Newton, Einstein , Carol Vordemort

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 31:-What was this little fella used for? What was his name? How old is he?

Dear Blog,

Well this is a real treat for you Blog. I’m in a charitable frame of mind. To save you going to the expense and trouble of getting in touch with me to answer to my ‘Photograph Quiz:’ (not that you bother anyway), I thought it would show the generous side of my nature by giving you the answer. How’s about that, then?? His name is Watthey; did you guess correctly?? Sweet little name for such a creature don’t you think. NO WAY. NO, it isn’t and it’s not meant to be. In fact it shows the nasty side of my nature at it’s very worse. I used to use Watthey as a check marker in my run up approach to the steeplechase water jump barrier. Did you get that correct?? Were you close?? When I started running, I was initially interested in steeple chasing. Yes I was stupid in those days! All the advice from event coaches was that you had to have a check marker in the run up to the water jump barrier so that you got your stride length correct and hit the barrier with your best take off leg. Most chasers used a trainer in those far away days of yore. I thought I would be different and that Watthey would be easier to spot amongst a line of trainers. After my first two steeplechases using Watthey I realised what a complete load of bollocks that advice was. Coaches offering such advice had never run a steeplechase. Imagine. You are all running at the barrier in a race, approaching the first water jump barrier. ‘Oh, do please excuse me, old boy, you are getting in my way. I cannot see Watthey. You do happen to be impeding my run up approach, what? Could you just kindly step a little to one side so that I am able to approach the barrier correctly and without hindrance, thereby enabling me to take off on the recommended leg.’ Oh yes. And let me turn this bucket of water into a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Jeroboam. Go back and retake your coaching badge matey boy. It don’t not work like that. Not nohow like. Let me tell you, Blog, because you are so knackered going into that last water jump, you hate everyone and everything. You would like a little rest. A tinsey winsey time out. Two steeplechases in and I hated that bloody check mark so much so that I called it by the thing, or rather the one person, I hated most. The person who almost cocked up my university place. WATTHEY! My old headmaster. I had two conversations with him in my school career. Otherwise I was invisible. The first was a stand up discussion in his study on the final morning(?) of the Christmas term when I was in the fifth form (I learned 20 years later there was a mention of it in the staff room). Where the courage came from I do not know... completely out of character. I had received my school report, and he had written on it ‘Wake up stupid, before it is too late!’ in his large scrawl at the bottom of the page. I had come near the bottom of the class but took exception to this personal comment, which I considered unfair and rude. Uncharacteristically, I went to see him so that I could point out a few facts about his school. I had always come near the bottom of the class in the Christmas Term as the mark for each subject was calculated on the term’s homework marks. I was one of the very, very few pupils who went home for lunch. Most pupils stayed to school dinners and concluded their break by working together on a group home work session ensuring that all got good marks. I did my home work at home at night with no one to help. My parents never had an education of any significance, so they were never in a position to offer assistance. I pointed out this fact to the Head to which he did not react kindly. I knew, come the school exams, everything would come out in the wash. He was not impressed, but his blood pressure was. I was truly terrified, the only thing stopping me fleeing in terror was an impressive piece of advice I’d been given by my uncle a few years before. (Unrepeatable here)  Our next and only other encounter was caused by my indignation at being told at an the upper sixth meeting, that each sixth former was expected to support all school sports teams, that a card of attendance would be issued to pupils which was to be stamped by an appointed staff member who would be in attendance at all games for this sole purpose. Anyone not complying would not receive such a favourable reference as they might otherwise expect when applying for a University place. In those days each sixth former had to write their own letter of application, then the university contacted the school for a reference and you attended an interview if the university were interested in your application. None of this form filling business. I went to see him to offer him my view that I thought his proposal amounted to black mail and I would not be participating in supporting the school teams. His blood pressure took a bit of a battering and his vocal chords suffered not a little. I suspected that an upper sixth pupil was about to feel the cane. Again I was genuinely frightened! In the months that followed our second discussion, I could not understand why I was not being called for any interview at my chosen Universities when most of my form was making visits and being given offers. Although I suspected that I did not quite have the mathematical insight of a Newton, Einstein or a Carol Voldemort, I was a slightly mystified at the total lack of interest. I somewhat belatedly arrived at Cuthbert’s to be questioned by the Principal. Near the start of my interview, I was asked  what my relationship was with my headmaster!!! The B*****d had been as good as his word and had given me a crap reference. Thanks, a thousand time thanks. Hence my lack of respect for my juju doll. If you didn’t know, Blog, Durham is a collegiate university; St. Cuthbert’s is a society there ... college to you!!

I soon gave up the steeplechase as I was always getting injured, as I have mentioned to you in an earlier missive, Blog, my bare footed attempts certainly didn’t help. Can you believe anyone could be so stupid?? Perversely (?), I kept Watthey with me to remind me what teaching was not about. He still sits on my desk in my study. He doesn’t look too bad considering I carved him 40 years ago. I used to like woodwork at school, but in the my second year, I was considered too bright for such mundane activities, Latin would do me far more good, so blogo-blogas-blogat-blogamus-blogatis-blogant  to you Blogare.

If you do bump into my old Head while out doing your weekly shopping Blog, perhaps you will give him my regards and thank him for all he didn’t do for me. Tell him I shall never remain in his debt.  So if you’ll now excuse me, I’ll just unstrap this heavy chip from off my shoulders and go for a trudge!!!

