A very different college

As I have remarked elsewhere I enjoyed and have greatly appreciated my undergraduate years at Oxford. I spent another three years in a very different college, one which was just as vital to my education. I want this post to be a sort of fond memorial of those years.

I recall that last journey in our own car - an ancient, hideously yellow, but very reliable Volvo estate... and savouring, somewhere along the North Wales coast, the last packed lunch that my wife would make for many years. After getting lost for a while in Dublin (they didn't believe in signposts back then) we finally arrived late-evening at our destination in Co. Down and were met by a member of the community who informed as that, as a meeting was in progress, could we find our own way to "No. 2" in the village several miles away? No. 2 turned out to be fairly horrific and damp rented accommodation that we would share with other community members. Our three kids got an attic room literally under the roof tiles - they were young and half asleep so I had to half carry them up the two flights of stairs and stagger under the low beams in the attic to get them to bed. I suppose it was not until the next morning that we made it to "the farm".

The meeting room in "C-block"

Breakfast was at 06:00 every morning and consisted of a quick bowl of porridge (no milk, no sugar) followed by devotions in the meeting room and then work. It was November and still dark at 06:30 and even when dawn eventually managed to struggle lethargically above the horizon it was grey - everything was grey, the mountains, the houses, the flowers, the people. The first task I was given was to make a bungalow's worth of wooden door and window frames for a customer. Although I had machined hardwood stock to work from, all the joints had to be made the hard way with mallet and chisel and it felt like the job was interminable. It was cold too - because the workshop had only three walls. But good training - since then I have been involved in other projects that have degenerated to the same feeling of morass! Staying motivated is a choice we make.

The accusation has been made that we were part of a cult - I think not and this definition would tend to agree but, towards the end, things went bad. For me the reason for leaving was a matter of conviction.

The shop

These pictures were taken in the good times. I mentioned the shop in a previous post: here it was just a farm shop but by the time we were at Abba it had evolved to a high class delicatessen, hence the large quantities of blue cheese. As I stated in my previous post, after my time Abba was taken over by and is now thriving under new management. Any reminiscences I record here have absolutely no connection with the present company.

The main house

Much happened in those three years. Somewhere along the line the decision was taken to open a high class restaurant and before long we had the exclusive Memories, by reservation only, the more accessible Kitchen Garden which kept busy particularly at weekends, and a coffee shop where you could enjoy home baked scones with jam. We had our own bakery where bread and savoury pastries were made daily for the restaurants and also sold locally. There was a period soon after I had started working for Abba in Belfast but was commuting daily from the farm when I would get home in the wee hours only to find Alison just getting up to start work in the bakery. Thankfully this arrangement did not persist - it was not long afterwards that our family moved to Belfast.

At the beginning of the restaurant phase I fancied myself as a chef. I figured it would be an easier life than hauling concrete blocks. Such foolishness. I cooked one meal for what was perhaps our first booking. When I say "I cooked" it was my assistant who was really in control - her expertise was legendary. But at the time I thought I was something. As the meal was ready ahead of time I took a short walk to get some fresh air in my lungs. A short walk - unheard of liberty! I remember reveling in the freedom. I was my own boss even if only for half an hour. I don't think there was anything exactly wrong with the meal - it was good home cooking - but I was never invited to cook again. And that possibly was my salvation.

There was the time we arrived back from a trip to England only to find, surprise surprise, that our bedroom furniture was being moved. We must have changed bedrooms maybe a half a dozen times in those three years. The accommodation was mostly converted farm buildings. One particularly notable suite we had was a couple of rooms (one for the kids) on the first floor and directly above the wood-burning boiler that heated the main house. This gave us welcome warmth (as well as smoke) since there was no door between our bedroom and the outside world - just a thick curtain. And a make-shift outside ladder was the only access. Not too convenient for loo trips in the middle of the night, but I cannot remember complaining about this arrangement - in fact I think we rather liked the way our accommodation was self-contained and apart from the rest of the community. I can remember complaining about other issues though.

