Where do we go from here?

Whilst I was walking into town this morning to do a few last bits of Christmas shopping I listened to one of Radio 4's many excellent programmes. This one was called 'The Long View', and today's subject was diaries through the ages, from Pepys to vlogging. One of the contributors - I forget who - suggested that blogs are just a form of diary, and a diary is just an act of ego; a projection of ourselves we want to make to the outside world. This got me thinking - do I write this for myself, or do I write it for anonymous readers? Is it an act of ego; do I want those readers - you - to think of me in a particular way?

I haven't answered those questions yet. What I do know, however, is that there are several times a year when I look back at what I've written in the past. I find it interesting, which leads me to think I write mainly for myself, and if other people ind it interesting too, well, that's a happy accident. I don't look back for a historical record of what was going on at a particular time, more to see what I was thinking at that point. More often than not of course, given the provenance of this blog, it's running or cycling-related stuff. But writing about that stuff week-in, week-out bores me, to be frank. I'm not bored of doing the events, or even the training for them, but the process of preparation and completion doesn't seem to merit a higher standing than any other number of potential topics.

So having written this time last year that 2014 would be a back-to-basics year when it came to subject matter, I'm now rescinding that promise, to myself mainly. From here on, any subject is fair game. I'm a grumpy middle-aged man for goodness sake, I need an outlet for my prejudices, views, observations and disappointments. 

So let's start with one of the aforementioned, briefly today. It's not going to be Christmas-related - that would be lazy and obvious. It's about freedom of speech, and Twitter in particular. I understand why people who make threats of violence via that medium are arrested and sometimes charged, and agree with it. But I read this afternoon that a 19 year old from Sunderland has been arrested for making an offensive 'joke' about the Glasgow bin lorry crash yesterday. I read what he wrote on Twitter yesterday. It was offensive, insensitive in the extreme, and deeply unfunny. But I completely fail to see what law he might have been breaking that would require his arrest. I worry that this is just the latest incident in the policing - official and otherwise - of what constitutes acceptable views. I fear we're going down the path of the censorship of thoughts and their expression. And from there, it's a short step to the undermining of democracy itself. Though I do wonder whether as many people believe in that idea as used to be the case.

On that happy note, it's time for a sweet sherry and to wish you a very happy Christmas.

Running With The Pack by Mark Rowlands

I said I'd be away for a couple of months.  That was 20th September.  Two months to the day later, 20th November, I'm back, but not in the usual way. In the intervening period I've read a brilliant book. I've read several brilliant books actually, but only one that would mean anything to people who do athletic endurance-type stuff (the author is a runner but it would equally apply to cyclists, walkers, climbers I suspect) in particular; the one in the title of this post.

I'm not going to justify or explain why I think it's brilliant. Instead, I'm just going to quote one passage, one of many in the book, that resonated with me. Read it as an endurance athlete and you'll get a feeling of recognition (I hope). Read it an a non-endurance athlete, and you'll get an insight as to why we do it (I hope). Here goes.

"I can say, with confidence, that the run of 26.2 miles I have just completed had nothing to do with pleasure. In fact, I can safely say that it was deeply unpleasant, especially during the second 13.1. Nor was there afterwards any compensating warm glow of satisfaction that accompanies a job well done, something that would wash away the unpleasantness.  I do remember a vague, difficult-to-pin-down, post-race sense of perplexity - a kind of 'Well, what now?' sensation - but from an experiential standpoint that was about it. Nevertheless, I would not be similarly confident in the claim that, both when running and after the race was over, I was not happy. On the contrary, I suspect I was deeply, inordinately, even disgustingly, happy. If this is correct, then it seems I am forced to conclude that not all happiness is pleasure. Sometimes happiness does not even involve pleasure.

When someone talks of 'enjoying' something, they often mean nothing more than they find it pleasurable - 'fun'. This is an age of feelings. It has to be so - feelings are distractions from a life dominated by work. And so, we have come to think, what can joy be other than an especially heightened feeling of pleasure - pleasure deepened and intensified? But what I have called joy went hand-in-hand with a rather brutal form of experiential unpleasantness. So in what sense, and with what justification, can I call this experience 'joy'?

Joy is the the other form of happiness - the variety of happiness that cannot be understood as pleasure. As pleasure, happiness is defined by the way it feels. But this is not true of happiness as joy.....Joy is the experience - the recognition - of intrinsic value in life. Joy is the recognition of the things in life that are valuable for their own sake: the things in life that are worthy of love. Pleasure distracts us from does not have intrinsic value. Joy is the recognition of what does. Pleasure is a way of feeling. But joy is a way of seeing. Joy is something that pleasure is not and can never be. It is the recognition of the places in life where all the points and purposes stop."

