Today I have ridden my bicycle. Yesterday I ran with my legs. Nothing too energetic in either case as I've still got a rattly chest, but 6 hilly miles today and 32 fairly flat ones today is ok. And heck is it wet out there - we've avoided the worst of the rain so far this winter, but our luck seems to be running out. On at least three occasions today on minor roads my bottom bracket was skimming the top of the flood. With another very wet day forecast tomorrow I can't imagine what it'll be like on Sunday - but I'm planning to go and have a look. Tomorrow will be a running day I suspect.
Anyhow, to today's subject; I've started doing something potentially more dangerous than descending a Pyrenean pass at 75kmh in the rain - getting involved in public situations. Not walking on by. As a kid I wanted to be a policeman, and the urge to intervene when intervention is necessary is still there it seems. In recent times I've suppressed it out of a sense of self-preservation, and I suspect there are plenty of times I would and will still suppress it - in London, with obvious psychos and so on. However, there are other times when it feel like the right thing to do. Edmund Burke's quotation that "when good men do nothing, evil triumphs" has become over-used and a bit of a cliche, but it's no less true for that. And frankly, if a reasonably self-confident but not threatening middle-aged bloke can't intervene, who can?
So far there have been two incidents. The second was a little earlier today when I witnessed one of a group of kids (probably 12-13 years old) throw an empty can of pop into the hedge as I got back from my ride. I didn't actually see who did it, so I asked the group who it was. To my utter astonishment one of them put his hand up. I - quite calmly - asked him first why he thought he had the right to litter my neighbourhood (he said he didn't), and why didn't he take the can home with him to bin. He said it was too far (it was a mile). I said it wasn't and he should pick up the can and take it with him. Again to my astonishment he did. If only they were all so easy. However, there was no shouting or swearing on my part, and I don't think I humiliated him in front of his mates. I possibly also looked like I wasn't going to be messed with in my bandana and mirrored shades. Stop laughing, a chap can fantasise....
The first incident was on the train home from London last week. For a change the client wasn't paying so I was in Standard class. (I know, I know, the sacrifices...). I was also in the quiet coach. And as per normal there was someone with a too-loud ipod (instead of the normal phonecall-maker or taker), just in front of me. She was pretending to be asleep, so I tapped her on the arm and asked her to turn it down. She did. And duly emboldened, two other passengers in different parts of the coach then asked their fellow travellers over the next half hour to, in one case, do the same, and in the other, to leave the carriage if they wanted to carry on their phone conversation. And both of the requestees also did as asked with no dramas. Considerate people of the world, fight back!
My two targets so far have been a woman in her 30s and a kid of 13; it'll be interesting to see when I come up against a harder target. If it goes badly then it's been a pleasure to write for you dear reader. If not, then there'll probably be more of this drivel at the start of 2013. In the meantime, a very Happy Christmas to all my loyal displacement-activity seekers.
Friday, 21 December 2012
Monday, 17 December 2012
Quotidian deflections
No riding and no running since last we spoke. There are any number of reasons for this. In no particular order......
Work; but quite frankly, I've written about this so many times it's dull and repetitive, so I'm going to move swiftly on to.....being ill. I've had a cold for a fortnight now, which is very unlike me, but probably not surprising given the number of environments I've been in over the last few weeks - holiday parks and mass crowds in Wales, the usual trains, tubes and buses, Christmas parties, racecourses, and hotels. Then last weekend I felt truly awful and had to take to my bed for a couple of days. I ached all over, felt nauseous, and slept constantly, waking only to run to the bathroom for ghastly horridness to occur. At the time I didn't realise norovirus was doing its usual winter rounds with more vengeance than usual, and I hesitate to say it was definitely what was going on, but there was a strong resemblance between its reported symptoms and mine. Hey ho, it's gone now, but for a while the world did indeed full out of my bottom.
