Social Anthropology: The Gym

I don’t think I belong in the gym.

There are so many types of people who use my gym that I’m going to have to give you a thorough run-down. I also need to be clear that I’m pretty sure I don’t belong there at all.

The douchebags
Plimsolls. Long socks. Wife-beater vests. Slicked-back hair. Pastel coloured shorts rolled up to just above the knee. The douchebags do a few gentle weights reps – arms only – as slowly as possible so they can watch their muscles gently flex in the mirror. They are douchebags.

The footballers
A couple of very minor league football teams are sometimes based from the sports centre which houses my gym. Their squad comes in as a group of no less than 20, dressed in their full kit, to sit on exercise bikes, occasionally pedalling gently, and watching themselves in the mirror. Occasionally they rearrange their kit so the logo is more prominently displayed. After 15 minutes they start to go down to the café and ‘reserve’ all the sofas.

The wannabe footballers
As above but clearly not in the team. Desperately try to get onto machines next to the footballers. Embarrass us all.

Triangular muscle beasts
Where have these men come from? They’re huge! And genuinely triangular. They must have normal jobs somewhere, they can’t all be employed to haul tractor tyres around car parks, can they? They briefly enter the changing rooms (sideways) to take off a tracksuit – leave it on a bench rather than in a locker – and then heave their enormous shoulders off to the Massive Weights Room of Fear downstairs. I take solace in the fact that they must look ridiculous in normal clothes – perhaps this is a vicious circle that explains why they are always in the gym. When they get back to the changing rooms they chug an enormous plastic cup full of ground-up bison and girders.

Pleasingly, this is a Google Image result for 'triangular muscle beast'

Members of the Pussycat Dolls
I assume they are students. But I don’t remember students like this when I was at St Andrews. These girls are ridiculous manifestations of the Essex WAG ideal – miniscule waists, long blonde hair, leggings, immaculate pink trainers and matching sweat bands on their beadless brows. To give them their due, the dolls work out. Hard. Do not make eye contact. They will crush you in their thighs of steel or abrade your face with their abs of titanium.

The female footballers
Opposite of the Pussycat Dolls. The ladies football team are hard as nails. Running sprints on the treadmills, then annihilating the cross-trainer, then weights then crunches then something else then another thing then more sprints. They are all 5 foot nothing and wearing baggy football kit, possibly a hand-me-down from the men’s team 3 years ago. The pace is relentless. They are there when you arrive and also there when you leave. They’re there now.

The old boys
My favourites. Aged anywhere from early-60s to late-120s, the old boys do not give a damn that their saggy race T-shirt from 1989 is full of holes or that the sweat flying off them is offending the Pussycat Dolls, they’re old and working out and it’s amazing and they’re going to keep doing it. Invariably wearing way too many layers for this level of activity, they can be seen noting the figures of the machine next them, occupied by a student who is one-third of their age, doing one-quarter of their workout.

“It’s off-season”
These guys and girls do not want to be in the gym. They want to be on the hockey pitch or golf course or ski slopes. They’re only in the gym because they have no other option to vent their extreme need for sport (and they kind of want you to know it). Easily identifiable by their club kit, elderly trainers and longing looks out of the window at the lashing rain and gathering clouds. They are not at all happy about the douchebags.

Happy running

Dave

You want a Legacy?

Right you lot – you’ve had your fun. The Olympics facilitated your gorging on evening and weekend TV, generated your boss’s good-natured tolerance of streaming events during work hours, and provided endless hours of gasps and cheers and tears and triumph. And now it’s your turn to contribute.

I hear a lot of people asking – nay demanding – to know what LOCOG intend to do about London 2012’s Legacy. These people say it with a capital ‘L’ to emphasise that this Legacy is Very Important to them. And LOCOG do their best to explain what they will do with their facilities and venues, how they will make sporting equipment and expertise available, and put their athletes in front of cameras heavily laden with medals and white-toothed grins. Meanwhile Mr Cameron does his best to insist that money will go in large volumes to the right places and that selling-off sports pitches isn’t a thing that’s happening at all. They are pleading with you to believe in their vision of Legacy and their capacity to deliver it.

