Categories of fun

Cold, tired and fed up: it must be type 3 fun.
Pauly feels the pain hiking the Aspen Bowl, Colorado USA.

According to Kelly Cordes, pioneer of the "fast and light" (a.k.a. "cold and hungry") approach to mountaineering, shack-dwelling dirtbag, fellow broken leg veteran, and one of my all time climbing heroes, there are three categories of fun. Type 1 fun encompasses those things that are, on their face, fun.  Going to the cinema or theatre, climbing on warm rock in the spanish summer, enjoying beers on a hot day with friends, playtime with Anita and Lara on the back garden astroturf; all of these things are Type 1 fun.  Type 2 fun covers those things which some people might not think of as fun, but which clearly are. Things that involve a bit of suffering, but despite that – or because of it – are fun.  Running a half marathon is classic type 2 fun.  Likewise camping in the rain, a hard workout at the climbing wall, or peak district bouldering in february.  Type 3 fun is reserved for those activities which most people wouldn’t see as fun, and, in truth, aren’t actually fun at the time. They are those things which, at the time you are doing them, you wish you weren’t, but you look back on afterwards (usually from the comfort of a warm tent, or even the pub) and realise were fun.  Getting soaked to the skin, lost, hungry and scared in the Scottish highlands in January; running a marathon wearing soaking wet trainers; spending an endless night trying to sleep under a Land Rover next to a major road; climbing seven pitches into the dark in the Blue Mountains of Australia and then realising we didn't know the way down. All these things feature in my personal list of type 3 fun activities. 

In my pre-fatherhood days I would often see couples out walking in Dulwich Park, usually with a sprog in a pram.  Not running, just walking. Round the park, essentially in a circle.  I struggled to see, through my naive sprog-free outlook, how this could be fun.  Since the arrival of Lara, I very quickly found out that walking around a park, pushing a pram containing a small baby (usually fast asleep) could be fun, albeit firmly of the type 1 variety. No big deal, you might think.  


But since breaking my leg I have started to question the entire basis of my fun categorisation methodology.  Two weekends ago, newly liberated from my big blue cast, I went for a walk – or rather a crutch – around the park with Anita and Lara.  We did one circuit (it isn’t very far) and it took about an hour.  It rained almost continuously, my leg ached and after half an hour the palms of my hands were in agony. By the end I was exhausted.  But despite all the discomfort, I thoroughly enjoyed it.  So much, in fact, that when Anita asked if there was anything special I'd like to do on Father's day, without hesitation I requested another walk around the park. Even though it was forecast to rain. In fact, because it was forecast to rain.  We might get wet - a bit cold, even. And I could wear my favourite gore-tex jacket. It would be an adventure!  It was then that I realised - with some shock - that a simple walk around the park had somehow been elevated on the fun scale.  Perhaps not type 3 fun, but definitely type 2.  Has my broken leg in some way recalibrated my fun-o-meter?  Is a broken leg worth an extra grade on the fun scale?   

I have decided that in order to re-set the scale I need to undertake a proper Type 3 fun challenge as soon as I am sufficiently recovered. Something to aim for when I am back up to full strength.  At the moment I don’t know precisely what this will involve, beyond a certain amount of discomfort, tiredness, and probably some bad weather.  A friend at work sent me a link to the "South Downs 100" - an off-road ultra-marathon over 100 miles of the finest southern English countryside.  They limit the race to 100 entrants and pick you up in a van if you are still running after 32 hours.  It definitely has all the ingredients for pain, suffering, possible disaster and defnite type 3 fun.  All I need is a couple of running mates.  Toby? Hugh? JC? The next South Downs 100 I could feasibly enter is in August 2012, so you've got plenty of time to think about it.  In the meantime I’ll keep on crutching round the park. 

Happy father's day (for yesterday)!

All her own work.

Yesterday I celebrated my first ever Father's Day as a father.  I don't think I ever really celebrated it properly before as a son - I'm ashamed to say that I would generally forget to buy my dad a card in time, so it would invariably turn up late.  Unfortunately for me dad never forgot it was Father's day - my sister's card would arrive bang on time each year to remind him. Dad, if you're reading, I am a bad son and I'm really sorry.


Luckily for me, my daughter is far more organised than I.  Not only did she buy me a card, a book entitled "Me and my Daddy" and a pedicure set for my withered foot, she also made a beautiful present out of a picture frame and some left-over Scrabble letters.  And all that at three and a half months!  


We had a memorable day, starting with brunch by Anita, which we enjoyed with Sophie and Hugh and their two boys.  (Hugh told me over brunch that he didn't actually recognise Father's Day, on the basis that it is a capitalist conspiracy instigated by the global greeting card industry.  He's probably right.  He also pointed out that he didn't celebrate Monther's Day because, for Sophie, "every day is like Mother's Day, so there's nothing special to celebrate". So far Sophie has yet to confirm this theory.) After a trip to the playground, where Raffi did a small wee in his pants, the Frenches left and we had a family siesta, followed by a long walk around Dulwich park. We topped it off with an ice cream "english style" (i.e. eaten under a tree, sheltering from the rain).  We rounded off the day with posh fish and chips at the Sea Cow.  My theory on fish and chips is that if I don't feel physically uncomfortable when I leave the table, I haven't eaten enough.  Yesterday was no exception.  A perfect end to a perfect day!

Blue Down, Orange To Go

The withered one is on the left.