As previously advertised, Mrs K and I flog Christmas trees too at this time of year. It started as a bit of a joke almost about 5 years ago when we bought just a few from the local agricultural market for family and friends, but when we realised what we were buying them for, what garden centres and the like charge, and how we could still make a healthy profit by undercutting the usual outlets, we decided to expand. We now do 4 - 6 ft trees, potted trees for our Green customers (environmentally-conscious I mean, rather than Martians), of which there is steady increase in number year on year, wreaths and tree stands that we acquire on ebay in January for £1, and sell on for £10-15. Last year we sold 137 'things' off that list, and whilst we won't be retiring on the proceeds, the profits comfortably cover the cost of Christmas and our trip to Brittany. Apart from the financial aspect the main reason we do it each year is that it's a really good way of meeting the neighbours, being seen about the village, and generally getting in the Christmas spirit. Our reputation now precedes us - several people have knocked at our door this year on days when the signs haven't been out to enquire whether we're selling trees. We won't hit last year's heights this year - we only bought 105 trees in the first place, but it's been as enjoyable as ever, and to be honest does stop me from going for a brief ride. Carrying the damn things from the back of the house to the front in the morning, and reversing the job in the evening does, in any case, constitute a pretty good gym alternative.
Then in the last few days I've had the eldest two with me, having finished at their respective universities on Friday. This happens all to infrequently these days, both because they're obviously at uni, but also because their out-of-uni time has to be split between me, their mum, and respective boyfriends and girlfriends. That means I tend to drop everything to do stuff and generally hang round them like an annoying smell. We had a cracking walk though yesterday to my favourite spot in the UK, Shutlingsloe, a hill at the arse-end of the Pennines just 5 miles from where I'm writing this. Here's proof:
The only thing that would have made it better would have been the t'youngest being with us, but she was at home in Plymouth preparing for another in the seemingly never-ending round of GCSE exams. I will see her, and the other two, on Boxing Day however, when we're en route to Brittany.
I will ride my bicycle in Brittany, but I'm also hoping to get out a couple of times or so at home before then. I love pootling round on my rubbish winter/touring bike, built by me, total cost £175 (£135 for the frame, £40 for the wheels, everything else begged, borrowed or cannibalised from old bikes), mudguards, 7-speed only and all, and just, well, taking in the sights of the countryside that you don't get in summer when there's full leaf cover on the trees.
At some point I will become a disciplined training machine again, but at the moment I seem to be finishing 2012 the same way as most of the rest of it turned out as far as exercise is concerned - letting life get in the way.
Work; but quite frankly, I've written about this so many times it's dull and repetitive, so I'm going to move swiftly on to.....being ill. I've had a cold for a fortnight now, which is very unlike me, but probably not surprising given the number of environments I've been in over the last few weeks - holiday parks and mass crowds in Wales, the usual trains, tubes and buses, Christmas parties, racecourses, and hotels. Then last weekend I felt truly awful and had to take to my bed for a couple of days. I ached all over, felt nauseous, and slept constantly, waking only to run to the bathroom for ghastly horridness to occur. At the time I didn't realise norovirus was doing its usual winter rounds with more vengeance than usual, and I hesitate to say it was definitely what was going on, but there was a strong resemblance between its reported symptoms and mine. Hey ho, it's gone now, but for a while the world did indeed full out of my bottom.
As previously advertised, Mrs K and I flog Christmas trees too at this time of year. It started as a bit of a joke almost about 5 years ago when we bought just a few from the local agricultural market for family and friends, but when we realised what we were buying them for, what garden centres and the like charge, and how we could still make a healthy profit by undercutting the usual outlets, we decided to expand. We now do 4 - 6 ft trees, potted trees for our Green customers (environmentally-conscious I mean, rather than Martians), of which there is steady increase in number year on year, wreaths and tree stands that we acquire on ebay in January for £1, and sell on for £10-15. Last year we sold 137 'things' off that list, and whilst we won't be retiring on the proceeds, the profits comfortably cover the cost of Christmas and our trip to Brittany. Apart from the financial aspect the main reason we do it each year is that it's a really good way of meeting the neighbours, being seen about the village, and generally getting in the Christmas spirit. Our reputation now precedes us - several people have knocked at our door this year on days when the signs haven't been out to enquire whether we're selling trees. We won't hit last year's heights this year - we only bought 105 trees in the first place, but it's been as enjoyable as ever, and to be honest does stop me from going for a brief ride. Carrying the damn things from the back of the house to the front in the morning, and reversing the job in the evening does, in any case, constitute a pretty good gym alternative.