                              Colin

Zatopek

Dear Blog,

I had an e-mail on Thursday which reminded me of my sleeping arrangements in the 60s!! While I was a student, I was always broke (as in not having a lot of money, dear Blog) with only my grant to live on plus what I could earn in the holidays, usually in the mill or as a grounds man for the local authority, though I did dig holes for the electricity board and guard things as a security guard. When I was selected to run for the UAU (English Universities), BUSF (British Universities) or the County, expenses would be paid which would cover travel and accommodation before the race. Very good so far. Travelling from Durham City was no problem as it was on the main London to Newcastle line; but getting back was a buggar! From mid evening on a Saturday to mid day on a Sunday, Durham Railway Station was sucked into a black hole from which nothing emerged, not even a British Railways sandwich. Nowt stopped there, nowt at all. So a return trip was fraught with timetabling problems. How to get back before shut down?? Basically, it was not possible! One of the first book purchases from my grant each year was to buy the great tome of the Railway Timetable¹. I employed two techniques², depending on where the selected race was in the country. In those days as the Beeching axe was poised mid air, the train ticket between two places allowed a selection of routes to be used. If you set off from town A. and ended at town B., you could travel by whatever route you desired. The other thing to remember for the purposes of the next tale, Blog, is that the carriages consisted of individual compartments, sometimes with, sometimes without a corridor. Each compartment had a row of seats on each side with a luggage rack above. The scene is set. Say I was picked to run for BUSF v ECCU v Combined Services, the latter promoting the race. It would entail a trek down to Portsmouth. Now there was no way I was going to return to the North East the same day short of using Dr. Who’s Tardis. And that was not possible because Dr. Who had not yet travelled to the BBC. The police box had only policemen in. It came about purely by chance that on one of my first selection races I ended up stranded on Leeds railway station about midnight. With nowhere to go until the morning train to Durham, I made myself as comfortable as possible on a bench and made ready to pass the next ten hours with as little discomfort as possible. I was shaken awake by a couple of policemen and told to move on. Production of a valid ticket allowed me to remain bench prone until the next patrol disturbed me with the same instruction and outcome. They offered the advice that I should keep all valuables safe from opportunist thieves. The only thing of value was my train ticket. I was a student, Mr Policeman, sir. And not a very rich student, Miss Policewoman.

It wasn’t long before I ended up on the Leeds station again after another selection race. This time I was a little earlier in the evening, but still stuck there ... but for longer! The second hand book stall on the station was still open, so to kill some time, I had a browse. The browse produced Emil Zatopek’s book by Frantisek Kozik (originally 27/6 from Foyles on the inside sticker. I must have paid a bob?).... I didn’t realise at the time what a find it was. Nor twelve months later, did I realise how stupid I was to pass up a chance to meet the great athlete. I was asked to entertain him for an afternoon, but was too shy to take up the offer ... can you believe that? That Blog, is God’s honest truth!!  Six years later I was scheduled to meet the great man again, but this time it was a Communist crackdown the thwarted the meeting. Perfectly true, and I’d taken my book with me to the proposed meeting for him to sign!!!  

The visit from the police that night / morning proved a little more amenable for two reasons. When asked to produce my ticket, still sleepy I couldn’t find it. The policewomen from my last visit recognised me and suggested my shoe, the place she advised the last time for hiding money etc..! I couldn’t believe she could remember me from before. I was impressed. My Cuthbert’s scarf was the giveaway, the same design as her sister’s school scarf!!!! (read next time dear Blog for police coincidence number two and the IRA!!!). And they invited me to the station office used by rail night staff and patrolling police for a cup of tea and biscuits. My cup of tea and biscuits became a regular in the next couple of years. (read next time dearest Blog, when I didn’t quite make it to the Leeds platform)

And for my next book ... the book stall became something to look forward to on my visits to Leeds en route to Durham. It seemed to be open all hours. The books seemed extraordinarily interesting for a second hand stall. W.R.Loader’s ‘Staying the Distance’ was my next bargain buy, a former public library book. Now those of a certain age will remember Tony Hancock’s comical frustration with the missing last page of the novel he was reading... mine was not the missing last page but pages 129 to 144 which were printed twice and the pages 145 to 161 were missing!!! I didn’t realise this until I turned page 144 over after reading the first eight chapters!!!! In pre e-bay days, where to find another copy of an out of print book? That was the sixty three thousand dollar question! It was out of print so it was destined to sit on my book shelves sulking for a number of lonely years. Praise be the Lord for the foresight of someone to think up the idea of a Charity Shop. Again it was before e-bay, but a copy was found sitting miserably in a charity shop. More accurately, sitting in a miserable charity shop. In Pembroke Dock returning from a holiday in Eire. (Me returning from a holiday in Eire not the book returning from a h....) There it was. Waving at me. Here I am Colin, save me from this run down hole in outer Wales. Take me to the bright lights of Coventry. I started to re-read it after I arrived back home. Now does someone up there in the great unknown like taking the p**s out of me or does someone up there in the great unknown like taking the p**s out of me?? Sections of the book had never been cut (separated); can you believe that, Blog? They were still folded as before binding, so pages could not be read! Dilemma. Do I go through the book, slice the pages apart and find out what happened in the novel? Or is someone up there in the great unknown trying to tell me something ... that I should leave the leaves and further search  ... I’m still looking. What did happen after page 144???!!

