I watched Reuben Hughes retain his Armgods 95kg title belt last weekend. He let it be known a month ago that win or lose, he was retiring from Armwrestling after the match. He’s been an inspirational person to watch – stoic, focused with no fanfare or bragging before a match or after a victory. He has some records in the grip world too and it is only from seeing his name on the lists that I knew – he never mentioned it. His dedication to improve has been impressive. I’ve known him run up the mountain in his donkey jacket to keep his weight inside his class for a match and I’ve enjoyed some good battles with him over the last few years. I lost them all. He has travelled all around the UK to train and compete and won the Roadwarrior Belt I commissioned last year for the Warzone League. He’s become such a regular on the circuit that it seems unthinkable that he should leave it especially on top. Many people go on longer than they should, fighters, strongmen – sometimes they hope to repeat the success of the past or to create a bigger legacy. Other times the reasoning is much less ambitious.

Evander Holyfield, after his first loss (which was to Riddick Bowe for the World Heavyweight boxing championship) was asked by a TV interviewer “well, you’ve had a great career and have a lot of money in the bank now – surely it’s time to be thinking about retirement?” Holyfield was not having any of it. “I’m a boxer,” he declared. “I like the training, the people, the culture. I’ve had one bad day at the office, that’s all.” He went on for many more years. Some say too many – but who are they to know what he should do? The man in the middle, and all that.

I often watch a short film made by the National film board of Canada about Doug Rogers who was first Canadian to win a medal in the Olympics for judo in 1964. The training montages are great, the dialogue even better. Describing leaving home to go to Japan he says that it was hard to explain to even himself that he “wasn’t running away from anything but running towards something.”

That’s a concept that a lot of people don’t always realize. You can be great at something and want out. You can be failing and still want in. I have been exercising hard for most of my life. The direction I have taken, and the focus of the training has changed many times – but the basic exercises to power it all have been there throughout. A farmer I worked with a long time ago declared me to be “A student of physical culture.” I think that might be the best description of me – it encompasses everything I’ve done and includes what I’ve yet to start

I don’t know what Reuben is planning to do next – it’s not my business. What I do know is it has been a pleasure to watch him improve, battle anyone put in front of him with the strength of character to always be himself. It’s made him a champion. Whatever he does next will be well thought out. Good luck Reuben.

See you down the road.

In the woods, foliage is dying down and the recent heatwave has stress tested some of the older trees who likely won’t survive the southwesterlies of the winter. A dozen or so fairytale style apples have matured on the memorial tree for the first time, whilst its lesser titled neighbour is again full of the best I’ve ever tasted. I walked the trails eating one of each considering work to be done in coming months. Shiny white stones newly cleaned by the rain have been pushed up through the soil, like old hawthorns that work their way back out from under the skin. A lot of pebbles too, rounded like the ones on the beach that absorbed the heat of the day and released it back into the water I swam in two weeks ago.

It is said that the melting of glaciers in the last ice age shaped the round stones in the bottom of rivers over thousands of years. They appear on the trails and it is hard to imagine these woods once being underwater as they are on the top of a hill. Great epochs of time are hard to appreciate given that we don’t have the span of attention or life to live them out. Many seasons out at sea or working the land give some appreciation of how landscapes and weather have patterns that can change. Some.

I saw a rabbit briefly, though hoped it was a hare. It would suit the narrative of favoured mythology to have hares around but in ten years I haven’t had a definite confirmation of any. A few minutes later I found an oyster shell on the path. Most likely a trinket from a pocket of a visitor who perhaps (like me) was at the coast a short while back. Or was it forced upwards through the earth from some other time? A small mystery to reflect on. I walked on. The deer were hiding. I heard them and maybe some other sensation of their presence that is not easily defined. I saw they had been active this morning at least. The herd have driven a new path where there wasn’t one last month. They’ve also decided to let holly and bramble block up a well used route – I noticed the holly began a campaign last winter which has continued apace in just half a year. Dancing around some dying trees, they are early warning signs for winter fallers.

For outdoor training the cooler temperatures are a relief and the rain can be welcome. A few weeks ago a workout in the garden gym was followed by 20 minutes cooling off in the cold tub. On the beach burpees and sit ups were done in the ankle deep shoreline so each rep had its own heat regulation. Now a brief immersion is enough. Soon it will be a reluctant challenge and if a definite decision to persist is not made – it will be a memory of the summer only. Training habits are easily made and broken. I haven’t dragged the roller around at all this year and climbing the rope fell by the wayside with some elbow and shoulder niggles. The concerns of the heatwave are gone. Autumn is showing its hand.

See you down the road.

Many road trips start with eager conversations and lead to singing. This is true for solo journey’s too – the unquiet mind fills the silences without self-consciousness. Both solo and in company, hours pass easily with deeper thoughts surfacing to formulate into words.

We travelled over a thousand kilometres on our tour of the Southwest exploring woodland, beaches, farmland, coastal vistas, deep gorges, castles, prehistoric caverns, moorland. The rivers and tides flowed as they always do, this time under my observation with appreciation. Certain landscapes get ingrained into the psyche. Architectural styles of buildings, prevalence of vegetation and rolling landscapes form unspoken descriptions. Such is the gift of travel, memory and comparison.

Steep inclines and tight bends challenged our heavy long wheelbase vehicle. At times I noticed I had clenched my jaw and relaxed again when the seemingly imminent collision didn’t happen. The frustration of detours, lack of passing places and potential for fatal plunges off the roadside gave plenty to sigh gladly about when the ignition key was clicked to off at the end of the day. Despite tiredness, I didn’t always sleep soundly. Usual things ached differently in unfamiliar beds and the visual onslaught of new experience combined with deep reflection led to strange dreams.

