Sauna talk...

Went to my health club last night for a sauna and steam. Met 3 guys in there who I had not seen for a while and who were engaged in talking about the state of the nation; well, mainly it was a moan about the ex labour Chancellor and Prime minister, Gordon Brown, who almost single handedly ruined the UK pensions industry and took the country towards financial ruin. What a plonker! Plonkership politics of course, was already a trade mark of the labour government, as demonstrated so effectively by Mr Tony Blair; you know, the one who took us into an illegal war, made a lot of money from it and who was best mates with that, seen by some, American war criminal, George W Bush. When I look back at the Blair/Brown years, I can't help but come to the conclusion that they headed the worst government seen in decades and unfortunately it will take decades to recover from their combined stewardship of this country. I'm not that impressed by the coalition government we have in place right now, mind you but I'll bide my time for a while just to see how 'they' do. After 65 years of living on this planet of ours and being subjected to various forms of government; well, mostly those of either a labour or conservative persuasion, I can honestly say that I don't reside in any particular political camp and I await with interest to see how well our latest hybrid government performs - I wonder how many plonkers will come forth?

The Lady in the box...

Well, here we are again dealing with death and dying; this time dealing with the death of my mum on the 27 October 2010 - just 5 days after the death of Ellie the Deer Hound and just 3 days before her fifth great grandchild (third great grandson), Ruben, was born. As you can probably guess, my emotions have been on a bit of a roller coaster ride since then. In fact, the last 13 months have been rather traumatic, in that my sister (as in 'older'), found out that I was still alive and kicking after believing for 65 years that I was dead and buried; as a 5 year old, she had been told, on her return from grandparents, that I had suddenly died. This was a blatant lie of course, as I had actually been put up for adoption. My mum, who we are really dealing with here was the mum who adopted me and who, prior to my actual adoption, visited the home that my sister and I both shared for just a few weeks way back in 1945 and who just a few months before her death, some 65 years later, met my sister for the first time. I like to think that this meeting was meant to be and was a 'closing of the circle', so to speak. The blog heading 'The Lady in the box', was going to be the given name of my talk at mums funeral but I was persuaded that this might be seen as a bit irreverent by some, so it was changed to a talk based on Primo Levi's poem 'To My Friends'. You can read this poem in my blog called 'A poem for the third age', which was posted on the 28 May 2009. You can find it under the label, 'Poetry corner'. Why 'The Lady in the box'? Well for me, this reflective title signposted the importance and standing of the woman who, along with her husband (my Dad) gave me a home and, to all accounts, a better life than I might have had elsewhere. I guess that all I wanted to do, was to honour her by standing up and saying out loud to everyone present at her funeral -family, friends, acquaintances - that the lady in the box Is my mother.

'A person isn't who they are during the last conversation you had with them - they're who they've been throughout your whole relationship'.

Rainer Maria Rilke

On death and dying...

Today, I called the Vet in. I hated making the call, as making it was a confirming action that spelled acceptance of the inevitable; the inevitable being the approaching death of my Deer Hound, Ellie. Ellie had reached 11 years and 9 months of age - old for her breed - and was clearly uncomfortable with life. Ellie was already suffering from degenerative arthritis in both of her back legs and her lower back and she had suspected liver problems too. Her medication had helped to make things a lot easier but over the last couple of weeks her decline was noticeable and last night she became ill and had a look about her that said 'I'm just plain worn out'. Today, the Vet confirmed that Ellie had a very high temperature (42 and rising, instead of the normal 38) and that it was probable that this was linked to a growth in her liver. We had also noticed that she was dragging one of her rear paws which suggested that she was losing control of her legs and so, it was very clear, that for Ellie, the time had come to stop her suffering and say goodbye; such a painful thing to do. We could have opted for pain relief and infection control by way of steriods and antibiotics but this action would not have restored her leg functions and it would only serve our own selfish needs and not those of Ellie's. Ellie died in our garden on a sunny autumn day - a garden where she had spent many hours snoozing, usually with one eye open.

Inadequate and bald...

