner, and John, driver and organiser extraordinaire, at the start of this 190 mile, week-long journey. After helping them navigate the route through the Lake District for 2 days, I returned home, leaving them with 120 miles still to cover. I wasn't surprised in the slightest when I heard they'd successfully completed the challenge well under the scheduled time a few days later.
As we'd descended to Honister slate mine on the first day of that trip, Frank let us in on next year's mission. He fancied tackling the National 3 Peaks Challenge. This involves climbing the highest mountains in Scotland (Ben Nevis, 1344m), England (Scafell Pike, 978m) and Wales (Snowdon, 1085m), within a 24 hour period. The time limit means that although the challenge consists of 26 miles of ascent and descent, and is certainly a physical ordeal, thorough planning and a good driver are vital. Frank's idea impressed me, especially as he revealed an interesting twist. He would run the Edinburgh Marathon immediately before, leaving the finish line to depart for Ben Nevis and the start of The 3 Peaks. Would I be interested in joining the team? You bet.
Jump forward a year, and 5 of us are squeezed into a people carrier surrounded by running shoes, luggage, snacks and bottled water. We're en-route to the base of Ben Nevis. John is, once again, in the driver's seat. The other 3 guys - Frank, Simon and a crazy Polish new recruit to the team, Raf, are relaxing after just finishing the Edinburgh marathon. I'm looking forward to the challenge, but am a little concerned about the knee injury that had led to my decision a couple of weeks earlier to pull out of the marathon. Whilst a bit pissed off about that aspect of the trip, it's great to be with the team again. It's non-stop banter and laughing all the way to Fort William.
We set off up Ben Nevis at 7pm (my watch was 9 minutes fast all winter, but now it's BST, it's 51 minutes slow). The car's temperature gauge tells us it's still 27 degrees - incredibly hot, especially coming off the back of weeks of bad weather. We all set off over-dressed - 'it'll be cold at the top!' - and it's not long before we're all sweating our balls off and shedding layers. We pass an elderly couple sat at the side of the path after about 20 minutes. I stop and chat for a bit and the old bloke tells me his wife can go no further. They're nearly at the base of the mountain, but heat exhaustion has meant she can't go on. He tells me that mountain rescue won't be long. I relate this story to Frank when he catches up. By this time, he looks as though he may well need mountain rescue too. 'Thanks Chris,' he says when I finish talking, 'that's really fucking cheered me up.'
As we skirt Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe, we all start getting to know Raf a little better. He lives in Manchester, works for the company Frank reps for, and has a vast amount of experience in the hills. He doesn't watch television, doesn't listen to music, doesn't support a football team. In fact, his interests seem to boil down to just 2 subjects - shagging and mountains. He talks about both incessantly, particularly the former.
A bit later, as we pass the tree line and start on the zig-zags to the summit, someone asks Raf a serious question. 'What's at the top mate?'
'Girls,' he replies. 'Beautiful Polish girls,' he continues, with a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye. We can't help laughing, and, as we look up the path, we're greeted by a vision straight out of Raf's wildest imagination. Descending the track are 3 beautiful young ladies dressed in bikini tops, short shorts and walking boots. All of us say hello as they pass us, except Raf, who's suddenly a little shy.
The light's almost gone as we reach the summit. Simon's shoes have survived the long ascent - even though the sole has detached from the upper, a roll of medical tape has managed to allay any further kit malfunction. We trudge through the snow towards the emergency shelter, the ruins and the summit cairn. I ring Tam and tell her I'm the highest man in the whole of the UK. Being so late at night, we have the summit plateau to ourselves. The temperature's still high and the night is absolutely still. We sit and gaze over the surrounding mountains and out to sea, alone in our magical world. After a few minutes, we pose for obligatory photographs and start down the Ben.
20 minutes later, the short-cut through the zig-zags that I spotted on the way up doesn't seem like the great idea it previously appeared to be. It's dark now - headtorches on - Fort William's lights below us as if we were approaching to land after a long flight - and the scree path is indistinct, loose and hard-going. When we eventually hit the main path, Simon and myself wait for Frank and Raf. We smile as we listen to Frank's effing and blinding from further up the hill.