“I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted,” wrote Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Sherlock Holmes Adventure Hound of the Baskervilles. This sentiment played internally whilst crossing the moor with full moon breaking through patches of fog. Lost among tall hedges the expectation of a confrontation with a giant dog, Owlman or other outworldly beast did not seem so fantastic. Tight lanes gave way to vast open spaces. Twice we passed empty solitary vehicles with no one in the vicinity. Minor mysteries to speculate on forever. Finding our refuge was elusive. Stepping out into the void to ask directions at a remote dwelling armed with torch and two way radio (no cellphone coverage here) felt like a dozen movie tropes – leaving the spaceship to explore a planet, approaching the door of a haunted house. The occupant stepped out to meet me anxiously. Perhaps he was replaying film scripts in his mind too as he saw the bright lights and found they came from a large bearded man in black talking into his radio. I called out in a friendly fashion and didn’t ask to be taken to his leader. It turned out I was not far from my destination, so made a polite exit and drove off again into the darkness.

Daylight provided a great view from our moorland refuge. Nearing the end of our travels & with pressing appointments we did not get to explore the ancient history and wilderness of this remote fairytale of a village. Another time, this will be the base and not a passing waypoint.

When hours turn to days on the road, long silences follow. General chit chat gets exhausted and the monotonous white line leading home quietens all the tongues. “The monk in his cell does not exclusively reach enlightment,” I mused, a point almost too obvious to mention to myself even in passing thought. I’ve always known that the thrill is in the journey. Most often the destination unimportant.

See you down the road.

”Look at them, riding around in his damn bus. He’s taking my ice cream money.” I overheard an ice cream vendor complaining about an old man who gave rides around a park on a small vintage bus. The ice cream man ran 5 or 6 vans and lamented the unpredictable weather. Overcast days and rain were constant difficulties. The old man with the bus was his enemy, as was the cafe, local sweet shop and of course rival ice cream vans.

The bus driver didn’t charge much, just enough to cover his costs. He had retired and liked talking to the people in the park. It gave him an interest. He couldn’t understand the greed of the ice cream man and neither could I.

That was nearly twenty years ago. This week’s set of road trips took me south to new places and some not visited since childhood. Plenty of time to think. Some places look familiar but aren’t – just like people who can remind you of others long gone.

I make plans, try to describe my ambitions to myself, shaping them in my head before writing them into a book. I want the strategy to be clear, swap vague concepts for definite intentions.

It isn’t as easy as I imagine. Vague concepts are attractive. I distract myself continually, questioning my resolve, ability, commitment. Knuckling down to decide on a definite plan involves trying to pull together a lot of random reasoning. Why do this or that instead of something else? Some choices were made years ago and the logic behind that decision became obsolete long after the habit set in.

We get to choose our motivations. Sometimes optimal efficiency has to be supplanted by less effective activity which is simply fun to do.

Moving rocks about and arranging them onto stone thrones whilst being soaked by waves was one of the most fun things to do last week. I’ve also been Armwrestling, challenged my friends to a wheelbarrow pushing competition and tired myself out doing calisthenics.

On one beach I paused my throne building to get my breath and looked around at the few hundred other people doing much different things and wondered why I was the only one training the way I do.

Then I remembered what I told the ice cream man: ”Not everyone wants an ice cream.”

See you down the road.

Removing an entangled thorn tree that has overrun a small mountain ash was the task today. The heat of the sun did not concern me too much – I had protection from an acer tree’s shade for the most part and the surroundings were pleasant and interesting. Every pass of the thicket of Rhododendrons produced a rustle. A muntjac lives nearby and whilst I’ve seen him and his mate before in the cooler months he tends to remain elusive in summer. “I heard you,” I declared as I passed with the wheelbarrow. “I could be a fox or badger,” was the imagined reply, but I settled on it being a muntjac. It was idyllic.

What did concern me were the flies. Now I’m not someone who dislikes them per se – in fact we have a reasonable understanding. Bluebottles that come into the house generally buzz around a few minutes and with a few close passes they shift their tone with a bit more bass to indicate their wish to exit. In company, I theatrically reply to them with an “okay,” or “can’t you see I’m busy, go to the back door, it’s open” and if it isn’t I let them out. Occasionally I offer out a finger, they hop on and I take them out myself. Butler service almost. It impresses visitors and I tell them that I once saved a fly from a cat, it came back to thank me a few weeks later (with its buckled wing). I don’t know that many believe me but there is a film on youtube that I made with the band I used to front in which the fly has a starring role. A story for another day perhaps.

Green bottles are a different matter. It is only this year I have started to get some accord and previously considered them to be either hostile or unable to understand English. Perhaps they have been studying. The little black ones have always been a problem. Today, they decided that tormenting me whilst engaged in tackling the thorns was sport and they certainly made the most of it, showing their contempt for the bug repellent bands on my wrists by exploring them in detail and communicating their presence every time my hands were full. They were particularly interested in the wound on my left ear. Whilst carrying a log the other day a hanging tendril reached out and pierced the top of my lobe ripping some skin away. Ah, the romance of the great outdoors, I’m really selling it to the desk jockeys.

The flies made the day seem longer day than usual. Whilst dragging the rope securing a bundle of thorns the size of a small car, I reflected that I was doing good training and being paid for it. Some people go to gyms and pay to drag sledges, so I congratulated myself for finding the positives. A chorus of the doubters filled my ears with a definite “Hmmm?” My reply was less than polite. It’s not all fun and games being a fly whisperer.

See you down the road.

I often mention Louie Simmons of Westside Barbell to people who want to get strong or are injured. Louie was against hypotheticals. He analysed training and competition data, experimented with people who became world record holders and used simple maths to calculate the volume needed for progression. The result was a system that anyone can follow. I came across his podcasts in 2020 during Covid and discovered his reverse hyper machine. Soon after I built one which repaired my severely damaged lower back in a few short months. Four years later I was back competing in strongman. That was the stepping stone back to judo which I had consigned to the rear view mirror.

The thought, detail and effort involved to produce these podcasts is astonishing – a free window into elite performance. Louie’s friend Dave Tait recently paid tribute and summerised Louie’s gifts, saying something along the lines of: “He freely gave away information that he paid expensively for.” Dave Tait is doing much the same now in his own EliteFTS broadcasts.

Experience teaches us, but it’s never wasted money to pay to learn something new. Sometimes the people don’t charge enough or at all. In that instance we should provide some service in return. Sweep the floor for the coach at the gym, maybe empty the bin once in a while. Buy a dinner, give a lift. Promote their system. Old time martial arts students provided service for their instructors – much in the way one would for a beloved uncle or aunt. That’s not so usual these days. We can easily change that.

