Day 27 of London to Brighton training: In which I have a massage and covet someone’s tea

Day 27 of London to Brighton training: In which I have a massage and covet someone’s tea

I have had my first massage.

OK, this is not completely true.  Once, some years ago, I had a massage in the Departure lounge of Belfast Airport.  This was not from one of the massage stations you often see in such places now, we you sit in a sort of hybrid dentist and barber’s chair and have your neck and shoulders massaged for 10 minutes, but from something I have only seen there, for a brief period.  Something I can only really describe as a massage coffin.

This rather strange contraption really does look like a coffin mounted on a stand, with a large hinged lid which pivots length-wise.  When opened, a padded massage table is revealed, complete with cut-out for your face.  The underside of the lid consists of a heavy rubber membrane or sheet and built into the lid itself are a number of movable, high-power water jets.

Can you see where this is going yet?

The machine is completely unattended, so you basically climb onto the table fully clothed, pop your coins in the slot and lower the lid onto yourself, which is a bizarre and rather claustrophobic experience.  Once settled, you press the ‘start’ button and the water jet bombard your back, shoulders and neck with high pressure water, which of course strikes the rubber sheet, so you feel all of the pressure without the wetness.  

A bit like learning not to wet the bed.

Controls allow you to direct the water, or leave it to the machine’s sadistic brain to decide which part of your anatomy to beat next but, by the time your pound coins have expired; you’re left with the distinct feeling of having been mugged, not least because wearing a suit and tie whilst having your body pounded makes one feel that the aim is less about relieving you of stress and more about relieving you of your wallet.  Afterwards, I was left with a very strange feeling of being lightheaded, if not downright dizzy and the distinct feeling that massage was not for me.  Over the years, a number of people have eulogised the benefits of massage and tried to convince me that my electric coffin experience was not truly representative and that I should try a ‘proper’ one, but I have resisted, not least because of a certain reluctance to be ‘touched’ by a stranger.

However, a combination of 30 seconds of massage during a class on a recent holiday, plus the forthcoming trip to Spa hotel to celebrate A’s birthday (which coincides with Valentine’s Day – a happy or unfortunate conjunction, depending on your point of view) led to me booking a massage not only for her, but in a fit of impulse, for myself.  The hotel on the Cornish coast and was chosen in part for the opportunity it offered to do a nice walk along the cliffs, rather than long the roads of North London, and so the massage was booked for the Saturday afternoon, the plan being to go for a nice walk first, then enjoy the benefits of the massage afterwards.

Rather foul weather and a late night meant that our departure to Cornwall was delayed somewhat and travelling by train was not an option, as the flooding that the South West has suffered meant all lines to the area had been cut, so a long drive meant that we didn’t arrive as early as expected and the anticipated long walk along the cliffs was condensed to a far shorter walk along the beach.  A longer walk may have been possible, but its start was delayed by the celebration of A’s birthday in the traditional way – with a cream tea. 

Now, as anyone with so little to occupy them that they have been following these ramblings will know, I am gluten intolerant, so for me a cream tea is very much a spectator sport, and although I can safely say that most sports I have watched have never particularly left me with a burning desire to participate, observing a cream tea - particularly a Cornish one with 'proper' clotted cream - leaves me fully convinced that not only should I be an active participant but, with only a little practice, I could easily represent my country, should it make it into the next Olympics. As long as men do not compete against women, I may even win a medal.  However, cream tea completed, a walk along the beautiful beach ensued, as a precursor to my first real massage.

I have to confess to some trepidation, to least because of the aforementioned uncertainty about being 'touched'. Don't get me wrong - I have no aversion to being touched per se, indeed I have been described as 'tactile', in a way that I like to take as a compliment (i.e. it wasn't by an industrial tribunal) but I was unsure about being touched by someone with whom the 'getting to know you' phase of our relationship consisted of completing a questionnaire about previous medical conditions, personal preferences and what I was looking to achieve from the massage.  Perhaps this is why I have never been tempted to try speed dating?  However, form completed, I was taken through to the massage room and left to prepare, which consisted of stripping down to my underwear (thanks Mum - the same good habits apply to massages as well as accidents) and lying face down on the table under a towel.

As with the electric coffin, the table had a cut-out for your face and I couldn't help thinking of those comical character stands that you find at theme parks and other venues, where you stand behind them, poke your head through the hole and have your picture taken as a pirate, or Tarzan, as Fred Flintstone or Marilyn Monroe.  I have to confess, at that moment I think I'd have felt less out of place as Marilyn. The masseuse (therapist? Operative?) then joined me and began the process of removing 50 years of accumulated bad posture, stress, lack of exercise and social discomfort. She observed that I seemed really "tight" and had lots of "nodules".  Apparently this is not good, something  I was glad I realised before thanking her.  The next 25 minutes basically consisted of her trying - unsuccessfully I fear - to remove these characteristics, whilst 'chatting'.  In the space of those short minutes, I was treated to an potted life history. It transpired that she actually came from an area not far from where I live, so I was given the details of why and how she ended up there, where she lives, details of her relationship and plans, what he does for a living, hobbies and pastimes and aspirations for the future.  I even learned about her caravan and the fact the roof leaks. 

I may apply for a job at Guantanamo Bay, as it seems I have a really talent for extracting information.  

Despite this being my first massage, I couldn't help feeling a strong sense of déjà vu during the experience and I puzzled over this as I lay there, when suddenly the realisation hit me.  Having a massage is very much like having your hair cut: The same inane conversation. The same sharing of personal information. The same intimate yet completely asexual physical contact.  The same smelly stuff that you would never buy for your home even if you lived with 867 cats.  And finally, the same pretence that you're really happy with the result although the after effects of a massage last considerably less time. I was told that I really ought to "treat myself" to a massage at least every month and that the results would be cumulative, but in truth I was left thinking that, just as I have cut my own hair for many years now, I will resist the temptation to venture further into this particular therapy.  The exception to this is that I have booked a massage for the day after the actual London to Brighton walk, although I consider this is less about indulging myself and more about ensuring I can actually move as far as the bathroom without crying. 

The following day, feeling slightly refreshed from the massage and far more refreshed from a hotel breakfast - why is it that a hotel breakfast tastes so much better than the same food cooked yourself?- we ventured up the cliffs on a walk. If you’re not familiar with Cornwall, it has a beautiful coastline of cliffs surrounding small bays with sandy beaches and is famous for its surfing.  The idea was to have a nice walk along the cliffs from the bay where our hotel was to the next one along; a walk the nice lady at reception declared was about an hour, which would leave us time to get some lunch and use the hotel spa before starting the long journey back to London.

They say that when you’re on holiday, time goes more slowly.  Apparently, this also applies to the estimates of time given by locals.