Shortly after midnight, whilst crossing one of the metal bridges near the base of the mountain, we meet a party of 3 blokes heading in the opposite direction. Simon tells them what we're up to, but soon it's evident that we've been out-trumped. Starting at midnight on Monday morning, they planned to finish their trip before midnight on Friday. In the space of those 5 days, they intended to climb the 3 Peaks, cycle 550 miles between each on an old 1970's tandem and throw in a swim across Lake Windermere and back!
We eventually arrive at the car, behind schedule and starving hungry. John's sorted us all out with chicken kebabs that he'd bought from Fort William 4 hours ago. As I unwrap the soggy paper, observe the pitta dampened by fat and chilli sauce and poke the cold chicken lumps inside, I'm astounded, minutes later, that it tastes so bloody good.
It's John's time to perform now. Whilst he drives towards the border and Cumbria, the rest of us settle down as comfortably as we can and grab the most uncomfortable night's sleep possible. I keep waking to find Simon's head on my shoulder, and each time I nod off, it seems that I'm awakened by John excitedly pointing out random sights through the darkness, stags on the road or places he used to live.
It's a relief when we finally arrive in the Lake District.
We set off up Scafell Pike at 7am. It's another beautiful day. Visibility is superb and we're all in good spirits. Even though the path to the top is the roughest of the 3 peaks, it's one I'm familiar with and is a more direct route to the summit than the long march up Ben Nevis.
Frank seems revived from the few hours sleep. On the way up we're all treated to a non-stop string of motivational quotes that he delivers just in case we're feeling in need of motivation. 'Winners never quit, and quitters never win,' he tells us. 'If you can no longer run, walk. If you can no longer walk, crawl. The important thing is to never give up,' he tells us. And his personal favourite, 'If your legs are tired, it's only because they're kicking butt.' By the time we reach the top, we're almost wishing Frank had stayed in the car.
After savouring the Lakeland views at the summit, a Czech kid takes our photograph and we head back down. For a good while, I find myself walking with Raf. We chat and I see another side of him. He tells me of his dream to join the SAS which was thrawted by red-tape of some sort. He talks about his newborn son and the numerous mountaineering and survival courses he's attended. When I ask if he completed these in the Lake District, he tells me that he always goes back to Poland since 'not only are Polish men the best lovers in the world, they are also the best climbers.'
I innocently ask him, 'What's next on the agenda?' expecting him to reel off some random local 10k race. I'd forgot, however, that running, as such, is not one of his main interests. 'First,' he says, 'when I get home, I make love to my beautiful Polish wife. Then, I climb the Matterhorn.' I think he's joking until he fills me in on the details of his forthcoming trip with a fellow Polish climbing buddy. As soon as a period of good weather is forecast for that area, they'll be off.
We all reach the Brackenclose car park well up on the Scafell Pike schedule, and, after 10 minutes faffing around looking for the camera I'd thought I'd lost but later turned up, we're on our way to Wales.
My previous experience of the mountains of Snowdonia involves either darkness, dense cloud or torrential rain. Even though I've been over a few tops on a friend's Paddy Buckley Round attempts, I've never had visibility better than 20 feet. It's a revelation, therefore, to begin the last climb up Snowdon knowing that the views are going to be awesome.
We head up the PYG track, aware that time is on our side. Raf announces that he's intending a round trip of 2 hours so he can make the Manchester train from nearby Bangor. We let him go and carry on at a steadier pace.
The Snowdon climb is, by far, the easiest of the 3. I walk with Frank and Simon, then push on up the final zig-zags to the top. I wait there for a few minutes for Simon to join me, but decide to push on down before Frank arrives, having decided to take the Miners' Path on the descent and being unsure of how long it will take. We pass Frank before we head off the summit ridge and he's looking good, but his habit of stopping to chat with everyone he passes means he might be cutting the 24 hour time limit a bit fine.
Just over an hour later, we've arrived at the Pen-y-pass car park, our challenge completed. The Miners' Track had dragged on a bit, but the jog over the last 7kms, past Llyn Llydaw Reservoir and old mine-workings had been a fittingly-pleasing end to the day. We sit on the grass, wait for John to arrive in the car after dropping Raf at the train station, and wonder how far Frank is away. The clock's ticking - it's going to be close.