Turkey plucking

Every December the community would earn some ready cash by hand-plucking turkeys for the Christmas market. Some of us maintained this practice for the first few years in our new home in the Republic. I was never very plucky myself and did what I could to avoid the imposition but nevertheless on occasions found myself bird in the hand. I regret to say that to this day I cannot enjoy eating turkey. It's that stench.

I wasn't invited to cook again but I still got to work in the restaurant kitchen on numerous occasions. I was the itinerant and de facto electrician and plumber in those days. Itinerant because by now I had graduated to Abba.  Every so often the command would filter northwards for me to be released for work back at base, so my lessons were hastily rescheduled and I'd be on the road back to Co. Down. O sweet Ballynahinch, were you aware of my oft nocturnal comings and going through thy streets?

Thus would start a three day and night virtually non-stop electrical and plumbing remodel of the make-shift restaurant kitchens to facilitate some new move around or equipment purchase. Gas pipes, hot and cold water, waste, three-phase electricity, lubricated with endless cups of coffee and left-over scones. There comes a point where the human body cannot take another coffee or scone. There comes a point where you look at - this 'ere pipe has got to feed down and through this 'ere wall and round these corners and get behind that there piece of equipment and - oh - how slow the progress is - every joint to be soldered becomes a marathon.  But it would, eventually, as most things do, come to pass. My hands would be full of cracks and grazes but, oh bliss, the journey back to Belfast at last. Mind the curbs though - on several occasions the car mounting the curb would jolt me out of sleep. I was more fortunate that one community member who sustained a serious accident in which the vehicle was written off - for the same crime of falling asleep whilst at the wheel.

Or at other times I might be called in to mend a leak or replace a fuse whilst the kitchen was in full swing, saucepans flying (literally), shouting, clatter of dishes - such a strange feeling being able, indeed welcome, to pass through all that din and confusion with diplomatic immunity. Since those days I have worked in several hotels (installing or repairing minibars) and felt similarly as if in another world. Opening a bedroom door with my pass key whilst clearly announcing "minibar service!" only to find two pairs of feet sticking out of the bed. "Come in, come in, don't mind us" the owners would herald.

There was a period when, every Saturday evening, the whole Abba staff would up and leave after the last lessons and drive in convoy to the community where we would spend most of the rest of the night cleaning up the restaurant areas ready for the Sunday trade.  On one such occasion I was following the lead car as it was motoring up the Ormeau road at considerably above the speed limit. The RUC arrived and guess who they pulled over? The injustice! Fortunately I was only given a warning - they were more concerned that a gang might have been stealing the Abba fleet.

Two of my boys

But there was fun to. It wasn't all hard work. We enjoyed special meals, BBQ's, times of praise and worship, school performances like the one above. On one occasion we even went the the seaside, complete with ice creams doled out!

my son, Tyrella beach

And then there were the potatoes.  Every year we would pick potatoes for a local farmer. And we grew our own crop too. When I say "we" - in fact I can only remember one time myself - I was too busy driving Abba cars or rerouting the kitchen pipework for the N'th time. But one time I recall - after a few hours the back begins to ache real bad, and the monotony... Then someone shouts "lunchtime" and we all rush together to receive our packed lunches. We open the package expectantly only to find a cold baked-potato staring back. No butter, cheese or salt. Just a potato. Another potato.

A break whilst potato picking

We had an affinity for potatoes. One winter (before I moved to Belfast) money was particularly short and for a good few of us potatoes became the staple. Potatoes for breakfast. Potatoes for lunch... We conjured up many ways of cooking those potatoes but there are limits when the necessary extra ingredients are missing or in seriously short supply. But we survived that winter (although I lost weight). There was the time when a tray full of scones destined for the shop got freezer-burn so could not be sold and, oh, how I relished every bite not having had anything made from flour for months.