         So its goodbye to Zatopek, and its goodbye to Loader and its goodbye to Blog, Colin.

*Contain yourself until next time Blog. If I was running a race for which I had entered myself, ditto the above but for ‘train’ read ‘hitch hiking’ and for ‘Leeds Station’ read the ‘London Embankment’!!  I will write to you Blog about this and ref: 1 and ref: 2 in the future if you drop us a quids or two for you know what. What?

Weedon

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 29:- Well as you can see this is not really a photo. What is it? And why Blog it?

A bit more heavy Blog. Weighty stuff and nonsense this, so hold on and take the ride. Lose your grip and bloody your nose.

On Tuesday, I went down to the Weedon 10km road race with my daughter and wife where the former was racing. All three of us have run the hilly course at various times in the past. The Weedon race is another of those local races which attracts a field of 2-300 runners annually despite the course being ‘tough’. It is organised efficiently, results are done quickly and there is plenty of not only homemade cakes on sale before and after the race, but homemade quiche etc.. The race is well known for this unusually phenomenon of athletes queuing for refreshments before the race!! The entry fee is modest and the prizes fair, being presented soon after the last person has crossed the finish line. The run is on open roads, well marshalled with little fuss from local traffic or residents of the village. The entry form and map are available well in advance of the race. It is organised by the local club from the local school. Profits are ploughed back into club and school for community benefit. Monies are raised by the band of organisers from the modest entry fees and the sale of the refreshments which are very moderately priced. The race exemplifies all that is good about our sport. Contrast that with the local city half marathon. The course is far from favourable for the runners and every year causes hassle for the citizens and aggression to the marshals who are paid a moderate fee for their services. I believe the cost to the rate payer has been considerable in past years, the finance coming from various funds within the council budgets to promote healthy living styles  etc.. ‘Invited’ athletes are rewarded, the financial cost of their participation doing nothing to promote or enhance the enjoyment or reputation of the city event. How an entry fee of £25 can be justified is hard to appreciate in these austere times, except to cover the costs and profits of a professional promoter and invited athletes. Of course, many entrants are satisfied with the promotion because they have little experience of comparable athletic events. To most, their experience is judged satisfactory and regarded as the norm, what is to be expected from a running race. To local athletes and athletic officials however, the experience is frustrating. It can be seen that a little tweaking here and there would offer something memorable to the joggers. In the city there are three athletic clubs which promote ten or so races each year with minimum of fuss; a pool of invaluable knowledge and experience of race organisation and promotion. The city council could do worse than switch the organisation of the race to give responsibility to local clubs. Give possession of the event to the citizens. They have staged big races before. They are more than able. With a little lateral thinking the event could become unique. And I mean unique in the true sense of the word. A little idea or two could have athletes clambering for an entry and swelling the field to cause the imposition of a race limit. Still it won’t happen. It will remain a minor parochial Fun Run and while we will be subjected to the annual media hype of the ‘thousands taking part’ kidology. What a wasted opportunity for the city.

There endeth the second lesson.

But the good news is that i have just got another £162 for my charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, thanks Rob. Don’t you think that is great, Blog??

                         Colin

London Olympic Tickets

Fantastic news Blog. Unbelievable .... I am speechless. I am over the moon, the whole of the moon.

Do you want to know the good news first or the bad news. O.K., the good news ... it's incredible. Do you ever believe that someone in that great somewhere does look after your interests?? Well, it is time to boogie. It has been announced that all Olympians will be assured of a pair of tickets to watch their particular event. Can you believe that? Joy. Two tickets to watch your own particular event. Those Olympians from the ’48 Games will get theirs free, the rest of us will have to pay. So? Two tickets. I’ve got wind in my heels, you know how it feels, I am left dumbfounded. Of course, as you may know dear Blog, I ran the marathon in Munich in the 1972 Olympic Games.

Now for the bad news. Somebody is having a laugh ... the bad news is that the marathon in the London Olympic Games starts and finishes on the streets of the big city. It goes nowhere near the stadium. Sooooo, I get two bloody tickets to stand on a drafty street corner of a London street. GREAT!!!             

But then, you never know, I might get an offer I can’t refuse.

                                  Colin

PS Just got another £162 for my charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, thanks Rob.

