Changing Time Zones

I am reading Yuval Noah Harari’s book ‘Sapiens’ on the beach and his observations on time struck a chord. After 40 years of work with life dominated by the routine of the working day and week and even the week-end is subject to time constraints once Monday comes around again. We wear watches and have time devices all around us so that we can get to work and school on time, know when to eat and go to bed on time for the start of the next day. Harari observes that in medieval agricultural societies the routines were driven by the rhythms of nature. Sunrise and sunset dictated the working day, the arrival of spring and summer changes the tasks to sowing and harvesting while autumn saw the preparations for winter. Towns usually had only one inaccurate clock. People did not need to know the time, the position of the sun informed them what needed to be done next.

The onset of the industrial revolution with factory working saw the introduction of routines and the need for time keeping. Even then individual towns kept their own time, London could be half an hour ahead of Birmingham. It was the introduction of the railways with rigid timetables that standardised time.

For the next 4 weeks our home with all the essentials for life is Betsy, our metal tent on wheels. Somewhere in the chaos of Betsy there are some non-essentials my watch being one of them. I have not seen it for several days and I’m not in the least bit worried. The sun has become our rhythm, I wake when the first light creeps into Betsy through a gap in the blinds. There is a call of nature and a stroll to the beach. Carol and I snorkel watching beautiful iridescent coloured fish dart around the rocks. As we finish the bright orange sun is rising above the cliffs. Hunger dictates the timing of breakfast and as I write this I have no idea what is the time of day. The midday heat keeps us off of the beach in the shade. Later on we mosey down to the beach staying until the sun goes down or we get hungry.

We only bump into time when journeying between places and need those pesky timetables.  On the journey from Dover our timing got us onto an earlier ferry and a precious extra hour for the road journey to the first campsite.  The timing of the road journey was all about making it to Ancona in Italy to catch the ferry to Greece. Dodging the rush hour frenzy of traffic around Bologna we fret about covering the 240km to Ancona in time.  We need not have worried the ferry departure from Ancona was in true Greek fashion reliably late in leaving by 1hr 20 min. To be fair the ferry arrives in Igoumenitsa only 10 mins behind schedule.Tomorrow we depart this timeless zone to travel across to Aegina by ferry so back to those timetables.  For now I know it is time to leave the beach, the sun has sliding behind the hills casting a cooling shadow, my stomach is telling it is time for some food and my mood indicates time for a glass of wine. The natural rhythms of life are dictating our schedule.

The ferry in Ancona

Sunrise over Corfu seen from the ferry

The beach bar in Lichnos Bay, Greece which opened in time for breakfast and closed when the last diner had finished

Running Away

As I have taken in the news on proroguing of Parliament, listened to the pronouncements of the Home Secretary on freedom of movement and the bully boy tactics of the unelected Dominic Cummings a feeling of dread has crept over me.  These are the actions of powerful people who don’t care about the rules and norms. The feeling of dread was enhanced when listening to the constitutional expert Peter Hennessy talking about the reliance for upholding of the constitution on the “the good chap” concept.  You will not come across a more unlikely bunch of ‘good chaps’ than the current prime minister, his cabinet and advisor.  

All this was going on as we prepared for our latest road trip in Betsy.  While the signing the local petition against proroguing of Parliament in Devizes Market Square I felt a sense of comradeship and joining of battle with the folks who had organised the demonstration.  Yet 2 days later we were on the ferry to France dashing towards Ancona, Italy for another ferry to Igoumenitsa, Greece. The gloom of the UK receding behind us as we charge through France, Switzerland and Italy.  Reality came home when I read the email from our MP Claire Perry in reply to receiving the petition which was just pure propaganda. I was so incensed that against a beautiful Italian sunset composed an angry reply.  

I’m writing this in a Greek taverna overlooking a bay amongst a group of holiday-makers from all over Europe where English is the lingua franca.  The atmosphere happy and carefree yet we are still locked into our mobile phones looking over our shoulders at the twists are turns of politics back home.  I feel that we have abandoned the Devizes folks who have bothered to stand up and be counted against what is a regime that is determined to subvert democracy in pursuit of a propaganda goal.  

