And sticking to a plan.

Something I’ve found very hard since leaving my ironman days behind me and starting a family.

When I more or less lived for endurance sport, my life revolved around a training plan. I was young, free and single and had no one to worry about but myself, and immersing myself in my own world was easy. Eat, sleep, train, repeat… and work as little as necessary.

Now, with other (more important) responsibilities, I’m lucky to sneak out for a 15 minute jog. I make it sound like it’s out of my control, but in reality, it’s not. I have chosen my path and my responsibilities, and I have chosen to dedicate a significant portion of my time and energy to a family.

It is therefore, also my responsibility to choose to dedicate time and energy to myself. To not allow myself to be completely dragged along by the events of the day, even though there are moments when that is unavoidable. To plan my breathing, meditation, ice bath, exercise or whatever else I need in to my days or weeks.

To recognise that if I don’t charge my own batteries sufficiently, answer my calls to individuality regularly and assign great value to my own time and energy, I’ll be forever tired, frustrated and increasingly irritable. Which renders me incapable of being fully me, and consequentially incapable of fully assuming my other responsibilities.

This morning I began a new plan.

The first hour of the day is for me. I have to get up early enough to make it happen, but that’s fine.

6am, teeth clean, glass of warm water, check in – how am I mentally, phsyically, emotionally?

Light movement and stretching, breathing exercises, cold plunge, run around the garden and wave my arms around until I warm up again, and then dry off and enter the family morning routines.

That’s the beginning. Maintain this routine for a couple of weeks before adding something new.

The next is to schedule breathing breaks during the day, writing time, and self-development. Generating an income.

How about a new book?

Sometimes turning a page just isn’t enough. Try throwing the book out of the window altogether and picking up another one. Preferably one that makes you feel uncomfortable.

So here I am, more than slightly uncomfortable, having barely read the synopsis of my new book, before skipping the introduction and diving straight into the first chapter.

All metaphor of course. We’re nearly two months in to our new life in a new country (actually an old one in my case) having left behind everything we’ve known and owned for the last decade and more, to move to the UK.

From a constant state of spring/summer, and the sea on our doorstep, to a fairly constant state of autumn/winter, and no open water for 200 miles.

Husband, wife, 2 small children, sharing a house with the grandparents whilst we find our feet and our independence again. After a year of paperwork, we’re finally coming to the end of the adminstrative tedium. By the end of next week we’ll have a car, and then all we need to do is find a place to live, and an income, or two, or three.

Which is where my own personal mini-(mid-life)-crisis comes in. It’s not about the age (well perhaps it is a little bit about the age), but more a recognition and evalutaion of certain things. Such as the hours of my life I’ve spent (or wasted) working in jobs that have been at best, unsatisfying, and at worst frustrating and unpleasant.

I love being a father and a husband.

Distraction… predictive dictionary just gave me ‘fatty’ as an alternative to ‘father’. That made me chuckle out loud, particularly as I look back on my ‘athlete’ era, and marvel at how I struggle to organise regular exercise these days.

Where was I? Father and husband. Wonderful, I wouldn’t change that for the world. Or would I?

No, I really wouldn’t. I love being Papi, and Baby. I love them all every day a little more, but I won’t lie, it’s not perfect. In fact, most of the time it’s exhausting. Even without the self-inflicted complication of changing country. We’re knackered, permanently.

I want (and need) more time for myself, and Julia and I crave more time as a couple.

Writing is one of my escapes. I don’t yet know where it’s taking me, but for now, it brings me back to myself after feeling as if I’ve been pulled in all directions by everyone else all day.

Sometimes I write my feelings down, more often I empty ideas and recurring themes from my head that have been rattling around in there haphazard and confusing for days or weeks. I’ve even played with creative fictional ideas. Pen and paper, keyboard and screen, pencil and the back of an envelope.

I’ve promised myself, and you (whoever you are, if you’re there) many times in the past, that I would publish regularly, perhaps once or twice a week. Up to now, that kind of consistency hasn’t lasted more than a couple of weeks, unless you count the blank weeks, which have been very consistent indeed.

So I’m not going to make any more tired promises. No more crying ‘wolf’.

I’m just going to get on with it.

New book, new country, new life.

A new path to better balance, better habits, better rhythms and routines.

Personal and family fulfilment.

More joy, more contentment.

Because life should be that way, and we deserve it.