We set off, heading down the steep path to the beach so we could cross to the other side and find the path that led up to the cliffs on the other side of the bay.  There is something about walking across a beach that brings out the child in me; I want to throw skim stones, see how close I can get to the incoming waves before running backwards and see my footsteps filling up with water.  I really need to go without a grown-up next time.  Reaching the other side, we found the path that would take us up to the cliff-top, where we envisaged a nice stroll in the sunshine and fresh air to the next bay.

Now, the thing about cliffs is that from the seaward side they can look imposing and huge.  From the landward side, this is not always as obvious initially, but oh boy, did it become clear quickly.  Almost immediately, we were presented with steps cut into the hillside.  Now, as a veteran of the staircase at Covent Garden Tube Station, I consider myself the equal of staircases.  After all, if I can vanquish the winding monstrosity that is Covent Garden, surely this could hold no new terrors. 

Well, that’s what I thought.  However, within a few minutes, I discovered that Covent Garden is to staircases what Boxercise (no, I haven’t tried that yet) is to Cage Fighting (and no, I haven’t tried that yet either.  Who am I kidding? “Yet”?  Yeah, right).  The tube steps may be winding, but they’re consistent – each the same distance and height from its neighbours.  Not so here.  Each step was a different height.  Each could be nearer or further from the next. Each could be covered with mud, or loose stones, or slippery grass, or a combination of all of the above and all of which seemed possessed by the malevolent spirit of some tourist-hating ghost, determined to pitch one, if not actually into the sea far below, then certainly into an undignified heap.

The views are magnificent.  Allegedly.  It’s hard to be definitive about this, when one is staring fixedly at your feet and trying so very hard to breathe effectively, yet not so loudly as to scare the local wildlife – or inflame the malevolent spirit.  I know now how one of the figures in an Escher picture feels.  

Finally however, you reach the top of the cliff and stop to admire the view.  Well that’s my excuse and until you’ve tried it, don’t mock.  And the views actually ARE spectacular, but the prospect of a nice lunch lead you to move on, as, after all, it’s not far – just an hour’s walk, right?

 Well, in terms of distance, I’m sure that’s correct.  It’s probably no more than two or three miles, so you head off, strolling along the cliff path and if you should notice the gentle slope downwards, you probably assume that this is leading down to the next bay.  You assume this and you’d be wrong.  The path leads down, then in a sudden change of mind, heads back up another steep slope.  It repeats this in some sort of natural imitation of a rollercoaster, with similar effects on the digestion when tackled post hotel breakfast. Note to self: Choose breakfast very carefully before walking to Brighton.

The walk in total was only some five miles, but the elevation changes, terrain and conditions underfoot made it feel a lot more.  Given that much of the London to Brighton challenge is off-road and I am aware that, not far from the finish I will have to scale the Sussex Downs, this was probably good training, although the prospect of such a climb after walking 50 miles is rather daunting.

We finally made it back to the hotel and after indulging in the spa facilities of a Jacuzzi, sauna and steam, we headed back to London.  300 miles for a single night is probably madness, but it’s worth it, as I discovered inner resources and strength that I really didn’t know I had.

I REALLY wanted one of those Scones, but I resisted.

You don’t know what you can do until you try.

If you’ve enjoyed this post, please feel free to show your appreciation by sponsoring me.  I’m doing this walk for Macmillan Cancer Care, a charity that is dear to my heart as I have personal experience of the work they do.  You can find a link to my sponsorship page here:   http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - Thank you.

Day 23 of London to Brighton Training: In which I have some surprises and become my Father.

Day 23 of London to Brighton Training:  In which I have some surprises and become my Father.

So, having been virtually crippled by my attempt to use my walking poles, I made the decision to avail myself of some proper training in the art of Nordic Walking, and went for a free ‘taster’ session with a local instructor, which led to some interesting revelations. 

The meeting place was a car park on the edge of the local forest, which is one of the largest open spaces in the London area and I pitched up there bright and early – well early at least – pleased that for once it wasn’t raining.  However, any pleasure soon turned to dismay, as I noticed the carpark was full of people on some sort of boot camp. I have never actually experienced one of these myself you understand, but my understanding is that they represent some sort of intense form of initiation into exercise, much akin to the Marine Corp training after which they are named.  They seemed to be split into two groups, each led by someone who, if not ex-military, certainly has a loyalty card at the Army-Surplus store.  Close-cropped hair, camouflage trousers and a propensity to bark like a pit bull who finds itself on the wrong side of the gate to the Postman all combined to make me feel that, whilst undoubtedly effective,  this was not the form of training for me.  Nor, judging by the look of horror on the face of one lady whose eyes met mine was it for all the participants, but I did not feel that my two Iaido lessons and a pulled hamstring from Judo really equipped me to perform an SAS-Style rescue mission, so I was forced to leave her to her fate.

Fortunately, I discovered that my Nordic Walking instructor, whilst resembling a lycra-clad whippet, was of a different breed, relying on enthusiasm rather than volume.  Introductions over, I proudly presented my newly-acquired walking poles, in anticipation of being told what a wise choice I’d made (thank you YouTube).  This was the first surprise.  Despite extensive research, I transpires that what I’d bought were ‘Trekking’ poles.  Now, I come from a generation where the syllable ‘Trek’ brings to mind strange hand signs and the expressions “He’s dead Jim” and “Beam me up Scotty”, but apparently not only was I not going to be beamed anywhere, having to rely instead on my flimsy legs, but rather more pertinently, I’d bought the wrong poles. They weren’t terribly wrong, just too heavy.  And the handle was wrong. And the wrong type of hand strap.

Apart from that, they were fine.  (Thank you YouTube)

However, the Instructor had anticipated and had brought poles with her for her new victims pupils to use.  She then proceeded to demonstrate the technique of Nordic Walking, which was the second surprise. As I have mentioned, I had spent quite some time viewing assorted videos on YouTube on the technique of Nordic Walking, so felt quietly confident as she explained where the poles should be planted, the way the arms were used.  As you may by now be expecting, I’d been doing it completely wrong.  Thank you YouTube.  I’d been planting the poles in the wrong place.  I’d been bending my arms when they should be straight.  In fact, the only thing I’d got right from my research was that the pole should be used in conjunction with the opposing leg.  The one thing I kept getting wrong.

However, in order to ensure that we got the technique right, we were started off by simply holding the poles in each hand, pointy bit forwards so you don’t ruin the chances of the man behind you having children, and walking up and down an extremely muddy path, swinging our arms back and forth from the shoulders.  Picture, if you can, three middle-aged men squidging up and down a path, a pole in each hand, swinging their arms like they’re changing the guard and you may begin to appreciate the somewhat bemused looks on the faces of the ladies and their dogs who had to get out of our way.  And yes, the dogs looked bemused too.  The aim of this exercise is to get you into the habit of swinging the poles from the shoulders, rather than with a bent arm, but it’s a highly unnatural action.  Consider when you (if) run, your arms are bent at the elbow, but this is wrong and leads to all sorts of issues.