Yep, that's how I, as a blogger, have been described by the journalist and political commentator, Andrew Marr - Daily Mail, Tuesday October 12 2010 - Bloggers? They're inadequate and pimpled, says Andrew Marr. Well I suppose he is right about one thing; yes, I am bald but I am not inadequate or pimply, I'm not single, I'm not a young man, neither am I an angry ranting loony, nor am I sitting in my mother's basement - she doesn't have one anyway. Sure I've expressed anger in my blogs but not in the raving sense of the word. It's more like righteous anger expressed about those members of society who are the greedy hawks of this world and for some strange reason, think that they are wonderful and above the law. I have also looked at anger, as a phenomena that at times grips us all - and I mean all. It is my view that anyone who denies ever being angry is either in denial or is simply not aware of the corrupting power of internalised anger. Mr Marr's comments of course, were made during his lecture at this years Cheltenham Literature Festival where he was speaking about the decline of traditional journalism and his belief that 'Internet diarists and commentators will never offer a real replacement to newspapers and television news; 'most "citizen journalism" strikes me as nothing to do with journalism at all', the BBC political presenter said. Well, I've got news for Mr Marr. My blog, and I can only talk about my blog, has got nothing to do with journalism at all and it never was intended to be so. As it says on the main header, 'This blog is my garden shed, my thinking space. This where I can come and write down my thoughts, feelings, opinions and views on matters that might affect me. All here is valid. If you happen to read something here that you deem to be stupid, please remember that there is really no such thing as 'stupid', for even that description serves a worthy purpose by reinforcing and confirming that your own views are valid too.' Perhaps Mr Marr should read it some time and reflect. He may then stop knocking others just for the sake of pleasing his audience.

For further commentary about Mr Marr's remarks and his hypocrisy, take a look at the following link: http://www.libdemvoice.org/andrew-marr-a-little-bit-of-a-hypocrite-21556.html

Changeling...

Can it be, so soon after my previous blog, that I am suddenly faced with having to change my fancies and notions? I pride myself that in my mid 60's, I am still not set in my ways and that I can be open and responsive to new information and understandings; notice that I said, 'can be'. Even so, to have my running identity challenged so soon after confirming (mainly to myself) that I am a runner and not an athlete is rather alarming to say the least! Perhaps after some examination, I won't have to go as far as saying that following certain recent revelations, I must now accept that I am an athlete rather than seeing myself as 'just being a runner.' It might be easier though for me to broaden my self-view and accept that there is an athlete in me somewhere and that recently this athlete part of me, after some 20 years of just running, manifested itself quite strongly on both a cross-country course and running track somewhere in Portugal. What happened? Well, I guess that 'it' just didn't materialise on the XC course and track of its own accord. 'Its' materialisation was really just the end result of a process that had been going on for sometime - the process being subtle changes going on inside me vis a vis sorting my diet out, losing weight and coming out of a long period of injury recovery. This athlete in me then, manifested itself - I use the term 'itself', as it was nothing to do with me, at least not in a conscious way - through the phenomena of me actually changing up 2 gears and doing a sprint finish in a 6K handicap race (my coach said that he had 'never seen me sprint before') and in so doing becoming the first person to cross the finish line. I was aided mind you by the very close proximity of two much younger and faster runners than me; it's just that under the terms of the race, I started before them and I had just enough power left in me to make sure that it stayed that way - at least for the last 50 metres or so. This athlete part of me also manifested itself again (much to my consternation) while training on the local 400 metre track a few days later. The session consisted of a 10 minute threshold run, 6 x 200's at 5km pace and another 10 minute threshold run. I actually don't know what my 5k pace is, so I just ran a bit harder round the track and this led to Andi from Brighton, my running companion at the time, complaining that I looked as though I was not really putting much effort into the session. We decided - and I've heard this before - that my running style didn't really help matters, as it looks as though I'm just cruising along when in fact I am working quite hard. After some discussion, we agreed that this illusion was down to me not raising my arms high enough, so for the remaining 200's, I worked at using them properly. Of course, what happened? I ran faster and in a more upright position and suddenly the athlete in me was free and everyone on that track saw it happen. What happened? Well, I'm not sure really but I do remember running tall; shoulders back, head up, chin in, arms punching forward and suddenly, without warning, my leg speed/turnover - call it what you will - dramatically changed and there I was running sub 6 minute miles. Okay maybe only for a 100 metres or so but sub 6 never the less... and it was nothing to do with me! What's worse, is the fact that I actually enjoyed and got something from this track session. So much so, that I mean to seek out a running track local to my home so that I can do some more of these quality sessions... for that is what they are.

