Train in or Select Out?

A couple of nights ago I found myself watching Admiral McRaven’s powerful commencement speech to the University of Texas, Class of 2014.  - I revisit this amazing speech on a regular basis and if you haven’t watched it, I would commend it to you; a quick google and visit to Youtube should find it -.  His memories of military training struck a chord with me and, whilst I certainly haven’t done Navy Seal training, I attended a number of military courses back in the day when a healthy attrition figure was not only expected but encouraged.  The prevailing logic was that not everyone should pass by right and even though promotion courses were indeed training courses, they represented an opportunity to see if those attending had the ‘right stuff’ to advance to the next rank and continue to serve in my fine Corps.  

I have to admit that I liked this ethos at the time; it gave me confidence in those around me (my band of brothers and sisters) and a sense of achievement in having made the grade.  Some years later, promotion courses were given a more scientific review and the pass/fail criteria was changed in such a way that ‘failing’ became a much less regular occurrence,  Failure decisions and attendance criteria were regularly challenged by those who knew their rights.  This was during times of lean recruitment when we couldn’t afford to discard people who could still make even a limited contribution.  It may be deemed judgemental to say that this affected quality and that some ranks were swelled by more unfit or less resilient individuals than might have been the case in the past.  I hasten to add that the quality still shone through and the very best students went on to enjoy more rapid promotion in their later careers.  

So, some years later as the British Army is rapidly shrinking down to about 80,000, we have seen successive tranches of redundancy.  There has been a concerted effort to ensure that those selected for redundancy were chosen on ‘quality’ criteria but this didn’t stop some of the very best individuals it has been my pleasure to serve with being handed their papers, purely on the basis of years served and the bracket in which they fell.  Had we maintained a leaner, tougher Army and been more selective in the past, might we arguably have saved some of these quality individuals?  Is there a time and place to test your people for their reaction to adversity, how they react when cold, wet, hungry and tired; with less science and more judgement?  I am undecided if this is a simple binary question - train in or select out? – but I have a nagging doubt that by trying to quantise all pass/fail decisions, particularly in a military environment, we are missing something.  I recognise of course, the difficulty in defending decisions that rely upon gut instinct rather scientific assessment criteria and also, the inherent danger of creeping excellence amongst instructors, but my final question remains:

Is it possible to make a decision to fail or filter out an individual because they just don’t have the right stuff? 

The Deep Meaning of The Dart 10K Challenge

Some two years ago during an episode of River Cottage, I watched Hugh cooking up some high energy cereal bars for a strange bunch of ‘outdoor swimmers' who were training to swim 10 kilometres down the River Dart in Devon.  Having become something of a ‘born again swimmer’ somewhat late in life, my interest was piqued and I set about ‘googling' for more information on this strange event.  It didn't take me long to find the Outdoor Swimming Society (OSS) website and an already oversubscribed event called the 2012 Dart 10K.  Suitable motivated, I signed up for email alerts, stalked the OSS website for months until I finally secured myself a place in the 2013 event.  This explains why, on a sunny Saturday morning on 14^th September 2013, I found myself queuing nervously, wetsuit and goggles in hand, outside a large marquis at Steamer Quay, Totnes with a bunch of - in equal parts - nervous looking or supremely confident, outdoor swimmers. 

