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.

“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.

I never got to see the Camberwell Werewolf, despite travelling in that vicinity regularly for a few years, mostly after dark. It was a vague preposterous tale, a throwback of a bygone age that appeared in a national newspaper’s weird news section. I’m not saying I believe it, but I like the possibility. I’ve always read books on mythology and for a year or so mounted my own expeditions to swim in lakes where monsters were said to haunt. It was a worthwhile pursuit which led to some unexpected encounters. Stories for another day certainly. I eventually realised that every exotic location is someone’s backyard. Understanding that gave more appreciation to my own locality.

Are urban legends and folklore more or less prolific now with the internet? There is more opportunity, but less wonder. A book can sit on a shelf brooding moodily for many years. Typed accounts on electronic screens have less gravity, whilst the influencers video monologue is no substitute for romance told on a road trip or a fireside tale under the stars.

Whatever thoughts that concerned me whilst sawing up deadfall in the woods this week were interrupted and quickly forgotten by a large stag that crashed about and bellowed its territorial claim about thirty meters away. It had a voice like no other and it did the rounds for a while. I’d never seen such a magnificent beast in the flesh before, but familiarity from books, magazines and films meant that whilst novel, it was not fantastic or incredible. It was no less impressive. Had it been twice the size, blue with fire coming out of its nostrils – maybe that would have alarmed me. Or maybe not. I hunted the Loch Ness monster afterall, and like the woodsmen of the fairy tales, big bad wolves, witches and dragons do not stop the work progressing for long.

Just as the exotic to one person is familiar to another, normal behaviour varies considerably. I have for many decades enjoyed exercise wherever I happened to be – and I care little for how ridiculous it might appear, though I suspect my pursuit of physical culture has made others incredulous about seeing me in my natural habitat.

I have swam to the opposite side of a lake early on a winters morning to deliberately make barefoot tracks on virgin snow for the dog walkers to find. At the same location on a misty night I was mistaken for a ghost by an inebriated friend who watched me exit and walked nervously to me and put his hand on my shoulder to prove to himself that he was not hallucinating. I also swam underwater some distance to appear in front of a man practicing bagpipes by the lakeside and broke ice with my head from underneath on other occasions.

My recent habit these past few years, especially on winter nights is to perform slow mobility drills around the local graveyard in insulated coveralls. The bell ringers practice whilst I duck walk and bear crawl around the war memorial. Are those statues moving? Does the crow call out “Dan?” A disturbed wood pigeon might flutter unexpectedly, bats fly about looking for moths. An owl hoots and passes overhead as my hot breath permeates the cold night air. If the watchers are watching they are having a time of it. Most of the dog walkers and late night drinkers ignore me. Maybe they are all reading Max Styrka on their phone screens or more likely are pretending not to notice.

See you down the road.

I read the Saga of Grettir the Strong around twenty-eight years ago. I was an aspiring strongman with a love of mythology. I’d been injured badly when I was 13, recovered and was still on the up with plenty of hope and ambition. It’s no spoiler to reveal that Grettir wasn’t the easiest to get on with. This, combined with his great physical ability made for challenging circumstances. Well, I can identify with that. Grettir’s great strength declined after fighting one monster too many. Despite still being a formidable specimen, he hankered after the strength he once had. I’d hoped – and still hope – for a different experience in my later years.

In similar mythology Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s son Oisin returned to Ireland from a visit to the Land of the Young. There are various versions, but in the one I like best he’d stopped on the island for a feast as respite from fog and stayed three nights. Back home three hundred years passed. In a series of adventures as an old man, he found everyone else to be weaklings, despite himself much diminished from his prime years. I’m getting older and things hurt when I wake. The inner narrative that castigates for not training harder also criticises not taking recovery seriously. Always some conflict within.

The ongoing work of dealing with storm damage in the woods continued this week. Up and down the ladder like a fiddler’s elbow, sawing, carrying, dragging, piling. I used to be fitter. I thought of Grettir as I took some moments to catch my breath. Is that me now, managing decline?

From the corner of my eye, I sensed movement. The play of light at a distance, the odd deer stalking about. Or a watcher? “Don’t look directly,” but I did and broke the spell. “I saw you,” I said out loud, laughing to myself at the space where nothing was.

A nearby dead tree had its highest branches four or five metres up ready to drop. It became next on my list to be lopped. Leaning on the trunk to remove a thorn from my boot there was movement. I smiled, braced my shoulder against the bark, set my legs into the earth and pushed. It moved a little. I drove forwards again; movement, then resistance before the rotten roots cracked and over it went. I hope the watchers were impressed.

