true olympians to the fore in cycling events

lizzie armitstead with silver

I watched both the female and the male cycle road races last weekend. I found both absorbing and thrilling. For anyone the least interested in sporting tactics such races are a must.

In terms of the cyclists representing the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Northern Ireland I was so impressed and although neither race provided a winner, both races provided sheer raw courage, drama and sportsmanship of the highest order. I suppose I was a wee bit disappointed, but not for long. Both in the men's and women's races the GB and NI racers gave all they had. One cannot ask for more.

Lizzie Armitstead was absolutely brilliant and I take my hat off to her. I was standing in front of television shouting my encouragement. The Netherlands rider was just that smidgen better on the day and well done to her.

In the men's race the GB and NI riders, remember they are not a team, were again magnificent. Perhaps in the private of their base they might discuss how their tactics played out, so what? To repeat myself, they were magnificent. Four riders, Wiggins, Froome, Millar and Stannard gave everything they had and drove the main group for the majority of the 255 kilometre race all to get Mark Cavandish into contention in the final kilometre or two, from where he would have blasted all other riders away. But some of the other world class riders were perfectly aware of that and formed an alliance designed to negate the Cavandish threat. As it turned out, a successful alliance. Good for them, because this is a sporting competition with more than one set of tactics available to the players and that is part of the fascination.

mark cavandish

Wiggins, Froome, Millar and Stannard are true Olympians. Last Saturday these four riders gave every thing they had in the pursuit of an Olympic Gold Medal. And so they should. However they did not do it for themselves. They rode the equivalent of Inverness to Stirling, a distance that some people think twice about driving or even travelling in a train to complete, to try and get the medal for another cyclist. This was not a team race, there was to be no team prize, not shared medals, nothing. Yet despite that knowledge these guys willingly and courageously rode themselves to a standstill for someone else.

I cannot praise them highly enough, magnificent is only a word, it does not seem enough.

I think however that the Olympics hierarchy need to rethink these events. If they allow a country to have a maximum number  of riders, then they should consider that to be a team and award medals accordingly. If not, then only allow one person from each country should compete.

Consider football, or soccer to some. A medal winning team may well have a player, or more,  sit in reserve on the bench during the whole competition and not put one foot over the white line, yet still be awarded a medal.

Then we have the Chinese and South Korean Badminton players. What was Olympian about their performance?

the brave die more than once

 

Christa McAuliffe, from Concord, New Hampshire, was one of seven crew members who died when the space craft carrying them and the shuttle Challenger exploded soon after taking off on January 28, 1986. Christa was 37 years of age. In 2004 she was posthumously awarded the Congressional Space Medal of Honour.

Christa was a brave human being who unselfishly gave her life for something she believed in and for a cause designed to help our understanding of our planet.

So why now, why should I put this piece together today? Well, many reasons really. 

It is important to remember brave, unselfish people. Particularly at this time when the world is awash with greed, more than greed; avarice and people who are at the opposite end of the brave spectrum from Christa.

When our world brimming over with blame and people sitting in judgement who have no idea about bravery and risk taking. People who, if things do not change, will shut us down. While these people rule, the chances of putting another foot on the moon is not even a dream.

I had a concern that by allowing the very thought of such people on the same page as Christa would somehow tarnishes her memory. But you know, it won't, she was in a different universe really and those with an ounce of humanity and decency will understand. It can only enhance her memory.

What follows is beautiful, sensitive prose and I think so fitting for what happened that terrible day in 1986 and penned by a person more articulate than most could ever aspire to, well certainly me; Nancy Banks-Smith:

'The President was not watching television. There is, it seems no set in the Oval Office, so he went to his study where there is one.

The parents of Christa McAuliffe weren’t watching television either. Their faces turned blankly to the sky. Her mother’s mouth was working away all the time. Her father’s fell open and, full of teeth, seemed to smile. Then he looked down at the people in front of them in a puzzled, questioning way.

Life and death are less confusing on television. People explain in detail. In slow motion.

I thought the brave died only once, but it isn’t so. Newsnight, among others, worried away at it.

I think they forgot how it hurts.

The picture of that parachute, small as a dandelion seed, keeps drifting through the mind. It meant nothing.

