Author Archives: ourmaninthenorth

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A line in the sand

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Most people measure their advancing years by reference to a century;
you know, a quarter of a century, half a century, whatever. My good
friend made reference to his using the same, but a slightly different
number: one third. Or 33 1/3 years. That’s 33 years and four months, I
guess.

This stuck in my mind, and sure enough that value was achieved by me a
few months ago. I didn’t altogether notice it when it went by, but now
I reflect on it. Does it have any significance, or am I just seeking
to extract meaning. I suspect it’s little more than advance warning of
the usual mid-life crisi we all promise ourselves.

I’m too young for an inappropriate car, and have no desire to run off
with a younger woman (even if I could). But I am getting fat. Of
course, this means that young woman are less likely to find me
attractive, and I won’t be able to fit into the bucket seats of a
Lotus.

Now, the cause of my increasing girth is self evident: greed and
boredom. Greed because I choose not to restrain my nutritional
proclivities, and boredom through the usual vital ennui. Riding to and
from work has little impact – an hour each way isn’t long enough to do
anything other than just slow the outward curve. So, it’s time to do
something else. Not necessarily instead of, but in addition to, and
with some care.

I’m going to start running.

It’s an activity that has always appalled me – it has always been
tedious and painful, even in my lithe days of fitness and vigour. But,
it seems obvious: run and empty the mind, just like cycling, but for
less time and with good effect. There is a related purpose: the
arrival of junior North any time soon. Time will inevitablly become
less elastic, as will my own ability to shape it to suit. And, being
in my second third-of-a-century, I am becoming increasingly well
boiled. To that end, I am armed with some knowledge from others, and a
short training plan to cover the first 8 weeks. Time will have to be
accomodated, amd patience tested. This time, it has to work.

Trainers on, and off we go.

Unknown's avatar

The time has come

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Though I know I publish into a vacuum, enough time has passed for me to justify to myself why I maintain this blog. It’s not like I visit it that frequently – who would? It’s never updated.

The last entry was October 2009. That’s half a year ago, and time has moved on, things have changed an’ all that. But it is decision making, and the reality of a daily existance, that have mattered most. Decision I have made by myself, and decisions I have made with others.

A child on the way is nothing unusual in the context of humankind and Darwin and the need for man to express himself. It is, after all, the ultimate expression of death – I pass my own life onto another – and the seeming essential aim of our collective will. And yet, at the individual level (me, her, the life to come) it is in no way obvious or inevitable or anything like self destruction.

Right now, it is far off in contemplation, but is really close enough to know that further decisions must be made, and necessary responsibility taken. Indeed, it there is a real responsibility in this whole process, and one I hope I have the capacity to meet.

Of course, that in mind, it might seem a little risky to open out and take further decsions. Decisions, while less fundamental to the wider growth of a population, are more immediate and have a daily impact: work, and where to go next. A wise person once wrote that those in the wokplace who define success tend to be workaholics. But that does not capture all of their impact; they are often paranoid and fearful of failure. While never a workaholic, I always carry with me a fear of failure; a fear of failing to be able to be self reliant. It is to this end, I have for several years conducted a job which I am not particularly enamoured of on occasion, and loath on others.

The loathing having become the preponderant emotion in the last year has been poorly timed with the freefall of the labour market. Suddenly, all that education, those -ologies, meant nothing if I couldn’t work. I don’t want to work particularly, but I recognise the strains of my middle class lifestyle too. And so, I have lived out a dilemma – do a job I hate in order that I can hold on long enough to find another.

And I have found another. I feel naked and barely qualified, but still a challenge, of whatever sort, is what helps justify an existence.

The moment of resignation unbuckled the belt of the last year around my chest, and allowed me to inhale deeply and securely. For the moment, I am free. I am in flight between two places, neither of them permanence but each allowing, for a period at least, for the fear to be pushed back and the cool, calm air to lay over me.

Unknown's avatar

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“Yes, but he’s an artist. You can’t expect a man of such… such passions to see the world in the same way as the rest of us.”

“He fled the country from it. He moved to Switzerland.”