Worrying about what can’t be done is unproductive. I’m maximising what I can do efficiently and make improvements where I find them. Vaguely thinking these thoughts as I piled the deadfall, a large herd of deer ran through the woods at a reasonable distance to avoid me. They disturbed a fox who I saw only fleetingly. The resident young male deer trotted through some minutes behind the pack passing much closer. I shouldn’t be surprised – we meet often enough. He paused to inspect my work. I noted that his antlers were coming on nicely before he sped away. I was a little jealous. I will run again, I mused.

The woods are looking brighter and cleaner. Bluebells are now a purple carpet and the work of organizing deadfall into habitats is paying off. Brambles stretch upwards to snag shins & knees. Presently ferns will uncurl and change the whole vista. Winter storm carnage is over and that big bird of prey circling above me today definitely wasn’t a vulture.

What else to do when fuel prices spiral upwards daily than take your friends on a long road trip? Odin and Chopper drove 325km to meet me, and continued 455km as passengers. Atom Bomb had been on night shift and decided to meet us there and ride back. It being a holiday weekend, traffic was heavy. Plenty of time for stories, gossip and plans. I recounted recently hitting the back of my head with a wooden training mace whilst trying to copy the IRON SHEIK’s Persian club challenge. This, like many other mishaps kept us entertained.

Our destination: Hostile Strength, run by Martin Lennox, is strongman paradise. Historic heavy kit used for famous world records and everything for this generation to chase them lives here. It was our venue for an episode of the PAA Warzone Road Warrior League. In October, the points winner of all the events will take home the 2026 belt.

The Dragon prevailed over all opposition gaining 15 pins for each arm. He came to help referee but got enthused & decided to enter. Previous winner of this event Claymore also came to referee. Martin had a surprise for him– a 100kg circus dumbbell with a 60mm handle that had been recently obtained. No one had yet managed to lift it – could our giant referee? Yes, he could. There’s talk of a 120kg arriving soon – will he lift that? We shall see.

The action was intense. Hostile is my favourite trip of the year. Next morning over breakfast Atom Bomb was incredulous when I mentioned the plan before returning – a short tournament between the four of us (1 pull each arm) to determine the King of the Road. It’s become something of a tradition on such trips in one form or another. His reaction was less than favourable, Odin and Chopper found this hilarious. It took some cajoling to get him at least to drive the bus whilst we fought it out on a predetermined route on the deserted estate. He didn’t make emergency stops in like I have in the past, though the roundabouts did provide some extra challenge.

Chopper won (we named him King of the Road,) Odin won Silver, I came last. Suitably amused we made our way home. Atom Bomb demanded cider to get over the trauma – we found the only service station in Scotland not to have any despite a vague belief that “even churches sell cider in Scotland.” We got some later and he tried to sleep whilst we continued our usual banter and stories. “For someone with a good memory you forget you’ve told me that seventeen times” he noted at one point, trying to block it all out.

Between us all there were moments of quiet reflection – the landscape of Scotland is worth that. There was wild speculation about spaceships, thoughts of what lie in the deep oceans and a revelation: Chopper inadvertently admitted he is the “Phantom braker of the M4” – or at least one of them – there may be more. It’s an urban motorway legend of at least 20 years standing that a joker randomly drives along the motorway and without warning brakes sharply. The butterfly effect follows that several kilometres further on traffic comes to a standstill.

A pressing question is will Atom Bomb travel with us again? We have plans for a few weeks. He said he’ll likely take his own vehicle.

See you down the road.

Cooking was not something that I thought highly of when I was a child. Eating, that was another matter but the corelation between the two was not obvious to me until later. I spent many Saturday mornings at my Nan’s house marvelling at the food she produced. Better than any restaurant then or since. Conversely, my mum was not a fan, just as I wasn’t that keen on hers. Anecdotally I think there is some resonance between the generations either side of a parent. Anyway, I was largely disinterested in the process and at school when we had to do such things I was hostile to it. That all changed when I left home and found that microwave meals were too small and not all that good.

My nan, a former schoolteacher had realised my reluctance to engage early on so taught me by stealth. “Come and tell me what you’ve been doing while I’m in the kitchen,” she would say. I got asked to pass ingredients, stir pots and she would interject here and there why she was putting mustard in the cheese sauce or why onions and capsicums were best fried before browning the meat. Oblivious, I talked about my plans to become a strongman or join the military or whatever and it was years later that I realised what I’d learned and when.