Then in the last few days I've had the eldest two with me, having finished at their respective universities on Friday. This happens all to infrequently these days, both because they're obviously at uni, but also because their out-of-uni time has to be split between me, their mum, and respective boyfriends and girlfriends. That means I tend to drop everything to do stuff and generally hang round them like an annoying smell. We had a cracking walk though yesterday to my favourite spot in the UK, Shutlingsloe, a hill at the arse-end of the Pennines just 5 miles from where I'm writing this. Here's proof:
The only thing that would have made it better would have been the t'youngest being with us, but she was at home in Plymouth preparing for another in the seemingly never-ending round of GCSE exams. I will see her, and the other two, on Boxing Day however, when we're en route to Brittany.
I will ride my bicycle in Brittany, but I'm also hoping to get out a couple of times or so at home before then. I love pootling round on my rubbish winter/touring bike, built by me, total cost £175 (£135 for the frame, £40 for the wheels, everything else begged, borrowed or cannibalised from old bikes), mudguards, 7-speed only and all, and just, well, taking in the sights of the countryside that you don't get in summer when there's full leaf cover on the trees.
At some point I will become a disciplined training machine again, but at the moment I seem to be finishing 2012 the same way as most of the rest of it turned out as far as exercise is concerned - letting life get in the way.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
Working 9 till 5
...what a way to make a living...it's enough to drive you crazy if you let it. Oh Dolly, you were a wise woman, but you only sang about half of it. Yet again, this blog veers away from running and riding, and more towards, well, runners and riders today as it happens as I spent the day in the Royal Box at Kempton Park racecourse, but generally, work.
In a way, I can't complain; I quite often don't do a lot of exercise at this time of year, and the work I'm doing is QI. For example, I was at Kempton today, and will be tomorrow, facilitating a session with the Board of a major finance company sorting out their strategy and structuring the programmes they need to support it. It's not rock 'n' roll I grant you, but neither is it watching Jeremy Kyle. Or worse, being on Jeremy Kyle.
It's just so all-consuming. I haven't had two consecutive days in the same place since the start of November, I genuinely can't count the number of hotels I've stayed at, I quite often can't remember where I am geographically, and my travel wash bag is so dirty my mother would be ashamed. And all that is still just about cope-able with, until something out of the ordinary takes place. Last weekend I was supposed to be at Hard Rock Hell [annual heavy metal festival for the uninitiated] for the 4th time, and only managed to make it for 1 of the 4 possible nights. It was a really good night as it happens, but 8 hours of rock, half a litre of vodka, and a 3am bedtime were just enough to push me over the edge into sore throat and general knackeredness territory.
Normally Mrs K and I just crawl off home and spend a few days recovering after HRH. (For the dubious, it's fantastic fun, some bands you haven't heard of are great, and it's attended by some of the funniest-looking but nicest people you could wish to meet. My highlights were Quireboys and Ugly Kid Joe, who you might know. I was also truly gutted to miss Dr Feelgood on Sunday). This time however, I was on the road south at 5 am on Monday, taking over 5 hours to get to work, courtesy of motorway idiots crashing into each other. So work started at 10.30, till 7, when I had another hours driving. Yesterday was a 14 hour day in central London.
So, it's with enormous delight I'm writing this from my hotel bed, doing nothing, fed, watered and with the prospect of 8 hours sleep. Even better, Friday is our Christmas Do, which is less of a Do, and more of a Day. We're at the palatial Cliveden, which is so posh it was mentioned in one of Harry and Paul's 'when life was simpler' sketches recently. We've got spa treatments, a private dinner, and our personal drinks trolley in the library afterwards. HRH to Cliveden in 5 days, talk about ridiculous to sublime. Or is it the other way round?
Then, on Saturday, we open up Kinseys Khristmas Tree Emporium for another year. There's 100 of the buggers waiting to be flogged. 99 to be precise, Mrs K did one today. That too, is good fun. Sunday - a miracle may happen; a bike ride for me. Let's see, huh...watch this space.
In a way, I can't complain; I quite often don't do a lot of exercise at this time of year, and the work I'm doing is QI. For example, I was at Kempton today, and will be tomorrow, facilitating a session with the Board of a major finance company sorting out their strategy and structuring the programmes they need to support it. It's not rock 'n' roll I grant you, but neither is it watching Jeremy Kyle. Or worse, being on Jeremy Kyle.