Wild and free is how I dreamed I’d be. Living life my way, hiking over moutains and through jungles without a care in the world. Strong, confident, and creative too. My own kind of hero. Living an adventurous life, healing the planet as I go.

Whilst on the whole, I’m far from unhappy, most of that (and much more besides) has remained a dream.

My interests and ambitions have evolved over the years, but there are underlying themes that have followed me since my earliest memories. Somehow though, I’ve only flirted gently or for short periods with any of my desires, and others I’ve ignored completely.

I’m only now beginning to question and understand why.

Clarity. Confidence, Commitment. Consistency.

Or lack thereof at various points along the way.

Clarity… knowing what I want.

Confidence… belief in my ability to make a success out of whatever it is.

Commitment… To make a choice and follow it through, without fear of missing out on other things.

Consistency… To be consistently true to myself and my ideals

Some small amount of wisdom has come to me with the passing of the years, and now, with the benefit of hindsight and two small children, I am learning (slowly) to accept who I am, and where I am (metaphorically speaking), with less judgement and regret for that which has passed.

And with this acceptance, I’m starting to glimpse the Clarity required to Cultivate the Confidence, Commitment and Consistency that I’ve often missed on my journey so far.

I still have a long way to go, but it feels as though I’ve turned a poignant page in the book of my life, and even considering my other responsibililties (taken on deliberately and gladly), I’m no longer prepared to compromise my values, my fulfillment, nor my ideals.

Nothing I wish for is impossible. Nothing I feel is irrelevant.

It’s not too late, I can make time for whatever I want.

I am allowing myself, to be myself.

To be present, but not to lose myself in everything else that’s happening around me.

…is about to return ‘home’.

For me this is a contradiction in terms.

I have felt most at home in places where I’m considered a foreigner, and most restless in my ´home´ country. However, despite this, or perhaps even because of this, I find myself preparing to return to my country of birth, less than an hour’s drive from the town I grew up in (and tried so hard to escape).

And I’m looking forward to it. I can’t quite believe I’m saying it, but it’s true. It’s also true that I’m nervous about the prospect of living somewhere with such a large population, falling into the rat-race, a job I don´t care about and a house with no view from any of the windows. Of course, trading the year-round summer of the tropics, for the excessively seasonal mid-northern latitudes is also slightly worrying. I’ve gone soft after 13 years away. Anything less than 20 degrees sees me donning a woolly hat and a fleece… and that’s indoors.

But there is the other side. I enjoy rain, rare as it is here, and thunderstorms are a wonder. The island grinds to a halt when it hails so hard for 10 minutes (a once-in-5-year-event) that the volcanoes are white as snow for an hour or so. I’m looking forward to bird song, new growth in the spring, long days in the summer. Rivers and mountains a short train or long bike ride away.

I’m not returning alone. I’m bringing my wife and 2 children, and I feel compelled to make this a success for them as much as for me. Fulfilling work, time enough for each other and a chance to see the country of my childhood through their eyes. My turn to be the local and for them to be the foreigners. It’s not for me to be their guide however, but for them to be mine. For us to experience this time on familiar soil as a new adventure. For me to be the foreigner once again, and not ‘homesick’ for far-off lands, new languages, other cultures and customs.

Preparing to leave our home of choice, as it has been for the largest part of our adult lives, brings up a surprising number of emotions. Knowing that the countdown is on has helped us to open our eyes wider and realise everything we have had to be grateful for here. Julia and I fell in love here. All our children were born here. It’s inherently less stressful here than anywhere else I’ve lived before. Great beach on the doorstep, huge open views from all sides of the house. We’ve lived well here.

But we’ve also grown a little complacent.

It’s time for a change, a new challenge, a shock to the system to reignite some fires of inspiration. I’m going ´back´, for us to move forward. To open some new horizons for us and our wonderful children. To begin a new chapter of our story.

Part of another creative writing exercise.

The fist activity I remember using my extremities for was swimming. The smell of chlorine, the cold, damp floor of the semi-indoor pool. (Essentially an outdoor pool inside a poorly insulated greenhouse). The green algae growing on the tiles. I could swim well enough, but I don’t remember being particularly fast or competitive, nor do I remember if I was particularly passionate about it. I do remember that it felt natural though. I loved being in the water. I remember some summer camps as a child that involved swimming too. Swimming longer and longer distances, even as a child. I obtained badges for reaching 1500m, 3000m and even 5000m, all whilst still in primary school. Swimming stuck with me intermittently throughout my youth.

