then and now

In 1986 someone, I think it was my sister, pointed a camera at me during a family reunion. I remember grabbing my son Mike and holding him upside down by his legs in a show for the camera. Mike squealed and laughed a lot which is why heads turned to watch us. His brother Matt is sitting on his mum's knee smiling. The result was a snap I still enjoy looking at.

Yesterday, nearly a quarter of a century later, I decided to try and recreate that shot with my new daughters. Kathleen is a less willing participant, being one who hangs on for dear life whenever I lift her off the ground. Nonetheless she looks the part and even her sister Maisie is looking toward the camera.

a deal with the devil

Niccolò Paganini was an Italian virtuoso violinist who lived from 1782 until 1840. To say that he brought incredible new techniques to the violin would be an understatement of massive proportions.

It is impossible to over-estimate Paganini’s impact on the violin. No composer or performer before him had raised technical ability with the instrument to such dazzling heights. People flocked in great numbers to witness his legendary performances, in which he exuded an almost mystical quality.

Violin techniques had remained conservative for decades but Paganini introduced ricochet bowing, double stop octave runs, left hand pizzicato, extensive harmonics and hitherto unheard of fingering. He played passages at astounding speed, sometimes twelve notes per second. He made the violin talk, effortlessly reproducing the sounds of birds and animals and even mimicing the sighs of lovers. His fingers were abnormally long, enabling him to play an astonishing three octaves across four strings in a hand span, a feat that is still considered impossible by today's standards.

Stories began to circulate that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil in return for his amazing wizardry with the violin. His wild, piercing eyes, thin face, large sharp nose and long, gypsy-black hair only served to support the theories. Far from discouraging the rumours, Paganini cultivated them by dressing in all black and wearing long capes. He frequently broke strings yet played on sometimes with only two strings yet with no noticeable difference. Audiences gasped and fainted at his performances.

Paganini’s musical legacy is a small one compared with giants like Bach and Mozart but his compositions represent the sternest available tests. His complete works fit onto half a dozen CDs. However, nearly two centuries after their composition, his twenty-four Caprices are still the very highest pinnacle of achievement on a stringed instrument. Violinists who have learned and mastered to concert standard all twenty-four of these short but complex studies in finger co-ordination are a rare breed indeed, fewer than the mountaineers who have climbed Everest. Here is Caprice No. 24.


“The Cannon” was Paganini’s cherished instrument. It has a distinctive depth and resonance that defined Paganini’s unique expression. It is on display in Genoa and is occasionally loaned out for public recitals where its power shocks and awes listeners to this day. Few other instruments provide such a direct link with a musical genius.

keep music miserable

Judge a book by its cover? Me? Well maybe a little bit.

Alright, I admit it. I don’t find it necessary to carry out a full assessment when a cursory glance with a practised eye will tell me all I need to know; will warn me of potential boredom. Time is too short to waste sieving babies from bath water!

Take film genres for example. Scanning a review, I only have to spy the words ‘heart warming,’ ‘inspirational,’ ‘wacky’ or (heaven save us) ‘screwball adventure’ and I read no further. No good can possibly come of wallowing in such drivel. Now, take ‘supernatural,’ ‘paranormal,’ ‘horror,’ ‘alien...’ all these will catch my eye. If I should detect ‘exorcism,’ ‘abduction,’ ‘conspiracy’ or ‘vampire’ in the same paragraph then I’m sucked in.

It’s true, I am swinging wildly between extremes here. But that’s not a bad trait, eh? You know where you stand, or at least I do! That’s not to say I won’t ever watch a ‘chick flick.’ I have been known to allow these in my DVD player and even permit a slight grin or release a low chuckle at a ‘hilarious comedy’ but I’m happiest in my preferred habitat – ‘dark,’ ‘serious,’ ‘psychological thriller,’ ‘alternative comedy...’ you get the picture.