I did some deadlifts this morning. I think they are the best exercise for general strength and whilst I know that the guys who inhabit the squat rack will disagree, I’ll add that they are the best for those who choose to train alone. There isn’t much technique to master and there isn’t the same danger of being folded in half by heavy weights with poor form. If a deadlift is too heavy it simply won’t move. As per Louies suggestion, I vary bar heights, stances, stand on platforms and have the weight raised so that I’m not doing the same lift every week – it takes sometimes half a year to repeat the same combination by which time assistance exercises and general improvement has added some capacity. Reverse hypers and abdominal work is also vital for rehabilitation – before and after the big lifts.

At 52 I’m still improving. Although distractions, diversions and circumstances hamper progress the system is sound. I talked once to Louie via email, he replied and I was grateful for that. When he died, I felt some loss. An institution had gone: he left behind a legacy. Technology allows him to live on via my MP3 player. Tom Barry, his student – continues the work. On the wall in my gym is the title of one of Louies podcasts: “No once said it would be easy.” I laugh along to many of his sayings: “You gotta be smarter than the weights,” “If it ain’t hard, it ain’t worth doing.”

Criticism about following older systems of training and adapting it into his own workable system was answered: “I didn’t invent toilet paper either,” he reflected “but I’m smart enough to use it.”

See you down the road.

I spent a few days in Edinburgh, having determined it better to commute into Glasgow for the Commonwealth Games rather than stay more local. Visiting athletes, coaches, officials, volunteers and contractors had already booked the best spots and the local hospitality economy maximised their potential. Even the boiler houses of the no star dive hotels outstripped the usual price of penthouse suites. It would have to be Pro Hobo.

Arriving too early to check in to the hostel, I walked toward the castle and meandered around Edinburgh old town looking at architecture. Around me tourists clamoured for photos with the kilted bagpipers and Harry Potter themed shop displays. Up on the hill, looking north I saw a ship. I had not realised the coast to be so close. After consulting with Professor Google I escaped the crowds via a bus trip to Joppa Pans, the closest rocky beach.

I set to work moving rocks. It was a race to beat the rising tide and about forty minutes later I sat on a very rough throne. The sea lapped at my feet, unimpressed by the audacity of my efforts. Job done, I rode the bus back to Edinburgh to claim my bunk space and soon after meet some friends for dinner.

Nicky and Elliott have not long returned from Jersey. Luck was on Nicky’s side as the last available day for her chance to swim around the island had provided a respite in the winds and her circumnavigation was successful. It was well deserved. Nicky and I first swam together in 2010, sharing ambitions, training for similar challenges and gaining common friends. Some days wind and tide are unfavourable and if you put yourself in the Ocean’s Grip, you take your chances. Jersey is somewhere I intend to visit one day- there is a rocky cove there waiting for me to build a throne and when I sit on it will be to celebrate Nicky’s adventure.

We met again two days later at the Judo. I had tickets for all of it, Nicky and Elliot joined me for one of the Saturday sessions. It was particularly exciting as a coach from my club was fighting for England. Having two bronze medals to show for past Commonwealth games and being a veteran of the Paris Olympics placed a lot of hope and expectation onto Jemima’s performance. It was surprisingly nerve wracking to watch. I’m used to seeing Mima training and marvel at her abilities. To see them tested with the arena crowd cheering her on alongside me was something special. It didn’t go all her way – fights at this level are always tough. The one setback was losing to her England team mate who ultimately took Gold. Mima fought hard for her bronze medal. Her winning throw was also significant for the England team – we won the Judo in the overall standings.

I watched every match. There were David vs Goliath moments – especially in open weight where a few of the medallists were only a kilo or two into the class. Some opponents outweighed them by forty or more. Naturally many victories came from high level tactics and precision – whilst others came using the most rudimentary techniques applied just at the right moment.

Back at the hostel, I settled down for the evening. Among the twenty others in the dorm there were snorers, mutterers and night fidgets. Unconcerned, I remembered the highlights, hoping to absorb some of the techniques before drifting off to a sound nights sleep.

See you down the road.

I decided in my teens not to pursue a career instead opting to be a sort of odd job man which I am to this day. On leaving school I could have done further education but didn’t like the idea of it. Instead I signed up for an apprenticeship but I tended my resignation before the probation period ended. At the time the wise employer called me into his office and warned “If you’re not careful, you’re going to become one of those drifter sort of people who never amount to anything.” He was spot on and in less than a year I heard it all again almost word for word from another well-meaning grown up concerned that I was leaving opportunity behind. I didn’t become the responsible steady person I could have been. Years later, my friend Tomo (who I did listen to occasionally) told me, “There’s no pockets in a shroud Dan.” He was right.

I’ve done a lot of exciting and unlikely things and it’s rare to I find people I’m in awe of. Dave Faulkner is one such person. He left armwrestling as I was coming in and with common friends we’ve followed what each other are doing without ever meeting. He’s done fighting sports at a high level – Judo, MMA, Submission grappling, was in the UFC programme Ultimate Fighter 9, BJJ, Greco Roman. He took it into TV and films as a baddie and lately as a fight coordinator. These are fun pursuits certainly, but most impressive to me is that Dave is also a professional wrestler. People laugh sometimes when I say I’m a fan of pro wrestling – citing pre-determined outcomes. Is it surprise that books and films have those too? Watch the first few minutes of Predator and tell me you don’t know that Schwarzennegger is going to be the only survivor of that team. Wrestling, like Pantomime has larger than life characters, unlikely stories and lots of laughs. I liked it when I was three. I came to appreciate how much conditioning the wrestlers have to build. When I became strong enough lift a person on the move I realised how lacking I was in comparison.

Recently Universal Judo Academies in Wallasey near Liverpool advertised Dave Faulkner to be running a seminar in their gym. I decided to go. It was judo based but with additions from his vast experience. I partnered up with a very solid man called Jamie & under Dave’s instruction we learned some new techniques. At the end we had a chance to do a short pro wrestling skit in front of the gym. I didn’t expect that, but as any of my training partners will tell you if they ask for volunteers to demonstrate something, I’m out the front and you are coming with me. For those few minutes Jamie was Ric Flair & I was Steve Regal. We made Dave laugh – and that was the measure of success for me today.