There was the time the potato barn collapsed. The barn was in fact owned by a neighbour and had brick walls to half height then steel framework above. We were dumping trailer load after trailer load of potatoes into this barn - someone suggested that maybe we should stop but, no, we kept going until the outward pressure pushed the brick walls over and so the whole superstructure collapsed on top. It was, of course, late at night, raining and a howling gale (what else?) - someone fetched polythene and somehow we managed to cover the catastrophe in an attempt to at least save the crop. We did eventually rebuild the barn so I suppose the neighbour ended up better off.

What did these years teach me? Not that I'm out of school yet, mind you. To be content whether abased or abounding. To be more confident in my own ability to discern - for example the difference between anointing and charisma. To apply myself to the task in hand whatever it might be. When all was said and done these three long years had no negative effect but rather have grown me up. I recall Joseph's summary after all he suffered: "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today". Not that anyone meant evil against me but it did feel like it at times!

The perfect pillow

We have just invested considerable expense in a couple of 100% goose-down pillows. Having only slept one night using mine, the jury is still out on whether it will improve my lifestyle - but it had better!

One thing I noticed straight away was that it has no temperature control.

Since early childhood I have maintained that the perfect pillow should have a means to vary its temperature.  Particularly to make it colder than ambient. Am I alone? - and why is there no such pillow on the market?  There are products like here that claim to cool but their effect must only be short term as there is no refrigeration involved.

As a child my head would sometimes feel as if it were a huge sphere, tight and fit to burst, enormously heavy, and in urgent need of cooling. Doubtless caused by a fever, this feeling was recurrent to the point where I would dread it happening. The perfect pillow surely would have alleviated my suffering at those times.

Warring with my pillow whilst trying to sleep I realise how heavy my head is even when am I not running a fever. Apparently it is about 8% of my total body mass (good thing I am not overweight!). Any lumpiness results in spot pressure points which aggravate. Therefore the perfect pillow should also stay homogenous and easily conform to the shape of one's head so as to distribute its weight evenly.

I must also be able to mold the pillow so that it stays away from my mouth. My mouth is very particular about what it touches and, anyway, if I don't adjust the relative pressure inside my mouth so that it is slightly negative it can, when combined with the capillary action of an adjacent pillow, sometimes dribble. A wet pillow is not nice. Whilst on the subject of mouths I will note that, in ortder to sleep, I also have to consciously adjust my bite so as to minimise the pressure on my teeth. My teeth are very unreasonable in this respect.

Sometime I like my head a little higher, sometimes lower, and adding a second pillow goes too far, so the perfect pillow should also be adjustable in height.

I usually sleep on my side. Unless Ali is fast asleep this means on my right side, otherwise she claims that my breathing keeps her awake.  My body is apparently very inconsiderate in its insistence to continue breathing even when sleeping on my left side. If my stomach is acting up (sick feeling, or simply over-full) then I have to go into "I am sick" mode. This necessitates lying on my back with my head propped up on two pillows and no weight on my stomach. It would obviously be handier if, at a flip of a switch, a single pillow could accommodate this special requirement.

Sometimes, usually after the inevitable-now-I-am-older midnight loo-trip, I switch to being "arm sleeper" and have to mold the pillow accordingly.  The invention in the above picture is a good idea but I am hardly likely to want to switch pillows. Therefore the ideal pillow must accommodate one's arm with ease.

Why am I going on at such length about such a seemingly trivial subject?  Each of us spends almost a third of our lives snuggling my pillow. That's a good deal longer than I have ever snuggled anything else apart from, possibly, my computer mouse. Maybe if we gave more consideration to our pillows we would be better people.

Tower of Babel

And the LORD said, "Behold, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them."

Long ago when I worked as an engineer for the BBC there was a man in the Research Dept, let's call him Mr Black, who was venerated as an oracle, because he understood the vagaries of radio propagation across mixed terrain, antenna theory, and the like. Black magic stuff.  He might, for all I know, have been the world's best expert on the subject.

Few folk like him exist today. There is no need. We simply go to the god Google to get our answers.