Arab Spring

Heavy stuff Blog, real heavy,

 I suppose you are as aware as anyone of the ‘Arab spring’, aren’t you Blog? When it all started to gather momentum in Egypt a few weeks back, it reminded me of my brief 15 minute visit to that country. Yes, 15 minutes. Not a flying visit. I trudged in and I trudged out, I kiddle you not. The 6 day war had occurred only a few years previous, spent bullet cartridges and communications wires used by the military still littered some road sides on the West Bank. I travelled by bus down to Eilat a couple of days before Christmas. In those days Eilat had a couple of tourist hotels and not much else; it certainly hadn’t hit the popular package holiday market in any big way. Down the Red Sea coast (Gulf of Aqaba), about two mile or so, Taba was just starting to be developed as a tourist attraction. It was within spitting distance of the Egyptian border. There was little development of any note between Eilat and Taba except for a huge oil terminal and a small camp site with a few tentative businesses tempting the occasional tourist to view the beautiful corals of the sea through the bottom of their glass bottomed boats. The rest was desert; not the sandy desert of the cinema screen but a rough barren rock strewn nothingness of the Sinai Peninsula. Knowing I was camping in the area, an Israeli friend, a high ranking officer in the army, had lent me a military map with my promise that I would show no one. Unlike our O.S. maps, it relied heavily on shading to denote features. The day after pitching tent at the small site, only one other tent erected, I set off on a ‘12’, armed with my map and the sun for a long run through the parched inhospitable landscape to do a loop course which would bring me back out onto the coast, a couple of miles south of the camp site, a mile or two north of the border with Egypt. Well that was the plan. It was Christmas Eve. I returned a friendly wave to the occasional army outposts of the Israeli army, settled comfortably among the barren rocks, settled in their armchairs and shades outside their tents in a conscripted life of boredom. About 90 minutes later I was getting fairly close to the sea when I ran into a much larger army emplacement with plenty of barbed wire and bristling with antennae, much more of what you might expect a professional military post to look like at one of the world’s hot spots. I was not met with the cheery wave of the other posts but a menacing shout and a commanding wave of an automatic weapon. I knew they were not shouting at me in Hebrew. My map did not have a defined border so unwittingly I had strayed into Egyptian territory. I was approaching the border post from inside Egypt!

Surprisingly it took only a couple of minutes to sort out the misunderstanding, to have everyone laughing at my mistake with the surprisingly friendly Egyptian soldiers waving me through to their Israeli counter parts who also thought it some big joke! It did make me wonder about the content of what the newspapers and political commentaries were banging on about back in England when such a relax atmosphere existed on the ground.

That night, sitting on the beach waiting for Christmas Day to dawn, a terrific firework display took place. Impressively, huge fairly candles hung in the sky, lighting the sea and beach as bright as day, large fire crackers exploded in the sky cascading bright red vapour trails into the sea, roman candle-like fireworks whistled and bounced across the water towards the beach. It was all very impressive but unfortunately lasted less than 10 minutes. I did question why a Jewish country should go to such lengths for a Christian festival, given that we were some miles from any Christian shrine of substance which for obvious reasons, were crowded; the number of tourists locally could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

Three days later I went to stay with my friend on his Kibbutz some miles north of Tel Aviv. The question of the relax atmosphere on the border and the Christmas Eve display came up during the course of my stay. With typical Israeli sang-froid, he suggested to me that there was no need for troops on the ground to be concerned about animosities. Everyone in Israel and Egypt wanted a quiet life. Let the press get hot under the collar to sell copy. Let the politicians talk and posture to gain re-election. Life was too short to worry about a stupid tourist getting lost in the desert. I was not lost I told him, it was his daft map. I thanked him and returned his precious map. There is a saying in the country that if you get two Israelis in a room arguing, you will get three points of view! I can easily understand. We agreed to differ! It was the same with the firework display ... in reality it was the Jordanian army in Aqaba setting off ordinance probably because they thought a diver or a windsurfer from the Israeli S.F. had attempted to penetrate their sea space. It was usually a false alarm he told me. The Jordanians were always very jumpy. The Israeli, Jordanian and Saudi Arabian borders all converge in the space of a couple of miles at this point on the globe, so tensions can be ratcheted up quickly if the politicians of any of the countries so wished. My friend pointed out that at trade level, relations were similar to the squadies - laid back; no one wanted trouble when a few shekels were to be made. Israel and Saudi Arabia did not get on politically. On a business footing, trade existed amicably if covertly. Oil for example, was loaded onto tankers in Saudi, sailed a couple of miles into international waters, turned around and docked to discharge in Israel, a direct journey of 4 or 5 miles, a circuitous route of 20 or so miles. International diplomacy was satisfied, oil had been purchased on the spot market, no overt trade went on between the two nations. The extreme political wings in both countries were kept quiet. A similar situation existed between Jordan and Israel who had for a number of years held a joint interest in exploiting the rich mineral content of the Dead Sea; it was in both countries’ interests so why rock the boat.

I always wondered after my stays, why the politicians couldn’t be as openly pragmatic as the citizens of their respective countries. At least the laid back approach of the ordinary soldiery of a few years ago, seems now to have spread to the ordinary populous of many Arab countries and perhaps they might, just perhaps, improve a situation where most politicians have postured and done little else.

     Philosophically yours, Colin.

Virgin London Marathon

  Dear Blog, (Sunday after my recovery snooze)

