what is happening to the Assyrian reliefs?
What a gloomy day! In need of colour I decided to revisit the wildlife photography exhibition in my lunchbreak.
I used to think there must be two wildlife photography exhibitions, they come round so frequently, but now I understand there’s only one; it’s just that it stays on display for so long. It stays popular too, with good reason. I wish they’d print larger versions of the photos though.
The photos come with the tales of their capture. Here’s how Joe Bunni snapped a polar bear:
After three days on a small boat looking for polar bears in Repulse Bay, Nunavut, Canada, Joe got lucky. ‘We cruised at a distance, so we didn’t disturb the bear. Once we were sure it was relaxed with our presence, I slipped quietly into the water with just a mask and fins, attached to the boat by a rope.’ The polar bear now started to swim towards the boat. It didn’t appear to notice Joe, and for 20 minutes he was able to take photographs from the water. But then the bear caught sight of its own reflection in the dome port and swam up to Joe. ‘It’s amazing when a huge, powerful animal comes beside you.’ It came so close that its nose touched the housing, startling it. The second after Joe took this shot, the bear reached out and touched the dome with its paw. Then it turned and swam away, leaving Joe with an unforgettable image - symbolic ‘of the power and elegance of a wonderful creature struggling to survive in a fast-changing climate’.
Unforgettable indeed! If I were Joe I’d have prioritised my own survival and admired the power and elegance at a distance.
Bristol museum’s own polar bear has disappeared, making way for a new lift which is being installed just beyond the room holding the Assyrian reliefs. The reliefs remain on display — at least, I could see them today — but they’ve been separated, strapped, and mounted on shock absorbers to reduce the risk of damage from vibrations whilst the lift works go on.
The assembly of ancient stones and modern fixings looked like a conceptual artwork. I tried to imagine the history of the reliefs, how they’d been quarried, manoeuvred, carved, lifted, shipped — how 8 tons of granite had ended up here in Clifton.
Cross country, Singleton Park 2011
Sunday 4th December was the 3rd of 5 league cross county fixtures at home in Singleton Park where all the ideal cross country ingredients were available, rain, hail, long steep hills and thick muddy bogs, very many congratulations to everyone who competed on one of the toughest cross country courses around. — http://www.swanseaharriers.co.uk
Not many Swansea Harriers had turned out for the previous Gwent League event, held a month ago in Bath, and team manager Kevin Corcoran expected a good showing for today’s event — a home fixtur in Singleton Park. The going will be heavy, his email said, bring spikes!
Certainly we’d help boost the numbers. Alex would be racing his first race for the club, the novice boys at 12:06, to be followed immediately by Isobel in the U13 girls at 12:15. The Senior men’s race — me! — wouldn’t start until 14:50. Because of the time gaps and the wintry weather Gail decided to drive the kids, getting there in time to register and then head back with them as soon as they’d run. I’d travel independently by bike: a good way to warm up and cool down, I reckoned.
Rain spat as I started my journey. A fresh wind pushed clouds across the sky. Half an hour later I pedalled through the crowded car park at Bishop Gore school, locked my bike to the railings, then made my way to the club tent. Take it slowly to start with, I told Alex, save something for the finish. He doesn’t have running spikes and I had suggested he wore his rugby boots, but he wanted to wear his trainers. He doesn’t have a club vest either and was wearing a thermal top. There he stood, black top, black shorts, anxious, ready to go.
The route starts with a climb then loops around the park back to the start and climbs again to the finish. He was going well. Dan turned up with Fynn, Cai and Schnorbie. We cheered, Alex responded, passing four people at speed on the final muddy climb. Rain slashed down in a sudden squall. He crossed the line, exhausted, breathless, on the verge of tears. I wanted to get to him and get him warm and dry but he had to follow the finish-line protocol: waiting in line to collect his token, waiting again to hand it over to the team manager.
We bundled Alex into the tent and pulled dry clothes over the top of his wet muddy kit. It had been a tough race for him. Isobel’s race had already started — two laps for her. She was in trouble on the first climb, looking to us, shaking her head. She’s pulled out, Gail said. What? Never! Isobel’s already an experienced runner: she knows how to pace herself. But it was true, she was walking back, in tears.
I couldn’t breathe, she said. You’re not cross with me?
Of course not. I hugged her.
We made our way back to the car. I reassured Isobel. It happened. Now you know, and you’ll know what to do next time. It won’t happen again.