Frank arrives first. He staggers off the Pyg track and collapses on the grass. ,Bloody hell! I don't believe it!' he's saying, pointing at his watch. '1 minute past 7! 1 minute past bloody 7!' He's gutted. Just then, John turns up. Out the car he gets shouting, 'Well done lads - you all did it!' Frank tells him about his extra minute, but this time, fate is on his side. The official challenge clock - the car's dashboard read-out - is 3 or 4 minutes slower than Frank's wristwatch. The lucky bugger has cracked the 24 hour time limit with just a couple of minutes to spare!
We're soon on our way to the bunkhouse that's booked in Nant Peris, and the promise of a good meal and beer. Frank's in the front of the car. 'Bloody hell,' he says, 'that was the hardest thing I've ever done. A lot harder than the Coast To Coast, don't you reckon Simon?'
I remember Simon's words on the way to Snowdon's summit. He'd said exactly the same thing. He also said that this was the last time he'd ever get caught up in one of Frank's mad adventures. Mind you. he'd said the same thing last year, but when Frank had got in touch with another idea, he found he just couldn't resist.
As if reading my mind, Frank suddenly turns round and says, 'Right. I've been thinking about what we can do next year.'
Simon and I look at each other and smile as Frank begins...
So far, Frank's challenge this year has raised over £2,600 for JDRF. Well done, Mr Walsh!
His just giving page is here.
Friday, 18 May 2012
A Ball Of String
It's just a ball of string. It sits on the windowsill in the office next to a golf ball, a couple of discarded AAA batteries, and a plastic tub full of highlighter pens, some of which work, some of which don't. It's sat there for the best part of eight years - ever since we moved into these premises. I'm sure it was me who bought it, put it there, but I've no recollection now of what I bought it for. What job had I once in mind for it? I've no idea. Did I actually use it at all? I don't know. So, it just sits there. A ball of string on a cluttered windowsill.
There's times in that office when I've had enough. In fact, it happens quite a lot. It might be a Friday afternoon. I might be ploughing through the following week's print lists, or composing an e-mail to ask a packing machine engineer to grace us with his presence as soon as possible, and charge us an extortionate hourly rate for the privilege of coming in to fix the machine that his employers charged us forty grand for, yet never works properly for more than a couple of weeks at a time. I might be making that fifteenth phone call to a customer who assured us that the few hundred pounds he owes us from three months back had been forwarded to our account when I last spoke to him a week ago, but has never turned up. Any of these things, or any number of other scenarios that throw themselves at you constantly when you run your own business. Most of the time, I'm fine. I'll take it in my stride, keep calm, press on with the next job. Some of the time, I'm not.
Then, I'll roll my swivel chair from the desk. I'll fold my arms behind my head, pissed off. Inevitably, my eyes will be drawn to the string. It's just a ball of string. And, whilst looking at that string, I'll think of the trap I've made for myself: the long hours required to make a small business successful; the mortgage payments I'll be making for the rest of my working life; the sacrifices I have to make to provide for a family. I'll think of the things I could be doing instead of being sat here, in this office, at this desk. I could be hiking a National Trail, paddling from the source of the River Witham to The Wash. I could be jogging in the shore break by Mabo's North End, or planning the final preparations for a month long walk along The Bibbulmun Track. I could be doing all of these things. But, I'm not. I'm at work. Sat in an office, turning back and forth on a swivel chair with my hands behind my head, staring at a ball of string. I do it all the time, and the same question always appears - there must be more to life than this?
I've thought a lot about the work thing and come to the conclusion that there's not a lot to think about. It's all simple equations and the bravery to do just what you feel is right.
My younger life was punctuated by periods of jobs that were all-consuming. Granted, I've found time to travel the world, fall hopelessly in love, have a number of satisfying and disasterous adventures, but I've also had times where I've done nothing but work, day-in, day-out, to the detriment of myself and anyone close to me. When I was younger, it seemed ok. I'd plenty of time to do things later on in life, and a little sacrifice now for the good of the future seemed fair enough. Nowadays, as I reach my mid-forties, the whole idea doesn't feel so right. The clock's ticking. The beat is strong. But who knows when it will stop?