It's just so all-consuming. I haven't had two consecutive days in the same place since the start of November, I genuinely can't count the number of hotels I've stayed at, I quite often can't remember where I am geographically, and my travel wash bag is so dirty my mother would be ashamed. And all that is still just about cope-able with, until something out of the ordinary takes place. Last weekend I was supposed to be at Hard Rock Hell [annual heavy metal festival for the uninitiated] for the 4th time, and only managed to make it for 1 of the 4 possible nights. It was a really good night as it happens, but 8 hours of rock, half a litre of vodka, and a 3am bedtime were just enough to push me over the edge into sore throat and general knackeredness territory.
Normally Mrs K and I just crawl off home and spend a few days recovering after HRH. (For the dubious, it's fantastic fun, some bands you haven't heard of are great, and it's attended by some of the funniest-looking but nicest people you could wish to meet. My highlights were Quireboys and Ugly Kid Joe, who you might know. I was also truly gutted to miss Dr Feelgood on Sunday). This time however, I was on the road south at 5 am on Monday, taking over 5 hours to get to work, courtesy of motorway idiots crashing into each other. So work started at 10.30, till 7, when I had another hours driving. Yesterday was a 14 hour day in central London.
So, it's with enormous delight I'm writing this from my hotel bed, doing nothing, fed, watered and with the prospect of 8 hours sleep. Even better, Friday is our Christmas Do, which is less of a Do, and more of a Day. We're at the palatial Cliveden, which is so posh it was mentioned in one of Harry and Paul's 'when life was simpler' sketches recently. We've got spa treatments, a private dinner, and our personal drinks trolley in the library afterwards. HRH to Cliveden in 5 days, talk about ridiculous to sublime. Or is it the other way round?
Then, on Saturday, we open up Kinseys Khristmas Tree Emporium for another year. There's 100 of the buggers waiting to be flogged. 99 to be precise, Mrs K did one today. That too, is good fun. Sunday - a miracle may happen; a bike ride for me. Let's see, huh...watch this space.
Saturday, 24 November 2012
Pussy doesn't taste nice
One of the most unremarked upon, underrated and enjoyable aspects of riding a bicycle in the countryside is the ability to creep up on nature when it's not looking. I mentioned a couple of weeks ago my close encounters with deer. Today was better. At one point I rounded a corner, barely a couple of stone's throws from the Jodrell Bank observatory, to see a bird of prey pecking away at an object about 20 yards into a field, but without much enthusiasm. He was obviously a bit unconvinced by the carrion on offer.
Taking a leaf out of the Cycling Mayor's book of blogging photography I decided to capture the moment. At first I thought I was going to be thwarted - the bird (which I assume to be a buzzard, as I don't think anything bigger habitually frequents the Cheshire Plain, though I'd be delighted to be corrected by any passing ornithologists on the basis of the limited evidence below) flew away, but to my delight decided to perch in the tree above my head. Accepting the limitations of the iphone camera, here's the very chap:
He seemed happy enough there, and I was intrigued about what it was he'd been contemplating for his lunch, so I decided to investigate. Limboing under some barbed wire, and risking getting my cleats seriously muddy, I wandered into the field. This was what he'd been semi-interested in (squeamish look away now):
That's right, a dead ginger cat. I couldn't tell how she/he had met his muddy end, but I suppose it was feasible he'd been hit on the very quiet road not too far away, and crawled off to expire. Poor little thing. At least she/he wasn't going to suffer the indignity of being eaten by the buzzard, and at least you now understand the gratuitous innuendo that's the title of this post.
I did a 53 mile tour of the Cheshire Plain today, and it was a-hunting and a-shooting and a-fishing-tastic all the way round. The hunting and fishing is not unusual round these parts, but seeing four separate shoots on one day is. The beaters were out of course, but sticks and whistles are clearly the wrong tools for the job. A few times pheasant emerged unexpectedly in front of me and flapped tantalisingly at a very shootable height for a couple of hundred yards - those beaters need to hop on their bikes.
It was nice getting out there today after five days of London and its sprawl. Head clearing and all that. Apart from the proliferation of flora and fauna there wasn't a lot that made the ride remarkable; perhaps the most unusual thing was that it was a ride that started mid-morning and finished early afternoon - I normally like to clearly delineate my rides into 'morning' and 'afternoon'. Must be the low level OCD. Perhaps I 'grew' a little bit. Eergh. But the forecast was for frost first thing and rain from 3, hence the timing. It worked.