It’s served me well. I can knock up decent meals and not just for myself: the most I have ever fed is 86. This was at a youth camp and over an open fire too. It’s that time of year again when I travel for a few days to an activity centre to cook for a similar group of young people, just about 35 this time though. It’s three meals a day plus snacks and the washing up can be overwhelming. Away from my usual activities, I do some calisthenics and isometrics after dark and early mornings and usually plan what’s next training wise. It’s a bit of a reset. Those I’m feeding are oblivious to this – to them, I’m just the cook.

It always makes me smile because on the charter boat that I used to work on we escorted English Channel Swimmers and I had a number of duties – steering the boat across the shipping lanes on the return trip at night was one of them, swimming or kayaking in with the finishing swimmers was another. There were a few occasions where I had to put the wet gear on and go underneath to cut rope or nets off the propellers. There were moments of imminent danger and I have stood on the deck with a tyre iron or other implement, ready to repel borders. More mundane but no less enjoyable I cooked a full English Breakfast each morning and often an evening meal too. It can be challenging when a tanker goes past at 15 knots and the boat climbs over the bow wave. A knee has held the grill pan in place and beans were being stirred whilst the other hand danced between two fry pans with eggs, bacon and tomatoes in. Banana pancakes at 1am was a speciality. It was a strange sort of job and I told the story of it again to my mate Chris who is the smiling killer who runs the café at a neighbouring judo club. We reflected that we could both use the line from Steven Seagall’s film UNDER SIEGE – “I’m just the cook.”

See you down the road.

Dragging the lump of tree through the woods was hard enough but brambles and briars pulling at my ankles gave some extra hinderance. My general strategy for manual labour is to move slowly with a big load, rather than make several smaller journeys. Another tug at the ankle made me think of dark horror movies where hands come out of the ground to pull the living into the soil. “I won’t go without a fight,” I thought with a wry smile.

Working alone does this to you. Imagination fills the woods with magic, mysteries and wild thoughts. Woodpeckers sound like the Predator, “It’s in the trees,” said Billy (in the film) and looking at the amount of deadfall the idea of a 140kg monster marauding around the tree tops doesn’t seem so farfetched. I look up wistfully, gripping the boat hook, the silky saw sheathed – for now. I know a few monsters actually, though they tend to frequent other localities.

Falkirk in Scotland a few days later was one such place – with Mantas Daunekis and CLAYMORE James Stewart being the monsters starring in the main event of ARMGODS Battle of the Pipes. I would guess they weigh 300kg between them and need no makeup to star in horror movies. I’ve gripped up (and lost) to both of them, so have an appreciation of their abilities. ARMGODS are an armwrestling promotion run by Paul Maiden. We’re friends and occasionally I pull, more often I’m the Wrangler (rounding up the pullers to be in the right place for the continuity of the broadcast) or referee. This time I was commentator. Mantas and Jim had a great scrap. I spoke to both after. Obviously, the winner was delighted, the loser less so, though reflective of how next time will be better. The eleven other matches had their own charm for other reasons and I enjoyed them all.

The next morning, I made my way to Edinburgh to a Scottish Judo Veterans training session. On the way I stopped by a section of the Antonine Wall built by the Romans in their conquest of Britain to repel the Scots. I can appreciate their reasoning I thought to myself many hours and bruises later. I learned a lot from them and they are certainly tough. Whilst strolling alongside a riverbank in the sunshine, I reflected on the battles of the weekend and marvelled at the landscape, the building of the wall and a dozen other things. Giant rocks lined the path and I thought about having a go at lifting some like friends do elsewhere. Another time maybe.

A day later, back home to normality and the Monday night session. The judo club had a visitor – Yoko Tanabe, one of the most decorated Judo players ever – came to run a session. I’m lucky. I just keep turning up to things, take the bumps and wonderful things happen. As I type I’m tired and lots of things ache. It seems unthinkable that in just over an hour it will be time to join the class and do it all again.

But I will.

See you down the road.

Twenty-seven years ago I was having fun in the heats of the UK Strongest Man competition where I was strong enough to move the kit about but never near to qualifying for the afternoon sessions. The best battled for a place in the finals to be held elsewhere. Britains Strongest Man on at the same time was a higher level – I was nowhere in that league, but some of the UKSM guys were in both and I knew a few of them. One who I didn’t know who was there was Bob. Bob trained with some of the big names of the time and noticed the guy with the beard and silly name. Three years ago, at an armwrestling event we got talking and became good friends.