Thanks a bunch Andi.

Athlete or runner... which am I?

Goings on at my running club have led me to consider that which I am; an athlete or a runner? My coach, bless his little cotton socks, always says that I am an athlete. He has been saying this for some time now but I never believe him. So, which am I really? And why don't I accept what he says? According to Dictionary.com an athlete (ath-lete) is: a person trained or gifted in exercise or contests involving physical agility, stamina or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill. Another web source (adapted slightly) says that, 'an athlete is the one who exercises every day. An athlete is the one who white knuckles a rest day because he/she wants to get out on the road and run, even though their body needs a break. An athlete practices to be better. An athlete is out there competing, even though they know they will lose. Even though they know that there is no stadium full of people. Even though Runners World would never put them on the front cover, even if they were running in the nude for charity.'

Well, I have to admit that I do recognise some of these qualities in me but there are others that I reject totally. For instance, I might be trained but I ain't gifted. I don't have much physical skill either - my school football games would testify to that! Got to say, at my age, I don't have much agility either and as for 'white knuckling' a rest day, well there is no chance of that happening. I do train and practice to be better - that's why I pay shed loads of money to my coach. If I admit to 'competing', well it will be with a small 'c', as I tend only to compete against myself; it's safer that way. Sometimes in races however, I do start to compete in the real sense of the word but only near the end, as by then I've got fed up with the same guy overtaking me and me overtaking him time and time again. A particular skill that I do have is pacing. Pacing myself that is, not pacing as in running at a particular speed for mile after mile. My pacing, comes with age. It's a survival technique that allows me to wind up my running effort over distance - if I am okay for the first mile or so, then I'll increase my pace a bit. It goes on like this until I find myself overtaking those who have given it their all from the start line and are now dying on their feet. If I find myself flagging, then I'll slow it down a bit. After all it's only me that I am really running against. What races do I like? Well I don't like 5K's. They require you to die on the start line and continue dying until you cross the finish line, finished, spent and in my case on the edge of passing on. I'm ambivalent about 10K's, as they require effort too but at least you get a few more miles to wind things up a bit. I quite like half marathons, as they are more sociable. Same goes for marathons, except that they can get hard as time and distance goes by. Now, I do like ultra events. They require a degree of intelligence to be applied - not that other races don't. Over ultra distances (my current max distance is 100K) you have to have a proper plan in place. You have to pace yourself and you have to have the stamina to keep going. To keep going in ultra's, you have to walk at times, especially up hills, and walking allows recovery which is fine by me. Ultra's also offer you a sense of adventure and exploration; adventure in being out there, exploration as in getting in touch with your mind, body and soul. Ultra's quite often have check points too where you are required (not always though) to stop, take on food and water and be medically checked before being allowed to continue on once more into the wild blue yonder. All this helps to break up the mileage into manageable chunks and that in turn allows you to keep going. That can't be bad, can it.

So where is this all leading? Well to my mind, athletes are more likely to be found participating in track and field events, i.e. in an arena or out on a pure cross-country course. They are more likely to be very competitive, have a degree of talent and have the ability to focus intently on their goal. Me? I'm just for enjoying myself, especially running off road trails. I also enjoy the other benefits that running brings; fitness, fresh air, relaxation, a chance to be out in nature, opportunities to explore and find previously unknown places. In response to a question about why run instead of hike, David Horton said at the outset of his mammoth 2,700 mile run along the Pacific Crest Trail: 'I'm a runner, not a hiker.' Well, I'm a runner, a social runner, not an athlete and I don't want to belong to an athletic club thank you very much.

Social mobility John Prescott style...