I put it to you, however, that this Legacy is your responsibility as much as Coe’s and Cameron’s. You have been inspired by sport because it turned up in your living room for a fortnight. Now you have to go out and find it. If you want sport to be a part of your life or your children’s lives, then do something to make it so – Jess Ennis isn’t going to pop round with a set of hurdles and a javelin to teach you the heptathlon. Greg Rutherford isn’t going to suddenly leap into your garden with his coach’s whistle and a measuring tape. You are going to need to build on your own momentum. Here are a few suggestions as to how you can do that:

Go and see some sport

If you missed out on getting tickets for the Olympics, then why not go and see something else? Professional and high-level amateur sport happens every week in this country - your options really aren't limited to Wimbledon and endless football matches. I’m going to the EMC tests at Murrayfield in November, which were cheap. I’m planning to finally get to the Edinburgh International Cross-Country in January, which is free. If I was desperate to see Olympic mainstays like athletics/track & field, there are endless events up and down the country, including massive inter-county championships – here’s a list. Every Olympic sport will have public, usually quite cheap events that you can go to and have an awesome time at. What's stopping you?

Ambitious.

Sign up for a race

I say this all the time – but if you want running motivation then put some money where your mouth is and sign up for a race. Incidentally, you could do Survival of the Fittest for Venture Trust, which would be cool. Or why not run an event that your local running/athletics club is putting on? If you usually run the big, famous races, why not try something unusual and local? Or if you’re short of pennies then go to parkrun – it’s FREE, there’s one near where you live and I’ve told you to do it already.

Get behind the Commonwealth Games

Glasgow 2014, baby. Here we come.

Join a club

This is hypocritical – I haven’t been in a sports club since University – but you may find that joining your local athletics, football, rugby, cycling, hockey, triathlon, shooting, swimming, canoeing or any-other club will give you much easier routes to participation and a new social circle to boot.

Take up something new

One of the most bizarre and wonderful parts of the Olympics for me is watching athletes compete at the highest level in events which I was only dimly aware of. This should be the moment that Britain recruits a generation of talented handballers, finds swathes of future BMX champs and hundreds of people passionate about that weird 8-man kayak thing. I hate to think of the number of people who didn’t shine at the mainstream sports which were offered at school, who became labelled (and therefore learnt to think of themselves) as ‘not sporty’.  I saw a great tweet by Jeremy Vine that said “Facts that have emerged from the Olympics: Britain’s not rubbish. Football is not the only sport. The Queen can do jokes.” – why not dedicate yourself to a minority event? You might be naturally gifted at it. And, by contrast and in a ‘just saying’ kind-of way, Britain is pretty rubbish at football.

Jog on

I think I may have said this somewhere before. But I mean this in its broadest possible sense - leave the car at home and walk into town, buy a bike and use it to commute, go for a swim, hike up a reasonably big hill. Do literally anything to keep moving and active and energised. 

You want a legacy? Make it happen. The time is now.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 282, miles biked - 69.2, metres swum - 2350, races - 3

Be Seen Don't Die

A few days ago, driving home from work, I pulled out of a side street onto the main road and nearly killed a cyclist.

Reflective man: not dead

Those are horrible, awful words to write. The evenings are very dark at the moment, and this cyclist was wearing dark clothes, with no front-facing lights on his bike and no helmet. I only saw him because he passed through the headlights of another car waiting to pull onto the road. I slammed on the brakes and he swerved, almost into oncoming traffic, in the nick of time. He gave me the finger and ploughed on into the night, living to die another day.

The old ‘Be Safe Be Seen’ slogan doesn’t go far enough for me. ‘Be Seen Don’t Die’ would probably get the message across better. Being as I am hugely in favour of people cycling, walking and running their commute, I must in the same breath be hugely in favour of reflective and hi-vis gear for everyone doing these things, in addition to helmets as a matter of course for cyclists. I was asked recently why I wear my bike helmet even for laughably short journeys and for cycling on bike paths (as opposed to roads). I replied that I have to wear it because I am horribly allergic to brain damage.