I gave Dave a lift home, a road trip too short by far. We told stories, sang along to Hillbilly Jim’s theme tune “Don’t go messin’ with a country boy” and I kind of felt (and not for the first time) that I had made it somehow, though in what I can’t quite say. Does it get better than this? This is what you get for being an irresponsible drifter sort of person. I reckon it was the right direction.

See you down the road.

On June 9th 2014 a lot of media carried the meeting in which Swedish Prime minister Fredrik Reinfeldt rowed German Chancellor Angela Merkel and the Prime Ministers of Britain and Netherlands – David Cameron and Mark Rutte – across Lake Harpsundssjon.

“I have meetings all the time with people in rowboats, what’s strange about that?” I thought. I’ve rowed since childhood, for leisure, exercise, lifeguard duties, exploring, long distance swimmers escort. I’m currently servicing a floating pontoon using my small rowboat as a platform to work from. Like the fireside a rowboat is a good place to tell uninterrupted stories.

The lifeguard club owns a rowboat called the Rana which like me is over 50 years old. At the coast it was used in surf rescue training and competitions, served as command platform for long distance swimming events, triathlons and boat regattas. It was hauled over ice for winter training exercises, survived a fire that burned a meter wide hole through the hull and had to be rebuilt. According to one of my predecessors Bill Guest, he used it as an office for meeting people new to the club, assessing competency and most of all making plans. He was pleased to find as the current captain of the club I do much the same.

Four of us gathered over a hearty breakfast before we set to oars. Three of us ate, one declined. In twenty five years we have seen Jeremy eat once, and there is suspicion that he may have been faking. Rumour has it that he’s an android, though he can’t even be tempted with engine oil. Lex says he may be gas or solar powered.

Colin and Jeremy were around with Bill back in the 80’s – Craig and I were not, so being youngsters, we manned the oars and piloted the boat around the lake. Jeremy was the one who repaired the Rana after the fire. I recalled when Colin and I turned it upside down whilst in it to simulate rescue of someone trapped underneath.

The lake was like glass and the sun shone down on us. I mentioned to Colin about paddle board polo that some people at this lake play and it bought our thoughts to our late friend Julie Read. At her funeral I declared her to be the world’s best (and dirtiest) winter water polo player. We played only when the water was too cold for triathletes who we kept out of the best stuff. It was Julie and I versus Craig and Anji with whoever else turned up. Colin was goalie for both teams – his job was to catch the ball in an anchored boat and then throw it further out into the lake. Jeremy kept score. What went on under the water when Julie Read was tackling was only fully revealed after she died – both sexes reported her ability to get the ball with equal horror. No surprise that we mostly won.

Time marches on. Still involved in some rescue activity for the resident sailing club and out in the weather throughout the year, we pull on the oars and still crew rescue boats. Plenty of time to reminisce of adventures past and look forward to more. A message was received from Trevor – absent again due to televised football.

Some things never change.

See you down the road.

Folklore and pop culture are interchangeable in the rear-view mirror of history. It can be difficult to discern which if any were reality. Methods of storytelling have changed. For millennia the fireside tale ruled supreme. In the late 1970’s my Dad lamented the removal of the coal burner from our fireplace despite the savings that would be made by having the gas fire and radiators installed. “It’s the end of an era,” he declared. I thought nothing of it at the time. I was too young to be nostalgic and I got to make the old coal bunker into a den. It was a cultural shift. Our focus went from the fireplace to the very small TV in another part of the room, as it did for millions of others.

Long before technology allowed mass broadcasting, the written word gave the reader the opportunity to pause the action over a timescale of their own choosing. Books, pamphlets, newsletters, newspapers and magazines bought the outside world into our homes. Comic books were especially beloved in my house. I vaguely remember old people complaining about youngsters reading too much. Radio broadcasts (now podcasts) free up the hands and eyes changing the audience back to listeners. Cinema and television demand fuller attention. Moving pictures immerse the viewer. Stage productions in front of live audiences require greater suspension of belief. Graphic novels are not hampered by the special effects budget or the physical limitations by the actors and stunt performers. Regardless, there is always someone curating the story – editors, directors, writers, and a dozen other job descriptions decide what entertainment gets in front of us. We have more choice than ever before – but it is a different sort of choice. Wandering into a book shop or video store took time. An internet search engine accesses millions of options in an instant. Does anyone scroll past page one of the results? Are they better options? Less random, more curated?

New technologies using computer generated images weave different sorts of reality. Imagination is the currency required both from creator and audience. Between is advertising. Many TV cartoons of my childhood turned out to be profitable vehicles for toy manufacturers. The stories hooked us, adverts showed the playthings and shops dutifully stocked them. Complex algorithms now feed our interests. There is no escaping the targeting. If it’s free, your attention is the product.

Artificial intelligence is said to be growing exponentially in capability. It can produce a story based upon available data and the direction of the enquirer. Can it discern historical fact from folklore? Is it required to? It is designed to gain and feed attention – the currency of advertisers. Mainstream TV villains and professional wrestling heels often find Joe Public hostile in real life situations. If discerning humans can’t tell the difference between an actor and a character what chance the robots?

We get to choose what we believe in, how we behave and the stories we tell about it all. Circumstances limit our opportunities and life behind the screens is becoming more usual. It’s never too late to choose action over passivity. Move about a bit more in the locality and meet real people to find common interest.

Your story isn’t finished, there is more to do. When technology fails or becomes unfashionable there is a place by the fireside where you can tell your tale. Just for that night. Next day, it will be time to do something else.

See you down the road.