They kept explaining it meant nothing, but it looked like hope.'

Nancy Banks-Smith was and may still be a television critic in the UK, she began writing for the Guardian in 1969. She declined an OBE in 1970.

roger payne

I was shocked and saddened to hear of the death of Roger Payne earlier this week. He was caught in an avalanche on the slopes of Mont Maudit in the Mont Blanc massif.

I first met Roger Payne in 1987 in La Dahu hotel in the village of Argentiere, a small alpine village between Chamonix and the Swiss border. I was with a group of climbers and it was the eve of our departure of what was to be a memorable high altitude crossing of the Alps. Roger dined and took refreshment with us. He was there to assist our guide for the trip, Iain Peters. They were both Alpine guides and obviously very good friends. My memory of Roger that night, apart from a strikingly handsome young man, was of his humour and obvious love of life. Roger and Iain turned our meal into a competition.  We were eating 'Raclette', a local dish of boiled potatoes, cold meat, gherkins all of which were served in separate dishes. The plate was served up with Raclette cheese melted on it. When the cheese was eaten the waitress removed the plate and returned it with another helping of the melted cheese. She would repeat that every time. The rules were easy; see how many times they could get the waitress to take away their plates and return with melted cheese on it. I gave up counting when they had reached fourteen fillings. Next day we set out on our adventure with Iain whilst Roger drove our spare clothing to Zermatt where we would meet him some ten days or so later. We duly met up and enjoyed a good night in the 'highspots' of Zermatt. A night that included getting thrown out of one establishment after getting into a 'heated' debate with a group of German climbers. Roger and I, in the company of another, who I will not identify, became separated from our party then, despite valiant efforts, failed to hijack an electric car to transport ourselves to a disco. We got there despite our lack of mechanical aptitude. We were only borrowing it.
No doubt and rightly, many will recall great mountain achievements and so they should. In recalling these silly wee moments mentioned above it is my intention to evidence that Roger was not only a truly great mountaineer and guide but also a seriously good person who was so much fun to be around.

Roger on right at vallot refuge (I am seated)

I next met Roger in the late August of 1988, again in Argentiere and again in the Dahu. We dined again but did not eat all the cheese. On that trip Roger was to guide three of us up Mont Blanc. We spent a week together when Roger tested us out on steep ground and at height. Two of his 'test' areas being the Petit Aguille Verte and the Merdis Glas, the latter to allow him to watch our ice axe and crampon work on seriously steep bits of ice. Roger was very professional and thorough, although his 'gamp' slung across his rucksack made him look like a city gent heading for the underground. Roger seemed happy with our progress and so next stop was Mont Blanc. Roger took us up by the central route, roughly following the first ascent route of Balmat and Paccard . I hope I can be forgiven at this difficult time from recalling a prophetic phrase Roger used once we were on the summit. He said, 'hurry up and get your photographs then lets get down before the bastard kills us.' I had heard the same phrase uttered by Iain Peter on another Alpine peak some months before. Then we got down and over the next couple of days indulged in some rock climbing and bouldering in the Chamonix area.
My only other involvement with Roger was a few years later when seeking his advice on climbing wall construction. Roger was in the British Mountaineering Council then, if I remember correctly in the position of Technical Officer.
There has been a lot said and written about Roger since his tragic death, by 'real' climbers and friends of Roger. I would love to have been his friend, however I was only a client, never a 'real' climber. I feel it important however to put a clients thoughts on paper. I might only have been a client but it seemed not to matter to Roger one little bit, he had such an enthusiasm for life and an understanding of people that his whole being simply radiated friendship and whilst hardly knowing him, he made me feel special, he made me feel I could be a mountaineer, he made me feel that we were friends and despite our seriously short history together I have always regarded him as a friend.
I cried when I heard of his death. Roger Payne was indestructible, his love of life brimmed over, he was the real deal. He gave so much in a world where most cannot give for taking.
I will never forget you Roger, you will never understand what you did for me.
My thoughts go out to your wife and loved ones, I am saddened by their loss.

andy murray

Andy Murray is a good tennis player. That's wrong. Andy Murray is not a good tennis player, he is a world class tennis player, one of the very best and without question the best British male tennis player there has ever been. He is Scottish and he possesses traits that spring directly from his Scottish upbringing, traits that have been developed to a large extent by his Scottish peers and through spending his formative years in a Scottish environment. By the way, that does not make him better than anyone else.