What trudging did you do this morning, Blog? Did you go out with any other Blogs? Have you any races coming up in the near future. I went out this morning over my hilly ‘10’; I call it ten but it is a bit short and quite frankly, who’s bothered?? Answer ... many joggers and runners are. Well , they are about the accuracy of their own runs, the distance they cover. What a load of cobbles. I have noted before that I can see no point in wearing a garmin to measure what distance you have sweated over. I think it’s as crazy as those joggers who wear a watch in races and then click when they cross the finish line. Instant gratification?? Don’t trjuhst the race organiser and timekeeper?? Don’t want to run too fast in a race?? They never question why they don’t improve radically. Take a chance, take a chance on my advice! It is obvious from what I have just said to you that I do not weigh my left arm down by carting a huge clock around with me. Nor weigh down my right by lugging a drinks bottle along as my comfortor. How do I know how far I have run, then?? Who’s bothered? I’m not and never have been. I have stated to you before, dear Blog, that that was not the way I worked my training. I used to reckon that I ran 140 miles per week for quite a number of years ... 12 miles from Durham to Sunderland in a morning, 12 miles from Sunderland to Durham in the evening, a short sharp 3ish at lunchtime to the local folly on the hill, race Saturday, long run on a Sunday when I contemplated my first marathon race. Years back, I was curious about my estimation of distance, so I measured a few runs ... all were under stated, so my actual mileage must have been a bit more than six score and ten? No wonder then, that I am five inches shorter than when I was eighteen. On the trudge this morning, I was over taken by two cyclists who almost cause a death by shock! I didn’t hear them approach and nearly jumped into the ditch. (OK so I’m going deaf!) They did speak and thought it I looked funny sitting in the ditch. Fair enough! A few minutes later the same thing was repeated but with no comment from the peddler and I avoided the sitting bit! He said nothing to my greeting. Then I met a jogger trundling towards me; he said nothing in reply to my greeting. Then I met another jogger trundling towards me; he said nothing to my greeting. Last Thursday, I was overtaken by a runner from my club; he said nothing. Last Thursday I was overtaken by a group of eight from my club; they said nothing. AM I BLOODY INVISIBLE , BLOG??? Are they scared I will sit them down in front of a computer monitor and force them to read our little correspondence, surf boarding to them must be worse than water boarding? My faith in the club runner was restored however, when one of the runners, off the back, did speak. Thanks N.  I appreciated that.  Near the end of my trudge, one of the local clubs was having a handicap race, the competitors running towards me. Each one, EACH ONE, replied to my words of encouragement. Funny old world. Trudging has been a real pain in the neck this last week. A real pain. Literally. A pain in the neck. I must have strained my neck muscles when I was doing all the scraping, up a ladder two weeks ago while I was decorating.

I was asked why I did not call our correspondence colinkirkhamsvirginlondonmarathontrudge, Blog? Well, if you have the ear of Richard Branson, and he has a few quid notes to spare for charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife, I am sure the Rich and I could come to some mutually satisfactory arrangement. You may give him my telephone number, Blog.  I’ll stay in all week, sat by the phone, just in case. (I don’t have one of those mobility things)

                                             Yours, The invisible Trudger

Joe Bloggs

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 28:- OK OK. A flask is a flask is a flask and nothing but a flask so help me .... But why does this particular flask reflect how out of touch the athletic officials were to the needs of marathon runners in the 1970s???

Well, well, well, Bloggie, you’re a bit of a dark horse aren’t you? A real cool dude? A sheep in fox’s clothing! I went down to the athletic club last night to do some quality interval trudging on the hills around the university, when, in a passing conversation, a fellow trudger mentioned that there were lots of Blogs about. Well, I don’t mind telling you that this came as a bit of a surprise; a bit of a shock to the old thought cortex. Back in January when you wanted to become my friend, you never mentioned that you came from a big family, not that it was of any consequence. You have said nothing about them since either, which considering all the time I have spent telling you about my exciting life, is a bit disrespectful, don’t you think? A bit of a give and take is called for here but you’re giving nowt an’ tekin’ t’all. I hope I am not offending you, if they are not your relatives do forgive me for making that assumption!! Putting the cart before jumping ship? If they are family, do they run? What distance do they do? What standard of trudger are they?? Are they in a trudging club? Are there any little Blogs? I got my daughter to check that 10 Power thing but she couldn’t find a single Blog listed. That Power thing, if you don’t know, is like an eye spy in the sky recording you’re every movement except it’s not in the sky, it’s not an eye and it only records what you do when you do it when you run and then it only records what do when you run if you run fast enough ... which means, a bit of a trudge slips under the radar sort of thing, if you know what I mean. So does that mean that all the Blog family are trudgers like me?? Or do you have the odd jogger or two in the family?? Anyways, we didn’t find a Blog on the 10 Powwow site so I looked in the local telephone directory, and there are no Blogs in there either. It’s Blogless. Does that mean the Blogs are ex-directory? Or does it mean that they do not live in Coventry? Where do they live? In the telephone directory there was Blogg with a ‘gee, gee’ but they own a livery stable near Meriden, which is a one horse town  just outside Coventry. I must confess that I did gogglise you to check the name Blog, Blog. But I drew a bit of a Blog blank. I found a Joe Bloggs, but he seems a bit of an ordinary bloke, just a typical muggle but dressed up to the nines. Perhaps I have misunderstood and like a fool, I assumed that Blog was your last name, your surname. My intentions were good. Is it your first name? If so, what is your family name .... I’ve realised that I don’t know much about you, do I? You are like a latter day nameless Marie Celeste, you are. On the other hand, I may have got everything completely wrong. My mates down the club could be taking the proverbial Michael, taking the piss out of me, do you think?? Taking me to the end of the pier and launching me into the briny? Sending me up the creak with only a paddle? I’m sure they wouldn’t. Or are you unique? The one and only Blog? Now that would be something, wouldn’t it?. ‘I am the one and only ....’