“Myths and Legends of the British Isles” has been a favourite book since childhood and inspired many expeditions. It was the first I ever heard of the Loch Ness Monster. The five hour roadtrip returning home from the latest armwrestling event with Atom Bomb provided random chat including the possible existence of the Loch Ness Monster. He had some interest and I told him of my 9 mile swim without a boat up the lake in 2003. My theory at the time was that large marine animals are generally curious. A swimmer without a wetsuit traversing the area where the most sightings occur at the right time of day and month would give the best odds for a sighting. Armed with a waterproof camera I entered the lake at 0520 on a misty August morning. It was an adventure. I’ll skip to the bit that reveals I didn’t see anything in my 6 hours of swimming. I heard strange noises of clicking and whining which made me think of whales or dolphins. The best suggestion I have heard to explain this is gases being released by tectonic movements of the Great Glen faultline itself which the loch is part of. I can’t confirm that obviously.

I swam mostly on the edge of the three metre shallows with the dark void to my immediate left. I was about 50 meters from the shore for the most part until encountering a fish farm where I had to swim out a few hundred meters into the middle. Suddenly the adventure didn’t seem such a good idea. Luckily I saw a tourist boat in the distance and smiled – they would’ve be told of the extreme cold and dangers of falling in the loch. The day before a local warned me that 5 people had died from immersion in the past year and three of the bodies had not been found. Survival in the icy waters was limited to a few minutes at best he said. I imagined someone on the boat with binoculars scoriung the water for surface movements. For that moment at least I figured I was the Loch Ness Monster.

My friend Fred Barnfield found the whole adventure very amusing. He intimated to me that during national service in the early 1950’s he was stationed in the area. A regular diversion he and his friends had was to place a straw bale under a tarpaulin attached to a rope and wait for a tourist bus to approach. By the time passengers disembarked to the waters edge from the next available place to stop, the bale and tarpaulin had been hidden. It was customary for one of the soldiers to chance upon the group and ask what the excitement was about. Tales of beasts with flippers, multiple humps and long necks were told. Fred noted imagination overtook the reality. Only a few people on the bus could have possibly seen the shape. The rest were hopeful believers.

The “Encyclopedia of Loch Ness Monster sightings” shows 1950 and 1951 were busy years. I was reminded of this the other day when a random algorithm took me to a website hosted by monster enthusiasts. A drawing of three straw bales (not one) under tarpaulins attached to ropes was featured and a corresponding monster photograph from 1951 showing three humps in Loch Ness accompanied the hoax description.

Fred would have shrugged and smiled. Evidence of one hoax doesn’t disprove the possibility of something unusual living in the lake but it does remind us to be discerning.

See you down the road.

“You have to be sick to listen to me” was a strapline I used on my hospital radio talk show. The Sunday night 8 til 10 slot had weekly inspirational guests. They were strongmen, long distance swimmers, musicians, adventurers. Sometimes celebrities were lured from the local bookshop signings that had less interest than they had hoped. Afterall, the famous really want only one thing – to collect people that endlessly repeat their name.

One guest brought a drunk friend with him in the hope to cause trouble – an artist with a history of deliberately saying the wrong thing on live radio broadcasts. It didn’t work with me. Fred Barnfield and I immediately became the best of friends. It was unusual on the face of it. Fred was in his seventies, drunk alcohol heavily every Sunday. I was mid thirties, never drank. He’d taken the decision to become an artist early in his life, I pursued physical culture. Little common ground on the face of it. We’d both had tedious day jobs and enjoyed freedom to think our own thoughts. Over the five years of the show he became my most regular guest.

We’d seen each other in the local newspapers and it was from this that he gave me his first bit of wisdom. “Fame is the last of the passions,” he whispered. He reasoned that most people want to be celebrities. To overcome that urge and dissolve into nothingness was the next inevitable step to growth. I instantly understood it. Applying it – several times I thought I had. Not so sure now. Deep zen thoughts occurred a lot in Fred’s discourses and we had many over the next decade.

Fred’s vast body of art can be difficult to appreciate. Like a strongman performing assistance exercises to improve the competition lifts, he painted more than those intended for show. Many were meditative in their execution, nothing special. Others were fantastic. He often waxed lyrical about ones that to me seemed most mundane. Who am I to say which is which? Even now I get surprised what buyers choose for their walls. I became curator of his collection before he died. With the reality that his lifelong passion was destined for the skip if left to his relatives – he asked me to get his work on as many walls as I could. He believed – like his hero Modigliani – that his art would me more appreciated posthumously. I am starting to see that.

In 2011 I rented the top floor of a derelict building as an office with storage space. He was sceptical about what I could gain from it. A few months later, repainted in his customary blob style I invited him up to see the empty space for him to use. He had often dreamed of an ideal exhibition – one that he could have complete control of. It was the start of the JULY9 exhibition. Fred died in 2013. We decided to make the exhibition online in his eventual absence which I have continued via the SEISMICSECRET youtube channel.

Fred would have loved being mentioned on MAXSTYRKA. How many reading this site train in the hope to get famous in their own field? Maybe we’re all still collecting names: Fred understood our reasoning. He eventually let it go, dissolved into being just who he was. We can too. Happy Birthday Fred.

I ran an outdoor swimming club for thirteen years before such things got popular. It was Sunday, Monday and Wednesday in the lake, two other days at an indoor pool and it was a hub of ambitions. We had a few English Channel Swimmers, lake challengers, some of us were extreme cold enthusiasts. The committee of three of us that ran it were also involved in a lifeguard club and a lifesaving class. There were triathletes too. We used to joke that triathletes, like flies, appear when the sun shines.

On 22nd October 2007 two coaches and I were discussing some slackers who were not making the grade. “It’s not like we pull them in off the street,” said Richard. “They come to us and tell us what they want to do, we say we’ll help and then they don’t do anything.” He was perplexed. Jane had similar tales to tell of her group, always giving reasons why they were not going to swim after all. That week one swimmer left a session early “to feed his mother’s cat.” Coincidentally another told me he could not attend as he “Had to feed his sisters cat.” There were a lot of well-fed cats benefiting from these layabouts Richard mused. I proposed between us we start a book to record the excuses we encountered for a full year and see which ones proved most entertaining.

The existence of the excuse book soon gained widespread notoriety. We did not judge the quality of the excuses, nor argue with the whiners about their submissions. We just recorded them, anonymously to protect the identities of the guilty. Twelve months later we pooled our submissions and I printed them off into a thirty two page book called “I have to feed my sister’s cat” and other reasons not to swim. It was circulated for a few weeks among the survivors.