Once you have got the hang of this sort of military double-stick relay, we progress to planting the poles.  Unlike my previous attempt, the tip is in fact planted behind you, which means that as your right leg goes forward, the left arm has to have swung all the way back to plant the pole.  This feels very odd.  You then repeat with the opposite arm and leg, by which time you seem to have got out of synch with yourself and stop suddenly to correct the mistake.

The man behind you meantime, is also concentrating, looking down at his feet and, as you will remember, swinging his poles back and forth, so the pointy bit swings up and forwards.

 This led to the third surprise, which I sincerely hope won’t appear on YouTube, thank you.  But as a means of spurring you on, it’s right up there with an ex-military pit-bull; and just as much fun.

 

As before, I found myself really struggling with the coordination required, until all that swinging my straight arms suddenly dredged up a childhood memory, of being in something called ‘JLB’. This was a little like the cadets and being in the late 60’s & early 70’s, benefitted from the fact that most of the officers and many of the NCOs had been through the mill of National Service, with the consequence that ‘Drill’ was a frequent and persistent activity.  I learned to quick march, slow march, wheel, dress right (no, not that), and salute – “properly” (longest way up shortest way down).  It’s amazing how something from so long ago can be retrieved from your memory.  Or it was.

In this case,  what came back to me wasn’t the act of marching, so much as the act of marching as an NCO barked “ ‘EFT__,’EFT__, ‘EFT-‘IGHT-‘EFT”.  That cadence, so hated in my formative years, suddenly reappeared with such clarity that I could literally hear him rapping out the cadence behind my left ear.  Unconsciously, I felt myself straight (“Stand up straight you ‘orrible little man”), shoulders back and felt my arms swinging with the correct rhythm.  In short, I was marching to the beat of a different, and imaginary, drum.  I continued in this manner for some minutes, actually feeling rather pleased with myself, not least because all those years of training were finally paying off.  Actually, it was probably only a couple of years, but it FELT a lot longer.

And then, as I marched, I had surprise number four.

As a child, I would sometimes walk with my Father.  He had been in the Royal Air Force and, far more than my recreational square-bashing, had had drill, err, drilled into him.  As a consequence, when we walked, he would often forget himself.  A distant and strangely focussed look would come into his eyes and his back and stride would lengthen and his arms would swing back and forth as he determinedly marched along the street, me scurrying along in his wake like a forgotten Pekinese.  I found it terribly embarrassing, imagining people would be looking at this man marching along the street, no matter where he was.  Yet, here I was, walking through a quagmire of a forest, swinging my arms in exactly the same way and I realised with a great clarity that not only in walking, but in every way, I AM my father.  It was a strange sensation and yet, in a way, quite a comforting one.  If nothing else, it made me swing my arms with pride and, I like to think, a certain panache. 

 Panache isn’t easy when you’re up to your knees in mud.

I didn’t really feel that my 45 minute taster had really been much of a workout, but as I got back to the car the heavens opened, which rather put paid to any thoughts of extending the walk, so I now have to consider whether to try the full 4-week course.  If I do, I may well get the hang of it and feel the benefits of Nordic Walking.

Or maybe I’ll just end up with a job at the Ministry.

 

(If you’ve enjoyed this post and you’re feeling generous, you can sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - doesn’t matter how much, every penny is really gratefully received.  Thank you.)

Day 20 of London to Brighton Training: In which I bring modern technology to bear.

Day 20 of London to Brighton Training: In which I bring modern technology to bear.

I work in technology.  Specifically in computer software and, although I’m a semi-geek (or semi-real person, depending on your viewpoint), I am a man and, as such, LURVE a gadget, so it seemed natural that I should seek to deploy technology to aid me in my preparation for this challenge and my quest for fitness.

When I was young, the closest thing to technology in fitness was a drinking fountain. Putting your thumb over the nozzle as people walked past was a sure way of encouraging them to run faster, so I was intrigued to see how things had moved on.  I’m not talking about the development in machines at the gym or even the fact that training shoes now seem to employ technology that would have been the preserve of the space program the last time I ran for ‘fun’, but rather the proliferation of hi tech aids to support the budding athlete in their quest for performance.

Some years ago, I bought a heart-rate monitor watch. This was a mistake.  Actually, this was in fact TWO mistakes.  The first mistake was that I hadn’t actually realised it was a heart-rate monitor watch at the outset.  I merely needed a watch, ideally waterproof so that I could swim in it and this one seemed to be a good deal, plus had images of people doing all sorts of athletic feats on their athletic feet and importantly, judging by their expressions, enjoying them.  If a watch could do this for me, then it certainly seemed worth the investment.  I then realised that this had the advantage of telling me how strong my heart was beating, and I was sold.  I don’t know if you’re familiar with these devices, but basically they consist of a digital watch, combined with a strap that secures around your chest with Velcro.

Important tip: – if you have a hairy chest, ensure you get the Velcro the right way round.

This strap contains a sensor which, when positioned over your heart, transmits a signal to the watch, which then displays your heart rate on the watch display – assuming of course that:

1)      It can measure something with a rate measured in MHz

2)      That the display on the watch can handle numbers that large.

Which was my second mistake.  These watches may be ideal for athletes who are using them to monitor their heart rate as the train, aiming for specific target rates at key points in their workout.  What they are not designed to do recognise that the mere act of giving yourself a depilation worthy of a Chippendale - the dancer not the cabinet (although some would say I move like one) –by misuse of Velcro is enough to raise your heart rate to that of a 4-minute-miler. I was fully expecting the numbers on the watch face to disappear and be replaced by the words “I think you should go and sit down somewhere quiet, and wait for the ambulance”.  Besides, the last thing I need when exercising is something that provides a tight feeling across my chest.  Nature does that for me free of charge.

So when the chest strap went missing and the battery died, the watch was consigned to one of those drawers which exist solely for the accumulation of things that you don’t throw away “because it may be useful one day”.  I’m surprised Ikea don’t do a complete range of furniture just for these items.  They could call it Yooshlessstufinboxen.   Perhaps I should suggest it?

However, this experience has done nothing to diminish my love of gadgets or my determination to deploy them in to good use in this endeavour and those of you who may have read any of these posts of Facebook may be aware of periodic posts made from my phone, using one of the ‘Apps’ specifically designed to monitor and improve your training and the one I am using is called ‘Runkeeper’.  There are a great many of these applications available, each with their own specific strengths, weaknesses and functions, sometimes geared towards a specific form of training.  I selected this one on the basis that someone said “Hey you’re walking you should get Runkeeper it’s really cool”.

I am of an age where I remember the Fonz, so am a sucker for ‘Cool’.