I am not a believer in a second referendum as it will not resolve the split in the country and will almost certainly deliver an inconclusive result.  The referendum result is a given but it should never have been held on the basis of solving the intercine war within the Tory party on such a simplistic basis as IN/OUT with no proper public consultation and debate.  IDIOT BOY DAVID (Cameron) should hang his head in shame. The issue is not even about if not the Tories then the fear of CORBYN as both Labour and Conservatives are the corrupt (Ancient Greek meaning decay, rotten) corpses of the 2 party system.  This is a threat and opportunity: the threat are the extremes are allowed to subvert our democracy through populism and the opportunity is to improve our democracy with better representation and consultation that can tackle the almost cataclysmic challenges facing us.  

These issues are:  CLIMATE CHANGE which threatens the existence for our grandchildren, WEALTH DISPARITY which within UK will fuel massive discontent that will lead to violence eventually and is fuelling global migration and SOCIAL CARE which is not tackled will bring down the NHS.  These issues can be masked by populists whose self interest will generate fake news to divert attention from them or to solve them will need stable government that has widespread support and can broker solutions to the difficult problems.

Journeys End and Thank You

At the start with the whole of London ahead

The journey that I recorded in my blog The Road Ahead is over with 26.2 miles of London streets behind me.  Although it was my feet pounding the roads I couldn’t have done it without a huge amount of help and support.

Nothing quite goes to plan and having lost nearly a month of training at a critical point to an injury due to my own stupidity and virus I was almost on the point of pulling out.  I set yesterday morning with 2 objectives, finish and enjoy it.  Both achieved – it wasn’t all plain sailing between 16 and 22 mile points was hard.  My only regret was to be beaten by the man in a rhino costume (see Blog ‘Watch out for the rhino‘ to get the reference). I did manage to outpace the racing duck in the final 100m.

The last mile – it was a long mile

None of this would have been possible without the support of many people.

A huge THANK YOU to all those who sponsored me – the thought of your generosity sustained me particularly between 16 and 22 mile point.

Lizzie and Charlie Stevenson who live in Blackheath a stones throw away from the start and gave me a bed last night and are excellent hosts.

Richard Smith for still supporting me despite not turning up for training.  His coaching advice he has given over the years has proved invaluable.

Guy Kingston and Gareth Pledger from Hatts Health and Movement Clinic.  Gareth’s strength and conditioning sessions kept my legs moving right up to the final line, hurting but still working.  Guy’s treatment of all the niggling injuries reduced my time off the road and he had to deal with my self-inflicted injury. It was his handiwork that gave me the tribal marking of the ‘Auldknackaris’ Tribe (see blog ‘Last Legs‘).

My family, Nick, Eleni, Emma, Jessica and Kalliopi (aka Pitsi) who supported my training, watched training races and cheering on during the race.

Last but not least Carol has has endured all the training schedules with early and late meals, always encouraging and put up with the delay the marathon caused to our retirement trip.

Once again many thanks to all.

The end and I’m finished

 

Last Legs

The heap of kit in the corner of the bedroom is mounting.  Shoes running pair one, socks pairs x 3 of varying thickness, vests running two, headbands, pouch belt one, nutrition  (that will be food including the gorilla bites more akin to animal droppings), tracksuit top one, monitor heart rate one and watch GPS one.  I survey the mound with dismay and indecision. For the actual race all I need is shoes, socks, vest and shorts! No shorts in the pile – nylon with built in undies but no pockets or cotton with pockets but requiring wicking underwear to ward off the dreaded chaff – better find that jar of vaseline just in case.  All will be stuffed into a bag for the trip up to London this evening. No doubt it will be tipped onto the floor of the hotel room tomorrow morning for more angst about which items I’ll actually wear.