Four years later (2011) we decided to run it again for another year. Thereafter it became something mentioned but rarely added to. We’d had our fun. In 2014 the swimming club had served it’s time and dissolved. Covid ended the Lifesaving class. A few remnants of the lifeguard club continue. The book itself is now in my study, dormant and only occasionally opened. The few survivors of the three clubs generally do not respond to training dates unless definitely attending. They learned the hard way maybe that committing and not turning up has consequences.

So it was then that Angell and I were having breakfast at the lake on Saturday before launching the rowboat. A message came through from Trevor, a guy who has a physique like Batman in the movies. Trevor told us that he was going to join us but now wasn’t as he had got up late after watching football into the early hours.

“Football?!!” I spluttered as I read the text to Angell. He had no sympathy as he’d watched it too and still got up. Me – well, I phoned Trev and told him of course that it was the most insulting excuse we’d ever had in the history of the excuse book and that it would be reopened just for him. “Stood up for football!” I ranted. After all I reasoned, “chasing after a ball is what dogs do for entertainment.” Trevor therefore is the first submission to be publicly outed – the first in it’s 19 year history.

Some of the entries of the infamous excuse book will be revealed in due course.

See you down the road.

My dad had an arc welder in his workshop when I was a kid and it was a thing of wonder. It made a buzzing sound like the black and white Flash Gordon spaceships on Saturday morning television and of course the warning not to look anywhere near it when he was using it was stark. My dad had some good educational advice for staying safe and healthy. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drown?” he asked me when I was four years old. I had not considered it. “Well, first you cough, and your throat will start to burn. Your eyes will bulge and you’ll feel like your head and chest are exploding. Then you’ll die. Do you want to drown?” I intimated it was not an ambition I had. “Stay away from the pond then,” he warned. He’d been advised by my mum to put a fence around our fish pond that was about a meter and a half deep. He thought a quiet chat would be sufficient, which it was.

Similarly, whilst driving along the motorway one day he asked me “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be run over by a juggernaut?” Again, my imagination fell short as I was into wrestling and science fiction comics. “Well, first your ribs will break…” he went on, finishing with the warning “Don’t ever open the car door whilst we are driving.” They put child locks on doors now as most parents haven’t got the same art of the cautionary tale as my dad had. Incidentally he got run over when I was eleven, ironic now I think of it.

Anyway, back to welding. I bought a machine off a friend as I was getting into strongman and having done a basic college course a few years before I had great ambitions to make my own kit, which I eventually did. I had the sense to sign up for another cheap course first – why waste electricity and electrodes I reasoned? I found it hard. I was diligent but clumsy, producing a number of poor test pieces that failed the grade for the most basic qualification level. I asked my humorous instructor what I might do. “When faced with people of your sort of skill,” he reflected “I usually suggest a career as a milkman.”

I persevered. I made handles for a car lifting rack and welded empty gas cylinders into Farmers walk apparatus. I’ve mended gates, benches, repaired random things and manufactured all sorts of things for my gym – lately a trap bar deadlift frame with 4 sets of handles for close and snatch grip at different heights. On Saturday I made a start on a football pressing bar. The sun was shining, everything was set up outside the workshop and I listened to some Westside Barbell podcasts. I thought of my Dad and smiled. Then remembering the welding instructors words said to myself “Well, I never became a milkman.”

See you down the road.

I inherited a pile of archive materials which included an innocuous local newsletter from the early 1970’s. In one small a column a contributor lamented the beginning of mass car ownership noting that commuters taking short cuts across the estate were reducing safety for children playing in the streets. Where would it end? Perhaps there would be a time when neighbours would not know each other and their interests would be connected only by use of personal transportation. We’re there now in many respects. I have friends all over the world – this week alone I have typed and received messages or spoken to people in America, Poland, Ireland, Scotland, Romania and of course with this column Sweden. Not so many on this street – I have arm wrestled a few of my neighbours on the trash can lid and had them over to play in my garden gym. None ever came twice. My community of friends are far flung, made available by personal transportation & modern technology. Road warrior culture is the way of things at least for me.

At the weekend I was co commentator with the Welsh Wolverine at Armgods England. Twelver matches with the co main event Mighty Noah vs The Vanilla Gorilla. Armgods put on live armwrestling shows in mostly unlikely locations aiming for a visceral and intense crowd experience. It’s livestreamed to subscribers. There are always difficulties and it is not surprising. Broadcasting corporations invest millions employing teams of trained sound, lighting, effects engineers and camera operators. They still manage to lose audio and visual signals for mainstream sporting events at the most inopportune moments. What hope a gang of armwrestling enthusiasts?

Well, there’s success to report, though not in the way most would measure. In varied roles of referee, commentator, mc, competitor or wrangler I’ve witnessed special things happen. Small communities come alive for weeks before when one of the locals is headlining a match card. “Is this armwrestling you do really a sport?” Who are you up against? And so the local challenger tells their story, shows the highlight reel of their opponent and grows their resolve to gain the victory. Tickets get sold. The travelling armwrestling circus comes to town complete with it’s larger than life characters sporting tattoos, strange haircuts and questionable dress sense.

Noah is much loved in his locality – that was obvious as he walked to the stage with his stats filling the giant LCD screen. Friends and family crowded the garden of the public house venue, some soaked by the rain as the canvas sheltered area was full. A few groups of children held up large signs that read “Come on Mighty Noah” and the cheering as he battled his much larger opponent was loud. They became intoxicated by the spectacle and I could feel it too. There was tension, uncertainty, setbacks. Will he prevail? Afterwards speeches were made, hands were shook and I felt drunk on the atmosphere. That’s never experienced through a screen. The best production expertise is at best third hand.

Community here has not been lost. It has grown and expanded with the technology. It only shrinks if everyone stays indoors behind their screens. Noah’s locality is going to talk about this for years to come. It will add to his mystique. Mitch’s size will increase over time, the troll under the bridge that had to be challenged. Noah will be asked at the petrol station who is next. People will point and smile in the grocery store. The collective memory of the battle will take on its own identity and the legend of the hometown hero established. It’s a magical thing to be part of.

See you down the road.