We don’t make her go to harriers, it’s her choice — what she wants to do — but the club insists its members compete. It’s not about keeping fit. One of the novice girls had lost a shoe, it stuck in the mud at the start, and she’d run up the hill wearing one shoe and carrying the other, had her footwear refitted, and gone on to finish, gaining points for her team.
My family had gone now. Two and a half hours until my race. I was wearing several layers of clothing and all of them were damp. The rain had stopped but the wind was tugging more clouds our way. My fingers and toes were cold. I walked the route. Downhill, the ground was waterlogged. The map showed the route fording something described as a spring, and what I’d pictured as clear running water turned out to be a trench overflowing with viscous mud.
I stopped to talk with a couple of marshals who stood dressed like fishermen in the middle of the park. They explained the route to me in some detail. There’d been a fault with the original version of the map, the one I’d seen online. It said the senior men would run three medium loops and one full one but we’d actually be running one medium loop and three full ones. The course could have been simplified, they thought, joining points together and eliminating whole sections. They could have overlapped events and had more than one group out at once. The U15 girls race had started now, and the marshals trudged into position.
Back at the start line I queued for a cup of tea from the Licensed to Grill van. It wasn’t hot enough or strong enough but it warmed my fingers. I ate a banana and one of the welsh cakes I’d packed. A mobile shoe shop had set itself up near the start line. My feet are short and wide. They had a good selection of of cross country spikes and the Adidas ones fitted perfectly.
I ran a short warm up with a couple of others then got changed. I wondered if Ifan was coming? At last the race started. I ran eagerly along the top section then let gravity lengthen my stride downhill. Oh, there he was, just in front. I checked myself slightly. Plenty of time to accelerate later.
Spikes feel different to the trail shoes I’m used to: lighter, less stable. Faster? Maybe.
Try and find firmer ground. Take muddy corners wide. Run closer to foliage — being shorter, I can duck under the tagged branches. Up and downhill I do better. I could improve on the flat and through mud.
Chris Fulcher came past at speed on the final lap but I couldn’t follow him. I was locked into my pace and my group and there I stayed.
I went to congratulate Ifan who’d finished 22nd. I was happy with 45th. They were filming him for some Vets 24/7 program which BBC Wales will screen next year. I did hear them ask, if he was a veteran runner and a veteranarian, did that make him a vet vet?
I returned to the tent and ate another welsh cake pulling layers of clothing back on. My lined cycling gloves are a real struggle to put on when damp. Rain hammered down. Cars queued to leave Bishop Gore car park. One which had parked on the field spun its wheels in the mud.
Bristol, Cycling City?
In 2008 Greater Bristol was chosen as England’s first Cycling City and received £11m from the Department for Transport to transform cycling.
This helped bring about a strong cycling renaissance in the city. New dedicated on-road cycle lanes, new traffic-free routes, 3400 new cycle parking spaces, as well as cycling training and lots of other ‘softer measures’ projects encouraged thousands of people to saddle up.
Yeah, and I got a mug out of it, too.
This morning, though, I cycled from Screwfix in Bedminster to my office in Clifton. How pleasant to cycle through the middle of Queen Square on a track which, less than 20 years ago, was a dual carriageway. And how enjoyable to continue on across Broad Quay and the centre, which used to be one great roundabout. Pedestrians and cyclists get the best routes and the best views and that’s how it should be.
The bicycle parking area where I work is secure, free (in marked contrast to the car parking spaces), and recently doubled in size. It fills up, every day, even now winter has set in.
I agree: there has been a cycling renaissance but I think it’s down to a number of factors. Primarily, it’s lower incomes and the rising price of motoring which is getting people on their bikes. A secondary effect adds momentum: the more cyclists there are, the more people accept cycling, and the more cyclists there will be. The fantastic success of British cycling may have something to do with it, judging by the number of swish road bikes which spin round the Downs every evening. The government cycle to work scheme is a fine deal, though I suspect the main beneficiaries are people like me who’ve always cycled to work. And technological improvements, like electrically assisted bikes — I see plenty of cyclists who wouldn’t be cycling without these.
Cycling city? £11m! Transformation!?