What I have neatly skipped over in this introduction is the year of training, soul-searching and self-doubt that occupied me in the lead up to this moment.  When I decided a few years ago that running was no longer a viable option for knackered knees and I turned my eye to the local swimming pool, the thought of swimming anything over 20 lengths front crawl was well beyond my limited scope.  To my mind, long distance swimming (anything over 20 lengths!) was the province of hefty-looking men and women with shoulders like Russian shot putters, invariably coated in goose fat.  I would simply get into the slow lane with the silver wigs and know my place.  So it was then, eschewing any kind of training regime, books on technique, floats, paddles and other strange devices, I simply got into the water each morning and swam………and swam………and swam.  Pretty soon 20 lengths became 30, then 40 and I started to find that I was overtaking my elderly companions with increasing regularity.  It struck me that I might look like the swimming equivalent of Forrest Gump, jumping into the pool each morning, adjusting goggles and then ‘swim Forrest swim!', ploughing up and down the middle lane until arms, legs and lungs dictated it was time to stop.  During this introductory period I became aware of, and indeed experienced, pool rage on a regular basis.  The simple frustration of being stuck behind a slow swimmer who fails to respond to the politest of toe taps or the speed jockey who insists on starting his 6 length sprint right on your tailpipe.  I soon discovered that the best way was to keep out of the way, maintain lane etiquette and avoid the minor tussles.  Soon 40 lengths became 60 then 80 and I was reminded of a piece of sage advice that someone had once given me, "If you can swim 1 mile, you can swim 10".  The truth is that once you unlock the door to efficient swimming it becomes pretty easy to build up your distance.  I'm sure that lessons and coaching will help, but my mantra - not dissimilar to that of the annoying blue fish in ‘Saving Nemo' whose name escapes me (Dora?) - was simple; "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming".

Pretty soon I decided it was time to raise my goggled eyes from the confines of a 25 metre swimming pool, having now graduated to the fast lane, and get into some ‘open water'.  By now it was March 2013 and despite the effects of global warming there was no way that I intended to take my first dip in 9 to10 degree water in nothing but my budgie smugglers! Off to Tri-UK in Yeovil then and after a quick appraisal by ‘the undertaker’ – so-called due to his uncanny ability to size someone up with a single glance – I was in proud possession of a nice new orca wetsuit and promptly headed off to Studland Bay the following weekend to sample the delights of some proper outdoor swimming.  This particular trip introduced me to the phenomena known as ‘ice cream head” or “brain freeze” as I plunged into the water and set off with the intent of an hour or so of front crawl in the choppy water.  A thick layer of buoyant neoprene protecting arms, legs and torso is fine; a thin layer of latex between an icy sea and your bonce, less so!  With daggers of pain drilling into my temples I decided that it would have to be head up breast stroke in cold water until some helpful advice from the OSS website pointed out the protection to be gained from double swim caps!

And so there followed months of daily pools sessions, lake sessions at Bristol Tri-Centre and more recently Vobster Quay (what a fabulous venue!).  Training books and websites were consulted but, - strange thing - to my mind if you want to get better at swimming just get in the water and do it…a lot!  Your body will work out what is efficient and what isn’t.  My second top tip: If you want to be able to swim lots of miles then get in the water and …..swim lots of miles.  It’s that simple.  The pain in your shoulders and the constant neck ache will diminish and you will start to notice that your triceps and biceps have become more pronounced, your shoulders bigger and – for the chaps – moobs replaced by pecs.  Bonus!  Your car will invariably have wet swimming gear hanging in it and smell like a pile of damp leaves.  Your hair condition will alternate between a bleached, chlorine-smelling tangle and a brackish nest of hemp. You will own 5 sets of goggles and curse them when they leak or mist up.  Your nose will alternate between a blocked snot-box and a special reservoir that retains a couple of table spoons of water only to discharge them onto your notebook at an important meeting!  Every lake and river you pass will be viewed as a training opportunity and you will become a slave to the endorphin rush that follows an hour of pitting body and soul against open water.  You will have become hopelessly sucked into the Borg Collective…an outdoor swimmer! 

I entered the Army Outdoor Swimming competition at Lake Bala and managed a rookie time of about 55 minutes for 3 kilometres in choppy, 13 degree water.  I spent every Sunday morning ploughing around Vobster Quay building up my distance.  4 kilometres then 5 then 8; the pure zen feeling of cutting through clear water, ducks and grebes for company on the surface, perch and roach, flashing silver and bronze beneath.  There is an old motto: Mens sana in corpore sano, which roughly translates as healthy in mind, healthy in body, and I totally get this now.  If you have a worry bead or gnarly problem to unpick, a work issue or other pickle that is playing on your mind, take it into the water with you.  I don’t know how it works but it does.  You won’t always have an Archimedian, eureka moment but you will certainly come out clearer of mind having left the mental debris in your wake. 