You enter personal information such as height and weight, select the relevant type of exercise and the phone uses its GPS functionality to track where you’ve been, your pace, the amount of calories you’ve used and many, many more functions.  It is, allegedly, possible to set up training plans and if you don’t exercise it sends you an email reminding you that you haven’t kept your promise to it, but the last thing I need is yet another conscience, particularly one that I can’t have a rational argument with. I’m not totally convinced about the accuracy of some of its calculations – on a  recent walk it calculated the calories burned, which seemed to equate to around 240 bags of crisps.  Naturally I took this with a pinch – or rather a little blue bag – of salt and did not eat all 240. 

Look up little blue bag of salt if you’re too young to understand.

Incidentally, following a talk at A’s studio last month, I have forsworn crisps in some sort of training equivalent of Lent.  Everyone had to give up something and it was that or, in truth, Brighton. The talk discussed techniques such as “EFT” (Emotional Freedom Technique) which involves tapping yourself on various points on the head as you repeat positive and negative reinforcement statements.

I’m told it’s very powerful and effective.

But then I’m told by our ruling elite that “we’re all in this together” and I don’t see THEM giving up crisps.  I listened and tried tapping, but being honest, I don’t think I was really trying very hard.  I did find myself repeating a word, but as it wasn’t a very complimentary one, I won’t mention it here.  I am sure that there IS a way that tapping me on the head would help dissuade me from crisps, but it would take more than my finger. 

 

However I do know people who say it’s very effective, so please don’t let me dissuade you from trying this rub…. interesting technique, if you feel you want to try it.

One issue with Runkeeper, apart from its tendency to announce exactly how you’re doing in a loud American accent, is that it relies on a GPS signal to work.  This means that it neither works in the gym – much like me – and also that it tends to get through batteries the way I used to get through crisps.  This means that the already rather paltry battery life of an iPhone is reduced to something even more pitiful, which is not ideal when contemplating walks of many hours.  Of course, being a geek, I have an assortment of external batteries and charging options, but one does not really want to carry 3Kg of additional weight, just to be able to see how many steps one is taking in 15 minutes.  I’m trying hard to take LESS weight with me on walks, not more!

Which led me to my next impulse purchase, which is a fitness monitor.  These come in a range of types, some of which you wear on your belt, round your neck or indeed fixed to your trainer (the shoe, not the lycra-clad terrorist one employs at certain gyms). Some connect wirelessly to your phone, others have dedicated displays built in.  Think of them as the Pedometer for the iPod generation.

The one I selected is called an ‘Up’ band.  I’m not sure if the name influenced me, but I thought it somewhat ironic, given that one of the features that interested me was that it claimed to monitor your sleep patterns as well as exercise.  The idea is that, just before bed, you press the button in a particular sequence and it then monitors your movements, presenting you the following morning with a graphical analysis of your sleep, divided into ‘deep’ and ‘light’ sleep.

This is heaven for the geek.

It also allows you to log how you’re feeling, so this can be correlated with your sleep patterns and used to identify any trends.  You will be astounded to learn that less sleep = feeling tired and grumpy.  OK, I had begun to suspect this, but as any teenager can vouch for, in this day and age something isn’t true until it’s displayed on your phone screen.  It also has a ‘Power Nap’ feature, allowing it to be set to wake you up at the most opportune point in a short sleep cycle, which is does by vibrating.  I used this feature.  Quite a lot actually.

Unlike some of its competitors, it’s not actually unattractive, which means it’s with you all the time and, being based on movements of your body rather than GPS, it works indoors as well as outside.  This is also useful because it can be set to vibrate if you’re sedentary for more than a certain period.  The idea is that, if it vibrates, you get up from your desk and do some exercise, thus avoiding your chair from becoming permanently grafted to your you-know-what.  It can also be calibrated to measure the distance you walk which was actually surprisingly accurate, and only suggested I should eat 174 packets of crisps, which is wholly more realistic.

So all in all, a highly practical and useful aid to my training.  Or it would be if the flipping thing worked for more than a few weeks.  The first one was rapidly becoming my gadget of the year, when for no apparent reason, the battery refused to charge.  Oh well, these things happen and the nice gentleman at Tesco Direct replaced it without a quibble (another word right up there with Addendum).  The second one seemed fine, right up until it too, refused to charge.  So now I am faced with a double quandary: Do I replace this with a third and hope that I have simply been unlucky, or do I replace it with one of its competitors which, whilst offering the possibility of greater quality control, somehow have an air of ‘sports’ about them.

I think it’s the rubber.

 Perhaps I should see if I can buy a good old-fashioned, mechanical pedometer online and give the replacement UP band they have offered me to someone else as a present.

 So you never know, you could find yourself being given one of these wondrous gadgets by me.  But, in the words of Virgil:

 Beware of Geeks bearing gifts.

 (If you’ve enjoyed this post and  you’re feeling generous, you can sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - doesn’t matter how much, every penny is really gratefully received.  Thank you.)

 

Day 18 of London to Brighton (Cont.): In which I am reminded that I have forgotten someone.

Day 18 of London to Brighton (Cont.): In which I am reminded that I have forgotten someone.

I have been remiss. I was reminded by a close friend that I had omitted one of the gym membership demographs so, rather than edit the previous post, please consider this an addendum.


What a nice word. 'Addendum'. Sort of bounces around your mouth like it's made of rubber and entices you to add a stream of other, similar sounding words. Which could be awkward, but I digress.

As mentioned, in conversation with the aforementioned friend, I identified another type of person at the gym, which I shall call the LAM (Look At Me). This type will be familiar to even the most casual of gym attendees - and they don't come much more casual than me. Dressed to kill in top of the range sport clothing and with so much make-up that taking it off would make most of us rejoice in losing that much weight, their objective in using any of the facilities is measured not in weights lifted, miles run/cycled or balls hit. No, the LAM is much like a website and their success is measured by the number of 'views'. A glance is like someone clicking onto the page but then moving on, whilst a surreptitious stare, perhaps from the corner of the eye, is like someone staying to browse. Eyes tracking like radar or, from members of the same sex, bitchy undertone comments are the holy grail - someone adding the page to their favourites.

The LAM does not use the equipment to excess - any true exercise is done in the privacy of their home, where, like space, nobody can hear them scream, although just enough is done to allow them to be noticed, before decamping to the cafe area, to be seen as having come from the gym, but still looking like they have been dipped in liquid nitrogen.

The one true way of identifying the LAM however is the pony-tail. Hair pulled back and secured in a way that says "I am here to exercise. I'm not concerned about anything so banal as my hair.", it only took 45 minutes to coax into its perfect, casual and careless style. This pony-tail is the defining factor of the LAM for, as she walks in studied nonchalance through the room, it swings from side to side in time with the rhythm of

LOOK-AT-ME...LOOK-AT-ME

 

Day 18 of London to Brighton Training: In which I visit something called the ‘Gym’.

