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.

 

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