One obvious element in his personality is a level of thrawness coupled to a dry and keen sense of humour. A state that some in his own country and many outwith his own country, particularly in England, find difficult to understand. One may also suggest that he displays all the hallmarks of having a Presbyterian work ethic. He is, for want of a better expression, a nice young man and a credit to himself and his parents.

He obviously has difficulty with puerile and particularly banal questions put to him by journalists. Journalists who seem to get off by asking inane questions, designed in the most part to illicit some controversial response or even to make themselves look 'clever', all for their own self aggrandisement. Some of the questioners could barely hold a racket, never mind return a serve with one.

Then, to make matters worse, they, the same media persons and journalists, talk about the added pressure that playing at Wimbledon must bring to British players. Then charge ahead and stir up that very pressure. You know, they are selfish to the core. All they care about is how they can look good on the back of someone else.

Andy Murray had a great Wimbledon this year, losing to probably the best tennis player there has ever been. He got tearful during the presentation phase after the match. Then the media decided because he wept he showed humility; ergo, he must be a good guy. Why? Are you all so great that he needs to break down in front of you to be 'accepted'. The height of arrogance. The tainted media is in no position to judge. He owes you nothing.

Andy Murray was a good guy before you even knew about him. He is still a good guy. He is also a person, an individual, who has no need to justify himself to any of you. Despite all the new 'well wishers', who only a few weeks ago had no time for him, referring to him as a choker and in some cases saying he was arrogant. You shortsighted shallow people. You deserve your hollow little lives.

I for one will continue to follow his career and will always wish him good luck. Not for the purpose of trying to reflect in his glow or somehow live my life through his success, no, I have to much respect for the young man. He may well win a Grand Slam, he might not, neither will be a factor in whether or not I respect him.

make haste slowly

working in a community

Some time ago an experienced and respected Chief Constable told me that policing was not rocket science, it was about communication and people. The police service had only two aims, to keep people safe and to make people feel safe. Everything we did after that were simply tactics to achieve these two aims. He also said that a police officer was in a unique and privileged position. The majority of people in any community are only to happy to speak to their police officer. So police officers should take every opportunity to do just that. The last thing he said was interesting, 'when policing, make haste slowly'.

 

For years now chief officers of police have promised to solve crime and anti social behaviour, if given more powers and more officers. Over the years more powers and officers have been delivered by various hues of government. At the same time communities have demanded more officers on their streets. However the increase in officers, yes police numbers have risen, has not been reflected in numbers patrolling in communities. I can quote an example using actual figures. I will not mention the area as I do not want to embarrass the officers currently having to police it. Some ten and more years ago the area I refer to had, on a typical weekend night, anything from ten to sixteen officers available for community patrolling. Supported by specialist officers. Today that area struggles to muster ten officers and on occasion has been known to police with less than four and have specialist traffic officers attend calls in the community. Why is that?

Perhaps there are two main reasons: One involves the myriad of new demands placed on the police service. Sex offenders, drugs, corporate policy issues, gender issues, diversity, community planning, youth justice, community safety, management information, crime and criminal profiling, intelligence units, terrorism units, firearms and on and on. Every time the government create a new strategy demanding police action and involvement, the service reacts by diverting officers from beat duties. Somebody has to produce the action plans and keep the new direction on track. Then there are performance indicators, foisted on the service. Housebreaking detections, vandalism detections, drug convictions and more. Few of these indicators are gleaned from communities. They are usually political. Chief officers know this and put together strategies to tackle the indicators. Squads are formed, resulting in concentrated efforts to get the figures up or down, whatever the indicator demands. Chief officers are not stupid, they know what they are being judged on. However each squad or unit, set up to address the indicators, is put together by denuding communities of even more beat officers, bringing them to the centre to be managed by the CID.