So, this morning I had my enormous blue plaster removed, and I think my life has improved about 1000 per cent.  My new svelte ‘sarmiento’ cast (so named after Dr Sarmiento who invented it in the 1960s – it is moulded to the knee so supports some weight on the knee cap) is smaller, lighter, better fitting and, importantly, orange (blue is so April 2011).  I can now, for the first time in two months, bend my knee.  What a difference!  Aside from the twinges of pain when I do bend it (after two months of total inaction my knee now feels like a rusty hinge), a world of possibilities has opened up.  I can sit up in a proper chair, I can get in the bath all on my own (with the aid of my special leg condom), I can lie in any position I choose in bed, and I can sit in the front passenger seat of the car.  I feel like an adult again.

As expected, the muscles in my left thigh have withered away to almost nothing, to the point where simply lifting my lower leg out in front of me seems like a monumental struggle.  And although my left leg now feels incredibly light, whenever I put any weight on it I have the strangest feeling that the entire leg is going to crumple beneath me.  A few more months on crutches lie ahead, as well as quite a lot of hard work to full recovery. But I will get there.  I’m back in hospital in a month’s time when they will decide how long this cast should stay on for.  I am crossing my fingers that it will be off in six weeks, but I have learned not to get my hopes up.  With any luck by the time we go to the states in August I will be plaster free and able to get in the pool to give Lara her first swimming lesson (one can’t start early enough).  I will still probably be on crutches by then, but at least I'll get a lift through the airport on one of those buggy things with a flashing orange light (every cloud...). 


There is light at the end of the tunnel. Life is good! 

Camping is fun!

Room with a view - camping in the Cordillera Blanca, Peru. 

Last week I lent my Terra Nova tent to our friends the Frenches. One of my most prized possessions (sad, I know), I bought it for my first camping trip with Anita.  I was conscious of the amount of strife I’d endured with an ex-girlfriend in a too-small tent (she got sick of my old two-man model – apparently getting changed lying down and having to take turns sitting up in the limited head room isn’t for everyone. I now realise I could have saved a lot of trouble by simply changing girlfriends, rather than tents).  The new model sleeps three and – crucially – allows the occupants to all sit up at the same time. Built to withstand the harshest conditions of Himalayan expeditions, I think the Frenches plan to use it in Dorset (at least they will be in safe hands).  Hugh wisely opted for a trial run in his back garden.  On Monday afternoon he called me: “Erm, David, could you explain the significance of the red pole – it appears to be a different length to the blue poles”.  Ten minutes later he was back on the phone: “Right, all the poles are in, but it’s a bit flat. Any tips on making it more… three dimensional?”  After another ten minutes I received a text – the tent was up. Mission accomplished, the Frenches were ready to rock and roll.  What’s not to love about camping?

Not long before I knacked my leg Anita and I had discussed the possibility of a camping trip with our friends John and Charlie and their sprog Sophie.  Sadly that particular plan – along with a few others – had to be put on ice.  Even for me I don’t think crawling in and out of a small tent and sleeping on a thin foam pad with a full length leg cast qualifies as fun – even type 3 fun.  For a short while though I was extremely excited about taking Lara on her first camping trip.  I think more than the prospect of a sleepless night in the confines of a tent with a small baby, I was really excited about the symbolism of the trip. There is a great tradition of camping in the Phillips family, passed down from my parents, and one I certainly aim to continue with my offspring. My mum once showed me a picture of myself, aged less than one year old, sitting on my potty in the middle of a field in the Lake District, so I know I started early.  And I think it is fair to say that most of my favourite childhood memories involve camping – whether it was Whitsun in the Lake District, weekends with the Scouts, or the annual Phillips family summer pilgrimage to “Camping Le Ville L’Eglise” in France.

Just a small selection of my favourite childhood camping memories: The warmth of the cook tent on a cold morning; The sound and smell of the gas stove; Pulling on a warm fleece after a freezing morning swim in Coniston Lake; The excitement of passing the magic mushroom heading north on the M6; Celebrating my sister’s birthday, every year, in a tent in the Lake District; Mass camping trips with Great Sankey High School; My dad cooking 160 fried eggs and taking bets on how many yolks would break; Building dams in the stream at Hoathwaite Farm; Incurring my mum’s anger after soaking all my clothes within an hour of arrival; Lying inside a Vango Force 10 tent marvelling at how the orange fabric makes everything glow;  Snuggling into a soft down sleeping bag;  Listening to the comforting hiss of a gas lamp; Spam sandwiches before day hikes;  The annual slog to the summit of Coniston Old Man (I still love it); Marvelling at my dad’s ability to eat tomato soup, shepherd’s pie, and strawberry angel delight one after the other from the same bowl (as a child it seemed beyond my comprehension – I have since done much, much worse);  Tent inspection on Scout camp; The slimy toad and his band of wannabe French soldiers in Evian (Liz knows who I mean); Sun; Rain; Wet clothes; Sheep poo; Wellington Boots; Hiking Boots; Flip flops; Jelly Shoes; Going to sleep when it gets dark and waking up with the first light; Kendal Mint Cake; The unmistakeable smell of lying on the ground in a damp field.

After my first camping trip with Anita (to Coniston – the weather was, unusually, glorious) she proudly announced she’d never camped before. I was boggled – I had just assumed she was a seasoned camper.  I suddenly felt a sense of guilt that I’d made her poo in the woods because I was too tight to pay for a campsite with a toilet block. But against all odds she was undeterred and I am pleased to say that Anita has fully embraced the Phillips camping tradition.  I hope its genetic - I might have to live my camping life vicariously through the Frenches for now, but it won’t be long before I am back up to full camping capacity and at that point little Lara isn’t going to know what’s hit her.

I don’t think I will ever tire of camping.  Whenever I am lying in a warm sleeping bag inside a small tent, listening to the gas stove purring and waiting for the first cup of tea of the day I cannot, honestly, think of anywhere I’d rather be. My heart still soars whenever I drive through the Lake District - give me a tent over a five star hotel any day. Warm, dry, wet or cold: as my dad used to say: ”camping is fun!”.