Is there a possibility I may have missed some subtle and engaging story by my dismissive choices? Perhaps. Over the decades I estimate I have dumped several million gallons of bathwater so there is a chance I have thrown out a baby or two. (Gently of course!) But that’s ok they do bounce!

I have an interesting DVD collection. Some would say, scary, black, depressing and troubled but hey, I own the musical ‘Oliver’ and the ‘Back to the Future’ trilogy so it’s not all doom and gloom! (Says the proud owner of ‘The Shining,’ ‘The Exorcist,’ ‘The Omen’ and ‘Silence of the Lambs!’

In fairness, even I detect a trend here. I prefer ‘sad’ over ‘happy,’ ‘ironic’ over ‘funny’ and ‘bleak’ over ‘uplifting.’ This is even more true of my music collection. I haven’t counted (yet) but I would bet more than fifty per cent of my music is in a minor key! Whoever said “the only good songs are sad songs” has a powerful point. (Actually it might have been me!) Wait a minute, I have R.E.M.’s ‘Shiny Happy People’ on their album ‘Out of Time.’ But that’s ok, I usually skip that track!

Music stirs the emotions and mostly, though I concede by no means always, the darker emotions, sorrow, loneliness, loss, fear and disappointment. There is nothing missing from my collection of Pink Floyd, Radiohead or Dire Straits, to cite a few dinosaurs, and they are largely miserable. Fantastically miserable! A melody may be evocative of a certain mood but the lyrics coax that mood to full bloom. Consequently I can’t listen to anything bland or repetitive. I demand quality lyrics that can stand alone as poetry. Gloomy poetry of course!

Whoever heard of a happy poem? That would be a limerick! Poetry is another example of art appealing to the darker emotions and surely best exemplified by pieces like Wilfred Owen’s “Anthem for Doomed Youth” or Ted Hughes’ “The Thought Fox.”

All of this rambling thought brings me to my long-held conviction that the best artists, be they in the fields of literature, poetry, music or even comedy, are mainly mad or sad or both. Yes even comedy, the very best comedy, is a hair’s breadth away from sadness and madness. Pathos is powerful. Try laughing uncontrollably and you’ll quickly realise you’re crying really.

Most of this boils down to depressive thinking. To depict suffering in words or oils, in reality or irony, first you must study suffering. That’s just one example. But consider the various dark corners artists repeatedly explore, despite the warnings of those who have gone there before: death, despair, futility, anger, hatred and regret. It’s not surprising that some of the most exceptional authors, poets, songwriters and clowns have succumbed to depression and madness. I used to have a list of all those who suffered but it grew so long it became redundant.

Therefore, art equals misery and insanity. Q.E.D.

... now where was I? Oh yes, having fun!

the label maker

The eagle-eyed among my select readership will have noticed the appearance of labels on my entire blog archive. Michelle suggested this idea as a way for her to delve into my literary nonsense with at least some direction. Speaking as an indefatigable cataloguer, lister and categoriser, self-certified neat freak and all-round terminal Virgo, it is frankly astonishing that I hadn't done this sooner!

So, after three hours of browsing, choosing and applying labels, there is now a "tag cloud" sitting ominously in my sidebar leading the curious to fictional flights of fancy, pompous pontifications and rip-roaring reviews. For those with a visual preference, many posts still carry links to my photo site. This has proved an interesting trip down memory lane.

I found the exercise supremely satisfying. Similar but on a slightly smaller scale to completing the writing of my "Memoirs to Age Fifty," listing my complete worldly possessions, scanning my three thousand 35mm photographs, tagging them all along with the fourteen thousand or so digital photos in my files. It leaves me feeling comfortable. Yes, tidiness is very soothing in a chaotic world, therapeutic even.

There came a time when I couldn't rest until my music, film and book collections had been catalogued in Excel spreadsheets. Now for example, I can sort the whole music file into alphabetical order by band, chronological order by release date, alphabetical order by genre, chronological order by purchase date, ascending order of purchase price, descending order of personal star-rating and... need I go on?