The indecision is a symptom of anxiety as the big day approaches.  I came down with a virus about 3 weeks ago just when training was supposed to peak and the taper begin.  Instead of a long final run and controlled taper I find myself trying to regain lost strength while tapering.  At one point I seriously considered pulling out – even as late as last weekend as the sore throat from the previous week had returned after each training session, a reminder that the lurgy was still lurking in my body. My legs were uncharacteristically sore even after short runs.   A combination of a comfortable 10k run, the BBC trailer for the Marathon with inspirational voice over and a very kind 90 year old neighbor who has sponsored me, made the decision GO FOR IT.

As for those legs they have had special treatment.  A trip to the physiotherapist pinched, squeezed and pummelled them.  Then to hold them together they have been wrapped in tape supposedly to to ease the stresses of 26 miles of pounding. It is in effect the markings of a special running tribe ‘Auldknackaris’ who are characterised with grey hair and wrinkles and red tape!   I’m hoping that not only will the tape provide extra spring but it may stop energy leaking away. Whatever happens in this race I’m determined to enjoy the event.

Member of the Auldknackaris Tribe

The Girth Meter

It’s Berlin, 1985, again (see The Wall) and it is time for my annual Army medical.  Various tests and measurements are taken by medical orderlies and then into to see the Regimental Medical Officer (RMO).  The RMO is a member of our mess and she’s dating one of my friends so this should be a quick in and out. Not so fast, you’re putting on weight she says reprovingly, ‘I’m getting older’ I retort, isn’t that what happens; approaching thirty, married for 2 years and just starting a family.  That casual acceptance of the inevitability of weight gain plus being married to a very good cook saw me go from 13st (83Kg) to 16st (103kg) over the years.

The Girth Meter

I was given a bespoke leather belt for my 21st birthday by a girlfriend.  I have lost track of when my girth exceeded the length of the belt but it has stayed in the bottom of my sock draw for many years.  The casual acceptance of weight caught up with in 2012, being classified as medically obese damaged my vanity as much as my health. Diagnosed with high blood pressure and in a stressful job it was time make some changes.  Over the next 6 years through a combination of more sensible eating and competing in triathlons I managed to reach a more reasonable weight, until Sep 18 when I decided I could go into maintenance mode for fitness. The inevitable happened notwithstanding starting marathon training by Christmas I gained 3 kg (half a st) and the moobs started to head south.  

3 months on and nearing the end of the marathon training I’ve shed more than 6 kg  and a test the old leather belt shows that I’m back at the hole used on my 21st. That should be great news but it is tempered by my wife’s comments when taking photos for evidence, “pull you shirt across your chest to hide the moobs”!  If that isn’t enough watching a late night programme on obesity there was a simple test for body fat. Your waist measurement should be less than half your height. Full of confidence in the new slim line me I wrap a tape measure around my waist. The uncomfortable truth is I’m still a fat knacker by 3cm and must have been since I was 21 🙁   So on on with the training and with the adage of eat a little less and move a little more.

Yeah on that fourth hole

Man with moobs

Brexit……what Brexit

Driving home from London following a visit to family, the radio has news of Brexit.  During the visit there had been heated discussion about Brexit, I recognised the symptoms from work lots of passion/anger with the argument heading in the same direction.  At work we call it violent agreement. The conversation with my wife in the car is gloomy.

On arrival home no time to dwell, I had to jump on my bike to get some cross training in for the marathon.  Off to the Vale of Pewsey on a brillant spring evening, The hedges have the green fuzz of leaves starting to break out, there is blossom on trees and mad march hares are in a field.  I turn west and straight into the sun, it is a glorious sunset. I’m struck as I stop to snap the sunset I haven’t thought of Brexit once on the ride so far. I jump back onto the bike and ride into sunset and banish from my mind the Country’s future for the remainder of the ride.