The Devil makes work for idle legs

This is the last post on here for a bit, for which there are a couple of reasons. First, I completed the last of this year's aims yesterday, of which more in a moment. Second, this blog (like others I suspect) sometimes achieves the opposite of the 'social' bit in the phrase 'social media' - because other people know what I'm doing they don't initiate contact with me. So time to stop broadcasting, at least for a couple of months.

Before I say au revoir though...some realisations from this year....

- I like doing athletic things with and competing against other people (it's hard to train on your own most of the time)

- events which are long for the sake of it are appealing in theory, but not loads of fun in practice. Anything longer than 10 hours or so? No thanks

- cycling in a warm place with loads of nice quiet roads make sense, running doesn't; cycling in a cold place with potholed, busy roads doesn't make sense, running does

So, my aim for the first quarter of next year is to run a sub 3 hour marathon. It'll be tough getting to that point, but not totally unrealistic. That's what the next few months will be about. Other than the usual life stuff of course.

And finally.....yesterday. The Devil's Pitchfork is not an 'official' ride in any sense; it's just one put together by Pyractif, the lovely business and people we stay with in the Pyrenees. It's basically a ride down to a town (Bagneres-de-Luchon), five 'out-and-back' climbs up sodding great mountains, and then the ride back to base from Luchon again. 112 miles in total, 14,200 feet of ascent and descent. For those that know the area or care about these things, the five climbs are Col de Portillon, Hospice de France, Superbagneres, Col de Peyresourde, and Port de Bales respectively. All different, all hard. To do it all in a day, and unsupported, as we were, is a decent effort - it was certainly a day to rival anything most Tours de France create. (Only they race 20 days out of 22; I wouldn't fancy anything competitive today).

Well, we did it, me and Mendip Rouleur. We weren't fast overall, but we had our moments on the descents. A few 55mph, straightening out the curves and hoping there wasn't anything coming in the opposite direction moments actually. There were no dramas; we ground our way up the five hills, and we hung on for dear life coming down them.

I feel curiously neutral about it today. No sense of achievement really. I planned it, I trained for it, I did it. End. Perhaps because I've had a month in France, even the beauty of the Pyrenees didn't have the impact it usually does. Maybe I need some work, some discomfort, some contrast. Don't misunderstand - I'm delighted I came down and did the ride, and trained for it in the last few weeks. It's just that I'm already looking ahead to the next challenge. And when I return here in due course, it'll be the progress towards that challenge I'll be on about. In the meantime, as they say round here, a bientot et bon journee (with apologies for the absence of appropriate accents).

A Postcard From Home

I’ve been in France for 23 days now, my longest uninterrupted time outside the UK since I was a student, and the house we’ve owned for 4 years finally feels like home-home, rather than a holiday home. Which is nice – I’ve just ‘been’, rather than felt any pressure to ‘do’.

That said, plenty has happened to make worthwhile those long days in airless offices dealing with petty trivialities. In no particular order:

-        T’youngest was here for the first six days, the first time I’d spent any real time with her for many a long month

-        Friends, previously from Macc, now wandering minstrels currently bouncing between the UK and Australia, were here for another five days. I think I may even have created another road cycling enthusiast – he certainly took to thin wheels and clipless pedals as quickly as anyone I’ve ever known

-        The weather has been near perfect. We’ve had 2 days of rain, but the rest of the time it’s been uninterrupted niceness with temperatures unusually higher than even the unseasonably good ones the UK has been enjoying. I finally have a clearly defined, if not yet sufficiently developed for my liking, cyclists’/farmers’ (delete to suit) tan

-        Local life has been embraced. Half the hamlet were round for aperos (aperitifs) at 6.30 last night, which turned into ‘Breton aperos’ – i.e. they stumbled out at 11.30 after too much drink and too little food. And this weekend sees the infamous “Fete des Pommes de Terre” (Festival of the Potatoes), when the population swells by a factor of three, and delegations from Poland, Roumania and Guadeloup arrive to compliment the local Breton growers on the volume, robustness and variety of their harvest of their apples of the earth. There is much drinking, dancing and eating, nearly all of it potato-related. One of the attractions on offer is a helicopter flight over the local potato fields, an opportunity of which Mrs M and I will be availing ourselves; the money is paid, the Sunday slot is booked, our wills are in the filing cabinet