... ok I will. I have all fourteen hundred CDs ripped to mp3 on my hard drive (with obligatory backup of course).

My stamp collection includes used examples of almost every British issue since 1840 and mint examples of everything since 1900. My coin collection is practically complete with every British coin minted since 1837 (plus a fair quantity of European, American and Canadian examples). Oh, and of course they are all catalogued in exciting spreadsheets! I had weeks of fun scanning the coins (both obverse and reverse naturally)!

Is it all a sickness, an affliction of details? Probably. But does it rule my life? Not that you would notice, I hope!

Now, where's my label maker? :)

Someone shoot me if I start printing labels for "TV," "couch," "fridge," "spoon..."

Prince Edward Island Marathon 2010 – a bittersweet day

Last Sunday I ran my first marathon - 26.2 miles, or as they say in Canada 42km. I have been running for three years up to fifteen miles a week so reckoned I had built a good base from which to launch a sixteen week marathon training programme.

Despite injuries earlier in the year I had managed to raise my mileage steadily until I was covering thirty-five miles a week including long runs of sixteen and nineteen miles. Eventually however the training took its toll with sprains, strains and general exhaustion. I allowed myself two weeks of light training and the aches subsided but my ankles in particular were tender. Nonetheless by race day I was still hopeful of completing the marathon in four and a half hours, a realistic goal considering the times I had consistently run in training.

Sunday dawned cold, windy and raining and the surf on the north shore was boiling as we swung into Brackley Beach Car Park. Runners were milling around, stretching and warming up under the shelter of trees and in the lee of low buildings. The girls looked wet and bedraggled in the early morning gloom and must have wondered just why we had dragged them out into the wind and rain!

As 8am approached I lined up near the back of the two hundred and sixty five participants. This is a very small event – forget the tens of thousands of London, New York and Boston. At the gun we set off into the rain with the wind whipping at our backs. I discovered straight away that my iPod was stuck on repeat and, being blind as a bat without my reading glasses, I couldn't change the playback settings so stuffed it in the pocket of my drinks belt and ran in silence. What a bummer after crafting a fantastic fifty-song playlist!

I let faster runners disappear into the distance and settled into my own pace, monitoring my progress against a small laminated chart I’d made, showing kilometre split times. At the halfway point, twenty- one kilometres, we turned off the roads and onto the trail. I was on track at two hours and thirteen minutes and I reached the thirty-one kilometre mark spot on at three hours thirteen minutes...

Then I hit the wall. My knees buckled repeatedly and each time I limped and hopped until the pain eased. My pace dropped and runners began to pass me. The rain fell and the wind blew and at times it was all I could do to keep grinding away, one foot in front of the other with short strides. My knees, ankles and hips protested with each pace and I felt cold wet and miserable. I managed a weak smile for the thin groups of supporters who had valiantly turned out along the route.

By now I could see no one in front and no one behind me, yet I knew there must be more, trailing at the back. As I stumbled the final ten kilometres I lost huge chunks of time. Four and a half hours was no longer on and indeed I would drop twenty-five minutes in the final ten kilometres. Gatorade, water and energy gels were available at regular points. If nothing else, I should probably have drunk more.

I don't know how I finished the final drag of six kilometres from Sears into downtown. I limped and gritted my teeth and grunted in pain and watched stragglers pass me. I stopped to take a shoe off when some padding on a sore toe broke free in my sock but other than that and a couple of stops to stretch my legs, I ran the whole distance.

I finished in four hours and fifty-six minutes. My race number had long since blown away in the wind but my shoelace-mounted timing chip triggered a display in the commentator's booth as I approached the finish line and his excited voice boomed my name over the public address! Michelle and Cheryl were there to cheer me home and I all but collapsed into the arms of the volunteers handing out "space blankets." I limped to the car and when we got home my lips were blue and I was shivering. A half hour soak in a steaming hot bath followed by an hour in bed pulled me back closer to the land of the living.