I dabbled at other sports, team and individual, and whilst I had the hand-eye coordination to have been competent at any of them, I never developed an interest long lasting enough to improve or gain much fitness. Golf was the exception, but again, without some parental encouragement, I wouldn’t have got very far with that either. I got more out of golf than any of the sports I played at school, however.

Alongside the physical activity came the music. I began, as a lot of us did, with the recorder, moving on to the electronic organ, and lessons I remember in a funny little backroom of a shop crammed with a dozen or so organs, the keys often crawling with tiny red spider mites. I’m not sure how long I stuck at that but at the age of 6 I asked for violin lessons. The reasons for which are not yet fully understood, neither by me nor my parents. Mary Cohen was my first teacher, and the only one who inspired me in any way. Even though I only lasted 6 years playing the violin and can’t say that I surprised anyone with my talent or progression, Mary’s teaching somehow left a mark on my memory. To get to some of her lessons I remember driving past fields where we would sometimes see deer in the twilight. The first weeks I wasn’t allowed near a bow, only using my fingers to pluck the strings. Mary also ran summer camps which were as much about art as they were music.  I learned about my Chinese birth sign amongst other things at one of those camps. I was born in the year of the monkey. When I began secondary school however, I moved on to a different teacher, and the creative interest nurtured by my former teacher was crushed by an uninspiring (to me at least) curriculum.  I remember asking him if he could just help me to play better and for the enjoyment of it. Basically, the answer was no. We must follow the plan. I think I only lasted a few weeks more before I gave it up.

Then 12 years old, I discovered rock music and the guitar. I still own a guitar, but it hangs forlorn and forgotten in the corner of the living room.

Whilst all this was going on, my hands and feet had been tested by climbing and kayaking as I was coming up through the ranks of the cubs and scouts. My enjoyment of which is most likely because of their immediate and obvious connection with nature. I never managed to really get enthusiastic about indoor climbing centres, but I have some very powerful memories connected to being on a river or a rock face.

It seems that this could go one of two ways. Either we keep global warming to 1.5º or less and survive in mostly adequate conditions, or we allow the warming to increase 2º or more, and the global climate spirals rapidly out of control, rendering the planet uninhabitable to humans and most of life as we know it within a handful of generations.

Based on observations better informed than my own, we are on a trajectory leading towards the latter and terminal disaster. Despite repeated summits on the looming environmental collapse, including renewed optimism following the Paris Agreement in 2015 where 196 of the world’s countries pledged to follow a drastic reduction in greenhouse gas emissions, arriving at a fully carbon neutral scenario (carbon released = carbon absorbed) by 2050, emissions are still increasing, and the clock is ticking.

Having spent most of my life in the relative luxury of the so-called ‘developed world’, it’s been easy to ignore the signs, or rather, not even notice them. Money, comfortable housing, technology, myriad digital distractions, the daily toil of making ends meet. I have been insulated in every sense of the word from the effects of global warming. There’s little incentive to sit back and analyse the changes that may or may not have occurred during my own lifetime, or even since my parents were children. However, we must only go back as far as our grandparents’ youth to see just how much things have really changed.

My grandparents were born in the UK just after the first World War. They survived the second World War and emerged into a new industrial era that would dwarf the previous century’s industrial revolution in scale, acceleration, and reckless abandon. Fuelled by a post-war need for regeneration and the euphoria of a new-found peace, technology and money were thrown into improving the old and developing the new. Necessary solutions were sought, and more luxuries, both necessary and unnecessary were invented.

At the beginning of the 20^th Century, agriculture was organic, all of it. Synthetic pesticides and fertilisers were a post-world-war extension of the explosives and chemical warfare industries. All these expertise and methods of destruction developed for the taking of human lives needed a new market, and with some relatively small molecular changes, an explosive became a fertiliser, and poison gas was converted into insecticides. Combined with improvements in machinery and vehicles, war was declared on nature in the name of progress (and profit), and previously healthy and diverse wild land was stripped and poisoned in favour of huge single-crop fields in need of constant attention, and artificial intervention, and to make space for grazing cattle. 