I'm descending into weather discussion. Time to stop.
Taking a leaf out of the Cycling Mayor's book of blogging photography I decided to capture the moment. At first I thought I was going to be thwarted - the bird (which I assume to be a buzzard, as I don't think anything bigger habitually frequents the Cheshire Plain, though I'd be delighted to be corrected by any passing ornithologists on the basis of the limited evidence below) flew away, but to my delight decided to perch in the tree above my head. Accepting the limitations of the iphone camera, here's the very chap:
He seemed happy enough there, and I was intrigued about what it was he'd been contemplating for his lunch, so I decided to investigate. Limboing under some barbed wire, and risking getting my cleats seriously muddy, I wandered into the field. This was what he'd been semi-interested in (squeamish look away now):
That's right, a dead ginger cat. I couldn't tell how she/he had met his muddy end, but I suppose it was feasible he'd been hit on the very quiet road not too far away, and crawled off to expire. Poor little thing. At least she/he wasn't going to suffer the indignity of being eaten by the buzzard, and at least you now understand the gratuitous innuendo that's the title of this post.
I did a 53 mile tour of the Cheshire Plain today, and it was a-hunting and a-shooting and a-fishing-tastic all the way round. The hunting and fishing is not unusual round these parts, but seeing four separate shoots on one day is. The beaters were out of course, but sticks and whistles are clearly the wrong tools for the job. A few times pheasant emerged unexpectedly in front of me and flapped tantalisingly at a very shootable height for a couple of hundred yards - those beaters need to hop on their bikes.
It was nice getting out there today after five days of London and its sprawl. Head clearing and all that. Apart from the proliferation of flora and fauna there wasn't a lot that made the ride remarkable; perhaps the most unusual thing was that it was a ride that started mid-morning and finished early afternoon - I normally like to clearly delineate my rides into 'morning' and 'afternoon'. Must be the low level OCD. Perhaps I 'grew' a little bit. Eergh. But the forecast was for frost first thing and rain from 3, hence the timing. It worked.
I'm descending into weather discussion. Time to stop.
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
No Ride Week, Month, Year.....
A confluence of things means I haven't been on my bike, even the turbo trainer, for 8 days now. This does not make me happy.
Part of the reason is ok however - Mrs K and I had a very pleasant weekend away in North Yorkshire, Skipton in fact. It's a lovely town, packed with non-chain shops and outdoor outlets, and a cracking market on a Saturday. We stayed in one of these new-fangled restaurants-with-rooms, and whilst some of the service was a bit idiosyncratic, shall we say, the room itself was lovely, and Saturday night's meal was excellent. The place specialised in steak, local and hung for 28 days, and Mrs K ordered one; magnificent it was too - you could have eaten it with a spoon. My venison was pretty good as well.
And we did get a good hike in - up Embsay Crag - on Sunday morning. Mrs K was quite discombobulated at the top, as the pic shows.
However, outside of those nice things I'm stuck away from home with work - 5 days a week at the moment unfortunately. I'm in Redhill in Surrey, which is no worse or better than any other crappy commuter satellite town. I won't moan any further, but life is on hold as usual between weekends. This is not, to use a vastly overused word these days, sustainable. Talking of overused words and expressions, I'm now learning to interpret "we take X very seriously,...." (where X = anti-social behaviour, health and safety issues, etc etc), as "we cocked up quite badly, but we're going to hide behind an officious cliche of the bleeding obvious".
So, no cycling or running for some days now. I'm hoping for good weather at the weekend however, as I should get the chance to get out both days. More on that story when it happens...
Part of the reason is ok however - Mrs K and I had a very pleasant weekend away in North Yorkshire, Skipton in fact. It's a lovely town, packed with non-chain shops and outdoor outlets, and a cracking market on a Saturday. We stayed in one of these new-fangled restaurants-with-rooms, and whilst some of the service was a bit idiosyncratic, shall we say, the room itself was lovely, and Saturday night's meal was excellent. The place specialised in steak, local and hung for 28 days, and Mrs K ordered one; magnificent it was too - you could have eaten it with a spoon. My venison was pretty good as well.