This morning my muscle stiffness is bad and I can barely hobble from one room to another! I wish I could say running my first marathon was a profoundly uplifting, emotional experience but I can’t. It was horribly hard under nasty conditions and I just felt lousy, wet, cold and miserable. I hurt like hell and I am disappointed in my time which was dragged so low by being unable to jog above a brisk walking pace for the final ten kilometres. I know I was capable of a more respectable performance.

To balance this bleak summary I must acknowledge that this was my first attempt. At the ripe old age of fifty-three I accomplished something fewer than one in a thousand islanders did. (Of the two hundred and sixty-five participants over two thirds came from off island.) I completed the training through all weathers and despite injuries, I finished the marathon and I didn’t come last! I made a decision, committed to it and achieved my aim.

It’s still only a day ago that I ran forty-two kilometres. It’s too soon to make objective statements about the future. I want to say I hated it and I will never again put myself in such an uncomfortable place. I shouted those very words somewhere along the Confederation Trail with only the wind for an audience. It’s still a true statement as I sit and type this. When the pain has receded and the cold, wet memories have faded will I think differently? I might.

Lessons learned:
1. Set off even slower
2. Check iPod before abandoning my reading glasses
3. Drink more en route
4. Wear warmer clothes if it’s blowing a gale and raining
5. Run fewer runs in training but make the weekly long run longer and slower.

Thank you to Michelle for the amazing photos.



PS: belatedly I should add that two years on I trained again and put myself in a good position to retry. In 2012 I finished in four hours thirty eight minutes and felt much stronger. There is a full review here. My recovery after the second attempt was astonishing. I barely limped the following day and only a week later ran 10k.

i'm related to president george w bush

Quite how this discovery changes my life, I’m still trying to decide. The genealogical chart above opens quite blurred when you click on it due to the drastic reduction from its original size. Click the image again and it will expand but the size still just about shields identities. For the curious, I am in the lower left hand corner and my long lost presidential cousin is near the bottom right.

Some time ago I traced a distant line of ancestors by the name of Packard on my father’s side in the eastern English county of Suffolk but I lost track of them somewhere in the early 1800s. As is usual with genealogy, I got side-tracked on numerous other lines of enquiry and thought no more of the Packards until this week...

The beauty of the crumbling bones of long-dead ancestors is that they aren’t going anywhere in a hurry, so you can put them down and pick them back up much later and they’ll still be there. I returned to my Packards this month and discovered a fascinating pedigree online which included a prominent Packard in my own lineage. With me so far?

Out of sheer greed I copied the hundred or so names in this pedigree into my own records, pushing my Packard line back to a barely credible 1486AD! Out of curiosity I scanned the descending lines of this online treasure trove and the first one I followed led to a family of Packards who emigrated to The States in the 1700s where they threw down roots and thrust up branches up and down New England.

I continued to follow this line but when I reached the late Victorian period the male Packards had petered out. While I was idly fiddling with a dwindling female arm (so to speak) I spotted a Sheldon marrying in and fathering a daughter, Flora Sheldon. Bells of familiarity began to ring. I quickly realised Flora married Samuel Prescott Bush and they produced Prescott Sheldon Bush – the subject of many conspiracy theories ranging from the assassination of JFK to the Bilderberg Group to funding the Nazis.

This helpful online pedigree listed later descendants as "living" so dutifully withheld their names in the interests of privacy. Of course the next two generations are the George Bush's, senior and junior, as a cursory glance at Wikipedia will confirm!

My Family Historian software reliably informs me George W Bush and I are eleventh cousins once removed. Or in other words, we share a common ancestor fifteen generations ago. What all this means I am not sure. One thing is fairly certain, I am unlikely to be invited for cocktails at a leafy retreat in Rhode Island or Connecticut or wherever the bigwigs hang out these days. However, I might be spirited away to Quantico for interrogation.

the loneliness of the long distance runner

You might think this statement, borrowed from the title of a 1962 film, is a complaint. It's not. I enjoy the isolation of running alone and the self discovery it brings. On short runs I wear only a thin layer of Lycra, running shoes and a watch. There was a time when I regarded ten kilometres as an impossible dream but now that classes as a short run. For me ten kilometres now is fifty-eight minutes to unwind; to settle into a rhythm of stride pattern and breathing; to shake off angst and frustration.