The landscape has been altered immeasurably; visually, chemically, and in its ability to store carbon. Annual crops, constant ploughing and breaking up of the topsoil, and regular spraying of unnatural chemical compounds has rendered the land infertile at best, toxic and dangerous at worst. And if this wasn’t bad enough, a huge percentage of the food produced is wasted at various points along the chain between cultivation, harvest, transport, supermarket, and your dinner table.

I know a lot of people who wax lyrical about the beauty of the countryside. And of course, as compared to the average cityscape, the wide-open spaces and greenery are a very literal breath of fresh air. However, I recently came across a concept I’d not thought of before, in a book by George Monbiot about ‘Rewilding’. Shifting baseline syndrome. This is the recognition that everyone’s image of the countryside comes from their own memory and personal experience. Their own reference point, from which they judge the state of the land. Any changes within their own lifetime are compared to this baseline and judged as improvements or degradations to the ‘quintessential’ landscapes that they know as the rural landscape.

My baseline is of course very different to my parents’ baseline, and theirs in turn, to that of my grandparents. During the last century or so, the changes have come swiftly. Successive generations have very different memories of our natural landscapes. Now we see an overwhelming prevalence of farmed fields, crops and grazing animals, which to some is a wonderful scene. It is however, a significant degradation of that which preceded it. And for all the perceived benefits of modern agriculture, it has up to now, followed the business model of any ‘for profit’ enterprise…. Short-term gains with little or no consideration of long-term consequences. The likely consequences of current ‘industrial era’ practices, may well give the next generations successively shifting baselines tending towards desertification in what were once green and pleasant lands.

The danger of is that we forget the previous baseline, and all the others that were progressively wilder and healthier the further back we ‘remember’. That the current image we have is that everything is OK, rather than the admission that we need to go well beyond living memory to remember things as they were meant to be.

That being said, there is nothing to gain in lamenting what we’ve lost. We must instead come to terms with it, accepting that things will never be as they once were. We must also accept that it’s not the end of the matter. We may be responsible for many irreversible changes, and the situation will continue to get worse before it gets better, no matter what we do, but do something we must.

It is not a question of ‘can we?’, but rather, ‘how do we?’

If we do nothing, then our children and grandchildren will have to survive in incredibly difficult conditions. If we work together, now, then we can still slow down the juggernaut that’s heading our way and reduce the struggles and suffering that humans face (and that some are already facing) in the not-so-distant future. The clock is ticking. We must care, we must inform ourselves, and we must act constructively in every way we can. Now.

From the age of 26 and for about 7 years, I trained for and participated in a number of endurance events, mostly long-distance triathlons, some open water swim races and two off-road ultra marathons.

Here follows a write-up of my second ironman-distance triathlon that I recently discovered whilst clearing out some of my belongings from my parent’s garage.

IM FRANCE 2008

3.8km swim, 180km bike, 42.2km run

This is the one I’d most looked forward to. My second one, a year after my first, and this time with some proper coaching and more informed planning. I was excited about my prospects for a PB , and also about the venue. Recent history has seen wall to wall sunshine, the course is reckoned to have one of the most stunning (as well as being the most demanding) bike legs of the Ironman races, and a flat run. Nice… ha ha… hmmm. It didn’t disappoint.

The day began warm and I broke into a sweat on the 5am walk down to transition. I was only wearing a thin shirt, and trying not to think about how hot it might be by the time we got into the hills. That being said, I’d rather be hot than cold, and I’d stuck a couple of bottles of factor-50 into my transition bags – ‘Be Prepared’, should be the motto for any race (yes, I was a boy scout). There’s no excuse for problems that occur because you’ve cut a corner somewhere or not checked out the conditions of the day. If it’s in your bag you can use it or not, but at least you have the choice.

Transition was full of nervous tension as is normal, and the pre-race routine took over – nutrition, check; hydration, check; brakes, check; spare tubes and CO2 canisters with adaptor, check; walk away and don’t think about your bike anymore. Thankfully I also seem to have my body sorted so that I don’t have to queue for the portaloos before the race – I recommend a strong coffee after breakfast, before you leave the hotel… works a charm every time!

The mood-setting music blaring from speakers I’ve only ever seen at large stadium rock concerts was a little harsh on the ears but at least my body was now vibrating as a result of something other than an adrenalin-amplified heart rate! A quick hug from my parents and a good friend of mine who happened to be working in Nice that weekend, and it’s on with business. It’s a strange time of the day to see people you know. The nerves and the constant repetition of the race plan in my head (I’m sure this sport encourages OCD tendencies!) make it hard to focus on anything else and the moments when you want your supporters to know you’re happy to see them, I’m sure I probably just seem a bit detached. It’s great to know they’re there and I know I’ll be even happier to see them later when it gets really tough.