When I run at night you will see me with at least one, often two sets of lights (red flashing LEDs on my rucksack or ankle and sometimes a headtorch if going anywhere without streetlights), as well as a hi-vis and reflective jacket. I wear light colours and even have reflective strips on my gloves. All that and I’m only using pavements and footpaths for the majority of the time.

For cyclists, it is required by law to have both white front and red rear lights when cycling at night. I’m starting to think that the something similar should apply to runners – at least a hi-vis requirement. If as a cyclist you’re not using lights, not only are you committing a crime but are endangering your life and possibly other people’s. What a stupid and reckless way to behave.

It’s so simple and obvious to me. I don’t want to die under the wheels of a bus in pursuit of a few seconds shaved off a PB.

I run because... is happy to endorse not dying pointlessly. Glad I could clear that up.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 16.3, miles biked: 6.4, metres swum: 750

How I deliberately cycled 35 miles

Exactly one year ago, when the Crew Chief was away for the weekend, I packed a rucksack and fairly spontaneously ran 18 miles along theWater of Leith on my own. I don’t know where this impulse comes from, but when left to my own devices I seem to get an uncontrollable urge to go on some sort of self-supported adventure. Perhaps it’s because the Chief would point out the obvious flaws in my (lack of) planning. Or maybe just that I’d rather spend my free days with her when I can.

Whatever it is, it’s happened again.

This time there was slightly more planning, mostly because I recruited another person to join me on my frivolous jaunt – Will Wright. If Will had been born in the early eighteenth century, he would have been some sort of swashbuckling pioneer, discovering new lands and claiming them for floppy-haired Welshmen everywhere. Since he was born in the late eighties he has to make do with a lot of travel, mad business ventures and cycling all over the place instead. I also needed to make more of an equipment plan, as this was to be a cycling adventure. Since I know nothing about bike maintenance I ended up spending eleventy billion pounds getting my bike serviced before daring to use it over a significant distance. So slightly more planning, yes. But not much.

Having never cycled more than about 10 miles in one go, I didn’t really have a frame of reference about what was achievable. So instead we picked a route, the towpath that runs alongside the Union Canal, and a vague destination, the extraordinary Falkirk Wheel, planning to get the train home afterwards. The canal runs all the way from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and Falkirk is a little under two-thirds between the two. 

Ready for the off.

And so it was that at precisely 10.38 a.m. on Sunday that Will and I set off – the pedals on his mountain bike held together with duct tape and the narrow, brand new tyres on my hybrid entirely inappropriate for the varied terrain ahead. We cycled the early miles through the heavily-populated part of the canal’s path, where cheerful barges share the canal with rowers and kayakers, calm suburban gardens back onto the water and almost everyone seems to be walking a small white terrier. There was very little chance to pick up any speed, as this carefully-maintained part of the route is neatly tarmaced and often crowded with walkers, runners, cyclists and children. But no matter – it’s a lovely place to be. Once we had crossed the aqueduct over the Edinburgh bypass, we were deposited into beautiful green countryside. We were making good time and enjoying the freedom of a day on the bike, by and large, and I was waiting for some tiredness to kick in so I could get on with the ensuing endorphin surge.

We managed a little over six miles before needing a pit stop, when Will had to remove his rear mudguard to stop it angrily rubbing against the back tyre. Will is the kind of person who never goes anywhere without an adjustable spanner, a multi-tool and a roll of duct tape. He is a useful person to have around if things move when they shouldn't or don’t when they should. Five minutes later we were back on the trail, speeding though countryside.

Then more countryside.

And some more countryside.

Then, suddenly, even more countryside.