I am a member of a gym.

Now, to be honest, this is not some great revelation or lifestyle change brought on by my embracing this challenge.  I have been a member of a gym, indeed of this gym, for some considerable time.  Indeed, I am considered their most valued member, as I pay my fees every month without a murmur, yet contribute nothing to the wear and tear on their equipment. However, the realisation that I now have only a matter of some four months before the challenge, combined with my newly-rediscovered aversion to getting wet has led me to the inescapable conclusion that it is to the gym I must go.

The gym to which I have been contributing profit is one of the ‘posh’ ones, part of one of the original large chains with ‘branches’ around the Country.  No dingy rooms full of free weights, smelling of determination and liniment, populated by steroid-drenched men with bald heads and skins stretched over 200 pounds of sausages for me, oh no.  My gym won’t even let you have a locker unless you can prove that at least 3 of the items you will put in it have logos from a list of approved designers.  It is a while since I have been, but I noticed only small changes and, as before, it offers some wonderful opportunities for the amateur anthropologist and people-watcher.  As such, I noticed that the clientele seems to break down into some simple demographics:

Firstly, there is the ENTP (Empty Nest Tennis Player).  In their later years, with more time (and disposable income) on their hands they have recognised the need for some exercise and their chosen activity is Tennis; leaping around the courts like gazelles, although one should consider that, like gazelles, they are not as fast as they used to be and as such, tend to be the first ripped to shreds by the lions. The club organises competitions, leagues, matches and there is an active social life around it, so it can be considered as Bridge, with Balls.  This group also seems to include a sub-group of lady players who, although they may not fit exactly into the demographic, can be considered as what the Hells Angels call ‘Prospects’.  Their children may still be at home, but they have the income, time and cosmetic enhancement place to blend in.  

Then there is the SBDOW (Sent by Dr or Wife). They can be identified by the bagginess of clothing, tendency to invest in something they believe will make them fit in more (headbands seem popular) and a complete inability to work out how to use their offspring’s cast-off iPod. Most often found on the exercise bike, they adopt an expression of grim determination and the newbie-to-exercise’s version of the 1000 stare.  Frequent glances at their watch are clearly to see whether they can stop yet, despite trying to cultivate an air of checking performance.  Occasionally they venture onto some new piece of equipment, such as the stairmaster, with an expression that clearly echoes Dorothy Parker’s exclamation of “Oh what fresh hell is this?”

 

 

By far the largest group in a Gym like this are the BBGBW’s (BoyBand GirlBand Wannabe’s). They present more logos than the Formula 1 paddock and seem to have deployed some sort of Star Trek deflector around their hair and makeup which, no matter how much they move, stays immovable and unchanged.  The BB contingent sport watches with faces the size of grandfather clocks, whilst the GB’s, despite their youth, have obviously succumbed to the tender mercies of the surgeon, so that when running, part of their anatomy ploughs forwards, like the prow of an Icebreaker, gyroscopically stabilised.

 Not that I was looking, naturally.

A new sub-group does appear to have appeared since my last visit however, which is the FEBC (Former Eastern Bloc Commando). Typically tall, athletic and built to withstand a direct hit by a cruise missile, it is clear that, as they exercise, they can still hear the shouts of a Spetznaz sergeant-major in their ears.  They are typically accompanied by Mrs FEBC, but other than being typically blonde, I cannot really describe her.  I apologise for this omission, but I felt that observing - even surreptitiously for the purposes of this blog – the good lady of a man designed to crawl on his stomach from Russia to London, blow up an airbase then crawl back is probably not a man to take people-watching lightly.

 And then there’s me.

As explained, it is some considerable time since I have been to the gym, yet the machinery does not seem to have changed much.  Then again, visiting a torture chamber from the 15^th Century probably does not look that much different to one from the 18^th. However I was familiar with many of the machines, although I wasn’t used to seeing an exercise bike, rowing machine or cross trainer without them being used to hang clothes.  As I was still in some pain, I decided that trying to do too much or too many of these contraptions myself, as the lessons of Judo were still fresh in my mind, so settled on the ‘Cross Trainer’.

Now, I’m not sure whether the ‘Cross’ refers to what is being exercised or the emotion is instilled by trying to work the thing out, but I began to understand how previous generations may have felt when confronted with items like the first video recorders.  I am reasonably sure that the last time I ventured onto one of these things; it was a case of setting a time and maybe a degree of resistance and then off you went.  Not now.  Now, you have to enter your weight, your height.  You decide what you want to achieve – distance, fat burning, climbing mountains and various other combinations. You decide whether you want to use a pre-defined program or build your own.  You decide on the display options (round a track, up a mountain) and then, and only then, do you get to decide on the resistance level.  Finally, you’re presented by what you want to watch as you walk. TV? Certainly Sir, what channel? Terrestrial or Satellite? Or the in-house channel combining music with stupid suggestions about entering competitions?  Something Sir’s iPod perhaps?  Or from a Media Stick?

Having made some decisions about all these options, one is left mentally exhausted and yet is still faced with actually USING the flipping thing.

 So you start walking.

 And then you stop, as you realise some of the decisions you’ve made regarding all the options weren’t what you wanted.  But as you stop, the machine assumes you’ve stopped to complete your exercise, since it is obviously not used to or designed for the indecisive or less-committed of us.  So you desperately start walking again whilst trying to select buttons and change options.  This is not as easy as it sounds.

I don’t know if you have ever used one of these machines, but it consists of two moving foot platforms, combined with two handles that move backwards and forwards.  The idea is that as your left foot pushes down, your right hand pushes forwards and vice versa, much like walking with poles.

 But without the mud, which is good.

 It may sound simple, but as explained in a previous post, for some reason my body seems to find moving the same hand and foot together far more logical, but unlike walking with poles, the machine simply won’t allow this.  If you try, nothing moves.  Or, if already moving, it decides you’re an idiot and spits you off like an epileptic bull in a rodeo.  However, after a little while, my body surrenders to the need for coordination and I begin to move forwards.

Well, I thought I was moving forwards.  Until some passing fellow sufferer asked me if I found walking backwards was better exercise?  I explained that my Father had been a referee and therefore often trained by running backwards and I think I got away with it.  I did some 30 minutes on this rather strange machine, which is fine as long as I didn’t catch sight of myself in the mirror.  Walking and swinging your arms forward makes you look as if you’re parodying yourself and, with music playing, it’s very hard not to look like your father embarrassing you at family weddings by doing ‘The Twist’ to Beyonce and one has to consciously control the risk of ‘White Man’s over-bite’.

It suddenly occurs to me that I AM now the Father embarrassing the kids by dancing at family weddings.  Perhaps I should go back tonight and train some more?