-        I’ve ridden my bicycle. Quite a lot, for me. Three longish rides and 7-8 shorter ones. Whether that’s enough to prepare me for the Pyrenean challenge I’ll face next week is debateable. It’s probably even debateable whether it’s been enough to offset the red wine and puddings that have wormed their way to the table with increasing regularity

-        I did the Icebucket Challenge, despite vowing not to. Results on F/b. I couldn’t ignore the second nomination. It’ll be Medicin Sans Frontiers who get my donation however rather than whatever American charity it was for whom the bandwagon started rolling. Nothing against them, just MSF do great work, as I’ve mentioned before. And there were no nominations for anyone else from me – give, don’t give, it’s up to you, but FFS don’t need a stunt to do it

-        There have been more animals than you can shake a shitty stick at. Aside from the regularly imported family moggy and resident dog that comes 50 yards on his summer holidays to our house, we’ve experienced mice (dead ones; live ones banished back outside to take their chances in harvest fields), sheep (keeping next doors fed and watered in their owner’s absence), donkeys (there was a Festival of them last weekend; yup, there is almost nothing the rural French won’t have a festival to celebrate), and a pair of unidentified furry beasts – lots of internet research has been inconclusive, but I think it was a type of mink we saw frolicking down by the river at dusk

-        And finally……I’ve renovated my French shed. On the outside it was washed, repainted (two coats), stripped of its old roof covering, and re-covered with membrane and sexy red asphalt. On the inside it was stripped, washed, racking added and things replaced with careful consideration. Oh the joy of a personality disorder thoroughly indulged

Right, the day is young, and I have nothing much more to do and all day to do it, blissfully. That said, I’m kind of glad there’s only another couple of weeks of planned inactivity; whether here or the UK, I’d have to start ‘doing’ rather than ‘being’ after that.  

Les vacances commencent!

Ok, so I've only done three days work in the last two weeks, but I've never been completely untethered from the laptop. So the real holidays start this week, Wednesday in fact, when I a) pick Boy up from friends in Wolverhampton following his attendance at V Festival, and deposit him, his stuff and his bicycle in Plymouth, where I then b) pick up his younger sister, and c) take a ferry to Roscoff, from where, six-and-a-half hours later, d) I drive to our house at Ploeuc-sur-Lie.  T'missus is there already, and I would be too if I'd been willing to pay double the price of Wednesday's ferry to make the crossing today. I wasn't.

Anyway, it'll be a treat to get across there, for many reasons: spending some time with youngest, feeling like I'm living in France for a bit rather than just being on holiday, the food, the wine, our village's Potato Festival, the few extra degrees of temperature, and last but not least, their roads. Oh, their traffic-lite, pothole-free, glorious roads.

French roads aren't perfect by any means - you get small sections of rough, slightly broken surfaces. But what you don't get are sunken grids or other metalwork, or sodding great potholes. I did the White Peak Grimpeur audax on Friday, and on two occasions in the second half of the ride I was reduced to bellowing some very bad words indeed after I made the mistake of looking at my route sheet or the Garmin for no more than three seconds, and in those three seconds of inattention to the road surface, clattering into a disgusting hole, of the like our Gallic cousins just don't allow.

In France, you also don't tend to get lorry drivers pulling over to the gutter aggressively when in a queue to stop cyclists coming up their inside,as happened to me in Knutsford this week. And don't tell me he was doing it for my own good so that I couldn't put myself in a position where he might squash me; it was a very stationary queue.

Anyway, I'm not going to let this descend into a moan about what's wrong with riding in the UK. Two weeks today I'll be doing a sportive in France that's cost me the princely sum of 13€ to enter. I was also on the Paris-Brest-Paris website last night - the fees for that 4 day, fully supported event were 110€ last time, and I suspect won't be a lot more next year. Contrast that with the price of UK events. Anyway, it's to that civilised world of rural France to which I'm now taking my leave. I'm also taking laptop and internet though, so I will be blogging over the next few weeks.

In praise of the Middle Lands, and other delights

In my idle moments, of which there are going to be many in the next few weeks (more of that in a moment), I sometimes ponder what alternative existences I might have enjoyed. There's nothing wrong with my present one, quite the opposite in fact, but might a gendarme in rural France in the 1950s have enjoyed a tranquil, but not dull life? Might an English aristocrat in the early 1930s have been the ultimate in carefreeness? Has anyone ever been closer to the land than a Shropshire farmer in the 1890s?

