It was going so well

Today wasn't what it was meant to be. The plan was to spend the day with Becky. I haven't seen nearly enough of her recently, partly due to my awkward shift pattern at work. Tough over the Christmas period. And her being married doesn't help.


Today we had planned to meet up quite early, spend the day together and then take my son out for a meal this evening. The heavy snow that hit last night put the kibosh on that, though; while the tram is running fine it doesn't go anywhere near her and the buses seem to have been cancelled, on top of which she is quite timid about getting stuck out. So I hiked up to hers and we went for a lunch at a local pub instead. Had a lovely afternoon, but toward the end she started getting a bit upset. She asked me to go home with her, for a drink with her and her husband and I said I would if she wanted. He knows and has asked her to invite me over before, but I've quailed at the potential awkwardness. Or I'm a coward, one or the other.


But at her door Becky said, No, it's okay, you get home, it's not a good idea. I said I'd come in if she wanted but maybe didn't press hard enough. So twenty minutes walk down the snowy road she sends me a text saying she feels she's been abandoned. I try to call but she doesn't keep her phone on her. I text saying I'm heading back, and I start back up the steep, snowy hill, trying to call again and again. No answer by the time I get to the end of her road. I don't want to barge in but how can I take her saying I've abandoned her a walk away? So I call the housephone and he answers. Can I speak to Becky. She seems shocked I've called. It's alright. Yes. Everything's OK. Hangs up.


So I walk home. Already tipsy from the wine we'd had at the pub I think I need to drink more. Four hours later and not heard a peep. I've texted, asked if everything is OK. I hate this.

26/12/2014: A run in the snow

Just back for a run in the heavy snow that has been predicted. It was just starting as a left, big wet flakes swirling down through the cones of visibility under the streetlights. By the time I’d gone the half kilometre to the park I was wishing I’d worn my hat and gloves, and I could feel the snow settling against the front of my hi-viz jacket. But it was beautiful, especially in the park and when I got to the back roads, with streetlamps further apart and less ambient light, the flakes drifting and fluttering down, their shadows chaotic against the settling whiteness.

By the time I was on Beeley Woods Road the ground was almost completely covered but for some black voids beneath overhanging branches. Looking back I could see my tracks, alone as Crusoe’s on the beach. By now the exertion and pumping blood had made my extremities warm again, and I felt like I was in a silent cocoon formed by the falling snow.

A new start

I've been meaning to revive my blog for a while, and have made a couple of half-arsed attempts, but have decided to go down the route of making it a proper journal - that is, writing every day, even if it is only dull, pedestrian and, well, everyday stuff.

This is partly inspired by something Iszi Lawrence said on her latest Z List Dead List podcast - or, rather, something said by her guest, Irving Finkel, a man who has made it his mission to catalogue people's diaries as a resource for future generations. While I very much doubt anything I say will be a resource for anybody, I was very much taken with what Finkel pointed out as the vital difference between a diary and a blog; that the latter is, except in the case of certain statesmen, never intended for public consumption while that is the whole point of the latter. So I intend to write something every day, without concern that what I write has interest to anyone else, and I shall try to be as honest as possible. And, hopefully, the act of writing will re-engage that part of my brain that used to make me able to write, at last a little bit.


Here goes.

Review: The Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Taleb's book pursues several central ideas that seem fairly commonsensical. The major theme is about the titular Black Swans - events that are ignored by forecasters (be they financial, social, or whatever) because they are either considered too unlikely to be worth taking into account or are not even noticed due to the narrow focus or inadequate models being used. Taleb points out that, rather than being the effect of gradual change, many of the most important changes to our world, for better or worse, are massive upheavals caused by unpredicted events. Financial crises, inventions, wars; so often these things are unpredicted and seem unpredictable, and cause fundamental transformation.

Taleb doesn't advance a model for predicting these things - indeed, part of his thesis is that the fervour for prediction tends to lead to a narrowing of foresight and the expression of false certainty, making the effect of the subsequent (and inevitable) unforeseen events all the more cataclysmic. Instead, he argues for a mindset that is open to seeing the possibilities rather than focusing on certain expectations.

Some of the blame for this outlook he places on the ubiquity of the Gaussian bell curve, or normal distribution, which is excellent for ranking the spread of certain characteristics (height and weight across a population, for example, where the vast majority will fall within a narrow band of the mean and outliers becoming increasingly rare - you probably know lots of people who are six feet tall, a few who are 6'4", and would be dumbstruck on meeting someone 8'), inadequate in areas with a massive disparity (income, book or record sales) and disastrous when used as a predictor - something unlikely can have a far larger effect than all the many median-scale common occurrences, such as a tsunami or a financial meltdown.