 

At the end of 30 minutes, I actually felt quite good, but I’m told that, in terms of exercising, this is bad.  If exercise is good you should feel bad in a good way as bad is good although feeling bad in a bad way is bad, whilst feeling good in a good way is bad.

Got it?  Good.

I finished off the evening with a few lengths of swimming which, oddly, hurt my sulking hamstring far more than the cross-trainer had.  It seems I have a lot to learn about what is bad good.

 In an ideal world, I would have gone back to the gym today and done some more.  But in an ideal world, someone would invent a fitness pill and I could simply take one three times a day with food.  However, I am planning on another visit, to see whether the rowing machines allow me to indulge my fantasies of being a Viking. 

Do you think Nike or Adidas do a Horned Helmet?

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Day 16 of London to Brighton Training:  In which I decide to see if I really am a Jedi.

 

 

 This post and my body have something in common: Both could be described as ‘disjointed’, the former caused by the latter as I am finding it difficult to sit for more than a few minutes.

The pain in my leg caused by the Judo session at the weekend has, fortunately, eased considerably, which is obviously a great relief.  It’s still stiff and painful, but not to the extent that it would cause any issues should I have to, for example, run for a coffee (hey, we all have our own motivations. Buses don’t do it for me – coffee does).  However, yesterday I noticed some stiffness and pain in my lower back, which I put down the use of the walking poles on Sunday, for both support of my leg and because I had bought them and was not going to admit to them being an impulse buy.  A little stretching, some light exercise and application of some deep heat and I’d be right as rain. 

Incidentally, what is right about rain?  Everyone I know, including farmers, does nothing but moan when it rains.

I digress.

So this morning,  I woke up and went to roll over to snooze the alarm, only to find my back locked solidly and painfully into a single lump. I couldn’t move without intense pain on the left side of my lower back.  Now, this is of particular concern because I may have forgotten to mention that, when I was seventeen, I fractured my spine in this exact spot.  This is one of the reasons I’ve always found running difficult – the impact of running always seems to exacerbate things in a way that other things – including weirdly Judo – do not.  It seems that the use of the walking poles has caused a similar discomfort,  so perhaps there is more to their use than I thought.  I am going to try and contact some other Nordic Walking instructors, as it could be that there is more to this technique than I thought.  Watch this space…..

However, a combination of the pain in my leg, plus the stiffness in my back and the realisation that I’m not 25 anymore, convinced me that going to Judo was not a good idea, at least until such time as I’m regained a modicum of core strength and flexibility.  I am still determined to get back to it, as I truly love the sport, but there is no doubt that it’s not a good idea at present, not least because I cannot risk an injury that prevents me from completing the challenge itself.  However, my brief exposure to all the Dojos I have visited in my research convinced me that I still want to get back into the Martial Arts, both as a means of getting fitter in a way I enjoy so much more than pointless repetitions in the gym and as a way of relieving the inevitable stresses of life, which left me with a problem – what could I do that would allow me to indulge my interest, get fit and yet not be limited by my current fitness, advanced age and unwillingness to accept injury?

Over the years, I have tried many arts, including Jiu-jitsu, Karate, Aikido and even once tried Tai Chi (but got REALLY bored), but something that has always held a degree of fascination for me was Iaido, or the art of drawing the Japanese Sword.  Perhaps this was something to do with being brought up on a diet of swashbuckling movies and TV series, including such Japanese classics as ‘The Water Margin’, but I’ve always had a bit of a fascination for sword-fighting, which was only consolidated by Star Wars.  Who of my generation does not remember that moment when Obi Wan reveals the Lightsabre to Luke, or the final fight scene?  Even now, I am willing to bet that if you give a man (or many women) a fluorescent light tube, he will be faced with the almost impossible task of resisting the urge to take it in both hands, sweeping it from side to side whilst making whooshing and buzzing noises.

Or is that just me?

So I was intrigued to find an Iaido club near me, and had popped along to have a quick look a couple of weeks earlier.  Iaido is often confused with Kendo, which is effectively Japanese fencing, and is a sport extracted from the Art of the Sword, Kenjutsu in much the same way that Judo was extracted from the more martial Jiu-Jitsu.  In Kendo, you wear armour and fight with swords made of bamboo splits.  The aim of the fights, which are brutally fast and aggressive, is to score with strikes against specific areas on the body.  Iaido by comparison uses real Japanese swords (or wooden ones for beginners) and is made up of a number of forms, in which you draw your sword, strike against one or more imaginary opponents and then sheathe the sword, all in a strictly choreographed series of movements and in total concentration. 

At first, the movements seem slow and unrealistic and, to the casual observer, very simple and straightforward.  How hard can it be?  In fact however, as with so many arts, the aim is that by practicing slowly, the movements become instinctive and can be repeated at speed without thought.  When you see the final outcome, you realise that the aim of Iaido is much like the gunfighters of the Wild West.  The aim is to draw your sword and strike one or more opponents before they can do the same.

So this art offers me the opportunity to be Luke Skywalker AND Wyatt Earp.  Does it get any better?  Perhaps my answers to ‘What do you want to be when you grow up’ weren’t so implausible after all!

 So, on the basis that the slow, controlled movements would probably allow me to stretch my muscles without causing any more harm, I found myself at the Dojo, preparing for my first lesson.

One of the most complex things to work out is how to get dressed.  The full costume involves layers of clothing, knee pads, assorted belts and pieces of string, plus the sword itself in its scabbard. Not having the requisite gear, I donned my judo suit, but by the time I’d wound the belt several times around my waist, realised I would really have been better off in a track suit, as the jacket refused to stay done up and I kept getting the handle of the sword caught in my sleeve.

I have held many swords in my life, but all were made of wood, plastic (or fluorescent tubing) and the feel of a metal sword is very different, particularly one sharp enough to give a Yeti a Turkish shave. When the instructor demonstrated a fast downward strike with the sword, it made a ‘Swish’ sound as the blade cut through the air, which was almost satisfying enough to make up for the lack of  Whooshing and Buzzing.  Fortunately for the safety of me and those around me, this was then immediately taken away and replaced with a wooden sword, on the basis that with that, the worst I could do was give myself a nasty splinter.

Don’t mock – splinters can be nasty.  Ask Dracula.

 Let me make something clear right away. Iaido is not as easy as it looks.  Sure, each of the individual strikes may be made up of relatively few movements, but actually remembering them all, the order in which they occur, which foot should be where combines to make it an exercise in concentration. And whilst you’re concentrating on those, you can’t be concentrating on your imaginary opponent, who will be cutting off your head with his imaginary but very sharp sword.

Which I’m fairly sure goes Whoosh and Buzz.