I'll make this easy. It's always the best way. There's only one reason why we work. That reason is: money. Often you hear folks say, 'I love my job.' Maybe some of them do, but most of them are liars. There's many things I like about my job - being my own boss is one of them - and I'm lucky enough to wake up 5 mornings a week without the dread of what's to fill those days, but - truthfully - if I had the choice, I'd rather be doing something else than running a factory making colouring boards for kids to scribble on.
I go to work on those 5 mornings each week to earn money. Simple. That's the first part of the deal. The next is equally basic.
What do I do with the money? I've got 3 choices. I can give it away. I can save it. I can spend it.
Like everyone, I give money away now and then. There's lots of local groups that do great things and benefit at a real level through help in the form of time given or cash handed over. Large charities I usually steer well clear of. Giving away money at regular intervals helps us ease our guilt when we live in decent houses, drive decent cars, have decent relationships, have 'nice lives', and then are confronted by a reality that's too grim to reasonably comprehend - children with terminal diseases, families losing a loved one, kids crawling around waist-deep in shit on South American rubbish dumps when one of the richest nations on earth is next door. For this reason, and for maybe more, it's important to give some of your money away.
The second choice I've got is to save money. There's a rule here that needs to be stuck to, otherwise your life will become crap: only save money if it's for the singular reason of getting enough together to spend it pretty soon. Don't save for a rainy day, don't put money aside for a pension or so you can be 'comfortable' later in life. All that achieves is making your life right now not as good as it should be. We're brainwashed early on to 'be careful', and many people spend a lifetime saving for a future they never get to. Look at the people you know who are 'careful'. Inevitably, they lead 'careful' lives - ie. do nothing adventurous, dangerous or remotely interesting. Do you want a life that hollow? No-one dies whilst fondly reminiscing about the state of their savings account. Many die with the profound regret of not doing things they always wanted to, never having the courage to chase a rainbow, not having used that cash to help set aside big chunks of time with the ones they adore.
The third choice is to spend your money once you've earned it. This is, by far, the best option. Be careful though that you only spend the money you've already earned, not that which you've yet to earn. Credit is a form of slavery, targeted at the disillusioned aspirationals who sincerely believe that their lives will be transformed by a new leather sofa. Leave it for those thickos that can't contemplate any other option than walking the treadmill till the day they drop dead.
You can spend your money in 2 ways: either buying stuff or doing things. Each is necessary at times, but only the latter creates memories. The key to a happier, more fulfilled life is to spend less money on buying stuff, and more on doing things. That, my friend, is it.
It's the ball of string that's got me onto all this. A ball of string on a windowsill, nestling beside a golf ball, some dead batteries and a few items of cheap stationery. A ball of string for which the purpose is long forgotten. A ball of string that reminds me of the ticking clock, taunts me with glimpses of more desirable ways to spend my days, mocks me for spending too many hours doing something that I ultimately don't give a toss about.
Whilst I've been injured over the last couple of weeks, I've thought a lot about the work thing. I've thought about it a fair bit over recent years too, but never really taken action of any description. It's different this time. Hearing the beat again a few weeks ago reminded me of what life should be. Fabrice Muamba's collapse and Caballo's death just intensified the feeling. I can carry on, head in the dry sand, choking - or I can be brave, try to change, even if, initially, it's only slightly.
Reading this blog post recently struck a real chord, both in terms of what I buy and what I do. Reading this amazing piss-take helped me to decide where to start. With baby steps, I headed for the running shoe cupboard.
I've become increasingly less sentimental as I've grown older, but I always find it hard to throw away a pair of trainers. Some of them hold precious memories - a PB, a jog through Africa, the sprint up the promenade pull-over before I pointed out, in the darkness, the lights of Hunstanton over The Wash and then kissed Tammy for the first time. Most of them, however, hold no memories, just tainted promise.
Clearing out my shoe cupboard, it became apparent I'd been mugged, just like all the rest. Brainwashed by glossy adverts, tantalising short Vimeo clips and fawning internet reviews. Pair after pair after pair that I'd bought because I believed they'd make me happier, make me run faster, ease an injury, prevent an injury, make me a better runner. I looked at the shoes I'd bought over the last 2 years, some of which had clocked a thousand miles, but the majority of which had come nowhere near. Hundreds of pounds I'd wasted on stuff. Hundreds of pounds that could have been better spent on doing things, doing the things that make me tick, doing the things I love with the people I love.