Still sticking with the charities for a bit ... got another £100 last night. So don’t forget, I’m still collecting the odd copper or three for both charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife. I’ll have to close soon or they will think I’ve done a runner .... and we both know I only trudge don’t we Blog!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! There I go again, confiding in you, and do you confide in me????????? Not on your nelly. Lots of questions with no answers. Do I ever ask you a question or two and then never give you an answer?????

                                Colin

To prize or not to prize that is the question.

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. 27:- Why is this medal important? What aspect of racing pre WW1 does it typify? (See article below)

Dear Bloggie,

 I went to the annual Harbourne A.C. ‘5’ mile road race earlier this week (see tomorrow .. if I remember!) to watch my daughter race. We stayed for the presentation afterwards to pick up her award. No disrespect to the other athletes who didn’t turn up to collect their respective prizes as most had to go to work the next day, the travel home making it a long day. As a race organiser, an apology for non appearance at the award ceremony was always appreciated especially if the race sponsor was taking the trouble to dish out the prizes. But it got me thinking. So I found a darkened room. What do other countries do? And why do we give awards at road races. I told you earlier in our little tete-a-tete¹, didn’t I Blog, about the Irish who turn the whole event into a social occasion, free food and drinks being given out to competitors while the result sheet is being compiled. At least that used to be the situation, what it is now with their country’s financial problems, makes me wonder. The point I am trying to make is to question the whole idea of dishing out prizes. It used to be just the first three – plain and simple. Then along came the women. Then along came the Veterans before they metamorphosed into Masters. Then the number of finishers expanded .....  Many of the runners in road races who expect prizes happily compete for their club on the track in league races with no expectation of material reward. Many of the runners in road races compete in open track races with no expectation of reward. Many of the runners in road races compete over the cross country in the winter and get nowt. But get a bit of tarmac between the toes and there is a demand for goodie bags, t-shirts, freebies, prizes for each 5 year vet (sorry Masters) age category .. and woe betide a race organiser who doesn’t recognise the one legged over 90 geriatric age trudger  who for a five mile race takes about 45 minutes to get to the start line before the gun goes for the race! From my researches into the History of Athletic Development if the Coventry City Area I assume it is a quirk of athletic history. In years gone by, in the summer, prizes were given at handicap meeting to attract runners who spent the winter trailing over fields far and wide where  the winning team and individuals usually were awarded with an expensive gold or silver medallion courtesy of the local business man who had a philanthropic interest in the sport. The handicap meetings were mostly attached to fetes and galas; more athletes competing meant longer entertainment for the paying punters at the gate which in turn increased the income/profit for the organisers. Evolution such events meant an increasing number had a road race tacked on for good measure. In the 1960s, with the decline in handicap meetings and the birth of leagues, here there and everywhere, there was no need to give prizes. There was no crowd interest. There was no crowd! The handicap meetings died but the road races continued as a separate entity, soon to cater for the new breed of runner .. the jogger. Each road race organiser now strived for self gratification by trying to attract bigger and bigger fields with the added kudos attained if a classy field could also be sucked in; the latter enticed by cash incentives, first covertly under the table then openly presented. Uniquely, Rowheath Harriers organise a series of three races during the summer with a minimal entry fee and no prizes. The event does not seem to suffer in popularity as a result of such parsimony. It would be interested to see if others might attempt a similar approach although the Park Runs do seem to fulfil that criterion.

                                Colin

Ref: 1. Sorry Blog, I don’t know how to do those funny things that you stick on the word!! Perhaps you could tell me, if you know?

Gerschler, Igloi, Cerutty and Lydiard: Marathon training tip no. 4

 Marathon training tip 4

I call it DOFFMORR. Like many innovative methods of training, it has its origins in the 60s. You, dear Blog, will have heard of Gerschler, Igloi, Cerutty and Lydiard with the different methods they employed to help their charges succeed on the world stage. Well in a backwater of God’s own country, in the backwater of Ingrow, the seeds of DOFFMORR were germinating. It has to be acknowledged that the government’s education policy had not a little to do with the planting of the idea. At the time, much resentment was felt by the youth of the day when the government passed legislation to raise the school leaving age from 14 to 15. The bill was rushed through parliament for obvious reasons giving schools a whole new age group to cater for. Grammar schools were OK as many of this new age grouping stayed on at school after the statuary requirement for leaving anyway. But the Secondary Moderns now had to grapple with an embittered set of kids who wanted just to leave the confines of the punishment block and start to earn money**. In those days, you could leave school on the Friday and walk into a job on the following Monday. So these kids had an axe of non cooperation to grind. And grind it they did. Ask anyone who was teaching in an inner city school at the time. These kids, pupils, students, educational customers call them what you like to be politically  correct, were labelled ROSLA kids; Raising Of the School Leaving Age. Part of the reasoning behind government policy was the need to cope with the baby boom following WW 11. Many ideas were gandered to occupy this clientele for the twelve months, very little of it being constructive for or helpful to the kids.  At my school, the policy was containment, pure and simple; to get them out of school so they couldn’t cause even more disruption and destruction. DOFFMORR, was our answer. Brilliant idea, I kid you not. It helped the kids develop initiative, made them self reliant, helped their skills in geography, honed their mathematical knowledge and most important, few staff were required to supervise. Today, it would be the subject of court proceedings, legal enquires, child abuse prosecutions etc if it were to be repeated now. So. The curriculum for each day went as follows. 9am to 9.30 – registration. 9.40 board the fleet of mini buses. 10.15 drop the pupils off. Where??? Ah, that was the clever bit. The kids were not told where they were to be dropped off. The idea being for them to make their own way back to school, by whatever means they could for registration at 3.45pm. What was even cleverer was the fact that the staff knew that the kids knew that the staff knew that they would not come back to school any way, especially if the drop off point was cunningly design to give easy access to the city centre. And they had a legitimate excuse to be off the premises!!! At 3.45 the register was fiddled and the staff went home. If a kid dared to make it back to school, then the following day was R.D., retribution day for the misguided child!  When all the kids were about to be dropped off, that pupil  was singled out and taken further afield to be deposited in the country side. No buses to catch there. They soon got the idea!!! So what has this to do with DOFMORR, Training Idea No. 4, you may ask???  Well suppose you want a 10 mile session. You get a wife, partner, uncle, aunt, brother. sister, anyone to drive you about 10 miles from home and you make your own way back home. DOFFMORR – Drop OFF, Make Own Return Route, geddit????.  Better if you don’t know the drop off point intimately. Garmins are not allowed as that would spoil the session. No mobiles either but an emergency phone number allowed in case it gets too dark before you die of exposure. Eat your heart out Percy, Woldmar, Arthur and Mihaly, I thought of it first!!!