The second problem is in the whole management structure of the police service. It generally is dominated by current and ex CID officers, who have spent little, if any, time in communities. They do not understand community issues and believe that policing is exclusively about detecting criminals and that by catching criminals crime will be reduced. That is patently nonsense. One has to ask, who's needs are being met by this flawed approach. They therefore skew their strategies to that end. One is not suggesting that catching criminals is not a major part of policing, of course it is, however preventing crime, one may argue, is equally, if not more important. Ask any victim.

One possible way forward would be to have an independent review of policing, including its management. In addition, Chief Constables need to be supported more as well as being made more answerable for their decisions. Secondly, the government of the day need to examine closely where all the officers are, what function each and every one of them is performing. There is no doubt that each and every officer is working hard and in many cases working above and beyond, however that does not mean that every task is actually necessary. It is only when that is understood and each position justified, or not, will we be in a position to make a valued judgement as to police numbers and deployment.

Then there is the single Scottish Police service. Oh, I have no doubt the targets and performance figures dreamt up to justify the break up of the present system and show the efficiency of a single force will succeed in doing just that. These targets and indicators are designed to do just that, they are not honest nor impartial, how could they be? Turkeys don't vote for Christmas.

It is politics, it is not about communities, it is not about people. It is about centralisation. If my memory serves, a cornerstone of communism and one could ask, did that serve communities well? I would go so far as to say people are actually a bloody nuisance to modern policing, which instead of making us feel safer goes out of it's way to do the exact opposite.

The new system of a single force will only accelerate the distancing from the communities it serves. I have no doubt about that.

'If a man discovers a mistake and does not correct it, he is committing a second mistake', Confucius.

passing panther and cotter bard

robert burns

A weak crescent moon peeks flittingly from scudding gaps in a storm filled sky. High above the St Lawrence River, General Wolfe leads his troops onto the Heights of Abraham. Montcalm is soon to be swept from Quebec, but the French are not to be so easily removed. Britain, under George lll is engaged in the Seven Year war. The Empire is aflame, battles are fought and won at Minden, Queberon, Lagos and beyond. The year is 1759.

In Portugal the Jesuits are expelled, Catherine the Great rules Russia, North America sees the unstoppable flood of European immigrants as they spread and settle across the plains and mountains of that vast continent. A flood, that will not only destroy the traditions of, but the actual peoples of once proud nations. Iraquois, Algonquins, Miantunnomoh, Shawnee, Sioux and more will soon be reduced to refugees in their own land, to second billing in second feature movies.

Scotland is on the threshold of great change. The Jacobites with their fleeing figurehead have been vanquished, soon to expire. A whole way of life, from feudal tything of land to clan stewardship is on the wane. The first stirrings of Industrial Revolution are about to bring fundamental and far reaching changes to society. Changes, that were to herald a new economic emphasis. In thirty short, frantic, years of evolution Scotland will be brought abreast of developments in England that they have managed over a leisurely century or two.

Into such a melting pot of influences was born Robert Burns, eldest in a family of seven. He was born into a farming family and while they were not in poverty, life was hard and they certainly were not rich. By modern standards he had a sketchy education. He could read however and he read all he could lay his hands on, understanding what he read. He had emotion, awareness, sensibility and a vision that took far beyond his limited physical boundaries. Despite his upbringing of never ceasing toil, he could laugh.

Burns knew the nature of people, of man, of woman, opposed to the bare elements of existence. Elements of existence that was fundamental and universal. Such qualities of understanding that made him the people’s poet. Burns embraced, no, embraces all humanity.

‘The Unco Guid’, The Rigidly Righteous’, Holy Willie, Twa Dugs, Man Made to Mourn, examples of his observation skills, his vision and his social awareness, none exclusive to eighteenth century Scotland. Burns was timeless and universal. He was born on a subsistence farm in Ayrshire and he enriched the world.

Dawn creeps over the grey, drizzle drenched, Spaylaywitheepi. A fragile bark canoe crosses the bow of the lead trader’s keelboat. A musket cracks, the ball splashing harmlessly short of the paddling Shawnee. The shot heralds a frenzy of strokes as the canoe lurches forward in a desperate race to outdistance the pursuing flotilla. It skims the surface of the water as it rounds a welcome bend. A swirling tell-tale wake betrays its curving flight into the mouth of the smaller tributary, the Licking River. Hell bent on their murderous pursuit the traders’ swing their craft after their fast tiring prey. The bait has been taken.