I made 2 piles - trainers that were knackered; trainers that I could wear in the months to come until they became knackered. The first pile went in a black bag. The second pile got put away with the proviso that I wouldn't buy another new pair of shoes until I'd done that lot in.
Onto the clothes cupboard. I've been the same for as long as I remember. I'll buy nice clothes, save them 'for best', wear them once in a blue moon, and, before you know it, styles have changed, the world's turned and these clothes you've hardly ever worn will never be worn again. This job was easier for me - there wasn't the mental attachment that pulled at me when binning old trainers. Again, I made 2 piles - clothes that I haven't worn for a year and am, therefore, never likely to wear again ( I decided to keep my wedding suit - too many good memories - and, should Tammy eventually get sick of my restlessness, you never know if it might get used again in the future); and good clothes that I'd bought recently and hardly wore - I'd saved 'for best' - together with the stuff I generally wear all the time. The first pile went in a black bag, and the second pile went back in the wardrobe with the proviso that I'd start wearing all the time the clothes I'd saved 'for best', but never actually got round to putting on.
Before I'd embarked on this particular mission, I'd had optimistic visions of blitzing the whole house. Once I'd done the trainers and clothes though, the size of the rest of the task daunted me. A whole house of stuff we'd wasted money on, hardly used and now had become clutter could wait for another day.
By a simple action - an hour of sorting and rummaging, I'd proved to myself a valuable point. I buy too much stuff. Stuff I buy using money I earn from working long hours in a factory doing a job I don't give a toss about, at the expense of doing things that I'll remember always.
Of course, I'm no fool. All along, I knew the error of my ways only too well, but inertia sometimes makes it more difficult to change course, even if you know you're heading in the wrong direction. However, it took this action to highlight it and convince myself that a different fork is the right one to travel down.
My solution sounds straight-forward. In reality, however, it may be more difficult to achieve. Here it is:
a) - if I buy less stuff, I can spend more money on doing things - try out kayaking, learn to climb with the superheroes, take off more often to the Peaks or the Lakes, have more holidays.
OR
b) - if I buy less stuff, I can spend the same amount of money on doing things as I am at the moment, but work less hours, as the amount of money needed in total will be less than it previously was. I'll gain time, and I'll use that time to enjoy the free things that a family gives all the time, but sometimes you're too busy to see - love, life, laughs.
Both of these options seem much better than the old status-quo, but I suspect the best way to go will be between the two. Buy less shit. Do more things. Use time, not waste it.
I'm only a few days into my experiment. The knee feels much better. The Salomons I bought at Christmas and stuck under the stairs, disillusioned after just a few runs, are doing fine. I doubt I'll need to buy any new trainers for a long while.
The expensive down coat that I bought months back, but hardly touched for fear of 'spoiling it' has survived a few trips around town, a lollop around the supermarket, and extensive bouts of just hanging out. Everyone compliments me on it. I'm finding it hard to take off.
My new work routine is showing promising results. Getting up at 6.30 in the morning after setting the alarm at 5.00 for years somehow makes the day seem brighter. A self-imposed work-time internet ban has saved me wasting at least an hour a day. I'll leave Fb for the 10 minutes before bed, and the blogs - I'll save them for the one night a week when Tammy insists on watching The Vampire Diaries or other such dire US drivel. The stand-up desk I've made not only helps my back ache but helps shave minutes off all paper-work - I've found that you're not as inclined to day dream when you're stood up as you are rocking back and forth, round and round on the latest model of swivel chair. The 10, 11, 12, 13 hour day will soon be down to a regular 8. Just by being smarter, my non-work day is longer. That's got to be a good thing.
It's just a ball of string. It sits on the windowsill in the office next to a golf ball, a couple of discarded AAA batteries, and a plastic tub full of highlighter pens, some of which work, some of which don't.