It annoys me that “special” funding should be needed to provide for cyclists. Cycle parking spaces should be built anyway. Any transport planning should naturally prioritise pedestrians and cyclists. I don’t think £11m paid for the reworking of Queen Square and Broad Quay, yet these schemes have benefited cyclists far more than a new bike route from the Farm pub to B&Q. I would like bike theft to be eliminated. I would like to see car-free approaches to secondary schools in the mornings and afternoons. Get kids used to commuting on foot and by bike and they’ll continue as adults.
The Cycling City money wasn’t wasted but I’d say the initiative contributed little to the increase in cycling and it’s foolish to claim or think otherwise. Yes, there are more cyclists on the roads but there need to be far, far more. How can we maintain the momentum? The little things help, let’s keep doing them, but really it’s down to government policy, personal responsibility and intelligent transport planning.
West Wales cross country championships, 2011
I turned up early enough to register Isobel too — she’d compete in the first event of the day, the U13 girls, and I’d run the final event, the senior mens — and collected race number 6, not to be confused with 9. We were at the Swansea University playing fields, Fairwood, for the second race in the West Glamorgan cross country league, incorporating the West Wales championships.
It was sunny and fresh. Recent rainfall had soaked the ground. Perfect cross country conditions. Gail, Alex and my parents arrived in time to see Isobel start, but only just: they’d been watching Alex play rugby at Penclawdd, where the referee had extended the game because the home team were about to score a try.
The girls were strung along the far side of the field, the front runners striding out. Pembrokeshire Harriers had the first two places. We intercepted the route to cheer Isobel along the first and second fields — the up and down bit of the course — then climbed the bank to the finish line, by the observatory. She did well.
An hour to go before the men’s race. My family found a place to sit and Gail sorted them out with hot drinks and snacks. I got myself ready. I knew a few people from the Saturday morning runs: Ifan, the animal beast monster; Ross, the race-winning triathlete, who’d competed in another event yesterday and been training on the bike this morning; Raul, who couldn’t believe I wouldn’t be doing the Gower coastal half marathon next weekend; and Simon who asked if I was running, and then said, shame, he wouldn’t win. I laced my shoes tightly and double-knotted them: at Bridgend I’d almost left one stuck in the mud. I recognised a few more athletes from Bridgend and Brecon. Many have the look — skinny, long-limbed, elastic — but by no means all, and, even at the age of 47, I’m far from being the oldest: these guys never give up.
The tail-enders in the women’s race were finishing. Not long now. I jogged across the pitch and back, keeping warm. Go!
Some people complain about running laps rather than a single extended circuit, but, as someone new to the course, it suits me. I gave it more than at Bridgend, striding out on the downhills, digging in on the climbs. Ross came alongside me on the second lap. He runs so smoothly. Go on, Thomas! That was Gail. Mrs Smith, Isobel’s ironman science teacher, had finished the women’s race in time to take up a position on the second field and encourage everyone. Appreciated.
I picked up my pace on the final lap. Amazingly, Ross fell back. I’d dropped him. One last push to the finish.
Dr Hedydd Davies handed me a letter as I crossed the line: an invitation to run for West Wales in the inter-regional championships in Builth Wells!
I’m accepting, of course, but have two questions: what size vest? and should I get spikes?
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My thanks to Chris Fulcher for allowing me to use his wonderful photos. More of his photos of the event can be found here.
Cardiff Half, 2011
Michael’s Tom Tom guided us from the M4 to Grangetown Station. We parked alongside the Taff. Michael ate a banana and changed into his Swansea City shorts, which he thought appropriate since the route would be passing Legoland. We made fall-back plans where to meet after then set off on foot, falling into line with the gathering crowds heading the same way. Ahead rose the metallic curve of the national arts centre, gleaming in the sunlight.
What does it say on the front? That’s a classic pub quiz question.
Hear the stones sing in silence. I don’t know. Something like that. It’s in Welsh and English.
… ?
Go on then, what does it say?
I don’t know either, Michael admitted. Now we were right there beneath the imposing lettering but didn’t bother checking. The runners village was swarming with runners getting ready. We had to prepare.
Plas Roald Dahl is built on a scale to accommodate 15000 runners and supporters — excepting toilet facilities. Queues for the portaloos folded back on themselves. We shook hands and separated. With half an hour to go I stripped off and deposited my kit bag. I made my way to the start, down to the waterfront, left, past the Senedd, left again, then tried to find the right starting pen. My number was blue, meaning an expected finishing time between 1:20 and 1:30. The instructions from the PA alternated between English and Welsh, happily noting the sun had come out, there was no wind, the route was flat — the event record could well be broken.