In fact, 15 miles in, we were getting a little bit bored of countryside. With the canal always on our left, a quickly-deteriorating trail under our wheels and fields spread out everywhere else, the view was beautiful but monotonous. Those few landmarks that did pop up quickly receded into the distance, leaving us to continue contemplating the fields. The trail was becoming an issue too. Perhaps when it was built by some bearded Victorians it was carefully laid down and relatively smooth, but in 2011 the majority of the path is either hard earth or broken stones, which my unforgiving tyres juddered over for miles on end. My hands slowly shook to pieces as the handlebars vibrated viciously in my grip. As I watched Will sail off into the distance, smoothly riding his mountain bike on chunky fat tyres, I conceded that I had brought the wrong tool for the job...

Two hours after setting off we arrived in Linlithgow, our nominally-designated lunch stop, and cycled into town in search of sustenance. We had covered just over 21 miles. I was utterly starving and starting to tire, with sore knees and a few other niggling complaints. Weirdly, I seem to have missed out on the endorphin surge that I would have expected from two hours of non-stop exercise. Maybe I was doing it wrong, but I know for certain that after running for two hours I am always exhausted and elated – two hours into our bike ride I was just exhausted.

After lunch, the trail got worse. Large muddy patches posed a serious skidding risk, as I frequently lost what little traction I had. In places we were cycling on what looked like a thin forest track, very far removed from the smooth, broad path we started the morning on. Weaving around puddles was turning into a dangerous activity too, as we swerved pointlessly away from the mud and water. We ended up covered in a thin layer of mud and Will’s lack of a rear mudguard made a predictable mess of his back and trousers. 

But as it deteriorated the route was getting more interesting. At one point we cycled through the most extraordinary tunnel, probably a mile long and bored directly through an enormous hill. The roof of the tunnel was lit up every 20 metres or so, showing the rough rock edges and giving the impression of some sort of underground boat ride at Disneyland, looking almost too spooky to be real. All we could do was focus on the light at the end of the tunnel, as in places it was so dark that when I looked down I lost my balance, unable to distinguish between the wall, the ground and my wheels. Veering off course here would have ended very badly indeed – specifically, in the canal, in the dark, with a bike.

The miles kept ticking along, albeit rather slower than they had earlier. We were both pretty tired, and happy to bimble along side-by-side where the path allowed, discussing the monotony of the landscape and generally putting the world to rights. Just a mile and  a half from Falkirk, Will’s duct-taped pedal finally snapped in two and he made the rest of the journey with his foot resting on its broken shaft. Closing in on the last mile we passed a lock, the first we had seen after the miles and miles of perfectly flat water, and suddenly we were cycling along a heavily developed section of canal, including going through a modern concrete (and mercifully well lit) tunnel. As we broached daylight at the end, the Falkirk Wheel popped up in front of us, an impressive and very welcome sight.

Mission accomplished. And before you shout at me, I took my helmet off for this photo.
Otherwise I wore it all day, promise.

We had a very brief look around (disappointed not to see the wheel in action) and then meandered into Falkirk in search of the train station. After having cycled over 35 miles and spending most of the day travelling under my own steam, it was quite depressing to find that my train fare home was less than £4, for a journey of just 25 minutes. Such is life.

I have concluded a few things from this cycling initiative. First, that cycling is much more efficient than running. If I was even capable of doing it, a 35 mile run would probably take me between five and six hours, and I would be struggling to walk for weeks afterwards. On the bike it took us less than 3 ½ at a leisurely, comfortable pace. Second, that my bike is really not suitable for all terrains. Third, and probably most importantly, I’ve concluded what I long suspected: that cycling, for me, lacks the magic that makes it so hard to explain the appeal of running. Cycling feels like a means to an end – just a way to get from A to B. Running isn’t about A or B, it’s about the journey. If I had run 35 miles yesterday I know I would have finished the trip forever changed by the experience. Instead I’ve just got some mud on my trainers and had a nice day out. Cycling lacks the magic.

Unless, of course, I just didn't cycle far enough...

Happy locomotion

Dave

2011 to date: miles: 1020.62, parkruns: 6, races: 6, miles biked: 155, metres swum: 1225

I think I have worked out how to cycle

Last autumn I bought a bike. I’m sorry - I should have told you sooner. I resisted mentioning it in quite such clear terms here in case you worried that I had joined the dark side and might soon become obsessed with lycra and weird clippy shoes. Don’t worry, that hasn’t happened. Yet.

