Mark the Coach

On Sunday Fred and I went for a good old roam around Arthur’s Seat (central Edinburgh’s main hill) with the year’s first picnic (courtesy of Marks and Sparks) followed by a look at the Ansel Adams exhibition that’s on at the moment. It was a fantastic combination, though I hadn’t particularly planned it to be such.

Adams’s amazing photos of the staggering landscapes of the American West had me rethinking the hike we’d just been on. Arthur’s Seat isn’t Monument Valley, but it’s a big enough bit of volcanic pluggery that it has an awesome physical presence. Being outdoors is an important part of the physicality of a man. Rocks have a masculine energy. Strangely, it was the pictures of the outdoors rather than the walk itself that really brought this home to me. I mean, I’ve had those thoughts before; but it was a wonderful feeling to be reminded of them in such a way.

There again, maybe it was the other way round. Maybe the best way to look at pictures that have so vast a scope is to spend a couple of hours hiking around a big rock first.

Frankly, I don’t care. It was a bloody good day out, with manliness and fatherhood content to boot.

One of the things I do with my time is write articles for Bite magazine. I’m currently writing one concerning mountain biking for its soon-to-be-launched sister publication, Bite Life. While doing this, it suddenly struck me – is mountain biking about to become the new skiing?

They do have a lot in common, after all. Both began as very fringey, extreme outdoor sports, progressively becoming more diverse, popular and accessible. The skier and the mountain biker each get to go fast under a combination of their own steam and the assistance of gravity; so you get that marvellous melange of healthiness and danger.

One difference is that mountain biking is several decades younger than skiing. Already, though, there’s an abundance of mountain biking holidays you can go on in Europe, America and elsewhere. And actually, living in Scotland, there’s not so much need to get on a plane to do mountain biking. We’re very well provided for here.

Perhaps the truth is that I’ve been pretending mountain biking’s like skiing in that I don’t get a lot of chance to do it. That’s not true of course, but I’ve certainly not been taking the opportunity to do it. Which is daft, because when I do it, I love it. Especially if I do it often enough to ensure that I’m fit enough to get up the hills without too much suffering.

So I guess mountain biking needs instead to be the new jogging.

Still no TV, and I have to say I’ve barely noticed. It’s interesting that I used to think “How could I manage without a TV?” I mean, I really thought it would be a colossal struggle to cope without being able to watch a repeat of QI and a repeat of Men Behaving Badly per evening, plus a history documentary on the rare occasions that it’s not about Nazis or the ancient Egyptians.

For once I’m not exaggerating for effect – that’s pretty much my erstwhile TV diet. No addiction to soaps or any other genre. I don’t like to waste money on buying DVDs since I’ll only watch them a couple of times, yet also don’t like to waste money on renting DVDs. I displayed constant disgruntlement with the monotony of what’s repeated on the cable channels and the unsatisfactoriness of what’s on the terrestrials. When some promising-looking new series came along you could trust me to forget its name, overlook it in the listings and never see it. I probably spent nearly the same amount of time scouring the listings for something worth watching as actually viewing. That’s how keen I was to find an excuse for flopping sofa-wards and putting my brain and body into neutral.

And yet it’s been so easy in a world without TV. What I’m left with is the thought that if it was so easy to let go of something that I seemed so terminally attached to, what else could I relinquish with amazing ease?

My efforts at repairing it having proved in vain, the TV is now defunct. I suppose it could be repaired, but given that it was already past retirement age when I inherited it from my flat’s previous owners five and a half years ago, I don’t think it’d be worth it.

I have looked at replacements. Any excuse for a trip to John Lewis, after all. (John Lewis is the British equivalent of Tiffany’s, in that nothing bad ever happens there. It’s inconceivable.) I think I’ve even identified the set of choice. But then I cowered at the price tag, and thought of online ordering, which has provided a marvellous procrastination tool, since it’d take a couple of days to get here.

So we’ve had no telly for a week and a half. And I do believe I’ve stumbled on a potential new diet. With no TV, there’s no slumping onto the sofa straight after dinner (or, indeed, to consume dinner). Instead I’m still active, getting stuff done. OK, it’s not pounding the pavements, but it keeps the blood flowing. And I’m also barely drinking. Not only must this save a fair few calories, but they’re saved at a time you shouldn’t be intaking anyway because it’s getting near bedtime. I’m losing count of the wins here, and I haven’t even considered the possibility of Salsa classes, aerobics and the like.