In amongst the packed athletes I discovered Mike Rimmer, Mark, Pippa and Michael (again). They were huddled close to the 1:30 pace-maker. Push up, Mike ordered, and I don’t want to see you till the end of the race! I squeezed and twisted and wriggled a few metres forward then gave up.
After a welcome message from the mayor we were off, shuffling, walking, striding, jogging, running. After Bristol, I took it easy to begin with, settling into the race rather than wasting energy trying to weave through the pack. Soon the roads broadened, proper city avenues and boulevards, and I could run my own pace.
Pro-cyclist David Millar recently tweeted about his specialism, time-trialling.
TT’s are weird. Imagine the best long-distance runners being set off at 1min intervals to TT 20km. Be considered mad. Cycling = Madness. — @millarmind
A TT generally involves the athlete emptying their tank completely in order to post the fastest time they are physically capable of. — @millarmind
A mass-start race involves tactics and economising of effort in order to cross the finish-line first. Winner often the freshest at the end. — @millarmind
Interesting, as far as it goes — but in a regular bike race tactics and positioning are paramount and in athletics a strong athlete can run off the front. For me, the half marathon is a time trial. I’m racing against the clock and emptying the tank. I look for the mile markers and check my time as I pass them. A 6:10 pace would bring me in at around 1 hour and 21 minutes, just under.
Miles 8 and 9, the route heads in then out on the same arterial road, doubling back at a spectator-packed roundabout. It gives you a chance to watch faster runners, some really fast runners — and to appreciate the scale of the event. Go on Ifan! I shouted. His head stayed down, he was working hard. He’d heard me. My legs still felt good.
At mile 10 there’s a climb. It’s not so steep but it’s long enough and it comes at just the wrong stage of the race. I’d slipped a few seconds. The arithmetic was getting harder. Dig in!
Then the final stretch, along the Cardiff Bay barrage. You’re exposed to the wind but today there wasn’t any, just a fabulous approach to the capital, towards the Norwegian Church, the Assembly, the Armadillo. Those efforts along the Avon towpath, the interval sessions on Oxwich beach — now they make sense: you know how it feels to run at tempo when legs are burning and lungs are heaving. I was going to do it!
1:21:31:07 it said on my watch. My official chip time, received in a text message an hour or so later, was 1:21:30, a personal best by almost half a minute. I was wiped out but not hurting, not like last time. I’d finished 110th.
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My thanks to gordonplant and Chris Bewick for allowing me to use their fine photos of Cardiff Bay and the Millenium Centre in this article.
Gwent cross country league, Bridgend, 2011
We drove from Swansea along the M4, the car buffeted by gusting winds, windscreen wipers swiping away the rain. We parked at Bridgend recreation centre and walked along a concrete-lined service road and past a wet playground. There was the race HQ — Bridgend Athletics club.
Isobel was nervous. What time is it? There should be a tent. Stay close to me. Is that Andrew? What time is it?
There were lots of tents and lots of tall track-suited men who could have been Andrew. Striped tape stretched between plastic posts, marking out the route. There was the finish line. The PA system chattered away. 7 minutes till the novice boys’ race, the first event of the day.
We found the Swansea Harriers tent and reported in. £1 for the under 13 event, £4 for seniors. Isobel fell in with some friends and was gone.
I walked over the bridge and onto the fields, heading for the start. The novice boys were on the course now, stretched in a line between the river and the rugby pitch. Spectators struggled to control umbrellas. Dogs tugged at leads.
Isobel found me again, wanting to hand over her clothes. Half an hour, I said. Keep warm. Do you need the loo? Are you thirsty? I’d keep those on, really, don’t get cold. But she wanted to be ready.
The novice girls swung round towards the bridge. The first runner passed, straight-faced, serious. She wouldn’t be caught. More lone front runners, then clumps. Go on! Well run! Towards the back, tears, girls walking, being urged to push on.
The under 13 boys’ race now. They shivered and twitched then set off at a sprint. Isobel was with her team getting final words of advice. The under 13 boys were on their way back. The leaders hadn’t slowed down at all. The girls lined up. Over a hundred of them, I should think. Aberdare, Aberystwyth, Barry, Bath, Bridgend, Bristol, Caerleon, Cardiff, Carmarthen, Chepstow, Gorseinon, Griffithstown, Llanelli, Lliswerry, Neath, Newport, Pembrokeshire, Penarth, Pontypridd, Port Talbot, Porthcawl, Rhondda, Stroud, Swansea, Taunton, Wells, Westbury, Weston.
