The city where I was born was full of alley ways, one was three doors down and it was like a secret route to two other places. It was always a bit mysterious, a place where teenage ne’er do wells hung out in the early evening and who knows what went on after dark. In my late teens I ran a lot and sometimes played a game of running the alleyways – one side of the city to the other. Running down a main road for more than a hundred meters was prohibited. Maps had to be consulted and I found a whole network of unexplored short cuts. I got to see a lot of strange sites – dumped tyres behind the car factory hidden by a few years bramble and nettle growth windows of wilderness unknown to most citizens passing in their droves just a few meters away. Flights of stairs leading to apparently nowhere. Steep paths connecting dead end roads to expansive parks via ill kept mud tracks. A century ago, town planners did not consider mass ownership of motor cars and glue was something used to repair things, not for errant teenagers to pour into bags to sniff.

I didn’t really have a name for what these spaces were part of until I read “Edgelands” by Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts. Edgelands poetically describes small places that exist between wilderness and urban landscapes and whilst it is part of my consciousness which I rediscovered again today on a rainy cycle ride.

I’d decided to go to a not often visited park with exercise equipment. I can always find some useful exercise to do whether working on a boat, living in the city, at the coast or in the countryside. I have a scrapyard gym, often idle whilst I go through park exercise phases. I decided to have a meander through some back alleyways in the vicinity I had not explored before today on the way. I got instantly distracted by the stark architecture of rough block walls erected to keep out night time marauders, the secret gates, dead ends and endless rubbish strewn stretches. A rabbit darted out, or maybe it was an escaped guinea pig – I didn’t see the front end, it moved differently from the ones I regularly see in the woods. Far from being unexplored the paths were well trod and at one point I followed a procession of parents and pupils making their way to the local school. Some children were excited, a few dragged their heels. One was groaning theatrically and I remember having that very same enthusiasm myself at that age.

The rain got heavier. Daydreaming had affected my internal navigation circuit and after what seemed like a long time, I found myself back on a familiar road albeit in completely the wrong place. I decided that the pilgrimage to the exercise equipment was for another day and rejoined a usual route to a park nearer home. I did my drills alone in the rain, which of course stopped once I got home. I shall get the maps out. There are more Edgelands Micro adventures to be had.

See you down the road.

För någon vecka sedan delade polisen i Huddinge ett inlägg på Facebook där en kommunpolis vid namn Anna förklarade varför polisen besöker gym för att i förebyggande syfte motverka dopning. Dopning korrelerar med våldsbrott, menade hon, vilket exemplifierades med ett mord som hände 2006 då en 27-årig man under påverkan av anabola steroider och alkohol högg ihjäl sin 12-åriga dotter och våldtog hennes 13-åriga kompis. Där och då sågs dopningen som den primära orsaken till vansinnesdådet.

Merparten av de 284 kommentarerna som Facebookinlägget fick präglades av diverse apologier för anabola steroider och fördömande av polisiära insatser, i den ordningen. Det påpekades att det inte alls var steroiderna som fick 27-åringen att mörda och våldta, utan en kombination av alkohol och andra preparat. Därtill var det flera som framförde åsikten att eftersom alkohol är betydligt farligare än anabola steroider, så bör steroider legaliseras.

Det är den sista meningen jag vill bemöta här. Jag förstår hur man kan komma till den slutsatsen, men det är en rejäl tankevurpa, oavsett hur drogliberal man än är. Även om alkohol i vissa studier rankas som den sammantaget mest skadliga drogen, så kan dopning leda till väldigt skadliga biverkningar. Att hävda att en farlig sak bör legaliseras på grund av att en annan farlig sak redan är laglig är ett urbota korkat resonemang. För att dra det till sin spets: det är betydligt mindre farligt att urinera på ett elstängsel än att bada med en brödrost, men det betyder inte att vi då bör pinka på strömförande stängsel.