Don't worry, I'm not going to go all PG Wodehouse or AE Houseman on your ass; these are, as I say, just things that float through my head when I'm our riding or, as per last weekend, walking. The Shropshire thing is an obvious link of course - me and The Son made our annual pilgrimage to the hills that rise either side of the A49 in the south of that county. We were incredibly lucky with the weather, no more than 10 minutes rain across the two days, and probably 20 times that of warm sunshine, which made for a load of enjoyment. As I've mentioned in years past, we take the same basic route each year, but chuck in minor variations for the sake of keeping it interesting.

This year, one of the variations was a visit to the very splendid Stokesay Castle, no more than 250 metres off the A49 just south of Craven Arms. It's a fortified manor house dating from the 13th century, lovingly restored over the last 100 years by locals, and now in the very safe keeping of English Heritage. The audio tour was excellent; I can't recommend a visit strongly enough, not least to all the many dozens of Lands End to John O'Groats bike riders who pass within a freewheel coast of the place.

Anyway, from the more elevated points of our work we could see deep into mid Wales in one direction, and large chunks of east Shropshire, the West Midlands and Worcestershire in the other. At this time of year, with harvest underway but not complete, the patchwork of colours across the fields and hills was a thing to behold; I know many parts of the UK are worthy of comment and admiration, but in the moment last weekend with the perfect temperature for walking and without a care in the world, it was fantastic.

Both The Son, who's going to aim for a job in Birmingham post-graduation this time next year, and Daughter No. 1, who at the time of writing looks as though she might settle on Stoke-on-Trent as a suitable residential compromise for dealing with the conundrum of her being posted to Manchester and her boyfriend to Milton Keynes by Network Rail, are continuing the family's ties to the midlands, first started by my grandfather in the immediate pre-war years when he commuted from Hereford to Wolverhampton, (Hence the title of the post). 

But I'm deviating from sport and exercise-type stuff. This week I've got a solid block of bike training in, slightly unexpectedly. I was due to keep working till 18th August, and then take a decent chunk of time off, but a long and boring story resulted in me finishing last Wednesday. For the first time since 1988 I've started a break with genuinely no idea of where, when or at what I'm going to work again. That's nice in a way, but I'm already getting a bit twitchy. Still, as I say, it's affording plenty of cycling opportunities, just as well with the Devil's Pitchfork ride next month. The training week culminated today in me opting to stay out of the rain, but re-create a hot Pyrenean day by riding hard in my shed for two hours with the doors closed and with limited water (don't try this at home kids). I was suitably dehydrated and exhausted by the time I emerged. Mrs Monmarduman puts this performance down to self-flagellation caused by eating approximately 3 gallons of Mr Whippy soft ice cream after several dozen salt-and-pepper king prawns at a 'world buffet' in Manchester last night. The truth is I haven't got many cycling miles in this year, so need to kickstart the training.

Ok, it's time to go and see how the pros are getting on at the Ride London race thingeemajig. More later from this gentleman of leisure.

I'm not dead...

....merely haven't blogged for a while. Mainly because I haven't had anything to say. Well that's not strictly true - I've nearly always got something to say, but I haven't had anything to say about my riding or running.

And I still haven't really. I'm back in training after the mountain marathon, but it did take a couple of weeks for the body's willingness to get back into things to match that of the head. I hugely overextended myself that night. I don't regret it, partly because it was fun, and partly because of the result, but my ego definitely wrote cheques the legs took a while to honour.

Hey ho, attention now turns to the Devil's Pitchfork in the middle of September. That means I need to do some riding, and riding up hills in particular. The last couple of weeks have been really frustrating - the weather's been so good I'd have been out in the evenings if I'd been at home. But I haven't been of course, so running and my very own cycling-specific hotel room circuit training have served as an inadequate substitute.

I had hoped/expected to get a solid month off before the Pitchfork to hone my climbing legs, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen now. I'll certainly get some time to scour Brittany for something approaching a big hill, but it's likely I'm going to have to commute between France and London for the middle two weeks of the six I'd planned to not be around. It's that or lose the next three month contract, and that would make my break very expensive indeed. There's a bit of negotiating water to go under the bridge of work first though, so we'll see what happens.

In the meantime, I should get chance to get out on the bike every day tomorrow to Sunday, so that'll be a good start. I plan to watch today's Tour de France highlights on the magic box later; watching the Tourmalet and Hautacam climbs should prove inspiring, even if the speed those freaks go up them is a bit dispiriting. Why can't they get cramp half way up and weave across the roads with their tongues lolling out of their mouths like I do? Would be just as entertaining....