BeginningMiddleEnd

Beginning

It all started so promisingly, I seem to remember. The Art Of Empty Miling. But where did it all go wrong?

Middle

Take four scenes:

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?'

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.

When Tam's finished talking, she lays the phone on the duvet and looks over at me. I'm waiting for it.

'It's your Mum, Chris. She's had a heart attack. They're taking her to Lincoln.'

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.

'What you doing?' she says.

'Just taking my running stuff,' I tell her. We could be there all day, I think. 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.

Tam rolls her eyes. 'You were out all bloody day yesterday, Chris,' she says, 'Your Mum's in hospital!'

As we're approaching Lincoln an hour later, a worst-case scenario passes through my head. It seems unreal, but it's a possibility. What if - just what if - we get to the hospital and we're ushered aside by a nurse with unthinkable news. 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.

I glance down at the running gear by my feet in the passenger footwell, and wonder how my priorities have gotten so skewed.

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.

We leave the hospital mid-afternoon. Tam drops me off in Harrington and I run ten miles home.

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.

Tam's in no mood for giving sympathy today.

'What's up with you?' she says. 

'I'm fucked,' I tell her.

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.

'All that bloody running you're doing,' Tam says.

'All the working I'm doing,' I tell her.

'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'm going to run every day for a year.' Then it's that, 'I'm going to do a full Blarney'. 100 miles every week for 10 weeks? Bloody stupid. No wonder you're tired. You need to listen to your body.'

I make some weak attempt at arguing back, but really can't be arsed.

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.

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.

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. Is this the first time I've ever come home and said not one word to them? 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.

I stop for a moment. Literally stand still for a few seconds. 'What am I becoming?' I think. I don't hang around for an answer, however. I still have another 7 miles to do.

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.

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. Take two steps to the left, Chris. Just stand still. And pretty soon your run will be over.

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, 'Go on then - jump!' 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 research 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.

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. How on earth has an activity I've loved for so long become so stale?

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.

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.

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.

An hour passes. I'm knocked for six.

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.

End

Jill Bolte Taylor is an American neuroscientist. She studies people's brains. Her TED talk, 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?

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.

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'.

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.)

On the right hemisphere:
 

' (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 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.'

On the left hemisphere:
 

'(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.

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.'

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.

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, 'How many brain scientists have the opportunity to study their own brain from the inside out?'

The events that followed form the  emotional crux of her TED talk.

'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.'

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:
 

'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.

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 realised what a tremendous gift - a stroke of insight - this could be for how we lived our lives, and it motivated me to recover.'

Her final words are the most important:

'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.

These are the 'we' inside of me. Which would you choose? Which do you choose? And when?

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.

And I thought that this was an idea worth spreading.'

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.

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.

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 'Acts Of Erosion', 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.

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'.

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.

Think back to the four scenes I described earlier. That's just not fucking right. Is it?

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.

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.

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'd like to break 3 hours for a marathon', 'I want to beat my 10k PB', or 'I'm after coming in the top 3 in my next ultra', wouldn't it be great - liberating - just to say, 'It just makes me happy.'

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.

There's no escaping it. I hold my hands up. All along, I've been wrong.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Phrases from unlikely sources have also pointed my direction of travel:

- 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, 'Seize Love'.

- a caller to a 5 Live phone-in after the death of Stephen Sutton who outlined her 'meaning of life' as simply, 'Do as much good as you can. Have as much fun as you can.'

- the lyrics from Duke Dumont's new song, 'Ask me what I did with my life. I spent it with you.'

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.

After all, for one journey to start, the previous one has to end.

Beginning  

A Jog Around A Hill: The Kinder Killer

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.

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.

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.




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.

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.

The website www.peakdistrictinformation.com provides a good overview of what Kinder is all about:

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.


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.

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.

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.'




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.

The route details of The Kinder Killer can be found here: http://forum.fellrunner.org.uk/showthread.php?1193-Kinder-Killer.




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.

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 one of those days.

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:

'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.
It's (apparently) just a soul-destroying route, and not much fun as a walking challenge.'