And we did get a good hike in - up Embsay Crag - on Sunday morning. Mrs K was quite discombobulated at the top, as the pic shows.
However, outside of those nice things I'm stuck away from home with work - 5 days a week at the moment unfortunately. I'm in Redhill in Surrey, which is no worse or better than any other crappy commuter satellite town. I won't moan any further, but life is on hold as usual between weekends. This is not, to use a vastly overused word these days, sustainable. Talking of overused words and expressions, I'm now learning to interpret "we take X very seriously,...." (where X = anti-social behaviour, health and safety issues, etc etc), as "we cocked up quite badly, but we're going to hide behind an officious cliche of the bleeding obvious".
So, no cycling or running for some days now. I'm hoping for good weather at the weekend however, as I should get the chance to get out both days. More on that story when it happens...
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Tour of the Cenotaphs
Here's a novelty, I'm going to write about cycling. I rode just under 50 miles this morning, getting out at 7.45, reasonably early for the winter months, and this is just going to be a series of unconnected ramblings that occurred to me as I rode.
First, the title. Well, the route inadvertently turned into a tour of churches, parades and cenotaphs where cubs, guides, ATC, Army folk, ex-servicepeople, local dignitaries and brass bands were marking Remembrance Sunday. Actually, one of my encounters was deliberate - my stepfather was in one of the brass bands, playing and marching through Macclesfield, so I stopped off in the square to video him. (Do we still say 'video' now it's all digital? What do the kids call it?), and very impressive and moving he and his band were too. I felt a bit guilty I wasn't participating in a proper service myself, but I did have more than two minutes of quiet reflection as I pounded the lanes.
OK, what else? Well, I hadn't really been out for a decent run on Cheshire roads for a while, and sad to report, among the hordes of other cyclists, and there must be a fair few new ones in there, the practice of acknowledging each other seems to be dying out. I still raise my hand, tip my helmet or otherwise cheerily greet my fellow veloists, but I must only get a response from perhaps 20% or so these days. And that 20% seem to either have beards, or be over 50, or both. I guess it's a combination of the culture not being there with the new riders, and the sheer ubiquity of cyclists, especially at the weekends. After all, we don't acknowledge other cars when we're driving do we? It still feels as though we're losing something good however. I have a suspicion, nevertheless, that 46 year olds have been writing stuff like this paragraph since about 1945 - "Ee, these youngsters Bert...." "I know Ernie, no respect"....blah blah.
Training - I went like a train today for some reason. The sunny weather and last night's mighty fine homemade curry played their part, but I also think it's something to do with the fact I did a short but hard session on the turbo trainer yesterday. Out on the road, I never use a heart rate monitor, preferring to ride on "feel", but I do like to train reasonably scientifically on the turbo. During the winter I use Coggan's (the original 'training by powermeter' guru) old favourite 2x20 minute session, where after a 10 min warm-up and with a 10 min break for easy riding recovery, you do 2 lots of 20 mins at 85% of your Functional Threshold of Power (FTP), where FTP is the highest power you can hold for an hour. You obviously have to find that our first; fortunately there's a 20 min test you can do rather than the full hour, so that's what I did yesterday afternoon. The idea is that 2 of those 2x20 sessions a week is enough to increase your FTP without unduly stressing your body. Sounds good to me, and I have to say, it seems to work. Turns out my FTP is 299w, measured yesterday, on my turbo, with yesterday's tyre pressures etc etc. What's less important than the actual number is the trend, and I'll measure myself again in a month's time. I know it sounds a bit boring and geeky, but it's just lovely getting to a hill out on the road and knowing you've got the capacity to go up it without too much stress. With most British hills, you don't have to train on them to get good at them, they're just not long enough, so turbo training can be really effective. Pyrenean or Alpine ones, however, are a different story....
Part of my route today took me through Tatton Park, a lovely traditional estate complete just outside Knutsford with ancient trees, meres, and deer. And oh my goodness, how those deer have got comfortable with humans. They didn't bat an eyelid as a bowled through within yards of them, and one big fellow was sitting down on his haunches so close to the road that if I'd tried to indicate left my hand would have brushed his antlers. I'm not even sure he'd have been that bothered. Normally when I'm that close to them I'm eating them. Venison, mmmmmm.