Every Friday when I was a child there was a lawyer who took questions on a radio show and though too young to understand many of the subjects that were discussed I appreciated the humour and turn of phrase that he used to use. The most memorable was a listener enquiring whether she should consider sueing her childs school for an injury incurred whilst playing conkers in the playground. Conkers, for those not familiar, was a popular game where horse chestnuts were drilled, put on strings and each player would hit the others conker in turn until one broke. Totals were added up and you claimed the total of the conker you broke for yourself. Some baked theirs in the oven, soaked them in vinegar and there were playground rumours of outer shells carefully split and used to cast inners of concrete. Such were the tales of nine year old boys.

I remember the lawyers response. “If we’re not careful, all this litigation for minor injuries is going to kill education. Perhaps the chair will be outlawed incase someone falls off it. Paper cuts mean the end of books. Pencils can be sharp and cause injury. Do we want the situation where we send our children to school and all they get as education is to sit on the floor whilst someone tells them sad stories of how the king died?” He continued pontificating and advised – as he often did – that it was one of those things that should be put down to “Life’s rich tapestry.”

I thought about this driving home from the airport this morning before dawn having taken two armwrestling referees there after the weekends events. On Saturday we had hosted the Warzone season final where a belt was awarded to a young man resembling the Batman villain Bane who gained more points than anyone else. Chopper, who I have mentioned before was in the running along with another giant chap – they ultimately did not manage to overcome Bane but the battles were great and the progression of those involved in the season was heartening.

Sunday was less successful. A trial event excluding the usual competitors was hosted and whilst the suggestion was that it would be popular to give some chance to the newer less experienced, the reality was just six entrants. I put on the best tournament I could for them – the medallists had to gain 15 wins which resulted in 120 matches over both arms. From a resource and logistics point of view, it cannot be seen as a success. It’s a non profit making association, so it is possible to try out new ideas and see if they are popular or unworkable. I was pleased for the two winners – their wins added to previous performances qualified them for promotion. One man lost all but two of his matches – but those two wins were everything. Something came together and he took advantage of his best attributes against more able opponents who were getting jaded. So there were positives to cling to. I can’t say it was successful – but as the radio lawyer reminded often, it can be put down to life’s rich tapestry.

See you down the road.

Sherharazade’s Genie of the lamp was very similar to the dreaded algorithm in that it granted wishes literally. Neither are able to recognise irony, sarcasm, humour or drunken rambling. Most of us overlay a colloquial language upon our intentions which genies and algorithmic robots also do not understand. Is it any wonder that heroic adventurers have comedic mishaps and the algorithm feeds us adverts for unwanted products?

Before school age physical toy cars, building bricks, action figures and books with big pictures occupied my attention. Later the toys became more complex, whilst science fiction stories, historical accounts and the folklore and mythology of the British isles were the reading choices. Television was a background distraction that was considered the great evil of it’s day.

It did not stop us from wanting more of it.
The first computer the primary school had was presented as a thing of wonder. When my class got its turn to play with it, I was not impressed. Typing code to wake it up and then using arrow buttons to make an outline face with dots of various colours seemed to me to be far more effort than achieving the same result with paper and a few pencils in much less time. I recall aged 10 saying that computers would never catch on, and had much the same opinion in the following decade when the early version of what someone told me when desktop publishing and the information super highway were mooted as being the future.

The early version of the internet that I interacted with at the library did not impress me much either. In a few years it would take my attention for a few hours a week. Now it’s probably a few hours a day. I often share the frustration with the internet that James Caan’s character had with the super computer in the film Rollerball. It’s too clever, and it doesn’t work how it should.

Idling the day away on the internet is entirely possible without any penalty, therein being subjected to a torrent of unwanted advertising and feed that is curated for us.

It’s more important than ever to identify deliberate intentions honestly if we are going to fight the influence of the algorhithm. Plan how they will be achieved. The algorithm will hear you. Acknowledge that whilst the distractions it suggests maybe passing interests there is a time cost in pursuing them. Is it worth it? Click the x on ads where possible, mute the ringtone and message alerts for the daily drivel and don’t impulse buy anything no matter how good the deal looks.