Not too many years back Farnell issued a paper catalog every year and this was my Bible when designing a new electronic circuit. The same information was available on the internet but I found the book quicker. Now we have faster broadband and the search engines have improved so it is (usually) quicker to use the internet.  I note that Farnell have stopped issuing the catalog.

I have recently been working on a software project using Visual C#, a language I had never used before. They didn't teach me C# at college, I haven't read any books, and yet it is a very verbose and often convoluted and not at all intuitive language. At every turn I was typing "C# this" or "C# that" into the search bar and discovering almost instantly advice from many other programmers worldwide. Who needs a tame Mr. Black when you can consult a whole world of knowledge?

And what will now be impossible for them?

Avon Rí

Another new route - the purpose was to explore the Avon Rí end of the Blessington Greenway. Not that there is much to report - the last section that ends at the Avon Rí is a relatively boring path without much of a view. The 'S' shaped section near the text "Burgage" on the map is likewise, and also rather stony in places for barefoot running.

The total distance was almost exactly 12 miles (19.31 km) and my pace is still over 10 minutes per mile.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

Last Thursday I took two of my granddaughters to the stage production of Chitty. We had excellent seats, central and close to the front, and the show was indeed phantasmagorical. Mind you, I couldn't help comparing it with the film and, of course, there were numerous differences. But the sheer impact of all that activity so close was amazing. I think the best part was to see the joy on the faces of the two children, Jeremy and Jemima. They both acted so naturally and clearly were enjoying performing as much as we enjoyed watching them.

Showing the rear-projected back drop

In our discussion beforehand we all wondered how they would portray the car floating and flying. The solution was to keep the car in one place and make the scenery move by animated rear projection. The car was mounted on an arm supported behind the back drop and could be made to turn on its centre, tilt and move up and down. The sea was theatrical smoke.

New running route

New running route 20.34 km

I tried a new route today. Stats: 12.67 miles, pace 10:11 minutes per mile. Barefoot of course. The route: towards Poulaphouca, Broadleas, the old woollen mill at Ballymore Eustace, the old Blessington road, through the grounds of Russborough House, along Blessington Greenway and back by the lake road. The weather mild, a little rain.

Belfast troubles

Abba driving school

Hard to believe that, over 30 years ago, I was an Approved Driving Instructor on the streets of Belfast. I used to instruct in one of these red Mini's and, later, an Austin Metro. Back then Abba Driving School was owned by the Christian community we were part of, but was subsequently sold and is now thriving under new ownership. It hardly needs to be said that anything I say in this post is totally unrelated to the present ownership.

Back then Abba was a primary means of support to the community and financial necessity was my main reason for getting involved. There were about half a dozen of us and we worked hard. The first task every day was to valet the cars inside and out. Lessons started at 8 a.m. and often we would work through the evening cramming in as many as reasonably possible.

The Abba office was in University Street, an area agnostic to the religious divide. The era was after the worst of the troubles but there were still bombs going off here and there - often we would hear about them indirectly from our relatives in the UK before we heard locally, such was the news machine. Police and Army checkpoints were common place.

We serviced both the Catholic and Protestant communities. On one occasion, on being asked by a student if I was Catholic or Protestant I replied that I was neither. But you must be one or the other! The problem was solved when it became evident that I was a Brit. Apparently this was an acceptable third category!

On another occasion I was teaching a young police officer. He learnt privately so was in plain clothes. At Abba we often used the narrow and relatively quiet but staunchly loyalist streets of the village and, when I guided him this way, he became visibly alarmed and asked if we could go somewhere else for fear of being recognised.

Although we Abba drivers generally kept to relatively harmless test routes, occasionally I would explore further afield if I felt my student was up to it. One time I entered a republican housing estate somewhere near the Falls Road. I noticed bystanders looking oddly at my progress and I could feel the hairs on my neck standing on end. There was palpable tension in Belfast back then.