So it was then on the first part of the weekend Max and I went over to his gym to make our attempts at David Horne’s Stones of Strength competition. A good week of training behind us I felt strong and hopeful. Max was less certain. Once there, Bob looked after us very well, his gym has carpet, mirrors, proper weights on racks and well organised machines. Conversely mine is open to the rain, populated by scrap metal, concrete, spider webs and last years leaves. Still, I designed it and it has served me well for many years and open all hours.

We lifted flat discs by our fingertips, later carried them awkwardly and also used Stanley Hamilton’s Hex handle to lift some one handed. Bob, 9 years my senior, outlifted me on everything whilst Max, much younger and lighter had some impressive strength to weight numbers that I couldn’t match. There’s no rivalry– it’s one of those things where we want each other to do well. Talk of times past and strongmen we knew filled the afternoon.

Some contrast then with the second part of the weekend where Stevo, John, Chris and I went to the Veterans Judo training session at the GB headquarters. Much older guys showed us how to be efficient, effective and manage our injuries. John and Chris are almost unbeatable when I fight them: they helped me develop the techniques I have so are mostly immune to them. Stevo has taken worse knocks then me, so stops me falling into laziness with his fighting spirit. What great people I get to train with! We are trying to throw each other on the ground and brutalize once there. It’s codified extreme violence which is very good fun.

“If you wake up in the morning with aches and pains, you at least know you are alive,” said our coach, Alan. I conclude that I am very much alive. I had some very good scraps, got knocked about a bit and did some horrible stuff of my own. Last year when much less damaged, I’d wondered how long I could survive. Now I know I can adapt to it. Sure, there’s a lot I can’t do and I don’t worry about it. Improving what I can do and keeping in mind that every minute that I’m not being thrown, crushed or strangled is a victory means that there are good things to take away from every session.

Back home I’m tired, bruised and ready for another week of training. What else is there to do?

See you down the road.

I listened to some smooth Jazz on the solitary drive North to Preston for a regional armwrestling warzone tournament which was just as well given the time spent stuck in traffic. How do the people who listen to death metal feel under similar circumstances? I imagine it would be stressful. Dave Brubeck, Paul Desmond and Frank Marocco kept me cool whilst the engine was idling.

I met up with 65 other road warriors and we battled for a total of 710 matches to determine the winners – a different system of competition from double elimination. My armwrestling seems to be regressing. Multiple injuries and other training priorities are to blame. If I could pool all the injuries on one side I might have a good arm to tell a story with. As it is things hurt, don’t work and concentration on running the event doesn’t often allow for any sort of preparation or the implementation of even a simple strategy. No matter. I enjoyed the event and the time spent with my friends kept me smiling all the way home. I had to put the shades on. Summer is on the way.

I passed a truck last night parked with the cab curtains closed. The driver had a licence plate of his name on the dashboard and the legend “SOPHIE” in the passenger side. In the following few seconds, I imagined the whole nomad trucker scenario like Kris Krisopherson from CONVOY or Sylvester Stallone from OVER THE TOP and wondered if this is a real thing for this couple. A permanent life on the road going place to place in 2026? Surely you’d have to have an address, a bank account and somewhere for the authorities to send speeding tickets and tax demands to? A post office box maybe, or mail sent care of a freight distribution centre. Nights on the side of the road, truck stops and ferry queues. Part of me could have gone that way, another might have worked permanently on a ship out to sea or on a drilling platform for some of the year.

The nomadic existence is romantic for sure and I’ve been on the far fringe of it, albeit having a storage unit full of junk for three decades and a permanent gym of scrap metal and concrete in my back yard. I’m very comfortable at home so such notions of travelling light with no fixed abode are similar to the office wallahs who fantasise about an unrealistic beach life on their annual fortnight vacation. They return to their concrete jungles for another 50 weeks quietly despising their bosses between turning the pages of the holiday brochures. Or so I imagine.

I had my share of dead end jobs and unfavourable circumstances. Luckily when I was young I heard Jim Morrison’s line from the song CHANGELING that “I’ve never been so broke that I couldn’t leave town,” and took it to heart. I left enough times to end up here. It didn’t provide the sort of wealth most imagine, or the oppression of routine that many have settled for.

I’m home for a fortnight with a few local adventures vaguely planned. The endless rain seems to have abated. Life is good.

See you down the road.

We met at 0610 for the first stage of our roadtrip. Three road warriors – Max, Stevo and l (Dan) set off to take our chances alongside 918 others at the Danish open judo cup in Odense. There was some uncertainty despite resolve as between the three of us we have a fractured shoulder, broken toe and two injured knees. Other ongoing minor injuries need not be mentioned here – such is the nature of our sport.