Maybe treat the algorithm with the distain you would a travelling salesman who knocks your door ignoring the sign that requests they pass by. Further, don’t limit yourself into the linear thinking pattern that is becoming fashionable. “If this happens, I’ll do that,” is algorhithm thinking and too shallow for everyday life. The threads of possibility are too numerous to have a complete plan for – many challenges need flexible solutions. I like to allow ideas to roll around for a while and set aside quiet time (solo road trips are ideal) for deliberate decision making. Most importantly, all the idling should lead to intentional action. If it doesn’t, then it’s time to make some changes.

See you down the road.

An epheral entity watches. It’s misty fingers stretch out toward us searching for the barest hint of an intention. It listens to our whispered ambitions, reads directions over our shoulder and in an attempt to fulfil (or maybe destroy our purpose) it amplifies our words back at us, louder and more defined. Interruption, distraction, attention. This is no graveyard wraith or will ‘o’ the wisp of legend. Bought to life by a coding nerd, the dreaded algorithm has been released into the wild. As a linear thinking tool it appears to promise freedom and choices. It offers a solution to a problem that it identified you have and offers a solution usually by advertisement or at least by directing your attention to something else which may lead to a sale further on.

Stage magicians use misdirection. The biography and autobiography of Harry Houdini and PT Barnum respectively are good reference guides to illustrate the point – they created mass media attention in a world before the conception of digital and even analogue broadcast technologies. I wonder what they would make of the capabilities of the modern age, Barnum would have a paywall and be a master of click bait whilst 10 second reels of Houdini’s impossible looking escapes would provide the intrigue that he knew would sell more tickets. They understood the importance of attention and how to turn it into a lucrative living.

A self audit of where our attention goes and what it gains in return will reveal that most of us are not so slick. I am continually interrupted and distracted because I have allowed myself to become part of the system that demands attention. The messaging systems of the past – a knock at the door, a slip of paper delivered through the letterbox or the ring of the house wired telephone were easily ignored if out and about doing something productive. Now we take our telephones with us, use them in place of our common sense and rely on them to do jobs that don’t need doing for the most part. I wanted that from an early age, idling in front of the television watching Star Trek. When James T Kirk pulled what we now call a flip phone out of his pocket to be transported back to the safety of his spaceship, I wanted one. Imagine Kirk creeping through an underground city looking for ways to eliminate an out of control mining machine. The communicate beeps it’s 3 pulses, he pulls it out and answers in a whisper to hear “Mr Kirk, I’m calling you today about your social housing provider and offering…” You get the idea.

Our attention has monetary value. If it is not the hourly rate for services rendered or a benefit to how we want to live our life, it is more likely to end up being potential sales to a retailer. Social media is the gateway to a shopping channel. Liken it to walking round an open air market on a sunny day with a pocketful of money and no particular intention to buy. Chances are if you stay long enough you will make a purchase.

Can we fight the invisible hand of the algorithm? Now we know who to fight, we need a strategy. Keep your hands in your pockets for another week. I’m going to explore this idea further next time.

See you down the road.

The battle in the garden over the bird feeder is significant in that too many factions were fighting over the same resource. The small birds don’t eat all the food – they drop a lot of it and so other wildlife comes along to take advantage of the harvest. Fat pigeons – some almost as large as chickens – inhabit a tree in a neighbouring garden and they visit regularly. This delights the local cats and foxes who occasionally prosper from their lacklustre short flights. The squirrels auditioned for their own personal supply by making a nuisance of themselves with acrobatic displays, launching from the bike shed and hedge. Beneath them all, the rats decided to mark their own territory.