She ran well, at a steady pace. I cut across the course to cheer her on at different points: by the river, at the bridge, near the woods, and I was there waiting at the finish line.
56th. I hugged her. Well done! I need spikes, dad. So muddy, I mean it is soooo muddy! I’m really pleased, are you pleased? I didn’t stop and walk. You did really well, I’m proud of you. Really well.
Your turn now.
Yes, my turn. I got Isobel’s kit, made sure she put it on, gave her money for a snack. No surprise to see Ifan Lloyd. I’m guessing you know this course, I said. You could say that, yes. Yes, you could say. I knew I wouldn’t see much of him during the race though. And there was Gary Irving, captain of the Welsh Castles Relay team, taller and thinner than ever. Was I over 50? No. Shame! We’d have had a useful M50 team. Younger seniors crouched in the tent, swigging drinks, selecting footwear, unpeeling tights, rubbing muscles. I had stopped following the races now but was aware of the different age groups out on the course tracing different circuits different numbers of times, crossing and re-crossing. Some of the route posts had fallen over and loose tapes got trampled into the wet grass. The first senior women had finished, muddy and flushed. I got changed. Had a drink. Checked my laces. Queued for the toilet, then needed to go again. Jogged around the field. Now I was walking across the bridge to the start line. 5 minutes till off. And now we were off.
I fell into position in the middle of the pack. We passed the stone circle which marks the place where the Eisteddfod was held.
Go on daddy! There was Isobel with a friend. Come on Swansea!
We ran through mud churned by previous runners. I clung to the edges where the grass gave more traction. Downhill, I followed the slope, not the route. I slowed into corners, took them wide, then pushed on when we hit gravel and harder ground. Bang, man down! A sniper got him. Uphill in chopped strides, looking for footholds. Isobel appeared again. I waved, feeling good. The lead runners swerved ahead, rattling round far corners of the course. On the second lap I started moving up the field. The heel of my right shoe was too loose and stuck in the mud. Lace up more tightly next time. Field, field, woods, bridge, field. 3rd and final lap. I had something left. I charged for the line and funneled in, collecting a cardboard position token to be handed to my team manager.
Seasoned runners bring two bottles of water. One for drinking, one for washing. A sign at the recreation centre said cross country runners were not to use the facilities but we did anyway.
The next day the results came through, and an email from Kevin Corcoran.
It was an outstanding day for the Senior Men with wins for Dewi Griffiths (Senior Men & Under 23), Mark Roberts (V40) and Ifan Lloyd (V50). Dewi led our men to team victory over Cardiff and we also won the B Team Division in the process.
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My thanks to Chris and Maxine Fulcher for allowing me to take a copy of their fine photo. More of their photos of the event can be found here.
Alan Turing centenary exhibition at the Arnolfini
My parents are born in 1931 making them centenarians in 2031, the year in which — according to the Arnolfini timeline, a colour-coded sequence of data sprites recording the Arnolfini’s presence from the Bristol riots of 1831 to the gallery’s own centenary in 2061 — in 2031, coincidentally, life expectancy has risen to 100. In 2031 the Arnolfini also marks Alan Turing’s centenary with an exhibition, Almost Real: Composite Consciousness.
This confuses me since 2012 is Turing’s centenary. He is born in 1912. In 1931 he studies mathematics at Cambridge.
Googling for more on the Almost Real exhibition, which I have yet to see, I discover a bug in the timeline. 2031 should read 2050, 100 years after Turing publishes Computing Machinery and Intelligence, the paper in which he considers the question “Can machines think?”
More details on Almost Real:
Composite Consciousness is a gift, a gift that constitutes the social identity of those that reciprocate, and in that reciprocation, the gift is the interval (the difference) between those present, and those not. The time of the disinterested gift is the time of memory — it shifts the present into the future, or recollects the past into the present.
Bristol Half Marathon, 2011
The half marathon I enjoyed most was the first one I ran, the Bath half, back in … I’m not even sure, 12 years ago? I didn’t know if I’d be able to finish because I hadn’t run the distance in training, so I started slowly.