I had a difficult start to bike ownership – I had agreed to buy one second hand off Gumtree on a whim, without really taking account of the fact that it was slightly too big for me and at least a little bit rubbish. When I went to pick it up I had to drive there, and getting the bike in the back of the car necessitated taking off the front wheel, which I did with the enthusiasm and gusto of a mechanically-minded bike owner, not a thought for how this might affect its use later. Back home, I carried it up the stairs to effect the necessary reassembly, and couldn’t help but notice that it was actually rather heavy and bulky, despite being ostensibly a ‘hybrid’.

It was then that I realised that I had made a mistake. I owned no tools, did not have a pump (having deflated the front tyre to release it from the brakes), and did not really know anything about bicycles, bicycling, or bicyclists. The entire semantic field was a mystery. After purchasing a helmet, a bike lock and bike pump (which later transpired to be the least effective pump ever made), my expenditure on my cycling initiative was pushing into significant money. Then I bought tools, books and magazines. I resolved that I had to make good use of this investment.

My bike. It's very blue.

I didn’t. Every time I took it out for a ride something disheartening would happen, like the chain detaching just as I was getting some momentum on a tedious climb, or the gears starting to click menacingly at me with horrible repetitive noises, or the front mudguard loosening to the point of rubbing angrily against the wheel rim. I rode around half-heartedly on soggy, deflating tyres for a few miserable miles before locking the damn thing up for winter and forgetting about it. I wrote off the whole silly enterprise and went back to relying on running for my commute, exercise and psychological well-being. All was well.

Until one Friday morning as I left for work (as usual trying not to make eye contact with my forlorn and ignored bike) I noticed that a new bike had joined the ranks of the abandoned-but-securely-locked-in-case-I-ever-need-it cycles stashed at the bottom of our tenement block. There, next to the dusty, muddy and untended machines was a shiny, white racing bike with millimetre-wide tyres and a sleek, beautiful frame. It was magnificent. Pristine. The bike equivalent of Cameron Diaz lounging casually among a group of bespectacled and cagouled trainspotters.

And it was locked to my bike.

I was furious. Who was this arrogant cyclist, so confident that my bike was going nowhere that he thought he could just casually attach his thousand-pound new toy to it? Doesn’t he know that I am a serious athlete and might one day want to cycle somewhere? Who exactly does he think he is!? Fury at the injustice and insult of it all welled up inside me. This was an outrage. Call the police! Notify the United Nations! Someone alert the GB Olympic Committee that my career in international cycling is being held back by the callous actions of some flash bicycling bastard!

Being British, of course, I did none of those things and instead attached a passive-aggressive note to the soft, blemishless surface of the white bike’s saddle. I needed my bike this weekend, it asserted. Other bikes should not be attached to mine, under any circumstances. This was very important indeed.

Later that evening Cameron Diaz had been removed and reattached to a railing, where she should have been all along. A brief apology was scribbled on my note and I felt pride in a handsome victory for the weak and oppressed. My Olympic dream was alive again.

But now I had a problem. I had to take the bike out for a ride at the weekend.

It was wonderful. I was cycling for pleasure, choosing a flat and fast route where I casually broke the four minute mile without losing even a bead of sweat. I covered the miles easily, and suddenly I saw with absolute clarity what all the lycra-clad obsessives were banging on about. Cycling is brilliant. Car drivers are idiots! Why isn’t everyone doing this?

A few  weeks later I took it in for a proper service and some repairs, which were obscenely cheap and straightforward thanks to the chaps at Pedals in Edinburgh. It is of course still too big for me, but now I’ve more or less understood the point and worked out how to properly use the gears, cycling is a pleasure and utterly enjoyable. Don’t worry, though.

It is still not as much fun as running.

Happy locomotion.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 483.93, parkruns: 6, races: 2, miles biked: 27.79, metres swum: 675