"First Time?", they asked me and I nodded, "Don't worry, the lake's not too cold now, just sign this disclaimer.... and this one.... and fill in this one.... Now, what colour hat will you be wearing?"
Hat? I needed a hat? I suddenly had that Golf Club feeling. You know, it's like that dream when when you suddenly realise you are naked, but worse: you are at the Gold Club, addressing the ball at the first tea when a steward coughs and indignantly hauls you back to the clubhouse for wearing shorts that are insufficently tailored.
And you are not dreaming (This has happened to me twice)
"I, um, I didn't know I had to wear a hat"
"Well, you're supposed to, really: it's just so that the safety boat can see you clearly"
It was getting worse and worse.
And then they pointed out the 750m buoys to me. "No, not that one - look see the red one? No, not that one, further than that, no further than that, no further than that...."
Impetuously I suddenly hauled up the zip on my (surely too tight?) wetsuit and I leapt in.
It was very cold. I quickly realised just exactly why everyone else was wearing a hat.
Four weeks to go
Showing posts with label sport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sport. Show all posts
10 May 2009
28 December 2008
The Winchelsea Street Game: Blue Team Till I Die.
Another day in East Sussex, another bizarre, centuries-old Christmas ritual.
It was Boxing Day, and the Winchelsea Street Game: a medieval no-rules, no holds-barred contest in which three teams compete to gain possession of a Frenchman's Head
and stuff it in a beer barrel.
I mean, how rough could it be? Everyone is (as the 'referee' reminded us) subject to the Laws of the Land, and the last fatality was in 1808.
Blue Team were short a player, so I handed Mrs Botogol my sunglasses for safekeeping, stripped off my coat, kissed the children a tearful goodbye, donned a blue neckerchief, and strode purposefully, amidst wild applause from the crowd, into the fray; keeping just half an eye on the dangerously young and strong-looking Green Team who were staring closely at me and nudging each other.
"I'm not a tourist!", I said, bravely, "I have a house here!" They looked away, but there was something familiar about team Green: I had a strange feeling I had seen a couple of them before, but I wasn't sure where.
Then the Frenchman's Head was tossed into the melee and all hope of the running, passing game we had planned evaporated as the three teams formed a 25-person collapsed maul on the hard and unforgiving surface of Castle Street.
"Mind the Clematis!", shouted the ref (it's that sort of village) "Mind the Lexus! Mind the man with crutches!"
In the midst of the scrum, the Head suddenly rolled free and I scooped it up and headed for the goal, with just three Greens to beat.
As I lowered my shoulder I suddenly recalled where I had seen then before: the George, Christmas Eve: "Get the Catholic!", they cried.
"No, wait!", I shouted, "you're labouring under a perfectly understandable misapprehension! I'm not actually a ouch! oomph!"
"And do you really live here?" said a voice in my ear, "or is it just a holiday house?"; I tightened my grip on the Frenchman's bonce and fought for dear life.
The result, you ask? Well, cough, ahem, we won! By 4 goals to 3 to 2 and not, I like to think, without a contribution from myself1
Afterwards we all repaired to the New Inn for roast potatoes and to compare grazes. I had three. Grazes I mean, not potatoes (which is five fewer grazes than I received falling off my bike this morning).
"Actually, Dad, you quite surprised me", said middle-child, reflectively, "you were, well, quite aggressive".
====================================================================
1 I only went and scored the winning goal :-)
More pictures here and here
(Unaccountably the scenes of the crowd carrying me shoulder high through the streets of Winchelsea, chanting my name - all failed to come out, so you'll have to imagine)
It was Boxing Day, and the Winchelsea Street Game: a medieval no-rules, no holds-barred contest in which three teams compete to gain possession of a Frenchman's Head
and stuff it in a beer barrel.
I mean, how rough could it be? Everyone is (as the 'referee' reminded us) subject to the Laws of the Land, and the last fatality was in 1808.
Blue Team were short a player, so I handed Mrs Botogol my sunglasses for safekeeping, stripped off my coat, kissed the children a tearful goodbye, donned a blue neckerchief, and strode purposefully, amidst wild applause from the crowd, into the fray; keeping just half an eye on the dangerously young and strong-looking Green Team who were staring closely at me and nudging each other.
"I'm not a tourist!", I said, bravely, "I have a house here!" They looked away, but there was something familiar about team Green: I had a strange feeling I had seen a couple of them before, but I wasn't sure where.
Then the Frenchman's Head was tossed into the melee and all hope of the running, passing game we had planned evaporated as the three teams formed a 25-person collapsed maul on the hard and unforgiving surface of Castle Street.