I prefer a beach start to deep water which is just as well as this was a somewhat daunting starting line with over 2300 athletes lining up, the largest field at an Ironman event to date. The sea was clear, calm and warm… I don’t remember hearing the gun, just feeling the surge around me and fighting for some space in the water for the first couple of minutes. Surprisingly though, the swim wasn’t the chaotic brawl it could have been. Maybe I was lucky, but I managed to stay fairly un-crowded all the way around and enjoyed watching some football-sized jelly fish pulsating along leisurely underneath the seething mass of foam and thrashing limbs above. I was also about to dive for treasure at one point before realising that the shiny gold thing on the sea floor, was in fact an underwater cameraman with a big light – I resisted the urge to wave.

Swim went to plan, with a new PB of a few seconds, and a larger than usual (I would find out later in the shower) wet suit burn on my neck… salt water. Made my way through the longest transition ever – felt like a mile at least! I wobbled onto my bike as I missed my shoes which weren’t attached to the pedals as well as they could have been, and rolled out west, onto the Promenade des Anglais. The first and consequently last 10km are pan flat which allows you some time to get settled on the bike and find a rhythm, rehydrate and psychologically prepare yourself for the climbs ahead, the first one being a short but very sharp 12-15% depending on who you ask!

Once my heart had returned from somewhere between my ears and the gradient dropped to a gentler 3-4% I started to enjoy the views. That’s the great thing about long steady climbs is that you don’t have to concentrate so hard on where you’re going and can allow your eyes to wander from you handlebars to the mountains across the valley – it takes your mind off the pain somewhat and on this longest of days, that’s vital. Also encouraging, was overtaking (if only for a very short time!) some of the female pros. Cresting the longest ascent of the course – over 21km long – I paused to check my brakes as I’d had trouble keeping them aligned in the days prior, before settling in for the looooooong way down. I loved the descending. Having spent a week frightening myself on a training camp in the Pyrenees earlier in the year, I’d got a new found confidence in my abilities and enjoyed passing a lot of the more nervous descenders. On an out-and-back section part way down was where I saw the first of my BRAT (Birmingham Running and Triathlon) club mates, Jon about 12 mins ahead, and a couple more, Tauny and Asker, behind by a little less. I’d passed Debbie right at the beginning of the bike which is becoming the norm as she generally beats us all (and sometimes all the other age groupers too!) out of the water. I don’t think I ever narrowed the gap on Jon, and Asker was to catch me about 10km before T2, much later (to my satisfaction) than I expected. We exchanged some mutual encouragement in the tent and then (largely due to him being off-form!) I ran past him and into the heat… well over 30 degrees centigrade by now, and not a tree or parasol in sight to cast a shadow in the right direction!

First half went to plan, running 1hr 40 for 13 miles, but then the heat started to take its toll. I was drinking at every aid station but to be properly hydrated in these conditions would have been practically impossible, the energy was waning and as I slowed to walk an aid station, it was mind games from here on in. On lap 3 I walked every aid station… and a bit more, and needed every bit of encouragement from the crowd to start running again. Somehow, as the time ticked on and I could see my pre-race goal slipping by, I gave myself a kick and got moving again. Last lap. Just once more. Still drinking, and making sure I got a soaking from every available hose pipe, I squelched my way around the last 10km. With every mile marker passed I found a little more energy and, as I turned into the last 5km, a PB was still possible. That was all I needed to know and now, used to the dull ache up both legs and stiffness in the neck and shoulders, I could put it all out of my mind and take another positive from this race. Not as good as I would have liked perhaps, but to better my times in all three disciplines is definitely not to be sniffed at, and worth fighting for! The last kilometre was a blur. I was elated from having survived an incredible day with a PB, and to see my friends and parents in the finishing chute, before being presented with my medal by coach Brian, onto whom I duly collapsed!

Among the BRATs, every one gave it their best, and most had a good race. A couple were unfortunately pulled out for medical reasons and the heat left it’s mark on everyone. I’m told that the conditions on this day were like Hawaii without the wind, and as I walked back to the hotel a little later I saw a thermometer that read 36 degrees centigrade – after 5pm. Rehydration took a couple of days and I know that some of the others were feeling the effects of heat exhaustion for a long while after. Performance of the day definitely goes to Debbie Southwood as she carved more than 2 hours off the course record for her age-group and earned herself a place on the start-line in Kona!