Each element ends with sheathing the sword.  Easy huh?  Just stick it in the tube.  Well no.  Because this is done without looking down, as your eyes remain fixed on the several pieces of imaginary opponent.  Imagine trying to put the charger into your phone without looking.  Now imagine that the charger was a razor blade, and you may begin to see the problem.  The idea is that you bring the hilt and scabbard together, then slide the left hand back, the blade sliding over your hand and then in and, when performed by the experienced, looks easy.  It isn’t.  The opportunities for ending a session with considerably fewer digits than you started with, or of ending up like a kimono-clad kebab are endless.

At the end of the evening, I felt oddly relaxed.  I didn’t have the feeling that I had done a significant workout, although my hamstring was not happy about the fact that some of the techniques I’d been asked to learn involved attacking from a kneeling position, but there is obviously something about creating julienne of opponent that relieves stress. 

Can I see this forming a regular part of my regime?  I honestly don’t know. It won’t really help achieve fitness, but does fulfil my desire to learn new skills and will I think help with flexibility.  However having just looked at the price of swords online, maybe not.  For that price, I want that goes Whoosh and Buzz.

And I want my instructor to be 3 feet tall and green.

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Days 11-15 of London to Brighton training:

Old habits don’t die hard.

But NEW habits have the delivery from hell and I am seriously thinking of asking for an epidural.

For a few days, work, weather, a migraine and being honest, procrastination intervened so that I only managed one very small walk – and that was as much to try to clear the headache as it was to train.  So I approached the weekend feeling rather sluggish and frustrated.  It’s odd how, even a small amount of exercise done regularly makes you feel worse when you don’t do it.  I know people tell you this, but come on, raise your hands those of you who really BELIEVED it? 

Those of you energetic enough to raise your hands were already exercising, so that doesn’t count.

However, when at (but not participating in) Judo earlier in the week, they had mentioned that they had a guest instructor visiting at the weekend – a chap called Ben Quilter, who was a world champion and Olympic Bronze medallist in the 2012 Paralympics, so the weekend dawned with a new –found enthusiasm and good intentions to rectify my sloth of the preceding days and, despite not being able to find my wallet and the siren call of Facebook, I managed to get out of the house and off I trotted (ok, I drove.  Don’t be pedantic) to Judo.

When discussing with the Sensei at the club, he had insisted that I wear the belt of my previous grade – orange – rather than the white belt that I had worn previously.  Now in one sense this is nice, as it recognises that I’m not a rank beginner but, on other hand, it also means that some of the higher grades with whom I was practicing would expect me to be able to take care of myself.  Oddly, the danger is not as many would think, with the Black Belt grades, who have the control and skill to be careful, but with those of equivalent or slightly higher grade.  Many of these are younger than my own kids, have the resilience, flexibility and speed of youth, whereas I have nothing more than distant memories and a degree of cussedness, combined with a rather significant weight advantage in my favour.

Ben is an inspiration.  He began to lose his sight at the age of 7 and now has only peripheral vision, yet his judo, not to mention his achievements are truly astounding.  He ran a class which started with a certain amount of cardio and warm-up, which was my first problem.  I was already aware that I really needed to work on my fitness – that is after all one of the reasons I have been going.  However, I also was made to realise that I also need to work on my flexibility. 

The last time I was on the mat, I could do forward, backward and sideways rolls.  I could do them from a kneeling, standing and running position.  This meant I could run, throw myself forwards, roll over my arm and shoulder and come back up onto my feet to repeat, in one fluid movement.

I clearly remember being able to do this.

I remember.  My body does not.  I now roll in much the same way as an articulated lorry rolls.  Loudly, destructively and to no good effect.  It is, like a lorry, not a pretty sight.  This was my first rude awakening and, as falling is such a significant part of the judo skill-set, is something I am really going to need to work on – although I think I want to do this in private thank you.

Once everyone was nicely warmed up, Ben went on to demonstrate some techniques, in particular ones that could be used in combination.  He’d demonstrate, and then you would pair up and practice.  Being somewhat larger than most there, I was paired with a Black Belt, who had also just returned to Judo after a couple of year’s break. As I have mentioned, this was good as one of the lower grades could have been over-enthusiastic and could have hurt me, whereas, being with someone good, I was able to hurt myself.

I was wearing my orange belt as requested and whether this contributed to what happened next, or whether it was simply inevitable I don’t know.  However, the differential between what my mind remembered and what my body is actually capable of doing manifested itself once again.  It’s actually quite an odd sensation: the techniques have come back to my mind very quickly and clearly.  My body even remembers some of the movements and techniques. But the messages don’t seem to get through to the muscles, or perhaps they get scrambled in transit.  It is like I’m playing some weird game of Chinese whispers with my own body.

“Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance”.

Judo has been likened to a dance, but I am beginning to think I should stay a wall-flower at this one. 

Anyway, we were practicing the combination throws, which is called Uchikomi, or repetition training.  The idea is that you repeatedly practice the movements that lead up to a technique, without necessarily completing it and in doing so, they become almost instinctual.  In this case, the idea was to link two techniques together, so that if the first fails because your opponent reacts in time, you can follow up with a second technique, something that is vital in competition.  However, unlike in some Aikido training, where you partner actively facilitates your technique, in Judo the Uke, or person being thrown does not, so that if a technique is performed incorrectly, it doesn’t work.  For this reason, the first technique must be performed with full commitment, as if you want it to work, or the opening for the second attack won’t be there because the Uke won’t have reacted.

So, there I am, on the mat, doing some light Randori (sparring) and practicing these techniques.  As my partner was a Black Belt, we could also experiment with some other throws, if we were more comfortable with them.  My mind remembers all sorts of these.  So, we’re moving round the mat, it’s my turn to attack, I come in for a committed throw which is leg sweep called O-uchi-gari, where your right leg sweeps your opponents left leg forwards and from underneath them, from the inside.  I remembered this one well, in the same way I remember running and cycling and climbing trees.

<French accent> “Ah yes, I remember it well”.

So, I move in, my leg hooks and sweeps, my opponent’s leg is pulled out and, as they fall, I hear what I can only describe as a ‘Pop’.  They fall. I fall.  They get up.  I try.

Apparently it’s called a ‘Hamstring’ and they’re designed to keep your knee and hip on relatively good terms.  Mine hurt like hell.   I could barely bend my leg and it was clear that I wasn’t going to be doing much more randori that evening, although I didn’t want to give up completely, so did do some groundwork (which is like wrestling) after applying an ice pack.  This probably wasn’t a great idea, but I can be a stubborn you-know-what sometimes and the truth is, Judo is a contact sport and a hard one.  If you quit the first time you get hurt it’s not the sport for you.

However it would probably be fair to say that I may be asking for trouble if I try to continue with my fitness level where it is at present.

By the time I was home I was in a lot of pain.  I would normally apply some sort of cream to an injury like this, but I can’t take any of the anti-inflammatory creams because of my asthma, whilst A is allergic to eucalyptus and menthol, which pretty much excludes everything else!  So a bag of frozen Quorn (I was all out of peas) had to suffice, which it failed to do.  I don’t eat much Quorn any more, but I have to say it’s as poor a substitute for anti-inflammatory creams as it is for steak.