I read that social mobility is high on the agenda of our new coalition government and that Nick Clegg in particular is keen to push forward changes that will enable the disadvantaged to take a step up in our society. Trouble is, social mobility in this context is usually taken to mean the acquisition of material wealth and not much else. A fine representation of this can be seen in the shape of John Prescott; today an ennobled Lord, yesterday a member of the working classes, a ships steward and a union activist. Trouble is, Mr Prescott, despite his acquisition of power, position and material wealth, is in mind and deed, the same man that he ever was, or at least presents as being so, an uncouth roughneck. I have to say however, that in lightly researching Mr Prescott's past (via Wikipedia mainly) that I have come to accept that this man, like most of us, is quite a complex human being. Indeed, he would appear to be a modern day 'curates egg'; both good and bad in parts. Some would say that this makes the whole bad but, as I have had that label applied to me in the past (by a dysfunctional manager), I have to strongly disagree. My view is, that to be a fully functioning human being, we need to have our good and bad sides living within us; after all, without the dark we cannot see the light. The trick is to accept the whole of you and in so doing you remain in the driving seat of your life. So, rock on John. I have changed my mind about you a little and as a human being, you stand head and shoulders above that old boss of yours, Mr T Blair, who is yet to see the light!

'Fear is the path to the darkside' - Yoda.

No. 7 Arch, East Cliff Beach, Folkestone

Recently things have been happening in my life that have made me think of the places I have lived. In my teenage years, one of these places was under the arches running along the back of East Cliff Beach in Folkestone, Kent. In the heady and turbulent days of the 60's, these arches were home to several dozen or so young people who came from all walks of life; some like me had left or been kicked out of home for various reasons, others had absconded (escaped) from one or other of the notorious institutions - Detention Centres, Approved Schools, Borstal - that society liked to dump children into in those days. Other arch residents were of the summer variety; those who enjoyed 'living rough' for a weekend or two or maybe just for a day. Life was simple under the arch. Build a low bank of sand across the entrance to keep the tide out and the day trippers. Light a fire on a cold or damp night to keep warm or to dry clothes and damp bedding - in some arches fires burned for different reasons; here shadowy figures slowly roasted supposedly high quality 'Tangiers Hashish' for theirs and other's consumption and of course an income. Personal hygiene was taken care of in the sea, or in the public baths if you could afford it. Fresh fruit was occasionally provided local girls who worked in the fruit & veg shop just up the High Street and more substantial meals could be had by working in the local coffee bar. The owners of the coffee bar also ran a restaurant where occasionally you would be asked to serve Sunday diners and in return, you would be served with a meal on the house. After a stint in the coffee shop, I got a job on the Rotunda, a fixed local seafront funfair where I worked mainly on the 'Jungle Speedway' collecting money from the holiday makers and local and sometimes visiting French teenagers. In return for a 10 hour day, 6 days a week, I received the princely sum of £10.00 but by the judicious use of a scam, you could up your earnings by another £5.00 or so a week. Working on the fairground also brought other benefits; girls! The Jungle Speedway was divided into coloured sections and if any girls were waiting where your section always stopped, then the choice was yours. Of course fairground work was seasonal and subject to weather conditions and if things got quiet, then you were laid off until things picked up again. Other work was available of course; labouring at the new power station being built at Dungeness - where I did work for a while - or if you had the gift of the gab, then street selling souvenirs was another option. The souvenirs I most remember were the tins of Fresh Kent Air, which on opening gave off the smell of apples and the tins of London Smog - don't ask how the smog manifested itself, as I never opened one. The fairground scam by the way was based on only giving the punters their change once the ride was under way, as they nearly always dropped their money through the gaps in the wooden floor while attempting to pocket their change with one hand while holding on for dear life with the other. At the end of the day, there would be a circle of small change lying on the ground underneath the ride which was collected up and divided amongst those of us who worked there. No doubt similar scams were going on, on the other attractions. You may question the morals of this but it was a case of survival and this extra money made a difference to everyday living. Then, as happens in itinerant life, the chance came to travel to another part of the country, this time to Tenby in Pembrokeshire, West Wales and overnight it was a case of pack up and go. What happened in Tenby is another tale to tell on this blog at some point.