As the race progressed I realised I would finish, no problem, and I remember overtaking people in the second loop and sprinting the last stretch along Great Pulteney Street, crossing the line with a time of 1:42:15. Oh, I felt just great!
Since then I’ve run a few more half marathons and at each one I’ve gone faster. At first I hacked chunks from my personal best but as time went on I was reduced to chipping away smaller gains. In 2003 I went below an hour and a half at Bristol, beating Steve Cram. In 2006 I returned to Bath and clocked 1:23:14. Wow! I didn’t think I could better that but running the same event in 2007 I got down to 1:21:58 — which meant running the first 9 miles at a speed of 6 minutes and 15 seconds per mile and then running the final 4 miles at the same speed, even though at every step every bit of me wanted it to end.
On that day I retired from half marathons. I couldn’t go any faster and I couldn’t face up to going any slower and I hurt and I had had enough.
I kept running though. Cross country is my favourite, all weather, all terrain. I started going out with a group close to where I live, on Gower. Sand dunes, wooded tracks, marshland. Cefn Bryn from all faces. I joined a club in Bristol, where I work, threading through the alleyways and parkland of North Bristol. Then I hooked up with some friends for training runs on Wednesday lunchtimes.
Earlier this year, 6 March 2011, and friends from all of these groups were running the Bath half marathon. The weather was good. I was in fine form. As I said in an email to Andy:
I’m thinking my build-up for the Bath half has been pretty much perfect, except for my failure to enter, that is.
Andy went on to finish the race in a time of 1:21:51 — fully half a second a mile faster than I’d ever run. That did it! Later that week I signed up for the Bristol half marathon, to be run on September 11th 2011.
Today.
In the years since I’ve been away, the Bristol half has become a huge event. I’d been assigned a white number which meant I’d be starting in the first section of the first wave. It still took me over 30 seconds to pass beneath the start line and I spent the first couple of miles dodging joggers with ipods and sharp elbowed veterans. Beneath the suspension bridge the race stretched out. I galloped along the portway. Soon after doubling back at Shirehampton I pulled alongside someone I knew.
“Is that Neil?”
“Tom, How’s it going?”
“Too damn fast. I’m going too fast.”
“Nah, you’re fine!”
I shook my head. I was going too fast but I couldn’t slow down. Even though I was hurting and hadn’t even gone halfway I let momentum take me past Neil and on to Spike Island. Already I wanted it over.
The route came back to the centre of town then cruelly swerved out again on an unwelcome tour of the sights. Great for spectators. Cobbles. Ramps. Grafitti. I was being overtaken. Falling away. Neil came smoothly past.
“Well done mate,” I muttered.
400m to go. At least I had space around me. Noone passed me in the final straight.
I pressed the button on my stop watch and collapsed, wiped out. I hurt and I knew I was going to hurt more tomorrow and the day after. There was Neil. I eased up on to my feet, started moving, slowly.
1:22:14 my watch said.
As the event has grown bigger they’ve figured out how to organise it. You aren’t allowed to pile-up round the finish line snatching goodie bags and hugging loved ones. They keep the exhausted, elated runners moving past a succession of hand-outs: space blanket, water, medal, banana, T-shirt, energy drink, leaflet, bag … and after this personal awards ceremony you emerge light-headed into the sunshine in millenium square.
Neil ran 1:22:06, comfortably. For him, this was a training run: he’s looking for a fast time in Stroud. My official time, online now, is 1:22:15. That’s over a second a mile slower than I’ve run before. I give in.
Following the Tour
As ever, I’m watching the Tour de France — or maybe I should say I’m following the tour, since I get much of my fix online, direct from riders, commentators, websites.
Usually I like the mountain stages. The scenery, the history, the combat. Winners and losers. The Pyrenees have disappointed with the favourites marking each other and no one prepared to make a sustained attack. We had this in 2010, and we still don’t know who won that race.
Roll on the Alps. As @inrng points out, the Alpe d’Huez stage is just under 110km, a sprint. Andy Schleck: don’t look back!
Terrible to see Bradley Wiggins collapsed on the tarmac nursing a broken collarbone and knowing his race was over. What if? He’d shed so much weight in preparation for the mountains there wasn’t much left of him but what remained — self-belief, humour, quality — well, the climbers wouldn’t have dropped him and he’d have smashed them in the final time trial. There may yet be positives. Geraint Thomas is off the leash and riding with flair and abandon. He’s no threat in the GC and could well grab a breakaway stage. Team Sky will build and regroup and throw everything at the Vuelta where Wiggo could yet become the first Briton to win a Grand Tour.