Driving through Anglesey many times on the way to the Ireland ferry I’d often thought to visit the island properly. I did last week. The rocky north coast proved to be the place for adventure. Max and I had ambitions to build David Horne style stone thrones which we did in locations we named Monarchs and Adder cove respectively. Building thrones is good training with a seat overlooking the sea as just reward. Sometimes a dip in the water to cool off follows. The dip in the clear sea on Tuesday felt uncomfortable. I’m 10-15 kilos lighter than when I used to swim outside for the 17 summers and winters. I’ve succumbed to the comforts of warm water, I chided myself. That didn’t last long – later I was relaxing in the hot tub.

Saturday, that satnav tricked me into driving over the M4 Suspension bridge which used to be a toll. I’d planned a different route but the robot sometimes changes its mind and leads you down different roads. Nostalgia hit– I was here last 5th November 2005 with Sealskin and we swam from one bank of the River Severn to the other. It was his ambition, not mine and I helped him get fit for it. Then he asked if I would do it with him. Swim distance just over a kilometer in a straight line but the mighty Severn has no slack water. We set out half hour before the change and ended up swimming nearer 5km. A few desperate souls have thrown themselves off the bridge deck. The view from the water with that thought made the temperature all the more chilling from underneath. The rescue team that accompanied us told me the last successful swimmers were US NAVY SEALS ten summers previously and like Sealskin they wore wetsuits. I was in trunks. I smiled to myself, then remembered how uncomfortable the short dip four days ago was. It’s hard to admit I’m less conditioned than I used to be. Less tough? Maybe, maybe not.

I was on the way to Cardiff to fight in the No Gi Judo Pilot event run by Alan Jones. He’s amazing, much respect for him and the reason for going really. The internal narrative asked me what was I expecting? “Well, they’ll all be tough. I want to have fun and improve.” There are always setbacks. Fall forwards and all that. I did plenty of falling as it turned out, helped over by the winner and runner up of the heavyweights. There were no easy fights. I did enough to get the bronze in our pool of 5. There was another scrapper there even older than me, so they put us together for an extra fight for the over 50’s. We’ve fought before – I won this time.

Driving away from the arena I felt dreamy. Paul Desmond playing Taste of Honey came up first on my playlist and coupled with the bruises I felt alive. The Anglesey scenery, stone thrones. Maybe the near concussion from the winners’ double leg takedown on me was more likely. Later, passing over the Severn I smiled again. A lot of my best efforts are in the rear-view mirror. It’s not necessary to repeat old feats when there are new ambitions. As Johnny Cash said, I know “The road ahead is hard and steep” but the Taste of Honey is something to be savoured once in a while.

See you down the road.

“Have you ever done a triathlon Dan?” In life’s top trumps I have a few cards to play and in answering that enquiry, yes I once did the London to Paris relay. Four of us ran from London to Dover in 1 hour rotations, took turns swimming to France followed by a cycle ride to Paris. One team member had to return after the swim leaving us remaining three to pedal from Calais to Paris. I did more of the swimming, less of the cycling. On my 64km ride I sang a lot. It was sunny, I was feeling superhuman and pedalled my old steel frame bicycle in top gear up the hills to prove a point that I could. The Champ was not impressed with my machine. “Did you find that in a museum or a skip?” he asked earnestly on seeing my DRGGG bike: rusting blue frame, orange handlebars, purple forks, various peeling stickers and tied on reflectors. He rode one of his ultra lightweight dream machines decked out in lycra and cycling shoes. I, of course, wore steel toe cap work boots to both run and cycle in. He was not impressed by that either.

The song I enjoyed singing most was That’s Life, by Frank Sinatra. It happened that as I passed the Champ and the other chap (name redacted) in a layby at the top of a hill I happened to be singing “Each time I find myself lying flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.” It seemed appropriate, though the guy that was with the Champ and I didn’t find it funny at all. It might be from the panic attack he’d had in the sea the day before which ended up with us swimming one of his turns between us.

We had joined in the event to help him out as he’d planned to do it solo, paid his money and then found that he couldn’t really swim. I don’t think he got our humour, maybe it was the masks we wore that I’d made with his face on, or the lurid stories that we told on the bus that didn’t suit his kind of lifestyle. Getting him to pose as Quasimodo before our trip to Notre Dame perhaps was the final straw. I wasn’t that bothered about the cathedral and as the Champ mentioned a few times after “they burnt the place down after Dan Earthquake visited.” Afterwards, the other chap never spoke to us again. He may still be recovering from the experience.

“I was the keyboard man in a rock and ska band,” (as Donald Fagen told us in the Steely Dan song Cousin Dupree) but I also sang – and still do on road trips with or without passengers. They can always get out and hitchhike. I was on road again to the South West last week heading to a judo course for helping elderly and injured people minimise the effects of falling over. I found myself singing my usual anthem by Roger Alan Wade. It sums up a lot of my philosophy and life: “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough. If you get knocked down you better get back up.”

See you down the road.

My mind is like a tour bus on a day trip to the seaside with noisy passengers. There are expectations, a route and a destination. Circumstances might dictate a detour and delays. Questions arise. Who decides which way to go? The passengers have opinions, the driver decides which gear to use and to steer left or right at each turn. Others disagree, making complaints without alternate solutions. Unreasonable demands to stop the bus immediately for comfort breaks will add time to the trip. “Drive faster…the trip is ruined…might as well go home…” are whispers and shouts, equally distracting.

There is always traffic ahead. Should the driver listen? Discuss the options, or follow the itinerary? Put the head phones on? The voices continue. “Who hired this driver anyway? He’s an idiot.”

I dream a lot, make plans and set off down the road with the best of intentions. Before the first turn the list of things that should have been done before leaving gets mentioned. Was this vital thing packed? What if xyz happens? The driver reminds the passengers that the checklist was done already and starts the music. Paraglider by Hans Gunther Kolz on loop might just quieten the rowdies, but someone at the front is whispering about next weeks schedule and a voice at the back is suddenly arguing over something that happened last year. An idiot reminds everyone about something not relevant that happened in the 1980’s. The driver steers on, taking in the surroundings, reading the road and enjoying the sunshine. We have to get there, focus on that difficult bridge to the guitar solo as the car with blacked out windows overtakes on the inside. Reality cuts through the noise, albeit briefly, muffling the narrative.