"Mind the Clematis!", shouted the ref (it's that sort of village) "Mind the Lexus! Mind the man with crutches!"
In the midst of the scrum, the Head suddenly rolled free and I scooped it up and headed for the goal, with just three Greens to beat.
As I lowered my shoulder I suddenly recalled where I had seen then before: the George, Christmas Eve: "Get the Catholic!", they cried.
"No, wait!", I shouted, "you're labouring under a perfectly understandable misapprehension! I'm not actually a ouch! oomph!"
"And do you really live here?" said a voice in my ear, "or is it just a holiday house?"; I tightened my grip on the Frenchman's bonce and fought for dear life.
The result, you ask? Well, cough, ahem, we won! By 4 goals to 3 to 2 and not, I like to think, without a contribution from myself1
Afterwards we all repaired to the New Inn for roast potatoes and to compare grazes. I had three. Grazes I mean, not potatoes (which is five fewer grazes than I received falling off my bike this morning).
"Actually, Dad, you quite surprised me", said middle-child, reflectively, "you were, well, quite aggressive".
====================================================================
1 I only went and scored the winning goal :-)
More pictures here and here
(Unaccountably the scenes of the crowd carrying me shoulder high through the streets of Winchelsea, chanting my name - all failed to come out, so you'll have to imagine)
19 November 2008
On the treadmill
I used to absolutely hate running. Always.
But then suddenly, in one of those inexplicable, but seemingly permanent, changes that one goes through at around the age of forty, I started to to enjoy it, and now I run as often as I can in the Bushy Park 5km1 each Saturday morning.
My PB is a shade over 22 mins, and I am exceeding proud of it, being of a certain age and not, to be honest, entirely of a runner's build2 and if I work hard, and run as often as I can, I have calculated I'll reach my 100th race, and receive the coveted T-shirt, and a round-of-applause-in-front-of-the-impatient-crowd before I am fifty. Just :-(
On the other hand, before I get too big-headed, 22 mins works out to be an average speed of 13.6 km/h, while the world record for the marathon was set last month in Berlin at an average speed of 20.4 km/h. That's fast. Running at that speed Haile Gebrselassie would win the Bushy Park 5km every single week. Often by more than a minute.
How far, I wondered, could I run at 20.4 km/h?
Well, another splendid thing about working for an Investment Bank is that we have a gym in the basement (and even more splendid - there are fewer people in it every month) so yesterday I put on my fastest trainers, set the treadmill to 20.4, pressed the big green button and sped off.
Afterwards in changing rooms, making idle small talk3 with strangers, I was sure I could have run further, yes much further. What stopped me, you see, thundering along on the treadmill, heart pounding, arms flailing, feet stomping on the belt, sweat dripping from my temples, headphones dangling from one waxy ear, wasn't exhaustion or lactic acid build-up in the calves. Neither was it the increasing realisation that just one tiny misstep or stumble and I was likely to lose my balance and be ejected smartly from the back of the roaring machine on my stomach.
No - what stopped me was the consternation and - if I am honest - look of absolute fear on my neighbours faces on the treadmills either side, and so that's how it was, that after just 250m I was forced to press the big red emergency stop button and call it a day.
===============================================================
1 for all my American readers (cough): 5 kilometres = 3.11 miles
2 the race is dominated by skinny, unhealthy-looking 20 somethings with 30" waists and long legs. Meh.
3 will our top management be sacrificing their bonuses; if they did would it be a trick; and - most importantly - would it mean a smaller or larger bonus pool for the rest of us?
But then suddenly, in one of those inexplicable, but seemingly permanent, changes that one goes through at around the age of forty, I started to to enjoy it, and now I run as often as I can in the Bushy Park 5km1 each Saturday morning.
My PB is a shade over 22 mins, and I am exceeding proud of it, being of a certain age and not, to be honest, entirely of a runner's build2 and if I work hard, and run as often as I can, I have calculated I'll reach my 100th race, and receive the coveted T-shirt, and a round-of-applause-in-front-of-the-impatient-crowd before I am fifty. Just :-(
On the other hand, before I get too big-headed, 22 mins works out to be an average speed of 13.6 km/h, while the world record for the marathon was set last month in Berlin at an average speed of 20.4 km/h. That's fast. Running at that speed Haile Gebrselassie would win the Bushy Park 5km every single week. Often by more than a minute.
How far, I wondered, could I run at 20.4 km/h?
Well, another splendid thing about working for an Investment Bank is that we have a gym in the basement (and even more splendid - there are fewer people in it every month) so yesterday I put on my fastest trainers, set the treadmill to 20.4, pressed the big green button and sped off.