I loved this race (heat and all), and would wholly recommend it…

Biggest lessons of the day for me – Keep drinking (and taking electrolyte supplements if needed – this is a personal preference and something you’ll need to work out for yourself, but the effects of over hydration are just as serious as dehydration), and if your legs are still working, no matter how heavy they feel, resisit the urge to walk or stop, because once you do, it’s very hard to get going again.

This week I didn’t manage to find time to post by my self imposed deadline, so here is a short exercise I wrote as part of a creative writing course I have begun.

A dragon’s head is poised, mouth open, teeth bared. Large horns or oversized ears reach upwards like those of a fighting dog, barbarically pinned to exaggerate the menace. The eyes however have almost comically long eyelashes protruding from the otherwise terrifying skull. The snout long and blunt, the jaws a fearsomely efficient blend of teeth, bone and terror. Emerging from the smoke and the wall behind.

The body, slick and shiny, reflects the mysterious green light shining up from below. Hidden depths and a dormant power slumber, and the flies buzz restlessly, incessantly. What they hope to find is uncertain. It hasn’t moved for days, weeks even, and the dust is building up on the shoulders, grey and thick. The fingerprints tell a story of desire, curiosity, need. Reaching out to grasp but never quite courageous enough to take. To connect. To unleash.

There is a dark hole from which the sound would resonate, if only it were allowed. To soar, to fly. Yet there it remains, forlorn and forgotten, hanging in a corner between the sofa and a lamp.

The shadow of my guitar.

2 January 2009 – Karanga to Barafu

Another beautiful start to the day. The long path out of the campsite was already busy with porters on their way to the final camp before the summit. Boulder strewn and dusty, looks like a long slog today. The air up here is fantastically clear for photos and Meru looks on from behind. The banter is reduced, and the going is quite tough as we soon ascend into the mist and the temperature drops again, the light becoming atmospheric. The trail seems busier today for some reason, and owing to the lack of water at the next camp there are porters moving in both directions to ferry water from Karanga. Barren and very open terrain. Lunar, again. Like another planet. Great view of the camp toilets perched on a cliff edge from a long way below!
Barafu is steep, rocky, long and narrow. Stunning angle up to the summit and down the flanks almost to the bottom. Great above cloud views, feels like a mountain now! Food, briefing, repack, bed. Tired, and fall straight into a restless sleep. I become aware of my breathing being very shallow, and after 3 or 4 shallow breaths I stop breathing and then wake up with a gasp and a deeper breath. This repeats itself and I can here Bob doing the same thing. After a few hours of this, we wake 15 mins before 11pm and layer up, 5 layers and my down jacket on top and three layers on the bottom… Michelin man! Tea and biscuits, appetite suppressed and a a little apprehensive about hydration when I get my two bottles refilled. But hey, too late now, time to go!

3 January 2009 – Summit Day

Actually managed to sleep a reasonable amount in the afternoon and only woke up 15 mins early. I really noticed the difference in oxygen level at this altitude. 2 or 3 shallow breaths before thinking you’re suffocating (exaggeration) and then a larger ‘gasp’ wakes you up. Very strange. This continued most of the afternoon/evening. Not unpleasant, but very weird and I was glad to get the wake up call for the summit bid. All decked out in 5 base layers, my down jacket and windproof, our bags all packed and rucksacks containing little more than a couple of snacks and two litres of water. All that the guides were advising and pretty much all we could get as this camp had no water supply (this would later prove to be horribly insufficient. I’d much rather have started with a heavier pack and been better hydrated, but more of that later).