The author uses the terms Mediocristan (the place in which events follow the normal distribution) and Extremistan (the place where a significant number of events fall outside of it) and argues that we live with the dual problem that, while many of the vital mechanisms of our world are extreme we tend toward a certain blindness that leads us to think they are mediocre, that we like to form patterns and narratives that seem to make sense of the world and are then unable to respond when the world refuses to fit into these patterns.

While I find this difficult to dispute - especially within the utterly pretend-scientific world of economics which is the target of much of Taleb's vitriol - he tends to argue in terms so broad that this does somewhat dilute the strength of his points. For instance, he rails against the bell curve as a blemish on cognition, eventually conceding that it is just not the tool for the job to which it is being put, and this is emblematic of his approach.

Another example is his preference for the company of people with a broad intellectual scope rather than narrow expertise, and his extension to arguing that the former are generally preferable in all fields. Again, this is difficult to argue with on the face of things - many intellectuals whom I admire greatly have argued against the tendency of our educational system to train students in a limited fashion rather than educate them thoroughly - but the fact is that many of the most brilliant people who have provided the greatest boon to society are narrowly focused experts - not through training, perhaps, but because of targeted obsession in a particular field. If Taleb is arguing for a greater scope of education and interdisciplinary appreciation, I don’t think the point can be denied but, again, his argument is scattershot and it is not entirely clear what he is arguing for.

A final problem is that, early on, Taleb betrays our trust. He tells the story of a Russian author who, unable to get publishers interested in her experimental novel, published privately and became a huge success. Some time later he admits that she is a complete fabrication - and then returns to her in other examples throughout the book. I assume that he is drawing attention to the fallacy of narrative, about which he complains that we place too much trust. We are, as others have said, animals that tell stories to make sense of the world. This meta-textual trick of course makes us take what he writes with a pinch of salt, as we should, but as he uses personal anecdotes frequently throughout to support his points, the thought that he may well be making them all up further weaken his case.

All this said, The Black Swan is an interesting read from a man who obviously has some good ideas and relishes intellect and discussion. I imagine that he is a voluble and entertaining speaker - and probably an excellent conversationalist and dinner guest.

When a cancelled run isn't cancelled. Or is it?

A bit of a shambles at the Sheffield half marathon today. Apparently it was cancelled as the company supplying the water stations, well, just didn't. The problem was , the only tannoy system was in the Don Valley Bowl by the finish line, and the starting pack was on Attercliffe common and Coleridge Road, so couldn't hear the bloody announcements. And, apparently, nobody had a bullhorn.

It was obvious there was a problem because of the the delay, but then when it got to 9.50 (fifty minutes late) the run seemed to start. I thought there was a distinct lack of water stations on the early part of the route, but there was bottled water by the time we were getting toward town. Going up through Sharrow and, especially, on Ecclesall Road, I did note how many of the spectators were passing out water or jelly babies, but just thought they were being randomly awesome rather than specifically awesome. Everyone who made the effort to do that is an absolute star. Plaudits also to the Frog and Parrot pub on Division Street and the Costa Coffee in Attercliffe which set up their own water stations.

For the run itself, many good things:

I survived it;
I ran the whole damned thing without stopping or walking, although the last two- or three km were hit n miss;
I finished in 1:53:34 which, considering I'm a 43 year old bloke and this is the FIRST TIME I'VE EVER RUN THAT FAR I feel quite pleased with.


Same again in Leeds in five weeks. Well, hopefully better organised.

I have just eaten a moderately sized pizza so now I am going to hose myself down and recline for awhile.

http://www.mapmyrun.com/workout/527634716

Can it ever be right to celebrate someone's death?

At some point, possibly quite soon, a great many people in the UK are going to be holding parties to mark the death of a sick, frail old woman. And these will not be commemorations or celebrations of that person's life but a big, loud good riddance.

During her political career, Margaret Thatcher divided people, in more ways than one. She was a strong personality with distinct views about how the world worked, and how it ought to work. The British public either loved her or loathed her in a way that the recent movie with Meryl Streep really doesn't do justice to. She divided people not because of her personality, but because of her actions. For many in parts of the English North and Midlands, in Wales and Scotland, her legacy is the complete destruction of the UK mining industry, along with the decimation of most manufacturing industries.