Positively deviant...

I don't know about you but I have never really been a follower of rules, regulations and conventions. Don't get me wrong, I know when to follow a rule, I know about regulations - I've quoted and used them enough in my work life - and I can fit with convention too, if I have to. It's just that I don't accept what someone says I must do without asking the question, Why? This asking 'why' is not simply a childish response to a request or an order. It is not a stamping of feet or a grumpy pursing of lips. It is more intelligent than that. It is much closer to wanting to understand why a particular set of rules or practices exist and to see the reasoning behind them. It has always been that way with me and it applies to everything that touches me in this world; and it has got me into trouble a few times too, especially with those who just expect you to 'do as they say' without question or comment. Accordingly, throughout life I have sometimes been labelled: 'disruptive', 'awkward', 'challenging', 'rebellious' and as being 'a deviant'. This deviancy then, has been seen by controlling others, as a negative aspect of my psyche and therefore, rather like a brightly burning flame, it must be snuffed out before the fire spreads. I on the other hand - especially so today* - like this aspect of my psyche, as it allows original thought to arise which in turn allows me to perhaps find better or different ways of doing things and I'm pretty damn sure that it has enabled me to survive and cope in situations where others have struggled, or even failed to do so. Imagine my surprise then, when recently I discovered that a whole World movement exists whose prime objective is to promote the thinking and doing processes of the people who are categorised as being 'Positive Deviants' and who are seen as agents of change. J

erry Sternin who is seen as the father of positive deviance has this to say about the matter:

'Somewhere in your community or organisation, groups of people are already doing things differently and better. To create lasting change, find these areas of positive deviance and fan their flames.' (JERRY STERNIN AND RICHARD PASCALE). If you want to know more about Positive Deviants then click on this link > http://www.positive-deviant.com/ or click on the title of this blog and if l

ike me, you think you are a Positive Deviant too then take the test and click on this link > http://www.positive-deviant.com/positive-deviant-characteristics.html

Rock on.

* In my younger years, I was always troubled by the fact that I appeared to think/see things differently from others; that I was somehow not on the same wave length that the rest of society seemed to be on and therefore, by default' I was an outsider. Today, I know better.

Positive Deviance: tapping into the power of your hidden change agents.

Blood money...

I see that Mr Tony Blair is in the news again (Daily Mail, Friday March 19, 2010), this time because of his fight to keep secret a lucrative deal that earned him shed loads of cash from the Iraq oil fields; after his illegal war of course. Apparently, TB said that this deal was commercially sensitive and he persuaded the UK authorities to hush it up for 20 months, which is 17 months longer than the usual period of 3 months anyone else gets. So you see, you can profit from crime; in this case war crimes. TB also cost the UK tax payer £273,000 for his recent Iraq probe appearance and his annual protection costs are around the £2million mark, which makes his level of protection higher than that of our illustrious Prime Minister, Gordon Brown. TB is so into money and power that he has constructed a complex web of companies and partners that allow him to avoid publishing full accounts detailing all the money from his commercial ventures - perhaps he has something to hide? Don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of this man's private earning power but I am sickened by his profit making from an illegal war and the fact that, as a tax payer, he costs me money as well. I can think of better ways of using my money, like arresting him for instance. One hell of a parasite this guy, and a war criminal too. What a career choice he has made.

Chickpea to Cook, Rumi...

Here's Rumi on the development of both the teacher and student, from the understanding of pain and change as persecution, to learning how to align with difficult experience in one's own, and others', self-interest. I thought that this poem connected well with my/our own lives in terms of personal growth and development.

Chickpea to Cook
Jalaluddin Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavour,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.

"Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this."

Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.

Eventually the chickpea will say to the cook,
"Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can't do this by myself".

"I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention
to his driver. You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking."

The cook says,
"I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time,
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.

"My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices,
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher."

Seems I've lost it...

