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

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