Tea and a couple of biscuits was all we got and if I’m honest I couldn’t really eat a lot. Nerves, excitement and the memory of a rough stomach during the last 24 hrs stifled my appetite. A dry mouth and ‘hangover head’ also didn’t help. I had mixed up an energy drink with hot water however, and we’d been given a small and as usual inadequate lunch. But enough of the negatives. I popped an ibuprofen and at midnight, we stepped out into the chill air and formed a line behind Thomas. A line of headlamps could be seen zig-zagging up towards the stars and a very black mountain side. Still had a niggling headache but ignored it and away we went. Steady but pole-pole pace into the dark. After 5 days now I couldn’t feel the weight of the pack anymore, but the thinner air was definitely noticeable and anything faster than Thomas’ metronome pacing brought very heavy breathing. The mood seemed subdued as we focused on the heels in front and the rocks underfoot. My world reduced to a small pool of light at my feet and expanded only once an hour as we stopped to drink and gaze out at the stars as I caught my breath. The first hour we scrambled through the steep rocky campsite and into unfamiliar territory. The night so black it was impossible to see what lay before us. Good pace, but in less oxygen and no wind, I started to get warm. 1hr, water stop, nibble some chocolate, another hour, poo stop, false alarm, drink keep going.1/3 of the way there (or so I thought). Another hour (mood) still high, some regular checks of altitude (3 hrs in and steadily overtaking quite a few other groups on the way, perhaps a sign of our better acclimatisation over a slower ascent. All this despite feeling we were moving very slowly.

Just focus on the steps, eat a little (gel) at every water stop and keep moving. My head hurt, my stomach feels empty and I’m unsure about whether farting is a good idea. I didn’t quite imagine (I guess I should have) that I wouldn’t feel 100% on this day. Still 4 hours in and we’re all still moving. A couple of the girls have relinquished their bags to Thomas and Limo but we’re all together and still moving steadily upwards. The terrain is steep but not complicated underfoot. Some smoothish rocky sections and other dusty, fine, well-worn scree. Horizon starts to get light, temperature has dropped a little but I’m plenty warm enough and haven’t needed all my layers of gloves.
I don’t think anyone found it easy, some would later say that it was the hardest thing they’d ever done, but remarkably (according to Jane) none of us suffered any altitude problems other than minor headaches and a mild case of nausea.

Sunrise was a welcome distraction, the light and colours stunning. Mwenzi silhouetted against the glow. We could now see where we were going, and the slow pace of those we’d passed and one or two needing support. I myself was suffering the lack of food and dehydration and Stella Point was still a way off. We’d now been going over 6 hours and I think collective moral was struggling, believing we’d fallen behind the pace. Eventually it came, we regrouped at Stella Point and the temperature dropped as the breeze increased on the exposed ridge. Still, only felt it on my face and we’d begun the last leg… man it was long. We’d been chopping and changing our order as we stopped and started, which was nice as it regulated our pace. Now in full sunlight and clear skies and at over 5700m the terrain was no longer steep but it still took over 1 hour to make the final 100m of ascent. The view is magnificent and the enormity of the crater, glaciers and summit almost unbelievable, and to me, quite unexpected. Still got a headache, dehydrated and with that empty stomach feeling – step, step, step, breathe. James repeatedly asked to carry my bag (he already had someone else’s along with his own). I refused and kept smiling. He was singing loudly and encouraging (he’s done it well over 100 times in the 8 years he’s been on the mountain) Video camera comes out for the last 5 mins. Heads down for the final few metres.

Relief more than jubilation. It is spectacular up there in the clear blue sky. The thing is ENORMOUS! The summit being on one side of a huge volcanic crater. The glaciers are sheer, white and tall. Impressive but somehow, even though I never saw them in their former glory, they feel a bit forlorn and lonely. Dusty, yet ‘clean’. Whilst thin, the air was good and the ‘hugs’ said all that was necessary. One or two tears from some.
Flurry of summit photos, hurried along by an impatient American woman. 15 mins maximum before the headache, thirst and hunger reminded us that the privilege of this visit came with a time limit and it was time to head down.
Not too much to say about the descent other than…

2 ½ hours sliding down scree. Found plenty in my boots later. Now warming up, heading down to camp, tired, thirsty, headache, but goal achieved. Ran out of water (2 litres for 12 hrs, crazy!) On water breaks fell asleep on the hard ground with bag for a pillow to be awoken, groggy for the continued descent. Too dusty for many photos unfortunately but also a good excuse cos I was knackered. Looking down slope, camp was visible most of the way. Lucky we climbed in the dark, would have been soul destroying to see the route!
Step, slide, step slide. I’m tired. Group split on the way down. K, G, me and Jane at front with Thomas.
Eventually after 4 hrs and some brief naps in the sun we stumbled into camp, greeted by Abdullah and some squash, and a hug or two! They’re great at being enthusiastic for you.
30 mins sleep on the cold hard floor of the tent – no energy to unpack karrimat or sleeping bag – best sleep all week! Final lunch of soup and cheese toasties, another 1 hour to re pack and rest before 3 hour hike to final camp. Dry hail, porters running down the mountain. Surprisingly I’m not aching or feeling too fatigued and the walk down is not unpleasant, down into the scrub, valley views spectacular once cloud cleared. Very green, straight from the lost world. Curve-billed bird with black plumage and green flashes on wings (must look up). Everyone’s mind now on a shower, beer and no more iodine! Heavily wooded camp. Last supper included fried chicken and chips with beer and coke! Not much energy for games tonight, some reminiscence of the looooong day, and to bed. Lots of snoring around but that no longer held me back. Slept all the way through undisturbed