Now I regularly run up to thirty kilometres. On the road for two to three hours at a time, I find controlled breathing and stride length becomes hypnotic. Setting off under the stars at 5:30am I can drift into a twilight world, only dimly aware of the passage of time and the rolling by of roads, houses, fields, woods and miles. Early in the run I chew over problems, decisions, anxieties until those thoughts begin to fade. After an hour or so my mind is almost empty. Even as dawn breaks only my footfall connects me to the planet. That's the point at which I really begin to absorb the fifty-song playlist poured into my ears by my iPod. Tracks that span the length of my life beat in my head. Each new cross fade brings a new decade and different fragments of memory...

Two years ago I ran my first half-marathon. When you enter the realm of long distance running you discover your body's natural limits. If you are not blessed with the physiology of an "elite" athlete you will need to drink during runs longer than one hour. Much beyond that and you will need to eat too. Standard issue muscles can store enough glycogen to power them for maybe ninety minutes to two hours before you slow to a crawl then stop completely. The first time I experienced exhaustion, headache and nausea after two hours of running I thought I was simply unwell. Cold and shivering, I walked the remaining mile home with barely the energy to drop into a hot bath. I took that lesson only once.

This year I developed the tentative idea of entering a full marathon. 26.2 miles is a special distance, well beyond reach without months of punishing training, building muscle and stamina, forcing your body to adapt to burning fat as well as glycogen to drive muscles. I had been running throughout our uncommonly mild winter (minus ten is mild by Maritime Canada standards!), covering fifteen or twenty miles a week so had maintained last year's conditioning. Michelle bought me the "Non-Runner's Marathon Guide" and after devouring it I calculated I could move seamlessly from my current weekly mileage into the sixteen week recommended training programme by the first week of July. I hadn't bargained on injury.

From a combination of over-training in April and a new pair of running shoes I damaged the arch of my left foot. Such was the pain, I couldn't run at all in May and June. I nervously watched the arrival of July and decided I would test the foot despite residual pain. I had lost some cardio-vascular fitness despite visiting the gym pretty much every day to use the "eliptical cross trainer" and it took me several weeks and yet more new running shoes to recover my stamina - but I did. The chart above shows the mileage I have run in the past three months - four runs a week, including one long run on Sunday morning. On long runs you need to take some of your world with you. I wear my iPod; a belt to carry my drinks bottle, energy gels, lip-balm, Vaseline and mobile phone.

For the past six weeks I have run a half marathon or further every Sunday with a longest run of nineteen miles. This has taken a toll on my ankles. Swelling has made the interior ankle bones red and sore. For the first time I missed a scheduled run this week and know I won't be able to cover the recommended miles before October 17th. I ran ten kilometres last night in my fastest time ever but my ankles are tender this morning. I plan to begin the taper early and reduce my mileage to one long run and one medium run for the next three weeks in the hope of reaching marathon day in decent enough shape to finish the race.

So, health permitting, I may be ready to tackle those 26.2 miles (42km) and it might take me around four and a half hours, a time frame for running that would have shocked me until recent years. Through sheer determination and hours spent ignoring the heat, the cold, the wind, the rain and the snow, I discovered that you can train yourself to do almost anything - even to run for hours and hours on end. I am on the brink. Only physical collapse can stop me. I know I can meet the mental challenge. I am comfortable with my own company and voyages deep inside my head while outside the hours are passing and the world is turning.

There is a start, there is a finish and in between you just run. That bit in between is where the loneliness resides. No one can do it for you, you are on your own.