Talking of which, that evening we went out for dinner with friends to a really nice steak restaurant.  Traffic was bad, but I think the walk – and I use the word advisedly – from the car to the restaurant took almost as long.  When we got to the front desk, there was a chap in front of us with a crutch, being carried to his table.  I was quite disappointed to find that this was not a service the restaurant provided for all its injured, disabled or simply stupid customers.  We ordered chateaubriand, which is apparently for two people.

This seems a bit discriminatory to me, however we shared and  I was good and had mine with a salad rather than chips, despite the fact that a little voice in the back of my head was muttering something about chips being really good for hamstrings.  Just off to polish my halo. 

Before bed I applied some ice-spray thing, plus Arnica cream. I have no idea if the latter does anything other than provide employment, but at the same time I needed to try something and, by now, could barely use my leg at all, so despite my normal empiricist cynicism, I’m willing to try.

Sunday dawned reasonably bright and, as we’d arranged to do a walk with others on the Heath, I decided it may be a rather good idea to replace the walking poles that had so spectacularly let me down – emotionally and literally – the previous weekend.   I won’t go into the entire saga of exchanging them, but my decision to simply upgrade the ones I’d bought for some more expensive ones took nearly an hour.  I do fear for a society where two members of staff struggle with a 10% discount on £39.99, one coming to the conclusion that it was £3.90 whilst the other had to resort to a calculator. However, poles in hand, I was faced with a choice.  Do I walk, or do I do the sensible thing, and sit in front of the TV, sending positive thoughts Heathward?

It was about this time that it started to rain.

I thought back to my last foray into rain-walking. I remembered the way I looked when I got home.  I considered that, with an injury, it would be foolish in the extreme to walk anywhere, let alone on rough, muddy ground in the cold and wet.

Then A told me I shouldn’t go.

I don’t think this was applied psychology.  I really think she believed I shouldn’t go and should rest my leg.

But, ever since I was a child, one of the best ways to make me do something is to tell me I can’t. Some would vaunt this as a great character trait, perhaps creating a mentoring business, writing best-selling books on mindset and appearing in TED lectures.

Me?  I’m just stubborn.

Besides, I’d just spent an hour changing those bloody poles and I’d be blowed if I was going to just ignore them.

So off we went.

Many of the people who had said they were coming had cried off, either because of sudden changes of plan or simply because they were sensible enough to realise that a walk in the pouring rain was probably not going to be that pleasant, but a couple did make it, including one of A’s clients and a friend.  We had downloaded a route from the Web, which took in Kenwood House (a stately home on the Heath), some of the Heath itself and a walk around Hampstead village.  The idea had been to do this loop a couple of times, plus walking there and back but the truth is that one loop, in the most horrible weather, was quite enough.  Walking in mud is not easy, although I have to say walking poles do make it easier, so the grimace of pain they cause is, to some extent, offset by the feeling of smugness as those around you come close to a spectacular nose-dive.

Walking with poles is easy.  I know, I’ve seen it on YouTube.

You're simply walking, using the poles to support and propel you, each pole being planted in time with the opposite foot.  So, you step forward with your left foot, as your right arm swings forward and plants the right pole on the ground.  Then as you step forward with the right foot, the left arm does the same.  Easy, right? Well that’s the theory anyway. Despite not being the most coordinated person on the face of the planet (Dyspraxia runs in my family.  It’s the only thing that does run), this should be relatively straightforward, even for me.  So why was it that, after a few steps, I’d find my right arm moving in synch with my right leg and the left with my left? This happened time after time and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not for the life of me work out where I had either missed an arm-swing, or done two with the same arm, which I reasoned were the only ways the order could have been changed?  This then resulted in a tut of consternation and a rather comical double-step, which will be familiar to any who have marched in a parade and found themselves out of step with their comrades.

It also looks like you’re skipping, which is even more incongruous when ploughing through deep mud with walking boots, poles, wet trousers and water dripping off the end of your nose.

I am not one of life’s natural skippers.

Finally I got the hang of the rhythm, although on a number of occasions I tangled myself in my own poles, nearly taking the nose-dive I’d been so smug about my companions struggling to avoid.  Walking with poles is hard, changing a walk into more of a full-body workout, but it did take some of the pressure off my leg, allowing me to complete the walk in stubborn and completely misplaced determination.  Today, a day later, I can feel the effect of the poles in the muscles of my back, but my leg is actually not that bad.

As long as I don’t try to walk on it of course.  Or sit down for too long.  Or stand up.

So, the question is, what do I do about Judo tonight?  It’s obvious that I need to be careful and to take part in anything strenuous, and in particular randori would be foolish.  Even I can see that.  But at the same time, my stubborn streak does not want to give in and is combined with my memory telling me I was good at this and if I practice, it will all come back to me.  I am worried that if I stop going, I will lose the momentum and that will be that.  They say that, at the end of your life, you look back and only regret the things you didn’t do.  I don’t know if this is true, but I do consider all the times in my life I have given up, quit or even just satisficed – doing just enough.  This challenge is about more than Judo, or losing weight, or getting fit, or even of walking to Brighton.

This challenge is about me changing who and what I am.  Not totally – I rather like some aspects of me – but about me actually doing something that is so far outside my comfort zone that it requires me to fundamentally change my attitude to obstacles and how I respond to them.  I’m on a journey that truly is a voyage of discovery and although it could be said I have a destination, this is almost secondary, as I really have little idea of what the journey will be like or where it will take me.

I have named this blog after a line in the Lord of the Rings.  Those of you who are familiar with the story will understand when I say ‘Rivendell’.  The characters reach a haven where, if they wish, they can step aside from their quest and let others take it forwards.

For me, every day is Rivendell.  I can step aside from this any time I choose.  Those who know me will understand – this is a truly ridiculous challenge for me to undertake, so much more than I have ever done in my entire life, so nobody would think any the worse of me if I simply admit that this is simply too much for me.  I can return to my previous comfortable existence, or perhaps do a little more light exercise, raise money for charity in other ways, or support those who do.

So I really don’t need to go to Judo tonight.  I can take a few days off, let the muscles heal, the pain subside.  I could go swimming perhaps, as I can rarely muster the coordination to use my legs for that anyway.  After all, nobody really believes I will do this, do they?

I don’t REALLY believe I can do this myself do I?

But I don’t want to be at the end of my life, looking back with regret. I have too many of those already, but neither do I want to be looking back on my life from a Judo mat in the next few months, so I think I need to find a viable compromise between committing to the sport I once loved and want to again and recognising that, at present, in the words of ‘Top Gun’;

“Son, your ego’s writing cheques your body can’t cash”.