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.

Looking down on Edale at the start of the first climb.

A gorgeous day for active travel.

Take the path to the Druid's Stone.

Descend on faint trods to Lady Booth Brook.

Next up - the climb up Jaggers Clough.

Away from the crowds.

A fun scramble at the top.

Good running to Crookstone Hill.

Climbing Blackden Clough.

Summit plateau in sight.

Hidden treasures.

Fascinating geology.

The next destination,Fairbrook Naze, before the descent via Gate Side Clough.

Looking back at where I've been.

Criss-cross skies.

Ashop Moor from the northern edge.

Strange shapes.

Joining the Pennine Way near Mill Hill.

Down William Clough to the Kinder reservoir.

Following the River Kinder - climb number 5.

The Downfall in the distance.

How the hell do I get up there?

Moonscape near the Kinderlow trig.

Edale cross.

Jacob's Ladder from the 6th climb to the Woolpacks.

The last summit - Grindsbrook Knoll.

Edale awaits.

A Bit More Than Two Miles

It's Day 43, and if I can run today, I can run any day.

I've just got home. My biggest week ever. 260 miles and 36,000 feet over 7 days.

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.

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.

Still, I've a promise to keep. And the promises you make to yourself are ones which should never be broken.

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.

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.

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.




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.

Nervous chit-chat, fake laughter and long silences.

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.

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.

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.

But not quite.

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.

'So, what are you going to do this summer?'

There's silence amongst our group, everyone waiting for everyone else to speak first. Eventually, I take the plunge.

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'd love to walk the Pennine Way.'

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.




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'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.

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.

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.

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.




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.




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.

I've a blog to write about this, 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:

- Debbie's smiling face at support stops and end-of-days. A sandwich, a pork pie, a hot coffee and a few words of encouragement;

- 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;

- the highs and lows (literally) of Hoka and Adidas Contintental running shoes ('Hoka, Hoka!')

- the awe of experiencing the natural wonder that is High Cup Nick for the first time;

- the sun setting over Dufton on our way down from the high ground;

- slogs over Great Shunner Fell and Cross Fell;

- the amazing standard of the YHA bunkhouse accommodation;

- the joys of being lost in a forest at night;

- the moors, the bogs, the slippery slabs;

- a final, free, pint at Kirk Yeltholm's Border Hotel - the end of a long journey.




Before I know it my two miles are done. But I'm not.

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.

I've a blog to write about this, I acknowledge to myself as I jog on. Or have 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?

Maybe I'll just keep them to myself.

Scenes from the last week keep appearing as I carry on. Part of me wants to run forever.

Today, I realise, perhaps I'll do a bit more than two miles.






                                 *          *          *          *          *          *          *

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.

Our schedule was as follows:

Day 1: Edale - White House Inn (Blackstone Edge), 34 miles

Day 2: White House Inn - Malham, 42 miles

Day 3: Malham - Keld, 41 miles

Day 4: Keld - Dufton, 42 miles

Day 5: Dufton - Greenhead, 37 miles

Day 6: Greenhead - Byrness, 38 miles

Day 7: Byrness - Kirk Yeltholm, 26 miles

I extend my heartfelt thanks to both Dave and Debbie. Without either, fulfilling this particular ambition would have taken many more years. xx




 

An Album, 2 E.P's And Other Things I Never Got Round To

I went to bed early that night.

The words which I'd read in the morning had stayed with me all day.

'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.

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 think 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.

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.

If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.
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.

Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.'

-Julien Smith-

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.

And it had made me think of him. The person that a younger me had imagined he would always be.

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.'

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.

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.

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.

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:

Endless words about Tammy, who I'd met just months previously ('Perhaps I'll ask her to marry me?');

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.

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.

'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.'

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.'

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.');

Plot outlines for an imaginary 70's detective show, 'Basil Israel, Esperance Lawyer';

Isolated phrases from who-knows-where ('A rock feels no pain and an island never cries', 'Sherbet to Skyhooks, Lost in the 70's.');

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...);

And woven in between all of this, the story of a musician - a banjo-playing rock-star - and his comically-named band.