All in all, a good ride. In fact, it was one of those rides that are so good they turn me into an unbearable tigger for an hour or so when I get home, bouncing round the house, gushing about how brilliant cycling is. After that I turn back into an unbearable old git, at which point it's time to write the blog.
First, the title. Well, the route inadvertently turned into a tour of churches, parades and cenotaphs where cubs, guides, ATC, Army folk, ex-servicepeople, local dignitaries and brass bands were marking Remembrance Sunday. Actually, one of my encounters was deliberate - my stepfather was in one of the brass bands, playing and marching through Macclesfield, so I stopped off in the square to video him. (Do we still say 'video' now it's all digital? What do the kids call it?), and very impressive and moving he and his band were too. I felt a bit guilty I wasn't participating in a proper service myself, but I did have more than two minutes of quiet reflection as I pounded the lanes.
OK, what else? Well, I hadn't really been out for a decent run on Cheshire roads for a while, and sad to report, among the hordes of other cyclists, and there must be a fair few new ones in there, the practice of acknowledging each other seems to be dying out. I still raise my hand, tip my helmet or otherwise cheerily greet my fellow veloists, but I must only get a response from perhaps 20% or so these days. And that 20% seem to either have beards, or be over 50, or both. I guess it's a combination of the culture not being there with the new riders, and the sheer ubiquity of cyclists, especially at the weekends. After all, we don't acknowledge other cars when we're driving do we? It still feels as though we're losing something good however. I have a suspicion, nevertheless, that 46 year olds have been writing stuff like this paragraph since about 1945 - "Ee, these youngsters Bert...." "I know Ernie, no respect"....blah blah.
Training - I went like a train today for some reason. The sunny weather and last night's mighty fine homemade curry played their part, but I also think it's something to do with the fact I did a short but hard session on the turbo trainer yesterday. Out on the road, I never use a heart rate monitor, preferring to ride on "feel", but I do like to train reasonably scientifically on the turbo. During the winter I use Coggan's (the original 'training by powermeter' guru) old favourite 2x20 minute session, where after a 10 min warm-up and with a 10 min break for easy riding recovery, you do 2 lots of 20 mins at 85% of your Functional Threshold of Power (FTP), where FTP is the highest power you can hold for an hour. You obviously have to find that our first; fortunately there's a 20 min test you can do rather than the full hour, so that's what I did yesterday afternoon. The idea is that 2 of those 2x20 sessions a week is enough to increase your FTP without unduly stressing your body. Sounds good to me, and I have to say, it seems to work. Turns out my FTP is 299w, measured yesterday, on my turbo, with yesterday's tyre pressures etc etc. What's less important than the actual number is the trend, and I'll measure myself again in a month's time. I know it sounds a bit boring and geeky, but it's just lovely getting to a hill out on the road and knowing you've got the capacity to go up it without too much stress. With most British hills, you don't have to train on them to get good at them, they're just not long enough, so turbo training can be really effective. Pyrenean or Alpine ones, however, are a different story....
Part of my route today took me through Tatton Park, a lovely traditional estate complete just outside Knutsford with ancient trees, meres, and deer. And oh my goodness, how those deer have got comfortable with humans. They didn't bat an eyelid as a bowled through within yards of them, and one big fellow was sitting down on his haunches so close to the road that if I'd tried to indicate left my hand would have brushed his antlers. I'm not even sure he'd have been that bothered. Normally when I'm that close to them I'm eating them. Venison, mmmmmm.
All in all, a good ride. In fact, it was one of those rides that are so good they turn me into an unbearable tigger for an hour or so when I get home, bouncing round the house, gushing about how brilliant cycling is. After that I turn back into an unbearable old git, at which point it's time to write the blog.
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Infamy, infamy, they've all got it in for me....
I hesitate to call him a hero, but someone whose writing I really enjoy for its prickliness, originality, provocativeness, and when it comes down to it, its common sense, is James Delingpole. He's been a writer and blogger for the Telegraph and Spectator for some years, and recently stood (but has now withdrawn) as a candidate in the Corby by-election on an anti-wind farm platform. Anyway, he talks and writes fearlessly, to the frequent derision and abuse of others. I'm going to take a leaf out of his book, and risk hate mail forever more, by saying this - I'm really not sure about the Help For Heroes charity, and I kind of wish people didn't support it. Or more accurately, didn't feel they needed to support it. One of the guys on our London to Paris ride last year was raising money for it, and I had to keep my thoughts under my helmet for 4 days.