“France, actually.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Plenty. The French couldn’t send him back. Anyway, Sandra, why are you so worried about this now? It all happened a long time ago. And, besides, his wife had been brutally murdered.”

“Oh come on, Martin,” interrupted Peter. “How does that excuse what he did?”

“What did he do?” Felicity had gathered the bravery to join in, though she was not sure she had the appetite for it. But it distracted her from the food hidden in the napkin on her lap, which she could feel seeping through the fabric.

Sandra stepped in: “You don’t want to know, Flic. It’s disgusting.”

Without acknowledging Sandra’s indirect request, Martin continued, regurgitating all he had read; all he had picked up in the pub at lunchtime. There was a certain relish to the revelation to the unknowing of some of the finer morsels. As he finished, he expanded his shoulders into the chair back, satisfied.

“Will you excuse me?” said Felicity after a pause. “I’ve got to go.”

She stood, revealing the stain on her dress. “I really have to go.”
Unknown's avatar

Ventoux. Ventoux.

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My goodness, it’s hot up here. The sun, even in the middle of the afternoon, and even at this altitude, was strong off the white stone. There is no shade. None. Nowhere to hide, to cower from the Sisyphean task of the Géant. Why do we toil up here, being slowly baked, jersey unzipped, when the motor car was invented long ago? A man rode to his death up here. What made him do it? But, as the sun hit me about the head like a thick, heavy blanket, I slowly ticked off 100m at a time. Soon – sooner than expected – 5km au sommet was showing. Another pause by the motorhomes full of crazed, baking Belgians and Dutch. Back into the saddle, legs slightly renewed, and heart below the limit. The temptation to get out of the saddle was strong, but in so doing lactic flooded my legs, slowing me to the pace of the many head-bowed walkers and bounced my heart rate off the day’s imposed ceiling. Stay in the saddle and make a rhythm. Stay in the saddle and you’ll make it to the top.

A voice said England have won the cricket. I didn’t respond. The voice appeared alongside me, barely going any quicker, weighed down with deep section carbon wheels and an English complexion. England won the cricket. By how many wickets? Five. Flintoff took five in the test. Oh, good. And he slipped behind. There’s 11 of them, I thought, but only one of me. One of me and this road. And this mountain and, oh look, Simpson himself. A drunk glance to the right, and thumb and forefinger pulled down the peak of my cap before straitening up. He went down for the final time, like a beaten boxer, around 1km from the top. I’m 1km from the top. Right then. A slightly faster rhythm and, looking up again, the searing ribbon angled up to the left. Slowing to catch my breath, I crawled, readying myself for the steepness to follow. The outside of the bend provided no launch, but I chose that line, hugging the scree on my right. Rhythm slightly faster than before and, then, pop. I was at the final bend, a hairpin. Taking the outside line, and shifting up, I lifted myself and, for the first time that day, attacked the slope, sprinting over the line.

Finished.

Which was followed by throwing up. Throwing up at 1,912 metres and in a Unesco World Heritage site. That’s what the Ventoux does to you.

Unknown's avatar

And so it begins

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Sitting here, listening to one of Stephen Fry’s Podgrams (he’s ranting about idiocy in administration and, it would appear, shooting people in the face), it is clear Fry can be a very interesting man; he certainly seems to be able to express an opinion in an erudite and somewhat dramatic matter. He’s fun, and can be extraordinarily witty. But, somehow, there seems to be something missing. It is, I feel, his lack of self editing that comes from his not writing the content first. He’s evidently a man of words, and his thoughts work better in the written medium.

And so, on that rather pointless note, this blog begins. With a ramble about a man I don’t know and how I’m not sure I like this off the cuff presentation of his – seemingly increasingly scatological – thoughts. Will this blog be the same? I very much think so, but then I don’t have the same intellect or wisdom or capacity for knowledge as Fry.

Even though, in essence, this is publishing into a vacuum, there is a feeling that it ought to be done properly, with something at least half useful to say. However, this is no more than the first step through the creaking door of an unknown and apparently empty house, so it is merely a statement of intent.

I’ll see what I can do.