One does not simply WALK into Brighton

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”.