Car, plane, train, tram and walk got us to the weigh some fourteen hours later. Some of our friends had already arrived and were going through drills. Stevo & Max joined in. I decided that dragging the suitcase from the tramstop was adequate bloodflow for my legs.

Over night I woke often. I travel a lot and it’s usual to wake with the question ”where am l now? ” I dreamed of the podium and ran through strategies many times.

In the morning the first fights of 56 categories over the two days began. I was oldest, fattest and least skilled by my own reckoning. To make up for it I’m strong, brave and stupid. I also have a knack of getting paired with medallists in random draw tournaments and this one was no different. My plans of conquest did not dent the onslaught of the eventual bronze medallist who l met in the first round. A fine specimen quick and agile. He missed his place in the final but got silver in the 2 other categories he fought in.

My second fight was more productive with some reasonable attacks made before eventually getting strangled. No one said it would be easy. This chap went on to be 7th l think. Elsewhere Stevo and Max had similar experiences in having scraps with the podium finishers, of the three of us Max had the longest fight durations.

Others of our team were further ahead of us with wins hard fought for. The team gained two golds, two silvers & a bronze. I cheered loudly, appreciating their efforts. To fight hard and win is the story we all want to tell. I have struggled often to lose. Losses don’t discourage me and they shouldn’t trouble you either.

There are armchair experts who have opined my willingness to travel near and far for little victory to be futile. I laugh at them. The opinions of those too timid to try are not worth listening to. Fall forwards. Get up. That’s what l call progress.

The two day training camp that followed the competition was where a lot of my progress got made. You get to grip up with diverse styles and some of the champions and try things out. Captain of the winning team – a strong man called Ajax – fought a much more advanced version of the style I’m trying to develop. I got to talk to and wrestle him which proved beneficial. The opponents l gripped the following day felt the results of that coaching and l returned home with bruises, aches and triumph. New friends made, things to try, skill to hone and build on.

Stevo and Max have their yellow and purple trophies too. The twists and bumps will plague us when we are concerned again with our domestic utility. It will not deter us. We are road warriors, ever striving for experience and full of plans and hope, coming soon to a town near you.
See you down the road.

Before the age of eleven I cycled a lot with my Dad. Mum was unimpressed. “How far are you taking that boy?” He’d answer: “Never more than 11km.” It wasn’t really a lie. In later years retracing the routes I can confirm we had not been further than 11km in a straight line from home in those first two years. The actual distances travelled were more like 50km and in our last years together it got to around 100.

Dad loved cycling. In the late 1960’s he toured Europe. Leaving no diaries or photos he got as far as Austria at least – as my mum reported when they drove to Halstadt lake for her to swim. He knew where the best cafes and ice cream shops were in remote towns and villages along the way as “he’d been there before on his bicycle.”

Most of our destinations were vague features on the map. I marched on gravel around ruined manor houses, ran around earthworks he called Devils Dyke (actually a disused railway line). We never found where Diamond End was despite searching dozens of times. Some mysteries were never solved. It was real adventure.

There were mishaps. Our lunch box once detached from the rack and was deliberately run over by a malicious driver. On a hot day wearing only shorts I fell into a bed of stinging nettles. Another time I crashed and smashed my knee open. He told me it would seize solid if I stopped pedalling – I triumphantly made it home without stopping. On our last adventure together in 1985 he got run over. That brought home the reality that the road – like the sea – is deadly as well as having a certain romance to it.

We make our own mythology. I’m a road warrior. I’ve blundered into the back end of riots, acted as bodyguard for runners on long distance routes through rough towns, been security for a film crew in London at night and rescued a few crash victims sprawled in the road with the debris of their machines around them. I cycled around Tokyo in rush hour, scared off train muggers and threatened pickpockets in busy foreign cities. I’ve slept rough under bushes, in rail or coach stations, on boat decks, on tarmac under a parked car. I slept fully clothed and booted in a drug hostel, climbed out of a moving truck window to secure a load and guarded a coach from a commando like stowaway who had caused the driver all sorts of problems. I fought the terrain too: Cycling my 64km of the London to Paris triathlon relay I pushed the big gear up the hills in memory of a lost friend and wondered if my Dad had pedalled the same road out of Boulogne as well. I felt sure he had.

I mostly travel alone, sometimes with friends, occasionally with idiots. Each option has downsides and benefits. The narrator from the Monkey TV series dispensed wisdom between the violence: “It is better to travel alone than with a fool – but what might two fools do?”

Next week I’m travelling with two road warriors to Denmark by car, plane, on foot, coach and maybe a train too. There will laughter, adventure and some fighting – the results of which I shall tell on my return.

See you down the road.