Sunset Pewsey Vale

Watch out for the rhino

Uganda, 1960, on safari in a wildlife park in the trusty family VW Beetle we hit a large bump in the road and there was an expensive noise.  My parents exchanged concerned looks – we had ventured out on our own and summoning help meant a long hot walk back to the lodge. My Father (Dad)  climbed slowly out of the car to investigate the underneath of the car. My Mother took in the scenery, when her concern turned to alarm and she started squawking “Bill, over there!”  There was no location or directional reference to ‘over there’ so it took my Father a little time to identify the cause of the alarm. “Over there” is about 20 meters directly in front, in the form of a large rhinoceros, we guessed by the size of its horn it was male.  It’s gaze was beady and its look inscrutable is it assessed the threat we posed. Further investigation on the state of the car was suspended as Dad leapt back into the car with alacrity. Local wisdom said “don’t test a rhino’s patience’ and we certainly didn’t want to test the protective properties of the Beetle against a 1 ton rhino.  We quietly turned round and slipped away leaving the rhino staring after us.

So rhinos and the marathon.  In talking to a friend who ran the London Marathon 3 years ago and has appointed herself as my motivational coach one of the things that kept her going during the race was not to be beaten by runner in a rhinoceros suit.  Those rhinos still pose a threat. There is much to admire about those who choose to take on the challenge of a endurance event and raise the bar with the impediment of fancy dress. On informing friends I’m running for the Gorilla Organisation the first question is always “Are you running in a gorilla suit” the immediate response is ‘no way’.  I carry enough impediments in the form of weight and age not to further burden myself with a gorilla suit. I can only admire Tom Harrison who in 2017 covered the London Marathon course by crawling taking 6 days to raise money for the Gorilla Organisation.  I will be content to cross the finish line on the day.

As part of the preparation to get to the start line I am running a half marathon in the wilds of Victoria Park, London on a freezing cold March morning, much more winter than spring.  I look around checking for wildlife, I spot the species Running Phasmatodea (stick insect) characterised by thin arms and legs in nothing but running shorts and vest, totally inured to the cold.  There are several varieties of woolly coated tortoise swaddled in baggy trackie bums, heavy furry fleece with hands drawn up into the sleeves and head pulled down as far as possible for protection against the cold. There is a weird form of wildlife “garminus carpi” [carpi wrist in latin] that is some form of number obsessive easily spotted because they support one wrist due to the weight of their GPS watch and sport a tee shirt bearing the logo “If you find me collapsed, pause my Garmin”.  Orders go out for the runners to move to the start line, stick insects and garminus carpi jostle to the front while I join the woolly tortoises huddling penguin like for warmth in a pack at the back. Once we off the wildlife pack starts to spread out, there are some strange squawks “One mile, pace 9 min 5 sec per mile” that comes from the nether regions of a runkeeperus (mobile phone app). The race is six and a half laps and I’m lapped by a stick insect flailing past all arms and legs. I chase down a wooly tortoise with fleece wrapped around the waist flapping in the wind. The last kilometer is hard and I gasp towards the finish line watch out for chasing rhinos.  As I stagger over the finish line I remember just in time to pause my Garmin, the numbers are all important.

Pause that Garmin

The long run

The preparations are akin to going out on patrol in hostile territory as I cast my into the discipline of my Army training.  Not that Devizes is a hostile environment but embarking on a 3 hour training run requires a bit more than pulling on trainers and stepping out the door.  The night before all electronic gadgets have to be charged, the repeated message “Battery Power Low” coming through the bluetooth earphones just 20 min into a 3 hr  run is moral sapping. As is only having one playlist downloaded on the phone with old versions of favourite podcasts.  (When I trained for my first marathon see ‘The Wall’, Sony Walkmans were just appearing on the market and I didn’t own one so the complications of selecting on the run entertainment didn’t exist).   I’ll consume about 2 ½ litres of drinks and about 1000 Kcal of nutrition (runners jargon for snacks).   I certainly don’t want to carry the water which will weigh in at 2 ½ kilos – I have enough of my own excess body weight to haul round.  Since I hate the sports gels, nutrition is in the form of Jelly Snakes, energy bars  and some rather unusual “Raw Gorilla Munchies”.  It is not so much the weight of these as the bulk. With the nutrition plus the precautionary waterproof I’ll end up needing a backpack.  