This year the flatter stages have provided better racing. Cavendish has been a great winner. He also lost well, to Greipel, just the once. For the fourth consecutive year, he’s fastest. Victory margins haven’t been massive but to end up in green you have to run a marathon and a sprint, repeatedly. Is all about conserving energy. He can do it.
Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen are putting in a solid performance. Ned Boulting too. Chris Boardman sounds dull, especially when voicing the sponsors’ messages which bookend the ad breaks:
I’ve often wondered, why do they have second and third place on the podium? … Yellow isn’t a colour, it’s a state of mind … When my team had to lift me off my bike at the end of a stage, I knew I’d done enough.
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I take (some of) it back about Chris Boardman: his analysis of stage 16, the one which finished with a treacherous descent into Gap, was spot on. There’s Andy Schleck moaning people don’t want to see a race won downhill, yet he hasn’t raced uphill either, not really. Or as CB described it: throwing the toys out of his pram.
Welsh castles relay 2011
We sat outside yesterday after an afternoon spent in the garden. The rain which had been forecast hadn’t happened, and with any luck we’d beat the forecast tomorrow as well, when I was due to run a mountain stage of the Welsh Castles Relay. Odd to think the race was already half done.
This morning the wind blew and the rain sliced down in diagonal lines. I pinned my number on my vest, packed some dry clothes, a banana, a flask of sweet tea. We arrived in Brecon — me, Dan, Fynn, Cai, Schnorbie — in good time, but to no obvious sign that stage 15 of the race would be finishing and stage 16 starting. Had we found the right place?
A brief damp tour of the city centre later and runners had started to gather outside the Wellington Hotel. We huddled in an archway, shaking legs, keeping warm. Like penguins, someone said. Soon after the final runner signed in we were off. The road began to rise as soon as we left town, heading up into the Brecon Beacons national park. Water streamed down the gutters. Supporters gathered in lay-bys cheering us on.
“Go on, Swansea!”
Now we were out of the tree line and on the mountain proper. The peaks were shrouded in mist. Streams tumbled white and fast. I was moving up the field. Sooner than I expected came the sign, one mile to go. I pushed on. The road neared the pass leaving us suddenly exposed. The wind ripped into us. I couldn’t slow down now, couldn’t let those runners I’d passed catch me again. Dan was at the side of the road cheering me on, running with me. “How far to go?” The wind tore away his reply. Not far. It couldn’t be far.
How did I do? Not sure. I just wanted to get out of the wind, get warm and dry. At the start of the stage Gary said we were the second place veterans team but some 30 minutes behind the first place team. I hope Ifan won the Jeff Wood stage.
We drove back to Swansea and refuelled at the Uplands Diner.
Quite how an event like this ever gets organised, I don’t know — so my thanks to the organisers, especially to Gary who sorted out the Swansea Harriers veterans team. Thanks too to Dan, Fynn, Cai and Schnorbie for transport and support.
Welsh castles relay preview
I copied this fine map from the 2009 Welsh Castles Relay programme. The WCR combines the disciplines of relay running, stage-racing and sight-seeing:
All runners start each stage simultaneously, normally as the first runner from the previous stage finishes […] Thus each stage functions as a separate race. — WCR team information pack
This weekend 58 teams will race over 20 stages from Caernarfon Castle in the north all the way down to Cardiff Castle in the south. I’ll be running for the Swansea Harriers veterans team and my race within a race is stage 16, Brecon to the Beacons Reservoir, one of 6 mountain stages. I’m not as sharp as I’d like, having been resting a hamstring injury for the past few weeks but I’m so looking forward to it.
Poring through the information pack I discover:
Teams are relied on to conform to standards of good fellowship and sportsmanship to make the event enjoyable to all, without the necessity for rules to take account of every possible occurrence … The use of water cannons and water pistols are not permitted.
Statues on the move
It’s not every day you see a 6.7m statue being lifted on to a balcony so this morning I happily sat in the sunshine to watch the installation of Damien Hirst’s Charity at the RWA.