Ok, enough philosophical bollocks…it’s 14
^th September 2013, I’ve been briefed on the Dart 10K safety points and etiquette.  “It’s not a race, no triathlon style punch ups please, respect your fellow swimmers, paddle-boarders will guide the way and, most importantly, enjoy the swim!”  A last kiss to my wonderful, supportive wife who has endured her husband’s latest midlife crisis with patience and forbearance and I then follow the procession of black rubber coated, red-capped, medium wave swimmers down the short path to the slipway.  Timing chip affixed to my ankle, goggles in place, a last wave to the crowd behind me and then I’m in, swimming and off on a 10 kilometre adventure!

The water is a balmy 17 or 18 degrees but more brackish than I expected so far up stream.  The surface is smooth but I find it difficult to get into a rhythm at first with so many swimmers around me.  The medium wave is clearly the most popular and consequently the largest, so it takes a kilometre or so to stretch out, but it does so eventually and I settle into my swimming.  Long strokes, sighting every 6 at first, then every 10 as I get into my stride.  I feel strong, confident and most importantly, prepared, despite never having swum this distance before.  I ease round the slightly slower swimmers, make way for the quicker ones and concentrate on technique.  Make myself slippery and cut through the water, don’t fight it.  It is hard to take in the view much when swimming front crawl but I am aware of the green landscape and overhanging trees on my right hand side; having never really mastered bilateral breathing, I don’t see much of what is on my left apart from on the odd sighting stroke.  Paddle boarders shepherd the stragglers and navigationally challenged keeping us en route and it seems a short time before a large floating pontoon appears in front of me surrounded by a mixture of yellow and red caps.  The 3K feeding station already! I find a gap on the edge and gratefully receive a bottle of sports drink and a handful of jelly babies.  It is strange to feel my legs pulled underneath the pontoon and I realise – gratefully – that the tide is giving us more assistance than I had expected.  A quick chat with my fellow swimmers and then I’m off again, suitably reinvigorated by a quick sugar burst.  I now begin picking off the tail end of the ‘leisurely wave swimmers’ in their yellow caps as I get into my groove again but equally note the increasing number of blue capped, fast wavers starting to appear to either side. I concentrate on my stroke again and feel the water getting choppier and more salty as I get closer to the sea.  The kilometres tick down as I am lost in my thoughts.  No counting of lengths in open water, it is just you and your thoughts and you find yourself repeating the same song lyric or just taking time to reflect on the things that are all too often pushed to the back of your mind when you are busy with the other distractions of day to day life.  Without labouring the point, this precious time to do some mental housekeeping has become such an important part of my life that I guard it jealously now.  

Onwards, arm over arm, gliding, kicking, exhilarating in the increasingly choppy water; boats passing by, I am aware of people waving from the banks, seagulls bobbing around me and before long, the 7K rest station is disappearing behind me.  A prompt from one of the paddle boarders helps me avoid swimming down one of the many inlets as the river opens up and after a quick adjustment I am in the pack again, swimming strongly and feeling good.  I have caught most of the yellows now and find myself in a mix of red and blue caps as the end approaches.  I have plenty left in the tank and open my arms a bit more, determined to keep as many of the elite blue squad behind me as my competitive edge kicks in towards the last kilometre.  I notice all around me that the stroke rate has increased and it isn’t long before I can see a gathering of people on the bank a couple of hundred yards ahead.  Soon I am wading up the muddy shore, staggering slightly as I adjust once more to terra firma and gratefully accepting the kind hands there to help me out of the water.  Timing chip handed in and it is over. 2 hours and 44 minutes, 10 kilometres and a year of training have bought me to this point and I award myself a pat on my ‘neoprened’ back as I follow the crowd down the beach and make the short walk to the Crown green at Dittisham.  Cups of hot tea and slabs of cake, stories shared with fellow swimmers and I am reunited with my long suffering wife who has successfully negotiated the roads to meet me with warm clothes and a big hug.