Afterwards in changing rooms, making idle small talk3 with strangers, I was sure I could have run further, yes much further. What stopped me, you see, thundering along on the treadmill, heart pounding, arms flailing, feet stomping on the belt, sweat dripping from my temples, headphones dangling from one waxy ear, wasn't exhaustion or lactic acid build-up in the calves. Neither was it the increasing realisation that just one tiny misstep or stumble and I was likely to lose my balance and be ejected smartly from the back of the roaring machine on my stomach.
No - what stopped me was the consternation and - if I am honest - look of absolute fear on my neighbours faces on the treadmills either side, and so that's how it was, that after just 250m I was forced to press the big red emergency stop button and call it a day.
===============================================================
1 for all my American readers (cough): 5 kilometres = 3.11 miles
2 the race is dominated by skinny, unhealthy-looking 20 somethings with 30" waists and long legs. Meh.
3 will our top management be sacrificing their bonuses; if they did would it be a trick; and - most importantly - would it mean a smaller or larger bonus pool for the rest of us?
14 May 2008
Well, I'm pretty pleased with it...
The end of season video, that is.
I just wish I had a pound for every hour I spent editing it, because, well....I'd have £30 now. (No, you're right: it shouldn't be that hard. Let's just say I'm two codecs short of a Blu-Ray)
Still, it turned out all right in the end, I reckon.
OK then: volume up to 11 before you press play... and...action...
I just wish I had a pound for every hour I spent editing it, because, well....I'd have £30 now. (No, you're right: it shouldn't be that hard. Let's just say I'm two codecs short of a Blu-Ray)
Still, it turned out all right in the end, I reckon.
OK then: volume up to 11 before you press play... and...action...
01 October 2007
Motivated
It's been a long time since I thought of Mr Motivator, but there he was, on Sunday, motivating. And a very good job he was doing as well: in front of him in Hampton Court Great Park stood 4,000 turquoise-clad idiots all pumping to the left, lunging to the right, and jumping on the spot.
Except me. Never one for dancing in public (except for the flamenco of course, and the rugby club dinner, naturally), I remained still and poised, cool and alert, coiled like a spring and ready to run.
Well, jog anyway. Ten kilometres is an awfully long way. And I got stuck in the maze.
Except me. Never one for dancing in public (except for the flamenco of course, and the rugby club dinner, naturally), I remained still and poised, cool and alert, coiled like a spring and ready to run.
Well, jog anyway. Ten kilometres is an awfully long way. And I got stuck in the maze.
Forty-Eight minutes Fifty-Two seconds, though :-)
I call that well and truly motivated.20 August 2007
Slip-Sliding Away
It's been a long time since I held hands with a grown man. At a guess 1973.
Until the weekend, that is, when I took a deep breath, shifted my weight on to my toes and held hands, quite tightly and more than once, with a young, tanned snow board instructor.
Reader, I even gazed into his eyes.
Until he told me: no, even though it was true, he had said to look straight ahead, perhaps I should rather look over his shoulder toward the crest of hill, and was I ready to let go now ?
I was at the artificial ski-slope at Sandown Park for private lesson. He was a lot better on a snowboard than I was, but on the whole I felt I was dressed more cooly: while he sported a bright red junior ski-klub sweatshirt and a baseball hat back to front. I was wearing my ultra-baggy (triathlon weight-loss) snow-boarder-cargo-pants and my sly hat.
Unfortunately, although I was cooler I was also indisputably hotter: it may be a miserable August in England but hopping up a steep slope wearing a hat and gloves and with a 10kg deadweight strapped to your ankle can certainly warm you up. Even when you have ventilated armpit holes.
When I took off my knee-pads, I had sweat patches on my knees.
Until the weekend, that is, when I took a deep breath, shifted my weight on to my toes and held hands, quite tightly and more than once, with a young, tanned snow board instructor.
Reader, I even gazed into his eyes.
Until he told me: no, even though it was true, he had said to look straight ahead, perhaps I should rather look over his shoulder toward the crest of hill, and was I ready to let go now ?
I was at the artificial ski-slope at Sandown Park for private lesson. He was a lot better on a snowboard than I was, but on the whole I felt I was dressed more cooly: while he sported a bright red junior ski-klub sweatshirt and a baseball hat back to front. I was wearing my ultra-baggy (triathlon weight-loss) snow-boarder-cargo-pants and my sly hat.
Unfortunately, although I was cooler I was also indisputably hotter: it may be a miserable August in England but hopping up a steep slope wearing a hat and gloves and with a 10kg deadweight strapped to your ankle can certainly warm you up. Even when you have ventilated armpit holes.
When I took off my knee-pads, I had sweat patches on my knees.