First the tarpaulins were pulled off her. The main crane made a blind pass, registering the location of the plinth on the balcony, judging the required extension. Now they attached chains around her neck and at the base, padding the neck with blankets. The strapping which fastened her to the trailer was removed removed. Slowly slowly she rose from supporting timbers on the tailer. They lowered her to the gound and tilted her on to her feet. The foreman wore a golden hat. It all seemed calm and controlled. Clearances were small. The pavement stayed open.
According to BBC Bristol Charity will be here for a year, adding:
The RWA said Bristol-born Hirst has “scuffed her appearance and burgled her charity box to highlight the erosion of society’s values”.
As the big statue rose slowly into position, smaller sculptures left the building, pushed out on trailers and bundled into the back of a van. The David Backhouse exhibition had ended.
It was the end too for the Backhouse sculpture so recently installed in the RWA forecourt. Vandals had succeeded in separating the two figures at the top of the sculpture from the one at the base. Today, the base figure was unbolted from her low plinth then lifted and strapped down on an open trailer where the other two, who had been wrapped in sacking and left on the floor outside the building, rejoined her.
Still Lives, Lenkiewicz, summarised
I bumped into Nick in the RWA gallery at lunch time. He happened to be there because he wanted to see the damage done to the David Backhouse sculpture at the front of the building, and then he’d realised there was an exhibition on, and entry was free. So why not?
I told Nick he was lucky, this was the final day of the Lenkiewicz exhibition. It seemed ironic that the publicity resulting from an act of vandalism should draw someone into a show which should have been more than capable of generating its own buzz.
I’ve visited the show a number of times and I want to record my response now it’s over.
It is quite stunning. It has been a privilege to enjoy the work of one person displayed with the space and scale it deserves. Lenkiewicz’s skill as a painter is breathtaking. He paints people, fabrics, ghosts, lemons, interiors, mirrors, memento mori. He does colour. He arranges. He goes large. He paints details.
The huge canvases in the main halls which arrange vagrants, the elderly, the disabled, in classical tableaux; these were my favourites at first. I especially like the burial of John Kynance and the funeral director’s family group portrait posed in the coffin warehouse. I tend to skip through the next room, the one where the artist paints himself with naked women draped around him. Increasingly I dwell in the final room, the one with the solo portraits. Here characters like Albert Ernest Fisher, known as “The Bishop”, who appear in various roles elsewhere in the exhibition, figure simply as themselves.
Still Lives, by Robert Lenkiewicz
Edward Pike; Death; Doc; Terence P. D. Stott aka ‘Blue’; James Foster aka ‘Harmonica Jim’; Taff; Barney; Victor Jonson/alias/James Howard aka ‘Cockney Jim’; Cyril Hocking aka ‘Mephistopheles’; Wee John; Ghost of Diogenes; and Edwin MacKenzie, aka Diogenes, attend the Burial of John Kynance in a painting by Robert Lenkiewicz currently on display in an exhibition hosted by the Royal West of England Academy, Bristol.
The scene is viewed from the coffin of the recently deceased John Kynance. Diogenes features twice, once as his ghost and once as himself. You’ll find him elsewhere in the exhibition too.
Still Lives, by Robert Lenkiewicz, is a stunning exhibition. The RWA galleries are spacious, light and elegant — well suited to displaying Lenkiewicz’s masterful paintings. I will revisit this show many times over the next few weeks.
Two and a bit pencils later
Six months ago I decided to visit Bristol Museum on Wednesday evenings and draw interesting things until I got to the end of my sketchbook. Two and a half pencils and 51 pictures later, I’m done.
I don’t think I’ve made any great progress as an artist but I’m happy at least to get my eye back in. Besides, in my day job, as a computer programmer, it’s hard to truly finish anything, so it’s good to — well — finish something.
My appreciation of the museum has grown. I’ve had time to read labels and walk through those quiet upper rooms filled with silverware and crockery. I’ve noticed small details in familiar paintings. I can point out the scars in the stonework caused by war-time bomb damage.
Late opening on Wednesdays may be a recent idea but it’s proved a rapid success. When I first started coming it seemed like I had the place to myself. Every so often a gallery attendant would drift by, but that was it. Now, though, I’m not the only one who turns up to sketch, and on most Wednesdays it seems there’s an event going on: statues have been unveiled, presentations made, films shown; the year of the rabbit kicked off; exhibitions have changed; and one evening the main hall was packed with dancing brownies and balloon-filled bin-liners were emptied on them from the first floor gallery.