It is hard to sum up in words what the Dart 10K means to me, but I am reminded of a superb speech I heard recently, delivered by the irreverent Australian comedian, Tim Minchin.  He was addressing a class of new university graduates and imparting 9 lessons of life which they might wish to consider as they embarked upon their own careers.  Lesson #9 culminated in the slightly depressing statement that ultimately we are all meaningless and we are all going to die.  The planet is 4.5 billion years old and we are deluding ourselves if we think that our actions are going to mean anything at all in the grand scheme of things.  With that in mind it is down to us as individuals to add meaning to our lives in the best way that we can.  Paint, write, sing, play, run, climb, swim, love, fill your life with your own meaning, poetry over prose, the bright colours of romance and adventure as Sir Ernest Barker puts it.  Completing the Dart 10K meant something special and personal to me as I’m sure it did for the other 600+ souls who completed it.  I hope to see you all there again next year!

Is cycling is next to Godliness?

An idle thought crossed my middle aged brain (like so many others) as I cycled on a cold Sunday morning.  Huffing and puffing with the zeal that only a ‘born again keep-fitter’ can truly muster, I passed droves of ruddy-faced pensioners making their way to church, protected from the cold weather no doubt by the Ready Brek glow of beatific piety that most of them seemed to emanate.  Some exchanged pleasantries with each other, but most spared only a suspicious,  sidelong glance for the lycra-clad weirdo, ringing his bell enthusiastically to punctuate each hearty “Good Morning” as he cycled by.

Not at all put out by their indifference, I got to thinking.  Why does the Sunday morning congregation seem to be drawn completely from the ‘grey vote’?  What are the silver wigs up to that I don’t know about?  I concluded that as most are probably approaching the threshold of God’s waiting room, they’re probably just taking out a bit of religious insurance.  I mean what harm can it do if you are on the verge of popping your clogs to invest in a couple of years’ worth of religious premiums?  Just in case like.

Bells chimed, organs piped and choirs cleared their throats, the strangely comforting cacophony fading as I pushed on into the rolling Somerset hills.  It was here then that my epiphany struck.   Now I’ve never really been one for pigeon holes, describing myself as neither atheist nor agnostic.  I can sympathise with Stephen Hawking’s proposition to a certain degree that the afterlife is little more than a fairy tale, and his words certainly carry some weight; not because he is such a clever-clogs, more so because he has spent most of his adult life contemplating an unscheduled demise.  Even Hawkings has a 'holy grail’ though,  “a theory of everything…It would be the ultimate triumph of human reason – for then we should know the mind of God,” which indicates – to me at least - that his soul yearns for more than science may ever be able to explain.   For me it is a lot simpler though, my simple soul hopes with a naive optimism which scientists will deride and religious zealots will label as faith, that there is more than this.  If there is a god though, I won't find them in the murky depths of a village church or the sub atomic world of particle physics. 

The winter sun warms my stinging face, drying salty tears wrung from wind-burnt eyes; it paints the morning landscape in a golden wash with the promise of a joyous day ahead that my pitiful attempts with a paint brush will never be able to capture.  A deer caught for a brief moment twixt flight and paralysis as I disturb her silent grazing, suddenly bounding across the morning dew with an impertinent flash of white-furred derriere.  Finally then, the sheer pedal crunching, muscle cramping, lung burning joy of pitting mind and body against the elements, a primal scream raging behind my clenched teeth and a stupid smile spread wide across my face.   There is some debate as to whether Eric Liddell ever actually said “God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure. ”, but it sums up in 12 words what I have tried to say in 600.  Godliness to me is in the byways not the highways; it is in the unforgiving mile and the natural beauty of a frosty morning, in other words it is in the little details and more importantly it is in the simple joy of time well spent, doing what makes you feel good.  Then again I suppose this could all just be sentimental tosh from someone who is himself  shuffling inexorably towards the inevitable.