The question of who is driving the bus is a persistent one. A near endless inner narrative overlayed with multiple music tracks expends a lot of energy. Once started the “Whys” become the soundtrack. Laughter from the driver, “Quiet at the back.” Allowing the passengers to make too much noise outside of deliberate planning days is the cause of all the noise.

Exploring this train of thought has reminded me of the formal process that Edward de Bono’s book Six thinking hats identified. I used it for a while when I was a teenager and worth re-visting it now. It’s a good way to reduce the passengers to a committee allowed to present just facts and figures, positive ideas, negative comments, emotional concerns and lateral thinking. The driver pulls it all together to identify the destinations and route.

I have a blueprint of what I want my life to be. The noise, surprises and prevailing circumstances encountered along the way have changed the route but not the destination. It’s worth stopping the bus occasionally to eject some of the passengers that have travelled past their stop. Others might find themselves on the luggage rack with their mouths taped shut.

See you down the road.

Are you influenced by advertising? If you’re not actively resisting, you are. My late friend Fred Barnfield was an artist who spent a lot of time considering such things. His library was full of self help/get rich quick/win friends and influence people books, highbrow tomes on economics, autobiographies of people like PT BARNUM, and titles on the structure of the mind and psychology. He told me once that advertisers aim to get their message to you seven times. After that, they are in your consciousness and if you decide to buy an item it’s more likely you’ll get it from them than a competitor.

Fred’s conclusion was to protect yourself by repeating the phrase “I will not be influenced by advertising” as many times as could be remembered especially during television commercial breaks or whilst walking underneath billboards. I remember to do that occasionally only. I wonder what he would have made of targeted algorithms that feed you repeats of what you have said unguarded next to your mobile phone or searched for on the internet. Comics I read when I was a child are now being hawked to me on social media. Maybe it’s my age and some inclining towards nostalgia. More likely some robot overheard me mention Judge Dredd during an animated conversation on an armwrestling road trip.

Sales and advertising are dark arts. They know about us already and can find out more easily. That smiling sales rep doesn’t bleach their teeth and comb their hair for vanity alone. They are creating an impression and the smoothness of their voice and practiced patter are engineered to put you at ease. “I have what you want, and the price that I’m offering is fantastic – but it will be more tomorrow.” More subtle is the battle to gain your attention by the AI robots. Your attention is the most valuable commodity – advertisers want to get their product in front of your eyes whilst you are engaged in your favourite entertainment. Maybe you won’t buy today or tomorrow but if they can get into your consciousness now, half the sale is done.

Telesales guys and scammers somehow get my number. I don’t buy from them. My polite requests to be taken off the lists don’t seem to work, but adopting the telephone manner of Stone Cold Steve Austin seems to destabilize them. Withheld or unknown number? My answer is a sharp “What?” followed by “Who gave you this damn number?”. Conversations after that don’t last long.

There are a few guidelines to avoid impulse buying. Did I want the thing or service when I woke up this morning? Naturally I believe myself to be rational and logical, so contend that no deal is that good to be outside what I’ve already considered. If I decided already that I want something in some not so distant future and the price becomes right – well that might be different. Only might, because I’m also conscious that this is the chink in the armour. Those pesky robots are squirreling away to understand our motivations and plant their brand into our unconscious minds. An extra layer of rationale might need to be employed. Choices need to made when there are no means of ordering. The resting place in the forest or crowded noisy train might be the places for such considerations. The next day’s opportune moment must be paused. Was this my decision or an influence? The broader concept of how decisions form in the mind will be explored further next week.

See you down the road.

A rare weekend of no action engulfed me with the start of it being breakfast at the sailing club with Angel who, like me is a veteran of the cold water rescue team. It was a perfect day to launch the rowboat – not much wind, strong sunshine – but Angel had to work later and I was scheduled to travel south soon after. We talked for once without applying ourselves to oars or being interrupted by dragging capsized sailors into the safety boat. We made plans for some maintenance on our boats, but otherwise were idle.

Once a year, the family meets. Some decades ago, it was noticed that funerals and weddings were the only occasions that catching up happened and so an annual get together on the first weekend of May was started. Curating a year’s activity into some sort of coherent narrative without dominating the conversation is the challenge. “What have you been up to Dan, still armwrestling?” – yes – “Still working on the channel swimming boats?” – no. I mention Judo, tell tales of the Claymore throwing around circus dumbells. It doesn’t hold much interest to those who play tennis and golf and yoga. My usual jibe that chasing after a ball is entertainment for dogs has been said previously and if I’m honest they didn’t find it funny then. Tales of the woods are a bit more well received. I deferred from the after dinner walk for a heartening talk with Aunt Sally who is 80 and full of enthusiasm and plans.

We eventually all went our separate ways back to lodgings or on the road to the different parts of the country that we live in. That night, full of dinner and not at all tired from any sort of exertion I woke in the early hours and found it hard to get back to sleep. Surprising, given my habit of falling asleep anywhere at any time of day no matter how much noise is going on around me. I have slept in a hotel under an open window, sunshine pouring in whilst outside a funfair operated. The car park was being attacked by workmen with pneumatic hammers. Such things do not bother me. Weddings are a danger. I try to find a seat behind a pillar or at the back. I have been rudely woken with a sharp elbow in the ribs during a particularly long service. “You fell asleep.” My shrug and lack of concern was met with the further whispered statement “and you were snoring.” It’s not just the clergy that send me off. I have paid for interesting courses and had to stand at the back of the room so as not to sleep through the instruction. Theatre trips and cinemas equally lead to slumber.

In the dark, a thousand thoughts and scenarios can play out with nothing achieved. The endless inner narrative has to be directed. I used the time awake to plan the next few weeks of training. 16 hours of one thing, 3 hours another. Plenty of movement, don’t forget the recovery. Don’t get tempted to compete here or there, stick to the plan. Stop eating so much. All decided before dawn. The journey home on the motorway did not require me to drive. I slept of course.

See you down the road.