26 June 2007
Wimbledon and the Hawk-Eye delusion
Quite the best part of Roddick v Gimelstob on Monday afternoon was Hawk-Eye doing its stuff.
Court 1, first day: Two enormous men, in enormous shorts, face up to each other across a half-size tennis court. One bounces a ball on the turf and straightens up; the line judges take up their ludicrous Wimbledon Crouch. The ball is tossed into the air, Serve!
Thwack! A flash of agassi-belly, "FAULT!" "15-30"
But what's this? Instead of retiring meekly, a player apologetically raises his hand.
"Mr Gimli", intoned the referee incredulously, "Mr Gimli, son of Thimli, son of McEnroe, is challenging the line call!", then adding rather needlessly: "the call made was: 'out' ".
It was the first ever Hawk-Eye challenge at Wimbledon (and I was there) The crowd loved it. The offending line judge hated it. How he squirmed in his seat as Hawk-Eye blinked into action ("Hawk-Eye operator, actually". Wouldn't that be a great response when quizzed at parties?).
On the big screen a virtual No 1 Court appeared and we gasped as our virtual pov zoomed, dizzily, like google earth, down, down until we took up position a few virtual centimetres above the virtual grass, to see exactly where the virtual ball would bounce. In came the ball. In the background a tiny, virtual line-judge leapt from his virtual seat and a speech bubble yelled 'OUT', but in the foreground we could all see the virtual ball just touching the virtual line - it was in.
Although personally I wasn't convinced: no cloud of virtual dust, see.
Great fun but, at its heart, not entirely honest, for this isn't really a replay. The system isn't really watching to see whether the ball is out or not. It already decided that. This is an animation. It follows the decision, not the other other way round.
-0-
Wimbledon sorts people: Centre Court, No.1 or Outside Courts? Members' Enclosure, Debenture Holders' Enclosure or Henman Hill? Food Village, picnic or Pimms & Champagne bar?
Mrs B and I know where we stand, and we headed for the last-named, and a glass each of watery Pimms (no, sir, no Margaritas) where we watched the people. Young people, old people, all middle-class people. To our left a couple were kissing quite passionately, his hand on her leg. The rings on their fingers, showed they were married but not, opined Mrs B confidently, to each other. They were oblivious to our gaze.
Over their heads, on the big screen, a virtual tennis player tucked a virtual tennis ball into her virtual knickers.
One day they'll probably have Hawk-Eye in the bars as well.
Court 1, first day: Two enormous men, in enormous shorts, face up to each other across a half-size tennis court. One bounces a ball on the turf and straightens up; the line judges take up their ludicrous Wimbledon Crouch. The ball is tossed into the air, Serve!
Thwack! A flash of agassi-belly, "FAULT!" "15-30"
But what's this? Instead of retiring meekly, a player apologetically raises his hand.
"Mr Gimli", intoned the referee incredulously, "Mr Gimli, son of Thimli, son of McEnroe, is challenging the line call!", then adding rather needlessly: "the call made was: 'out' ".
It was the first ever Hawk-Eye challenge at Wimbledon (and I was there) The crowd loved it. The offending line judge hated it. How he squirmed in his seat as Hawk-Eye blinked into action ("Hawk-Eye operator, actually". Wouldn't that be a great response when quizzed at parties?).
On the big screen a virtual No 1 Court appeared and we gasped as our virtual pov zoomed, dizzily, like google earth, down, down until we took up position a few virtual centimetres above the virtual grass, to see exactly where the virtual ball would bounce. In came the ball. In the background a tiny, virtual line-judge leapt from his virtual seat and a speech bubble yelled 'OUT', but in the foreground we could all see the virtual ball just touching the virtual line - it was in.
Although personally I wasn't convinced: no cloud of virtual dust, see.
Great fun but, at its heart, not entirely honest, for this isn't really a replay. The system isn't really watching to see whether the ball is out or not. It already decided that. This is an animation. It follows the decision, not the other other way round.
-0-
Wimbledon sorts people: Centre Court, No.1 or Outside Courts? Members' Enclosure, Debenture Holders' Enclosure or Henman Hill? Food Village, picnic or Pimms & Champagne bar?
Mrs B and I know where we stand, and we headed for the last-named, and a glass each of watery Pimms (no, sir, no Margaritas) where we watched the people. Young people, old people, all middle-class people. To our left a couple were kissing quite passionately, his hand on her leg. The rings on their fingers, showed they were married but not, opined Mrs B confidently, to each other. They were oblivious to our gaze.
Over their heads, on the big screen, a virtual tennis player tucked a virtual tennis ball into her virtual knickers.
One day they'll probably have Hawk-Eye in the bars as well.
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