Still collecting the odd tupenny piece for my two charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife.

**PS. Déjà-vu as they parlays sort of, if you know what I mean ....  Much like today’s workforce being told they have to do an extra couple of years to get their pension entitlement.  

                                            Trudge

Holme Pierrepont National Water Sports Centre

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no 27. Why should a cyclist feature in an athletics blog, Blog?? Who is it?? Who is the official doing the pushing and why was he so important to sport in the Coventry area??

Dear Blog,

Now look here Blog, I can tell you that there is no need to be jealous. Of course I have a few, a very few, friends here, there and everywhere, scattered like chaff around the world, so to speak. If you must know, I have regular mates in New Zealand, France, Germany, Russia, Singapore, Brazil, Ireland, Australia, Norway, Ukraine, China, Belorussia, Denmark, Canada, US, Switzerland, Italy, Israel, India, as well as a couple in the UK! They salivate at the thought of my next blog to you, Blog. My pearls of comfort circum navigate the globe many times before they are washed out to the Sea of Indifference and are lost forever. So don’t go thinking that you are so special, matey boy!

The answers to the May’s quiz are:-

1. No            2. No           3. No            4. No            5. No            6. No           7. No            8. No             9. No            10. Only when you tie your shoe laces with a reef knot and the drinks station runs out of water.

How many did you get right, Blog? Of all the entries I received, there was just one all correct entry. So well done, Mother. Your prize, a cheque for £150, is in the post.

I mentioned in past correspondence to you that I had an outstanding interest in taking part in the Notts ‘10’ (as a past winner). The race is held around the Holme Pierrepont National Water Sports Centre. I was running around there this morning in glorious sunshine and clear blue skies before God started to water his plants. It was only when I had finished my gentle trudge that it was pointed out to me that the race had been held a couple f weeks previously!!! ‘It was in Athletics Weekly’!!! Well some of us don’t read Athletics weekly thank you very much, not since it has started its spiral down into tabloid tittle tattle. The intellectual content is slowly reaching the depths of the 90s publication when readers left the magazine in droves and took out subscriptions to ‘Athletics Today’ which was written by knowledgeable athletic writers with athletes the target readership, not pandering to the mass commercial market, with pseudo product testing and spurious repetitive advice about diet and schedules. Not that I am too concerned about the deterioration except that it does leave an interested athletics reader with little of interest to read. As a kid, we often picnicked below the weir at the Sports Centre; this was years before it was built, sand and gravel extraction occupied the site then, the industry at least leaving a wasteland which Nottinghamshire County Council have done a brilliant job in reclaiming and utilising. If only more local authorities had similar vision. One not a million miles from where I live could take a note or two. I did do a bit of binocularing over the weekend as some interesting birds nest around the lakes. I saw an exciting confrontation between a couple of crows and a heron. Crows are so protective. Any bird that comes near their nesting site, watch out!!! From the garden, I often see crows dive bombing buzzards, the latter continuing to wheel on the thermals only occasionally reacting to one of the attacks.

 Any time you get fed up with me communicating with you Blog, please say so. I don’t want to bore you or waste your time. I am quite happy listening to the grass grow and watch the paint dry, any time. Can’t beat either if you ask me. Not that you ever do!! Still collecting the odd thrupenny bit or two for my two charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife.

                 Sumotmore tomorrow,Colin

UKA

Photograph Quiz:

Photo no. ‘think of a number, double it, add fifty two, divide your answer by two, take away the number you first thought of and your answer is 26 ‘. Try it, it’s true!!!!!!!!!!!!!  My sums at University did have a use after all?

Why did this Godiva Harrier suffer from the ‘cycle crash’? Why did he move South?? What National medals did he win? What world record did he hold? Where is his grave??