4 January 2009 – Off the mountain…

Easy stroll down to the bus for tip ceremony, hounded by locals hawking tourist souvenirs, beautiful surroundings for the village, banana plantations mainly. Shook hands and said ‘jambo’ to a little boy, got a shy smile from him and a laugh from Thomas. Shower, re-pack, didn’t recognise everyone clean! Swim in the pool, sit in the sun, eat with the guides, they were herded off by Thomas, James (a non-drinking-vegetarian) was fine with that, Limo however was enjoying a couple of beers and looked most put out!
Bob and I were going to visit a local market but time was short and by that point we couldn’t be bothered anyway! Was soon time to get the bus back to the airport and onto the plane home. We sat on the runway in Dar on the way home for a couple of hours, where I was sat between two German women, one of which was the most miserable woman I’ve come across in a while! We eventually took off and despite a rammed plane, I found a seat in the row behind, next to a quiet bloke, and promptly dozed off, waking up 7 hrs later for breakfast! Came home to colder temps in Birmingham than on top of the mountain!

It’s not just about walking and running, it’s a lifestyle. A philosophy. Tread lightly. Connect. Ground, earth. A metaphor for living consciously. As if the wearing of shoes insulates, no, isolates us from the very ground we walk on.

Yesterday I rode my bike to work and left it at the mechanic’s for a service en route, before realising that I’d mixed up my shifts and wasn’t due to start work for another 4 hours. I smiled, hitched my backpack a little higher, removed my cycling shoes and walked 5km home. Smooth slabs preceded well-worn tarmac littered with loose stones, which was followed by a newly surfaced road. A light drizzle cooled my brow, and rivulets of water ran between my toes, soothing the soles of my feet as I made my way up the hill.

Removing the barrier between my feet and the ground, the shoe, I can feel everything. Ok, after a few years of spending more time out of shoes than in them, there are certain things I barely notice anymore when I step on them, but as a rule, I am very aware of what I’m walking on. And I like it. The rough, the smooth, the changing textures as I move from indoors to out, from loose gravel to bare rock, dusty path to grassy verge, sand on the beach and water lapping over my toes. Rugs, tiles, bricks, leaves.

Many years ago, I tried skydiving once or twice. My instructor advised me to remove my socks so I could better feel the wind between my toes. I even shaved my legs for a few years during my time as a triathlete to make my regular massages a little more comfortable, and I loved the extra intimacy with the water whilst swimming.

Aside from the obvious physical sensations that direct contact with the ground, the air and water evoke, I find that there is something else I can’t quite explain nor even fully understand. A connection that goes deeper than the skin. A sense of belonging. That this is how it is meant to be. Shoes are one of many physical barriers that we use to cut ourselves off from our surroundings, but there are also many metaphorical and psychological ones too. Barriers that prevent us from being conscious of our surroundings, prevent us from being truly present.

With shoes, or gloves we are less inclined to be careful where we step, or to be gentle with our touch. Driving a car or sitting in a bus or on a train robs us of the experience of a journey. It becomes merely a displacement from one destination to another; sights reduced to a fleeting glimpse through the window, sounds, scents and textures eliminated completely.

Our individual disconnection, through our tendency to protect ourselves from, well, almost everything, is how we’ve arrived at a species-wide disconnection from the rest of our fellow earthlings. Experiencing the world through the barriers, filters, lenses and plastic packaging of the technological age in which we find ourselves, we’ve forgotten what it really means to be alive. Connection is everything.

I’m throwing off my shoes and dismantling some of my barriers, to alter the nature of my journey. To feel my way along the path with all my senses. To remind myself step by step, that I am a part of, and not apart from, everything.