From previous blogs, you would think that my running habit is so entrenched that nothing could stop me from running. Well, like me, you are in for a surprise. Yep, my running has virtually come to a standstill. Why? I don't really know just yet but I suspect it has come about because of a combination of different reasons ranging from being overweight and unhappy with my self-image – this so horribly confirmed by the less than flattering Mr Blobby photograph that my beloved took of me recently - to being mentally and emotionally tired from the constant worry of caring for an elderly parent while at the same time trying to live my own life. This I've lost it state of mine has been developing for some time now but since my recent return from Australia, it has got worse. This is probably due in some part to my being physically tired from the many hours of traveling and sitting in a cattle truck of a plane with its multiple human organisms circulating in and out of my nose for the duration. It was a nice new plane mind you but as an Airbus A380 holds a lot more people than your average Boeing 747, the risk of getting an airborne infection must increase exponentially. I wonder if they (Qantas in this case) have completed a risk assessment on the health hazards facing A380 passengers? I doubt it somehow, otherwise I would not have had to endure the closely packed confines of economy class with its piddly little seat pitches and oppressive atmosphere. Anyway, to return to my tale of woe. I know that I am physically run down; this is evidenced by the cold sore that has been living on my bottom lip recently and my dry, itchy and spotty skin. I know that I am mentally and emotionally tired; this is evidenced by the loss of fun or joie de vivre that I associate with running and the loss of drive to do anything else for that matter, except perhaps eat biscuits and drink lots of tea loaded with sugar. Funny thing is, that while in Australia, my running enthusiasm returned and I enjoyed early morning runs of varying distances and times on most days. In hind site, this temporary resurgence in my running was probably down to being over 10,000 miles away from home and therefore out of the loop as far as my mothers care was concerned and having the opportunity to explore new running grounds, especially the trails of the Churchill National Park in Melbourne, the running routes around Sydney Harbour and the beaches of the Great Ocean Road. Now of course, I am back to my particular reality and it has hit me hard. The cold weather doesn't help of course. The computer crashing and finding all my emails corrupted – thanks Microsoft – didn't help either and my car breaking down just before I was going off to do a days work really was a pain. Still, as my running coach says in his blunt Yorkshire way, 'you'll just have to get on with it' - bless him. As I see it then, I am nearly at the end of a major downward spiral; nearing the bottom of the pit so to speak and once I've hit bottom, the only way out of this mess is to climb back up again. Life is like that and I think I still have that ladder tucked away in the tool bag of my life somewhere.

I'll let you know if I make it.

Tree running...

Well, Christmas is well and truly over and the tree, having served its purpose, has probably been recycled in one way or another - perhaps taken to the tree recycling centre or stuffed in your green wheelie bin. If your tree happened to be a living tree, one supposedly with a decent root ball, then chances are that you have put the tree outside with the idea of reusing it next Christmas. Perhaps though, your tree might appreciate being recycled back into the natural landscape where it can properly thrive once more and where it could become a focal point for your running; after all you would want to know that it is doing okay, wouldn't you? I've done exactly that with our 2007, so called living Christmas tree. It was in its pot mind you for some considerable time before I decided to recycle it back into nature. This 2007 living Christmas tree of ours was presumed dead after being indoors for so long; the needles had turned brown and were dropping all over the floor and my beloved, bless her, insisted that the tree not having a root ball after all, was now dead and should be thrown away. So, the tree was unceremoniously put down the side path by the wheelie bins and quietly waited in its pot for the end to come. The thing is, the end did not come. New life came instead and slowly, ever so slowly new green branches appeared. There were only two green bits at first, then two became three and I could no longer ignore the fact that our 2007 Christmas tree was still alive; perhaps only just but alive never the less. It was this point, somewhere towards the end of 2008, that I decided to recycle our 2007 living Christmas tree back into nature and from that point on, I made it a run mission to find a suitable home for it in amongst the mixed woodlands bordering Eelmoor Plain and Rushmoor Arena. Today, after a helping hand by way of fertiliser and regular watering, our 2007 living Christmas tree is progressing well and has has quite a few more green shoots on it. I should know. I visit it quite often when out running in the area - sometimes on my own, sometimes with the dog and sometimes with my beloved and sometimes with a friend or two.