There is a Facebook group called “The Witch is Dead!” which is an umbrella for flashmob public parties when the news of Lady Thatcher's demise is released. Even before it happens we can be sure of the media coverage; the (generally right-leaning) British press will deplore the lack of respect to anyone, let alone such a great statesperson. The Guardian and probably the Independent will examine the reasons for such strong feelings in light of Thatcher's legacy and the current Conservative / Liberal coalition pursuing such similar – although arguably even more extreme – policies.

The current government have not helped matters on this, quietly floating the suggestion that Lady Thatcher should be given a state funeral – an honour only granted to one other Prime Minister in the last century. Winston Churchill was given a state funeral for being the leader who saw Britain through WW2, and few would have denied him that privilege. But he was also a member of the British aristocracy, pillar of the Upper Class Tory establishment. Clement Atlee, the Labour Prime Minister whose landslide victory following the war allowed him, even with Britain battered by six years of conflict and lumbered with a war debt that was only paid off this century, built the modern welfare state that gave everyone in Britain free access to education and healthcare, a pension on retirement, affordable public transport and steady growth based on Socialist, Keynesian principals, Atlee – probably the leader who has seen through the biggest changes in modern British history, was not. Claims that such an honour for Lady Thatcher would be anything other than partisan backslapping are simply laughable.

It would be erroneous to claim that those partying will hold nothing personal against the former Prime Minister. She is, as I say, truly loathed in parts of Britain in a way which few people could hope to achieve. But what those celebrants will really be marking is their opposition to a set of ideals that have treated people as nothing more than consumers or merchandise. Thatcherism. Reaganomics. Trickledown. Supply side economics. Even though many of the people celebrating will be too young to properly remember the 1980s or may not know the terminology of the Randian economics it ushered in, they are seeing the fruits of those policies and those ideals. Many will be offended or even shocked by the amount of pleasure that a large number of people exhibit at a former leader's passing, but when that person is deliberately built into an icon and the actions that caused so much suffering lauded as great moments, is it any wonder that the icon becomes a target of defiance for those that feel themselves so much at odds with the ruling elite.

Cycling and Zen, with asides

The weather is a little strange at the moment. Chilly nights are bringing a mist that lingers through the day. Sometimes it is burnt off before too long and the day becomes positively summery but at other times, like today, it slowly thins into a bright haze that makes everything more than a couple of hundred metres away increasingly vague and dreamlike. Today the brightness seemed so strong I thought the haze would completely disappear, but it never quite did, and as the afternoon temperature began to fall the mist began to reimpose its cotton-wool grip.

It was a pleasant enough afternoon, though, warm with barely a breath of wind. I headed out for a bit, aiming to try to climb from London Road in the city centre all the way up to Burbage, a steady constant climb for 9 km up through the suburbs of Sharrow and Ecclesall (which most of my childhood was split between), then into the countryside. This part of the Peak District is rough and quite inhospitable looking, uneven ground covered with the ubiquitous heather that stretches from the road as far as you can see in either direction, even on days that aren't closed in by haze, rising to rough rocky ridges of millstone grit, the dark course local sandstone that gives the Dark Peak its name, covering the limestone that delineates the White Peak to the South and West. The escarpments rise like frozen, jagged waves, the black peat fallen away to expose them like flesh from the bones of the Earth.

The climb isn't all that steep, but it long and relentless. I remember riding this route with my father, from where we lived at Ecclesall. For most of the time you can see what appears to be the crest of a hill a little way in front of you but then as you reach it you realise it is nothing but a short dip or flattening of the road – or even just an easing of the gradiant – that hid the climb beyond from sight. The first time we came out this way, quickly out past the big houses at Ringinglow, then settling into the long haul up. After a few of these 'peaks' I asked my dad how many more hills to go, only to be told “just a couple more, Paul”. A few hills later I got the same answer, and then again after that. At the time I thought my dad was deliberately underplaying the distance and the climb, the time-honoured “almost there, don't give up now” tactic. Since then, riding the route myself (especially when it's been a while), I've realised he genuinely thought it was was “just a couple more” hills. The climb becomes the thing, the rhythm of legs and pedals and breath, and each minor summit is not a waymark on the trail to the top but simply part of the journey. As I've found with rock climbing, too, and some find with running, the focus of mind and body sometimes brings you, if you're lucky, to a kind of Zen moment, a lack of consciousness where all that exists is now, the thing you are doing without thought of the goal, the summit, the finish line.