In the big empty clay pot beneath the feeder the old grizzled rat with part of his tail missing spent a good part of his day, vacuuming up what was dropped by the birds. I speculated that an alliance of sorts existed as a robin seemed to be deliberately dropping seed downwards on numerous occasions. The magpie too, trying to hover displaced a lot. The squirrel, deciding another assault up the greasy pole was a better use of energy than the frantic leaps decided to step onto the pot for easier access and that’s when the fight started. The big old rat leapt upwards and the squirrel, performing a back flip to escape landed, paused and took stock. The rat has skinny little legs, whist the squirrel is the bodybuilder of the garden with great musculature. I imagine he thought this out too as he went back for a second dose much like the drunken fool on a Friday night who has just been ejected from the night club by the retired ex boxer. In similar circumstances the squirrel was again repelled and departed looking somewhat offended. It’s not just muscle and conditioning that makes a fighter, courage and controlled aggression play a part. Quick reactions and big dirty teeth likely were factors in this instance.

It was decided that a separate squirrel feeder be installed and this was initially put on the bike shed launch point with the idea that the squirrel would find it much easier to access his own food rather than risk the flight across to it. The rat liked this option too and it was amusing to watch the rat climb inside with squirrel outside – now the tables were turned and every time the rat stuck his head out he was attacked.

The way my mind ponders over such things in a span of a few days between other more pressing concerns amused me. There are no hurt feelings report forms to be filled out and no ethics committee to read them. Survival of the fittest and all that. I kind of built the rat up to be the king of the garden giving him a Bob Menery style dialogue. “Hey muscle head, get out of my pot.”

That narrative ended one morning when I saw the fox carrying the big rat away. “My gang will get you,” might have been the rat’s last words whilst the squirrel sitting atop the feeder eating a nut with a “yeah, whatever.”

See you down the road.

Most can agree that doing some exercise is better than doing nothing. Sure, there are the memes about tortoises living hundreds of years and fast little mayflies lasting only a day. Humans are not reptiles or insects. When we buy used vehicles the odometer count and state of the engine are better indicators of value than date of manufacture. Humans are not machines either.

Good luck finding an athlete, exercise enthusiast or manual labourer over thirty who does not have experience of trauma and injury. Those sitting around all day fare little better – the temptations of the office biscuit tin or the slow death comforts of working at home can overwhelm the best dietary intentions. Chronic health conditions from sedentary lifestyles are no less serious. Freedom and choices.

Maths scribbled on the back of an envelope in my late teens tried to work out the average heart rate of an untrained person over a lifetime of inactivity. I wondered whether all the extra heartbeats forced from effort and exercise merely used up the available work capacity. Many high performers eventually die of the side effects of pain killer addiction. Around the same time a farmer declared his theory that everyone was born with cancer – some die in childhood, whilst others would live past 120 years before it killed them – usually something else intervenes before that. How long have we got? I concluded there probably wasn’t any difference except for experience lived. Would I rather be a lounge lizard or an active participant? I chose the latter. Every day the choice to continue or stop is there in one form or another.

Injuries suck. I have spent an amazing amount of time trying to build strength and conditioning. Progressive overload is not linear. It occurs in waves with plenty of plateaus and troughs. The contributing factors of nutrition, rest, recovery and environmental stimulus are not easily identified. At some point the load will exceed the capacity of the body’s performance. Injury or accident stops the progress. Then the battle becomes rehabilitation and the science of rebuilding something damaged. On restarting the question becomes one of handling the same or a reduced work load . That battle never ends. Rehab becomes prehab and after a while progress is made until another setback occurs. It’s a constant cycle between the two. Who knows what is enough until they have experienced too much?

Last week drilling holes through steel and concrete in an awkward position required some prolonged effort. I inflamed a long standing injury and regressed it somewhat. By how much I have not yet fully determined. I had an hour of self doubt. Is this it? Is the road running out?. What needs to be done to continue? Is continuing an option?

I’ve rebuilt many times and on each occasion I’ve lost and gained something. My narrative of physical culture requires persistence. When choices are fall forwards or stop, onwards it must be. There is no stop. I know the road runs out eventually. Alternate routes in the dark might end over a cliff. It doesn’t matter. Maybe the drop isn’t that far and vague hope for a soft landing will override the danger. Besides, rehab is fun and a real achievement when the pain subsides. It’s a mindset. Physical culture transcends any specific activity.

See you down the road.

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.