And then there were, and doubtless still are, the loyalist Orange men and their lodges, the 12th of July, King Billy and all that. Huge bonfires dangerously close to residences.  Union jacks flying, curbs painted red white and blue, huge wall murals... So strange and provocative to my mind.

King Billy wall murals

Orange parades

Two nations dwelling in the same land. One soft, warm, friendly, laid-back, untidy but fiercely defendant of their kind. The other more teutonic, precise, formal but also fiercely principled and defendant. Of course the vast majority just want to live peaceably and, if the neighbours have different backgrounds, who cares? And so I, of more teutonic stock (I can hardly help it) have become accepted and trusted for who I am here where I am living in the Republic, never mind the fact that I do not attend the local Catholic church. I even have an Irish daughter!

I had the privilege of teaching a particular woman student. She was an artist by profession and wore interesting earrings, always a different pair. I remember miniature frying pans dangling, complete with fried egg! The instructor has a side-on view so unusual earrings stand out. I cannot remember her name and would not mention it here anyway, but she just could not get the hang of reversing. I tried everything in the book - she would habitually turn the wheel the wrong way...

Then there was Cynthia - a good driver so very few lessons but talkative and a joy to teach - once she pointed out some magpies and started quoting "One for sorrow, Two for joy..." - strange the things that stick in one's memory.

Another, first time, highly educated student, this time a man should you think I am male chauvinist: we were in the Boucher Road (back then it was a disused dead-end road) and he sat in the driving seat for his very first time. Sweat poured from his brow as he crawled forward in first gear heaving the steering wheel first full left, then right, sometimes mounting the curb. A typical case of positive feedback, instability and all that. I felt so embarrassed for him.

Turning right in traffic is a good deal more difficult than turning left. I had decided that a certain student was not yet up to turning right so I had to plan a route that would get us back to the office in time for the next lesson and without turning right.

Long hours took their toll. I regret to admit that on one occasion I fell asleep. I told all my students that they should continue straight ahead unless given instruction otherwise. Of course she (I think it was a she) was perhaps too busy to notice my slumber so just kept motoring on. When I woke, with that strange feeling of "what am I doing?", I quickly realised my predicament, glanced at my watch and saw we had minimal time before the next lesson, and then had to work out where exactly we were and how to get back!

The stuff we ate... You must understand that, although we were earning, the proceeds all went to the community and our standard of living was similarly dictated. We lived together in rented accommodation of questionable quality and were thankful for small mercies. The community itself ran a delicatessan shop and we sometimes got the cast-offs. Blue cheese was on the menu one week. I had a generous slab of well matured blue cheese for lunch one day, and the next, and the next. One of my more frequent students at the time noticed the strong and repeated aroma on my breath - and asked, did I always have cheese for lunch?

Or the glut of eggs. Seventy eggs broken into a steel tray and baked in the oven - for dinner tonight, same again for the next few nights. Curiously blackened on the underside by the rusting baking tray (a good source of iron!).

The husband of one of the instructors, Bert, had a regular job so had better access to funds (the rest of us had no more than that to buy necessities like toothpaste). He would occasionally lay a Mars bar on each of our driving seats before the evening lessons began. It was like finding gold bullion for the joy it brought. Bert, your generosity and love will not be forgotten.

I enjoyed my time with Abba.  The job was fun. The people were fun. And I learned a lot. But more about exactly what I learnt whilst in or around Belfast in a future post.

Longest run yet

Lake run 27.94 km

Sometimes in life you just have to do it. For a week or so I have been deliberating running this route. Can I make it? - am I stupid to even contemplate it? So, like other difficult decisions, I resolved not to dwell on it and at the appointed time, bad weather forecast or not, I simply started running. And soon it was too late to turn back.

I was wearing my ForeRunner 15 "watch" hence the GPS track. The Garmin activity site was down so I found an excellent alternative "GPSies" - hopefully if you click on the link it will display my stats.