Much of patrol preparation is in planning the route which is all about being able to navigate, usually at night to an objective avoid hostile hazards.  For the run I’ll covering nearly 30 km.  If I go in one big loop I’ll have to carry everything, and be forced to run along the main A roads in the close proximity of speeding traffic.  The alternatives are country lanes and across boggy,  muddy footpaths, with exposure to the weather.  Conclusion: do loops in Devizes with a feed station at home – but the town is small and on top of a hill.  The local phrase for travelling away from Devizes is “ Goin’ orf the ‘ill” which means a stiff climb to get back home which will be particular unwelcome at the 20km point.  However, there is no choice. Route planned and feed station established outside the house.

The feed station

The run gets off a bad start, the first music track coming into the headphones is the mournful Beatles song “The Long and Winding Road” 😦 , maybe silence would be better.  I find the podcast of Radio 4’ “The Now Show”, get into running rhythm trundling along the towpath of the Kennet and Avon Canal. An approaching mother clutches her child closer to her as this rumbling, sweating apparition approaches laughing maniacally as ”The Now Show” lampoons Chris ‘Failing’ Grayling.

Into the feed station for the first time, chomp on the energy bar, bite off some banana and change over the drinks bottle.  There is a monstrous clash of flavours and textures in my mouth – the drink is rehydration mixture of salts and caffeine flavoured with pink grapefruit, the energy bar has some stem ginger and then the dominant flavour of banana.  I’m hungry but don’t fancy eating but my legs start to feel tired on the second loop so I must eat something.  The Raw Gorilla Bites are round tablets with the colour and texture of animal droppings.  Not ever having experimented with animal dropping the texture and taste are what might be imagined too.  The alternatives I’m carrying are Jelly Snakes – worms? Oh well needs must.

The second time into the feed station and I’m starting to feel tired and achy.  Boosted by more nutrition I set out for the final loop with 50 minutes to go.  I’m OK for the next 20 minutes and make the canal towpath.  The plan is to run straight along it just turn round and head back home.  The path will be flat and has a reasonable surface.  Or does it?  This leg of the route takes me out of town onto a stretch of the path I’ve not used before.  The path narrows and is stony and slippery.  Early in the run it would have been manageable but at this stage it is like trying to run over greasy shingle.  This is hostile terrain and a total failure of route planning.  It is now a bit of a battle get home as feet and legs jar with each step.  I try to focus, but on what?  I’m hungry but I only have Raw Gorilla Bites and Jelly Snakes and,as with all endurance events, by this stage the body craves protein.  That’s it!  The bottle of full cream milk in the fridge.  The last 10 minutes of the run are devoted to planning the production of the ultimate smoothie, an elixir for the runners body:  full cream milk, festering remains of the feed station banana (…yum), berries from the freezer, greek yogurt and maple syrup.  The production of the elixir is planned in minute detail, the most efficient moves around the kitchen to assemble the ingredients, identifying the equipment required and steps for production.

I reach home and stumble into the house, ripping off muddy trainers.  The plan for the elixir is immediately executed the only slight problem is a fine spray of smoothie over me as I whizz up the mixture.  It is down in seconds, achieving what no amount of Gorilla Bites and Jelly Snakes have managed.  I’m satiated and ready for a hot bath.  Patrol complete.

The runners exilic – yum

And a word from the sponsor

The first hurdle to running the in London Marathon has nothing to do with endurance fitness or running speed, it is the challenge of securing a place on the start line.  There are so many applicants that the organisers operate a ballot for places. This year the were over 400,000 applications for fewer than 40,000 places. After 3 unsuccessful attempts in the ballot even my limited maths worked out that the odds are stacked against me to get a place.  

Several attempts to sign up for charity places were rebuffed so when I received an email from the friend of a friend offering places to run for The Gorilla Organisation I seized the opportunity, applied and was gratefully accepted.  A quick route to securing a place but with a sting in the tail: I have to raise £2000.00 in order to run.  So apart from a marathon place why The Gorilla Organisation.

Gorillas are one of our closest living relatives sharing 98% of DNA with humans, just behind chimpanzees with 99%.  Human pressure on their habitat in the mountains on the borders of Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), Rwanda, and Uganda, and poaching have brought them close to extinction.  The Gorilla Organisation not only directly helps to protect gorillas by sponsoring wildlife rangers in their local habitat, but also works in the local communities to enable humans and gorillas co-exist.