Let me explain. I'm absolutely not saying for a moment that the poor buggers who come back from Afghanistan with mental or physical injuries shouldn't receive the best possible treatment. (Though frankly, I'm not sure what they're doing there in the first place; I'm not sure we've ever had the case made to us persuasively). Quite the opposite in fact; whether it's an income to support them for the rest of their life, state of the art prosthetics, long term psychiatric care, or all of this and more, the British government has a moral obligation to provide whatever's needed. It's the government that put them in harm's way, it's the government (which is all of us) that should deal with the consequences.
But there's the rub. The government should provide the best, and it should foot the bill. But it doesn't do the former, so it ends up not doing the latter either. It relies on a charity stepping in to do the things it should be doing, like providing emergency grants to servicemen and women. And when, in my view, we give funds to Help For Heroes, we're effectively letting the government off its moral duty, which in turn means it can continue to provide the second rate support it currently does. Whilst that's just my opinion, it is, ironically given my other politics, strikingly similar to the Marxist view of charity in general, which contends that charity is degrading and demoralising, and perpetuates and institutionalises inequality.
I'm not entirely sure why I'm picking on Help For Heroes. I suspect there are plenty of other charities where government ought to be playing a more prominent role, but realistically at the moment, that's not going to happen. Equally, one of the great uncommented scandals of the current age is the number of charities that only continue to exist because of central and local government funding, their public donations being negligible. But Help For Heroes is different - a clearer line of sight between expectation and obligation would be harder to find. So next time you're tempted to put a couple of quid in one their collecting tins, don't. Spend the money on a stamp and some paper, and write two letters (because they still have more impact than e-mails). One to Philip Hammond, Secretary of State for Defence, Whitehall, London SW1A 2HB, to make him aware of your disgust that he, his predecessors, and the British state break the moral contract with our armed forces every day of every month, year etc. And the other to your newspaper of choice, telling them what you've done and inviting them to expose examples of the inadequate support that's provided to wounded servicepeople.
Next week I really will write about cycling, promise.
Let me explain. I'm absolutely not saying for a moment that the poor buggers who come back from Afghanistan with mental or physical injuries shouldn't receive the best possible treatment. (Though frankly, I'm not sure what they're doing there in the first place; I'm not sure we've ever had the case made to us persuasively). Quite the opposite in fact; whether it's an income to support them for the rest of their life, state of the art prosthetics, long term psychiatric care, or all of this and more, the British government has a moral obligation to provide whatever's needed. It's the government that put them in harm's way, it's the government (which is all of us) that should deal with the consequences.
But there's the rub. The government should provide the best, and it should foot the bill. But it doesn't do the former, so it ends up not doing the latter either. It relies on a charity stepping in to do the things it should be doing, like providing emergency grants to servicemen and women. And when, in my view, we give funds to Help For Heroes, we're effectively letting the government off its moral duty, which in turn means it can continue to provide the second rate support it currently does. Whilst that's just my opinion, it is, ironically given my other politics, strikingly similar to the Marxist view of charity in general, which contends that charity is degrading and demoralising, and perpetuates and institutionalises inequality.
I'm not entirely sure why I'm picking on Help For Heroes. I suspect there are plenty of other charities where government ought to be playing a more prominent role, but realistically at the moment, that's not going to happen. Equally, one of the great uncommented scandals of the current age is the number of charities that only continue to exist because of central and local government funding, their public donations being negligible. But Help For Heroes is different - a clearer line of sight between expectation and obligation would be harder to find. So next time you're tempted to put a couple of quid in one their collecting tins, don't. Spend the money on a stamp and some paper, and write two letters (because they still have more impact than e-mails). One to Philip Hammond, Secretary of State for Defence, Whitehall, London SW1A 2HB, to make him aware of your disgust that he, his predecessors, and the British state break the moral contract with our armed forces every day of every month, year etc. And the other to your newspaper of choice, telling them what you've done and inviting them to expose examples of the inadequate support that's provided to wounded servicepeople.
Next week I really will write about cycling, promise.
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