Basically 17.4 miles, virtually all road running, barefoot of course, I ran the course anti-clockwise along the Lakes Drive through Lacken and thus to Blessington, then along a small stretch of the greenway, through Baltyboys and home. No problems except for one stretch of road that was dressed recently so rather stony, and exceeding lethargy for the last few miles.

Oh - and did I mention the weather? It was forecast to and did rain for the second half of the run, thankfully not heavy as it was rather cold and windy. And, wow, am I stiff!

Just one more

Mill road, Annalong, Co Down

I was 25 years younger then. It was a period of discontent in my life and I ended up as a labourer for two block layers. The guy in the background is probably Gerald and he used to encourage me by saying "just one more block".  And so I would repeat the endless round of carting more blocks, another mix of mortar...  But, like most things, it came to pass.

When something seems too hard to handle 

Too big to conquer, too far away to touch, 

When all your dreams begin to shatter, 

And deep inside you you’re hurting, oh, so much, 

That’s when it’s time to say 

I’m climbing my mountain step by step 

I’m climbing my mountain day by day 

I’m climbing my mountain all the way 

I’m climbing my mountain, I’m gonna make it 

One step at a time, One step at a time, 

One step at a time with Jesus by my side 

One step at a time, One step at a time, 

I’m climbing my mountain one step at a time 

Even though you might grow weary 

Don’t be discouraged, in your weakness God is strong 

Remember this, He’ll never leave you, 

He won’t forsake you, He’s your strength and He’s your song 

So sing and start to say, 

©1985 & this arrangement 1986 Rettino Kerner Publishing

Going around in circles

Yellow is Blessington greenway, red was my path approx.

I ran (barefoot) about 10 miles today. Towards Blessington then south along the greenway to Poulaphouca then back home. Only, for added interest, I veered off from the greenway into the woods and towards the lake along what seemed a well-worn path. But it degenerated into nothingness as such paths do, so then I tried heading back to the greenway but got lost. Regrettably I had no GPS with me. I passed this corrugated iron shelter and then found myself passing it again some while later. And getting tangled in brambles - bad enough, they would have been impassable later in the year. I didn't think I could be so dumb as to go round in a circle, but dumb I was. A lesson to one and all!

I seem to recall that the early Israelites could have got to their promised land in less than two weeks rather than the 40 years it actually took, and most of them died on the way so the 40 years becomes a bit irrelevant. Back when I lived in London I was part of a Christian youth group and I remember one sage among us announcing that he thought we were about to "move into the promised land" (figuratively speaking) - none of us knew what this meant but it had a good feel to it. But I recall thinking - what will change?

This set me thinking (I had plenty of thinking time among those brambles) about my own life. I often marvel at the robustness of my fellow Christians - how they can keep on believing that they will "get there" wherever "there" is, whilst never actually (yet) achieving it. I hope this is faith rather than wishful thinking. But what if the direct path to get "there" was actually quite short, and the reason for me (or anyone else for that matter) not seeming to get any nearer my goal was because I am going around in circles?

The highest treason

Sebastian MacMaine was the man who gave much more that his life to save the human race. The highest treason is a book that I found worth reading and very relevant.

The boy accused of blasphemy

Perhaps you saw this picture in the news.  I quote:

"Why should I feel any pain or trouble in cutting off the hand that was raised against the Holy Prophet?". Those are the words of 15-year-old Qaiser (not his real name) who chopped off his right hand just a few days ago believing he had committed blasphemy.

On 11 January, Qaiser was attending a celebration of the Prophet's birth at a mosque in his village in north-eastern Punjab. The cleric hosting it worked the crowd into a fervour and, a few hours into the celebration, called out: "Who among you is a follower of Muhammad?" Everyone raised their hands. He followed it with another question: "Who among you doesn't believe in the teachings of the Holy Prophet? Raise your hands!"

Qaiser, mishearing, inadvertently raised his hand. Witnessed by about 100 worshippers, the cleric immediately accused him of blasphemy and the boy returned home to prove his love for the Prophet - by cutting off his own hand.