I have a close affinity with East Africa having lived in Uganda as a child for 2 years from the age of 4 (more of that in later blogs) and it is where my continuous memory starts.  I have been on trips to Kenya on Army exercises and toured Tanzania. As a child I was exposed to the harshness of life in Uganda without at the appreciating any of the consequences.  There was still plentiful wildlife and the impact of mass tourism had yet to be felt. 30 years later in an exercise with the Army in Kenya I was humbled by the reaction of a group of children to my pencil case stuffed full of pens and felt tips for marking up maps essential to the defence of the nation.  A single biro was for them a precious item that was essential for their education and future but it was a very scarce item. On the same trip while visiting the wildlife parks I was struck by the swarms of Nissan mini-vans loaded with tourists chasing sightings of of the big four: lions, elephants, rhinoceros and leopards.  Their tracks crisscrossed the reserves churning up the ground.

Tourism and the expansion of farming are a threat to gorillas in a complex and fragile environment. However tourism and the income it generates can also but part of the solution but it needs the work of The Gorilla Organisation projects to help the local community achieve balance between the need to protect the gorillas and allow the local communities to thrive.  These projects strike a strong chord with my memories of Uganda and my experience of East Africa in general .

Reading this blog and leaving messages is a great source of support to me as I’m on my long training runs.  If you are feel able to make a donation to my Just Giving page that will provide even more motivation.

What’s That

Getting out of bed with a slight twisting action, there’s a fleeting spasm of soreness  just below my right buttock. What’s that?  Where did that pain come from, on a medical scale of 1 – 10 of pain intensity this is a 1 or a 2 but such is the paranoia of injury that the slightest twinge has me prodding the affected area.  The paranoia is born out of years of niggling injuries that disrupted training and has caused disappointment in races.

In my forties with expanding waistline and the realisation that youth was behind me I tried to keep running but some significant back problems and a series of leg injuries almost convinced me that my running days were over.  Carol, my wife and blessed with more wisdom, eventually convinced me to see a physiotherapist. That started a long road lasting over 15 years of treatments. The site of pain and the location of the cause on my body were always different.  Pain in my thighs, tight muscles in my back and sore calves, weak buttocks (flabby buns). Every treatment resulted in a different set of exercises, with twists, bends, dips, jumps and thrusts. Back, glutes, medial glutes, quads, soleus and other muscles groups I can’t pronounce have all been worked over to improve strength and conditioning (S&C). I hope that I now have a pair of buns like Leonardo di Vinci’s David.

David’s buns

I have sustained periods with no injuries followed by bouts of strains, pulls and tears.  The common feature is that these bouts always occur after I’ve relaxed and become over confident in the powers of my old body to sustain strength.  I get bored with the exercises or can’t find the time to fit them into the training schedule because I need the time on the road. The irony is that letting go of the S&C exercises results in injuries that prevent training.  It has taken a long time to learn the lesson that S&C can’t be neglected.

In undertaking the marathon any weakness in my old body is going to be exposed.  As a consequence at least 20% of my training time is spent on S&C. In addition to 2 coached gym session a week any spare moment will find me bobbing up and down as I strengthen my calves, thighs and hips.  Carol can always spot me in a crowd as my head rhythmically rises and falls as on a single leg I dip up and down.

I’ve been marathon training since the beginning of December and at the start of every run the tell tale twinges are there.  I fret, try to think of something else and keep running. Keep on running, stopping to investigate a twinge is not an option otherwise I wouldn’t finish a training session.  By the end of the run legs are tight and knotty but there have been no injuries. After the run it is stretch, foam roller and more S&C exercises, keep it all firm. Only my wife can give an opinion on the firmness of my buns but so far in training I have survived the “What’s that?” moment.

My thanks Guy Kingston (physiotherapist) Gareth Pledger (performance coach) of Hatts Health and Movement Clinic, Richard Smith (triathlon coach) Tribal Triathlon and of course Carol for keeping me on the road.