Tuesday, 18 October 2011

The pursuit of excellence

Excellence personified.
 (picture courtesy of Reuters)


Last night I found myself at the Royal Albert Hall, in the company of Anita, Wonka, Trotter and Proboy.  It was mine and Anita's first outing with the Monday Night Music Club (well, less of an official club and more a loose collective of Swindon and London based lawyers, traders and accountants) and we were there to watch a band called Pink Martini perform their particular brand of jazz-classical-swing-big band-fusion world music, accompanied by the BBC Concert Orchestra.  I know, I know, I was sceptical too.  Particularly about the name.  But I have to say, it was absolutely amazing. (The lead singer was particularly amazing, a striking blonde American lady in an elegant evening dress, with the word LOVER tattooed across her back in enormous gothic script).  Watching this eclectic collection of musicians performing absolutely at the top of their game, in the company of good friends, might just be the one of the best ways to spend a Monday night, ever.  


Watching Pink Martini perform (every time I type that name I feel strangely embarrased) reminded me of a story four times olympic gold medallist Matthew Pinsent told a few years ago.  Interviewed on Radio 4, he was asked about his favourite sport to watch on TV. He replied that he would watch absolutely anything, as long as it was being performed at the highest level of excellence.  I recognised that sentiment in the Albert Hall, when I realised that I too would watch, and listen to anything, as long as it was the best in its field. There is something completely uplifting, inspiring, about watching elite performance, whether in sport, music or anything else.  


As I type this I am listening to a podcast of Michael Johnson on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs. He describes growing up in an average family, one of five siblings, where the accepted aspirations were to go to college, get a good job and work hard.  He explains what was involved, on a day to day basis, in gradually getting himself into a position where he was the fastest runner on the planet over 200 and 400 metres.  He talks vividly about the multiple decisions that he had to take about pace, tactics, and what his opponents were doing, in each of five distinct phases of a race that in its entirety took only 40 seconds.  Excellence seems to be a theme at the moment - last week Haile Gebrselassie, for a long time the holder of the marathon world record - a staggering 2 hours 3 minutes and 59 seconds, almost twice the speed of my own marathon effort  - was interviewed on the morning news.  Asked what his secret was, he gave a self deprecating laugh. "There is no secret," he replied, "just dedication, commitment and hard work".  


In truth, what I find truly inspiring about top level performance is not necessarily the performance itself, but  the sheer effort that has gone in to getting to the point where that level of performance is even possible. Gebrselassie revealed that he runs 160 miles a week, every week, in training (that's around one marathon a day).  The work that Michael Johnson must have put into breaking the 200 and 400m world records, not just during the course of the races themselves, but in the preceding weeks, months and years, is staggering.  He tells a story about the sacrifices involved along the way - about how the last Thursday in November is Thanksgiving, the biggest and most important holiday in the American calendar.  But to him it wasn't thanksgiving, it was Thursday, and Thursday was a training day.  He never missed a day of training in ten years.  Ten years!  "I wanted to be the best I could be. I wanted to be the best I could be so badly that I was there every day.  To be the best you have to take advantage of every opportunity, and every day of training was an opportunity for me."  A true inspiration.  I'm off to do some pull-ups. 

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Nothing of interest happened in my life in September

September in East Dulwich.
A couple of weekends ago we had some friends round for Sunday lunch. We ate in the garden; it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon.  Over Anita's special dessert my friend Alasdair pointed out that I hadn't written anything on my blog for a while.  (It is always a real treat when someone reveals that they read my blog - even more so when I realised they've paid enough attention to notice that I haven't written anything). My immediate response was that nothing of interest had happened in my life in September.  Alasdair suggested that should be the title for my next blog. Thanks mate! 


Of course, it isn't true.  Loads of stuff happened in my life in September. In no particular order: I started walking without crutches (liberating!); I watched my ankle swell to the size of a grapefruit (scary); I started using crutches again (depressing); I met up with ex-work colleagues I hadn't seen for five years (a lot of baby chat); I went out in Soho (drunken); my mum turned seventy (she doesn't look it); we went to my first two-Michelin-starred restaurant to celebrate (delicious);  I travelled to Brussels (lots of good beer); I travelled to Belfast (lots of rain); I delivered my first overseas training session; for the first time I realised I had a job which sometimes felt more like fun than work (although I probably still wouldn't do it for free); I saw my breath condense in the morning air for the first time since last winter yet still enjoyed a late-September heat wave (I wore shorts and a t-shirt on the way to work); Lara graduated from her new-born bath seat; she started eating solid food (more mush than solids); we finally acquired a coffee table for our sitting room (thanks Mark!); I started doing weights in the gym (the first time since 2005); I did four sessions of physio; my swollen ankle returned to something resembling normal; I booked a weekend ski trip in March (can't wait); for the first time since April I feel like the end might be in sight.


For someone with such a loving family around me, Ive spent an inordinate amount of time in September wishing for something more. Feeling like something was missing, ike nothing was happening. Like time was moving on but I was standing still.  One more thing that happened in September: I went climbing for the first time in six months. I could only get my left shoe half on, I was as weak as a kitten and I down-climbed everything because I was too scared to jump off. But one morning in a sweaty, chalk-dust filled climbing wall in central London was enough for me to realise what I've been missing.  I have to remind myself that it isn't the case that nothing of interest happened in my life in September.  It just sometimes felt that way. I wonder what October has in store?