"I came back home and went to the grass-cutting machine, but found the place dark so I took my uncle's phone to point some light at my hand. I placed it under the machine and chopped it off in a single swirl."  Qaiser picked his severed hand up from under the machine and, bleeding profusely, placed it on a tray and took it back to the mosque.

Villagers in this conservative part of Pakistan have supported and praised Qaiser's action. While Qaiser was having his wounds dressed in a poorly-equipped clinic, his father told us: "I hardly make ends meet."Breaking down, he added: "I don't even have money to pay the nurse. I also want a new hand for my son. My only solace is that he did for the Prophet."

This story makes me cry. We Christians tend to think those of other faiths are deceived. Whereas I laud him for his sincerity even if I am sad for him. I stand ashamed of my mediocrity. Didn't our Lord say "if your hand or thy foot offend you, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for you to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire"? A passage which is generally "spiritualised" to avoid embarrassment! And what a lesson to those of us who have any leadership role and thus might influence the young in our care.

But what devotion! Or maybe you say brainwashing...

Fourth run

It warmed up a bit, and it's Saturday, so I did the Kings River loop, just over 9 miles. I got back in one piece so I declare the jet-lag over. Almost. And I'll stop posting about ordinary runs you'll be pleased to hear.

Third run

I overslept which I put down to jet-lag. Besides, getting up at 6 a.m. for a run in this weather is not exactly pleasurable. So I ran at lunch time when the temperature had risen above freezing. But I have to say that I felt colder, and in particular my feet felt colder, than when I was running on compacted snow in Alaska.

Second run

Trying to overcome jet-lag, I managed to rise at a record 7 a.m. this morning, time enough for just two miles but, oh so hard on my feet - they have got so soft during the trip to AK. Therefore, O my barefoot running readers, do not let up for even a few weeks!

Back home first run

Just the 4.3 mile loop - and Meg came too. There is a smattering of snow and the temperature is just above freezing. And debris on the roads because of the recent heavy rainfall. Not nice running. The higher humidity makes the temperature here feel no better than in my Artic Run post and I would prefer running on compacted dry snow than freezing wet roads any day!

Arctic run

Actually the temperature here has been relatively warm for this time of the year (about -5 degC) so finally I braved the ice and snow.  Packed snow under bare feet all the three and a bit miles way.

The key is to get warmed up first on the treadmill - this gets the circulation going, especially important for the feet.

Two layers on top, usual shorts, scarf in case I needed it (I didn't) and gloves. No problem at all running in these conditions, although I grant my feet were cold on getting back and I did another 1/4 mile on the treadmill to warm up,

Barefoot Alaska

The temperature here has been around 0 degF (relatively warm for this time of the year) and there is, of course, snow on the ground. At a humidity of around 20% a shirt and padded jacket suffices for walks between buildings unlike in Ireland where, wearing this much, you might feel cold at 40 degF.

So far what running I have done has been on the treadmill (which I hate), but I have been experimenting with outdoors. It is several hundred metres from this house to a nearby building. Today I managed this distance barefoot. The key is that one's feet stay relatively dry in this climate.

Morning

Morning Alaska

Long time ago my father ran a DIY shop in Alresford and I was granted the task of re-modelling the shop window. Having recently learnt in school how to do a flat wash and possibly inspired by scenes from the film Oliver I decided to cut out a silhouetted city sky-line from ply-wood, paint it matt black, and place it in front of a colour-wash sky. Suitably lit by coloured flood-lights of course. And probably littered with a few choice DIY products in the foreground. It was a success, by which I mean I enjoyed doing it and liked the final product.

The sky this morning at Big Delta, Alaska brought back these memories.

Beta and Omega

Beta because this is my second run using my newly acquired Forerunner 15 running watch, many thanks to Kurt'n'Kate. Using GPS it tracks my route and such like. Here is its summary of my (barefoot) run this morning. Omega because I do not intend to keep posting my everyday running stats - unless they are of particular interest.