When you do crest the top, you know it. The road eases over the plateau in a stately curve, bisecting the heather and moss on either side. To the right Rud Hill and Stanage Pole and High Neb, barely visible, rear from both the rolling highlands and the mist. The bike clatters over a cattle grid, although 'sheep grid' is more to the point. Despite the rich, black peat formed from millennia of heather these moors, like so many others, have never been economical to farm. The peat is thick and sticky, 'clarty', and riddled with stones – both the big outcrops that have been carved into sculpture by wind and rain, and the countless boulders and pebbles and lumps of every size in between that have worn off and sit in the soil ready to defeat any plough with the temerity to try tilling land. An even greater obstacle would be the weather. We're up around 400 metres, nowhere near the 636 metres of Kinder Scout to the West, but quite high enough to make the weather at these latitudes unpredictably harsh. I've been caught in hail- and snowstorms out here in June and July before now, and rain, especially in the spring and autumn, and turn huge tracts into deadly black bogs. Not that there aren't a few of those anyway, even in the driest of weathers; there are many paths across the moors, and it is foolish to wander off them. So the only agriculture that the high moors lend themselves to is the cultivation of sheep, and hardy breeds such as Herdwicks and Hebrideans (or cross-bred 'mules') wander singly or in small groups that don't seem to warrant being called herds, grazing the tough clumps of grass and sheltering in hollows and ambling across the road as though they own the place, which is fair enough really.

But this lack of agricultural utility means that the Dark Peak is perhaps as unspoilt a landscape as you'll find in England; there are occasional spoil heaps from mines going back hundreds of years but, being mostly for limestone and lead, they tend to be in the lower parts and, anyway, are mostly so overgrown that they are now part of the natural landscape as much as any rockfall. The sheep keep the vegetation, such as it is, in check, but trees have never in human history stood on these heights. The trees haven't had time to get established here since the glaciers last left these islands, more than ten thousand years ago.

I drop through the dip, across the old stone bridge that carries the road over Burbage Brook. To my left the stream wends its uneven way down the valley, Higger Tor and the iron age fort of Carl Wark to one side and the scarp of Burbage Rocks on the other, a scarp popular with climbers that is part of the same formation as Stanage Edge, now out of sight to the North. A short climb takes me over Higger Tor (tor being a Celtic word for hill, found now mostly in North Derbyshire, Devon and Cornwall, though sometimes in Wales and Scotland as well), I am almost at the very highest point for a while, with the Hope Valley ahead of me. Just beyond a split in the road there is a footpath that drops down sharply before rejoining the tarmac, so I heave my bike over the stile. The track is only about a kilometre long, but is steep and bumpy enough to get my heart racing more than the climb did. I didn't take to a mountain bike at a young enough age to be entirely tranquil at such descents and I am far more comfortable once continuing the drop on the road, although as this is also steep and relatively straight I get up to around 65 kph on my way into Hathersage, only having to slow down when I approach cars ahead of me driving much more slowly and sensibly than I am.

As well as being a beautiful village in its own right (and being home to the Scotsman's Pack Inn, a pub that has seen many a fine meal and pint after a hike out from Sheffield), I often ride further afield from here; Westward, the Hope Valley leads to Castleton (the ultimate destination, so often, of those long ago trips with my dad), site of Peverel Castle and the tours of several old, disused mineworkings, my favourite being the boat trip along the flooded Speedwell Cavern. To the South, the valley curves down through the villages of Grindleford, Stoney Middleton, Calver and Hassop and to the excellent Monsal Trail, a former rail line which has been turned into a walking and bike route almost all the way out to Buxton, through some breathtaking White Peak landscape. But not today. I haven't brought a packed lunch.

I turn up Sheffield Road, then the steeper road that will take me back to Burbage. Although this climb is only 4 km, the incline makes it a good grade 15 climb, to add to the long grade 22 on the way out (Category 3 and 2 respectively, by the scale used for racing, but I like the finer distinction of the grade). I drop back down Ringinglow Road, but turn off before I get to the suburbs. Fulwood Lane bends and dips amongst farmland and woods before dropping down to where the trail called Wyming Brook Drive plummets down alongside the stream for which it is named, then past the reservoir and I am in Rivelin Valley and heading for home. Perhaps this weekend I'll head out the same way and continue to the Monsal Trail, or Matlock, or Chatsworth House, or who knows where. I must remember to make some sandwiches.