Astern of the unsuspecting traders the mouth of the Licking fills with war canoes. Both banks suddenly swarm with warriors. The deadly trap is sprung.

Just another skirmish in a land where opposing cultures struggle for dominance.

It is also the era of George Washington, famous for his honesty, for felling a cherry tree, for being the first President of the United States of America, for his role in humbling and destroying the Iroquois nation and for penning his pleasure at that barbarous act.

Into such a cauldron, fate was to introduce a human being of humility and vision. Someone of power and charisma, whose birth in a Shawnee wegiwa was marked by the brilliant death of a meteorite. A happening that was to inspire his name, ‘The Panther Passing Across’, Tecumseh of the Shawnee. Who through his strength of character, his humanity and vision, against all great odds, had a dream, a dream of a great nation, bound by a racial brotherhood that would supersede all barriers of rivalries and hatred.

tecumseh

Like Burns he was born with little possessions and like Burns he died a young man. But he managed to pack into his short life an understanding of humanity that was to transcend his troubled life. Circumstances were not to present Tecumseh with the universal platform that was to so widely immortalise the ploughman poet, but that did not diminish his greatness.

Scotland continued to change and throughout the life of Burns, 1759 to 1796, many people and events of note were to emerge:

Telford, the brilliant civil engineer, responsible for the revolutionary, ‘Iron Bridge’ over the Severn in Shropshire, still standing to this day. The improvements in steam power brought about by Watt, with his local connections at Bo’ness.

It was the time of the Forth and Clyde Canal, that marvel of engineering opened to shipping in 1790. The creation of iron works, notably Carron Foundry, whose ‘carronades’ were to sound their thunder in the faces of the Empire’s enemies in many a battle location. Early developments in our transport saw the Turnpike Trust set up.

In 1776 Adam Smith penned, ‘The Wealth of Nations’. World trade was blossoming and the ‘East India Company’ flourished. All was not plain sailing however and that ghastly phenomenon, that haunts us to this very day, took its toll, inflation. It led to the demise of Douglas, Hern and Company, notable bankers of that time.

North America, kick started by tax problems, fought the Britain at the battle of Bunkers Hill, Boston, the start of a struggle that led to independence and George Washington donning the mantle, first President of the United States of America. That great British institution, ‘The Times’ was born, Frederick the Great died, the Great War began, yes these were troubled times.

The age of Burns saw the birth of Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth and Carlyle, a rich vein of talent. It was also when two of the greatest Scottish portrait painters, Ramsey and Raeburn were to capture many famous figures on canvass. Burns lived in a country at a time of change, when many famous people and events were to shape our destiny.

None however captured the admiration, the imagination, the unashamed universal acclaim, than did the Ayrshire crofter, poet. In late January every year celebrations to his memory encircle the globe, keeping pace with the rising and setting sun. His genius and humanity is embraced the world over, French, German, Italian, Russian, Chinese and Americans have claimed him as their own. The Ayrshire poet has certainly left his mark.

Tecumseh’s dream was never to be fulfilled, as the inevitability associated with the spread of a more powerful mass was to take its toll on his nation as they were overwhelmed by the development of a New World. Or was it the rape of a culture?

Two centuries on, the splendid Spaylaywitheepi is no more, now the ordinary Ohio River. The site of the ‘skirmish’ overlooked by the city of Cincinnati and the Riverfront baseball stadium.

Tecumseh, is revered and celebrated amongst his own people, Burns has a wider reverence, only fate and circumstances set their limits.

I wish they had met on earth: Perhaps they were destined to meet on another plain.

pied drummer of sheriffmuir

Drummers are the backbone of any musical group or band. A drummer told me that. It seems the drummers keep the tempo of all musical ensembles because the other musicians, particularly the guitar strummers, can't. Another drummer told me that.

This true tale is not about bands or groups or other musicians and whether or not they can have tempo, it is about sheep. Yes the woolly things you see when driving about the countryside, that's right, sheep. In this instance Black Face ewes.