I stare at it, work done for another day. The superheroes will be keen to head off to Hubbards Hills for the first of the Wolds Dash races tonight. For the first time in a couple of years, I'll be able to make it without rushing. I think briefly of The 3 Peaks trip that's coming up in a couple of weekends. Sure, it'll be expensive, but something I've always fancied and will never forget. Money well spent. In spite of my shorter working hours, everything's done and business is booming. Christmas in the Blue Mountains might not be so far away after all.
I pack away my things, ready for the ride home, content in the knowledge that life is sweet.
I'll have a tidy up tomorrow I think as I shut the door behind me. The golf ball can go - don't need it now my foot doesn't need massaging. Those dead batteries too. But maybe I'll leave the string right where it is.
A ball of string. Worth nothing. A reminder of the error of my ways. The catalyst for this mighty kick up the arse.
A ball of string. Wierdly now, my most precious possession.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
The Legacy of 2012
August 2016, Rio de Janeiro
The world of British distance running was left reeling last night as it was confirmed that Olympic marathon bronze medal winner, Joe Howard, had been disqualified from the event after failing a drugs test. A source from the IOC, who will release an official statement later today, also pointed to several breaches of Olympic Branding Regulations, which, although still to be clarified, could almost certainly lead to the Lincolnshire athlete being given a lifetime Olympic ban.
It appears that the urine sample given by Howard after the finish of Sunday's gruelling race contained no trace of Performance Enhancing Drugs (PEDs). IAAF medics carried out tests on an A sample and used a B sample for purposes of ratification. Both showed that there were zero artificial stimulants in the athlete's blood.
The case harks back to long-gone days of the sport, prior to the 'Chambers Ruling' in April 2012. Although it is now difficult to comprehend, PEDs were officially outlawed before that date. With the ruling and admittance of PED users into the 'Olympic family', attitudes soon changed. A $400 million sponsorship deal between the IOC and Glaxosmithkline in 2013, thereby cementing its status as a Premier Olympic Partner, prompted a change in IOC rules which set down as compulsory that all Olympic athletes must self-administer at least one of the PED products created by the pharmaceutical giant. Whilst embraced by the sport, the general public and the Private Sector, a small minority protested. Ultra-runner, Shaun Chadwick, famously withdrew from an Olympic training camp earlier this year, tweeting later: 'the PED regs don't sit well with me.' However, Howard is the first athlete to have been proven to be flouting the rules.
In the course of four short days, Howard, one of the UK's most high profile runners, has gone from Britain's new hero to becoming a national pariah. In the early hours of Sunday morning, Howard, from Thoresthorpe, Lincolnshire, ran a lifetime's PB to secure 3rd place in the Olympic marathon, the first time that the event had been held under conditions of the newly-introduced East African Handicap System, in which all competitors from that part of the continent started 10 minutes behind the rest of the field.
Whilst Howard seemed to have the world at his fingertips, the failed drug test looks to have destroyed a promising career in competitive athletics as well as irreparably tarnishing the image of our proud sporting nation.
In addition to the PED violation, Joe Howard also stands accused of breaches of Olympic Branding Regulations. During Constant Athlete Monitoring in the 6 months before the Games, Howard was captured 3 times on CCTV whilst failing to wear any items of the Official Adidas Team GB kit. A further charge refers to the Birmingham Macdonalds Track and Field Championships that took place in June. After winning the 10,000 metres, Howard is alledged to have taken off his Official Adidas Team GB footwear, tossed them onto the infield and then run 2 victory laps of the track barefoot.
An official from Adidas, also a Premier Olympic Partner is quoted as saying: 'We're reviewing the evidence gathered against Mr. Howard. If such blatant disregard of the Olympic Branding Regulations are proven, we shall be pushing for the most serious sanctions currently available.'
The emergence of a video, captured on a mobile phone and posted on YouTube, looks likely to add to Joe Howard's woes. Pictured at the start of the Scarborough Half-Marathon Supported by Aviva in Association with Mastercard, Howard is filmed talking to a fellow competitor, Yorkshire athlete, Sam McManus. In an exchange too explicit to be published in full, Howard is seen to point in disdain towards his running shoes and say: 'Sam - I can't believe they're making me wear these Adidas. They're f**king s**t. I tell you - the men in charge haven't got a f**king clue. What a useless bunch of f**king tossers.' Howard went on to win the race in a new course record.
As of last night, Joe Howard was unavailable for comment.
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