Dear Blog,

I have been pretty busy this last couple of weeks as I may have mentioned, hence my neglect in keeping you informed about my interesting life and times!!! So what I have been up to, you are desperate to ask but are too shy? Well, I think I told you I have decorated the staircase which also involves the halls at the top and bottom. This was a mammoth task as the walls were covered in distemper ... not the doggie type but the Victorian covering although the former would have been easier to remove.   How to shift it?????????????? ‘The internet will tell you’ went up the cry! At this point I usually shout out a very rude word which begins with A and ends with S and is nine letters long but because you have had such a cloistered upbringing dear Blog, I shall refrain!! Every ones answer is ‘tinternet’ but like most slightly unusual bits of required information, it was USELESS with a very capital ‘U’. Basically a Stanley blade scrape was the only solution. So six days of damaging my highly sensitive lungs with the dust produced and a constant barrage of abuse for my wife for the mess being produced, I lost my rag a little, even my granddaughter’s stuffed dog covered in the corner! Then I had a considerable amount of plastering to do. As Mike Angelo will tell you, plastering is OK if you have someone to keep stirring the plaster for you .... but if you haven’t, it is bloody hard work, especially when you are climbing up and down ladders. Well, I got that done, then I had the task of fixing the light fitting. An easy task you may think. Well for a normal light fitting you would be perfectly correct in this assumption. But there are light fittings and there are light fittings and this was a light fitting. Half a dozen years ago, we went on an extended camping holiday to Holland. No fixed plans, just a wander round. Now everyone knows that everyone speaks English in Holland, don’t they??? Well everyone is wrong, WRONG. There are basically three types of camp site in Holland. The type we are used to in England, a private farm/field site and a woody type which are a latter-day hippie communes, peace brother, love sister. We ended up at a site which was a cross between the last two. I didn’t see any free love, however. In fact I thought it was quite expensive.  And not an English pidgin in site to talk to. We wos definitely out in de steeks. After a couple of days, I discovered a notice for a Dutch jumble sale to be held at a farm the following night. It was the stuff holidays are made of. A once in a life time experience. Again no word of English, but we did manage to buy a lamp fitting. A monstrous gothic wrought iron contraption straight from the set of a Dutch horror film ... and we all know about those types of Dutch films, don’t we Blog. Even you must have heard them mentioned in the cloisters? 2 euros it cost. 2 euros?? Anything costing 2 euros had to be bought, whether it had a use or not. 2 euros. We went Dutch and paid up. It was so horrible as to be rather exquisite. It was so hideous as to be quite beautiful. There was another two different designs, both equally large and ugly, which we should have bought with hind sight but we had difficulty getting the one we purchased in the car as it was ... and we still had all our camping gear at the camp site ... how to fit it all in?? Big question. My wife got quite cold hanging onto the roof rack on the journey back to England but at least she warmed up on the ferry crossing. My daughter got very fit running alongside the car! Back to the decorating. Two days it took to hoist the light fitting into the stairwell. Block and tackle job with no block and tackle. The joists had to be reinforced to take the heavy weight of the light. During the whole of the fitting struggle, the vision of the chandelier sketch from ‘Fools and Horses’ was very much in the fore front of my mind. Its up, its working and it looks brilliant. Brilliant. But then the bookcase on the top landing was not suitable, was it?? So I spent the next week plus, designing and building a mock art deco seven shelved bookcase out of reclaimed wood to blend in. Well ‘blend’ is the wrong word. It had to stick out like a sore thumb to be effective. It is and it does. So Blog, my trudging has suffered. In fact it is gnigdurt, to coin a phrase!

I think I have three pledges outstanding for my two charities Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife. As they are substantial, I have still not wrapped up the accounts!!

More on Monday Blog.

Colin

Training Tip no. 3

Dear Blog,

Having returned from a few days trudging while camping I thought I would continue my theme of helping to maintain your interest. So next idea for a trudge:-

       This involves the session organised for you so that you do not have to think or plan; bliss??? No sitting down sketching out details of mileage, no need to give thought to surface to avoid impact type injuries, no consideration to quality. A quarter of a century ago, I used to spend some time in northern Scandinavia, Sweden and Finland. I was always amazed to find all weather tracks built in the smallest of villages, villages situated well inside the arctic circle. Facilities for changing etc. were free, no attendant to supervise, community trust ruled. The tracks were flooded in the winter and used for ice hockey!! Attached to the tracks and camp sites were jogging trails of varying length, some flat, many undulating, most having ‘street lighting’ so their use was not curtailed during the long winter months, the lighting controlled by infra red sensors, each light triggered by passing a sensor, five or six lamps before needed, thereby conserving energy by not having the lamps lit continuously. Mimicking this set up, I have often camped at a camping club site within forestry commission woodland or a private site backing onto woodland. The commission do an excellent job laying out tracks and paths providing an endless combination of pathways to train on. Varying gradients with decent underfoot conditions allows quality and quantity sessions without the necessity to plan a workout; the fartlek session is laid out for you. Try it Blog. As a suggestion, one such private site I have used is near Newent, close to Gloucester. The site backs onto Dymock Forest and Newent Wood with many paths and trails. The facilities at the site are first class with free showers and toilet block on a tidy site. A weekend away from the familiar surroundings will do you the world of good, Blog.

And don’t forget I am still writing to you to squeeze an extra penny or so for Tiny Tims Children’s Centre and Newlife charities.

                                                         Colin