It is also a truth, so another drummer assured me, that the drums attract girls. Not sure how it works if the drummer is female, but hey, I don't have an answer for everything. Perhaps in the land of music that is not a problem, each to his, or her, own. He described drums as a 'chick magnet'. I have no idea what that means but one thing I do know and can evidence, they are definitely a Black Face ewe magnet. Perhaps other breeds may well display the same love of a good roll, not sure, however as this tale unfolds you will see that the Black Face do. Rockers at heart and mesmericly attracted to a good drum beat. Now not many people know that.

My first instinct when hearing the story I am to relate was to do a bit of research. I had a feeling I was getting the wool pulled over my eyes, but the more I read the more I believed.

Using drum beats as a method of communication is not new. Whilst the practice is world wide, the most famous would appear to be the 'talking drums' of West Africa, particularly those of Nigeria and Ghana, as they are known today. It seems that during the era of slave trading the practice moved west to the Americas. Interestingly, the use of drums was banned by the slavers as their captives were communicating in a 'language' they could not understand.

Drum communication methods whilst not languages in their own right; are based on actual natural languages. The sounds produced are conventionalised or idiomatic signals based on speech patterns. The messages are normally very stereotyped and context-dependent. They lack the ability to form new combinations and expressions. When a drum is used in speech mode, it is culturally defined and depends on the linguistic/cultural boundaries. Therefore, communication suffers from translation problems as in vocal communication. There is no single international drum language.

Back to our Black Face ewes and drums? Well it seems this tale is not an isolated incident. This one involved wild horses;

A woman called Jill Star runs an organisation designed to support and help Native American youths to understand and revive their tribal values, culture, ceremony, spirituality and language. One method of doing this is through interaction with wild horses. During one programme, student participants were allowed to select a specific wild horse for "gentling," meaning they could assist in taming and training that animal. One sunny afternoon, when they had finished their tasks, the students and a few elders within their group brought a tribal drum to the site. The students sat around the instrument and began to chant and drum. When this happened, the horses followed the drums and mesmerised, made a semi-circle around the students. Most of the youngsters were so involved in the drumming that they didn't notice, even though the horses had gathered just 20 feet or so away from them. It seems to have been a very moving moment.

To our more local tale. A very talented drummer, resident in the central Scotland area, was practicing in his apartment, but getting really frustrated because the close proximity of other residents, less than enthusiastic about his drum skills, was cramping his style. Only one solution. Kit stowed safely in his van and into a quiet corner of Stirlingshire. Quiet until he arrived that is. The quiet corner I refer to was Sheriffmuir, just kind of on the north west flank of the Ochil Hills. With kit arranged the drummer of our tale, released his frustrations on the unsuspecting drums. An hour passed during which time, with eyes closed and in a pleasure trance, our hero beat himself into a crescendo of noise and sweat. I think that describes what he did, although on re reading that bit I am not sure it sound too savoury. So keep it clean.

When finished and in the process of coming down from the high he had transported himself to, he became aware of someone knocking on the drivers window of his van. The conversation between our drummer and his visitor went along these lines;

'Hello, hope I'm not disturbing you, but will you be back next week?'

'Sorry, I don't understand, back next week, why?'

'Have a look outside, have you no seen the sheep?'

'The sheep?'

'Aye, have a look.'

To our pied drummer's surprise there were some two hundred or so sheep clustered against the fence adjacent to where he was parked, all staring at his van. Seems these Black Face ewes, as the shepherd described them, were more enthusiastic about his drumming skills than his neighbours.

'So will you be back next week?'

'If you like, but why?'

'Well I will be gathering them next week for dipping and when they are all over the hill it can take hours to get them all in. If you just park in the same place and do what you were doing today, it will save us hours.'

And he did and the sheep responded exactly as expected and the gathering was achieved in jig time. Our hero's trouble was rewarded to the tune of £50. A good day all round.

So there you have it, Black Face sheep on Sheriffmuir, wild horses in the USA, mesmerized by the beat of the drums.

A question comes to mind, if my pied drummer of Sheriffmuir can attract sheep what about the Hamelin piper? 

Interesting, very interesting.