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.

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.

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.

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 before - the burning feeling that's led me to disaster and guided me gently towards salvation. The voice of The Capuccino Kid:

'We have this one brief life - this last chance - and then we are gone, and an opportunity lost is an eternity of regret.'

 The motto around which I live my life. The wisest words ever written.

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.

Tomorrow would be the day I started doing the Things I Never Got Round To.

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.

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.

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.

After 10 minutes, Tam comes in. 'Bloody hell!' she goes, 'When you going to learn to play a different tune?'

'It's not a tune,' I tell her, all defensive. 'It's just practice.' Just wait - I'll show her!

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 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.

He just looks at me, puzzled. 'Well, I am learning to play the guitar.'

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 hand it back over. 'Don't know that one, mate,' I tell him.

'Oh, I thought you would, Dad - it's an AC/DC song!'

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.

'Ok,' he replies.

Almost immediately, Whirlwind whizzes in. (She doesn't like to miss out.) 'Can I have a go, Dad?'

'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.

'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.

'Thanks, Tam!' I shout back. 'It must be all this practice I'm doing.'

WEDNESDAY 22nd DECEMBER 1999  

NME REVIEW

'Our Modern Traditions'   Chris Rainbow and The Folk Country Hi-fi Soul Combo

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.

4/5.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Learning to play the banjo would be just the first.

A run's the last thing I want, to be honest - but I've a promise to keep.

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?'

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.

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.

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.

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.'

'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.

There are the odd days when I feel like that too, I try to convince myself.

SATURDAY  9th JANUARY 2000

MELODY MAKER

Last night...

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.

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.

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.

I'd never rated them. Their last mess of a record just moved over me, not through 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 understand.

'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.

'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.

'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.

And then the kiss-off. A young girl's voice implores:

'It may be heavy in here

 But nothing's so bad

 You can't turn it around.

 Stay a while

 Lift these stones

 For these are stones with holes.'

The disc finishes.

I awaken from a dream. And I know - I don't know how, but I do. I know that things will be fine. 

Reviewed by Ian Orr.

'The Stones With Holes E.P' (Book Early Recordings) is out now.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I think it's time for that to change.

February 22nd 2014 was my new Day One. Until February 21st 2015, I'll run at least 2 miles each day.

This time the result will be different.

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 semi-rad.com. Leonard had decided to follow two resolutions during 2014:

1. Do Things

2. Make Things.

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.

In the car, on the way home, I'd decided that I would write each day. That would be my New Year's resolution.

And I tried. For a while. Then gave up.

But now, I'm here again. This time, I've a purpose.

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.

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.)

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 story...

I need to get it down, words on paper, while it's here.

Black biro on A4 loose leaf.

'I went to bed early that night...

WEDNESDAY 19th JANUARY 2000

THE TAMWORTH GAZETTE

'The Magpie E.P.'

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.

'Coalmine Beach'

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:

'Turn left at Eastwood,

 Straight on till the sun's in reach,

 Second exit at the round-about,

 That's where you'll find it - Coalmine Beach.'

Wildly optimistic, gloriously dumb, and - finally - 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.

'Arkan'

A funereal, brooding electronic portrait borrowing heavily from Bowie and Eno's 'Low' compositions. Drawing you in slowly, but leaving you vaguely unsatisfied.

'Caravan Of Power'

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.

'We towed the caravan of power

 A few miles past the Tower

 Set up camp on a seaside site

 Walked around the slots at night.'

Not since The Velvet Underground's 'The Gift' has there been a 'story song' so senseless and compelling.

'Like Smilla'

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.

'Back For Good'

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.

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.

We all know they won't.

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 journal (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.

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.

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.

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.

I gave up again.

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.

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.

My life is, generally , great. And I wonder why my list of The Things I Never Got Round To is so big.

Never satisfied? Maybe.

Restless and suspicious of the inertia of 'contentment'? Probably.

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?

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.

Right now, though, I've got three to be getting on with.

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.

Or wake up.

It doesn't have to be this way,

Does it?