So hurrah for the broken TV.

Yesterday evening I set to trying to fix our TV, which seems to be dying. When I started out, intrepidly reaching for the tool box, I reckoned I was manfully defying our culture of built-in obsolescence and disposability. I was setting out to fix something that was trying to die on me and trap me into replacing it with something new, shiny, more up-to-date. Something flat. Something digital. (Actually, something capable of displaying the whole picture, now that everything seems to be being broadcast in widescreen. But I digress.)

As I dismantled the ailing beast though, I had to admit to myself that I had no idea what to do once I’d got the back off. I didn’t know what I was looking for in the way of symptoms, and had no resources to call on if I did find something wrong. The closest I have to spare parts would be cartridge fuses, and even then only the ones that go into mains plugs.

In short, I wasn’t doing this because I know how to fix TV sets, I was doing it because I know how to use a screwdriver.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what it is to be a father.

So I’ve finally put myself on Facebook, and immediately found myself back in contact with an old school friend. It’s great to be in touch after 26 years! Certainly puts those years into a new perspective. No kidding.

She made an interesting comment, about being surprised to see me there. Interesting, because I kind of felt the same way. What was someone from my old school doing on Facebook? And then – why the hell WOULDN’T someone from my old school be there? It’s not something you could describe as eclectic or obscure.

I realised that I have this notion in my head that all my contemporaries at school as belonging to the pre-computer/internet era. If I met any of them I’d probably be assuming unconsciously that they weren’t particularly computer literate. This of course is no big deal. However, it does make me wonder what else I’ve been assuming about my erstwhile school mates. And all sorts of other people, come to that.

I’m looking forward to getting some more interesting revelations from being part of Facebook.

Now I’ve got back to my pre-Christmas weight, I’ve been noticing some differences.

I’ve shed about 8 pounds, and am not yet pulling in my belt noticeably further than before. This isn’t really a surprise; I’m expecting there to be quite a few more hours on the bike and less hours at the cheese board before that happens. But I have, as I say, noticed a couple of things, to my pleasant surprise.

One thing came to light the other day, as I was going up the stairs to our flat. We live three flights up, and hence often get observations from visitors along the lines of “I bet that keeps you fit!” To be honest, the stairs haven’t been cutting the mustard in that department; though I must ascend 60 feet’s worth every time I go home, unfitness has been steadily encroaching for some time. It’s been over two years since I bounded up the stairs two at a time. Until last Saturday, that is! I suddenly noticed I was doing it just as I used to. The jeans may still be tight, but there’s one triumph to mark up. Yay!

The other thing is even more unexpected. It’s only in the past couple of years, in which I quit smoking and took up being happy and comfortable, that I’ve become sufficiently corpulent to generate belly button fluff. It never used to happen. And now, as if by magic, it’s stopped happening.

It all goes to show you never know what the benefits are going to be.

A client of mine recently said to me “Every day’s a school day.” I loved that – we learn till we die, and we’re constantly surrounded by opportunities for learning. But of all things – learning in a 16-page business questionnaire? Yes folks, that’s what I found today.

I hadn’t realised it was such a biggie when I started filling it in, then as it dawned on me I started to get a little peeved. But then it was suddenly too late – I’d noticed that things were jumping out at me. The questions were highlighting things for me. It asked if I’d used resources a, b, c, d, e, f and g. I’d used a bit of d and maybe c a couple of times. I realised there are a lot of things out there I could be using which I’m not. One of the traps of being a solo business is thinking you have to do it all yourself. Actually, in lots of ways, there’s loads of support out there.

That’s the specific point. But zooming out, the real lesson is, you can learn something useful anytime, anywhere.

A very special milestone in my son’s development has been reached. At the age of eleven and a half, he has become a fan of spaghetti westerns. Last weekend we watched For a Few Dollars More (possibly my favourite of the original trilogy). As a colossal fan myself, needless to say I’m thrilled to be sharing this with him.

What’s so cool about it, I ask myself? I think it’s that I feel I’ve got stuff to contribute to him, in a way that I didn’t before. Stuff that he’ll enjoy after he has put away his childish things and grown up. In other words, I’m passing on things to the burgeoning man within him that’s starting to emerge. It feels like I’m being more than a parent – I’m being a dad.

Feels gooood.

I suppose it had to happen. Those crrrrazeee French base-jumping types have added a twist – a suit which allows the wearer to “fly” in the manner of, well, a flying squirrel before deploying their parachute. Have a look here for video proof!