2011 Streak Day 293 (Sunday Oct 23rd): On memory and truth

2011 Streak Day 293 (Sunday Oct 23^rd): Cycle 19.8 miles, Time 1hr 25min, Weather lightly overcast to start but it lifted to become a really nice autumn day

There were alpacas. I haven’t passed the alpacas for a long time so there needs to be a picture of them grazing (though because they are quite a way away they look more like odd shaped sheep). nevertheless you can see how at home they look in the English countryside.

It was a pleasant ride with the built in concept of a leisurely sunday morning. I took a book with me and ended up drinking coffee and reading  memories of Samuel Beckett. There was one section that brought home how unreliable any one witness is to an event. (Being there doesn’t necessarily mean you know what happened).  For a short time the young Beckett was a lecturer at Trinity College Dublin, and many years after the event his students were asked their recollections of his teaching. He did not enjoy his time there and thought of himself as a failure so it is unsurprising that many of the students didn’t rate him highly but the pictures painted differed wildly. Some people described not only his lectures but him as being boring whilst others were inspired by the quality and originality of his thinking, recognising the brilliance of his mind,  even if his presentation style was reserved and inhibited.

My guess is that he did not make any compromises, or try to reach out. Those who were not very interested in the subject would not have been offered much and would have been bored. Others, for whom the subject was alive, would have found insights enough to trigger their imagination.

But I would not have recognised it was the same man from all the accounts. As I said you cannot take any witness statement at face value. We all do our best to report the truth but we all have our prejudices, a mental framework that forms what we see. 

In these blog posts I do my best to be truthful about what I see and think but I know I am no more reliable than anybody else. However all I ask you to believe from today’s ride is that there were alpacas and it was a nice day. Both of those statements are verifiable, other observations you can take or leave according to your taste.

2011 Streak 81/365: Walking stimulates the memory

 2011 Streak 81/365: Walk - 3.9 miles, Time - 1hr 15min, Weather - lightly overcast but calm and spring like

There are some days that seem calm. I don't know why - as much as any other day people are working and moving about but the atmosphere feels quieter. It is probably just a random impression, based on who you see rather than an objective observation, but today felt relaxed. The air was still and there was no bustle. Along the canal people walked or gently plodded, dogs were being walked and fishermen were waiting.

Fishermen are always waiting. I pass they sit. Some days  (like today) I see the attraction of sitting still, calmly taking in the air, yet being alert to the movement of fish. It is an exercise in quiet attention. But I have absolutely no desire to do it.

I went fishing a few times when I was about 11 but never showed any aptitude. It was not about the fish though; it was about being with my father. I tagged along with him and two of is friends to some nearby gravel pits and we pretended we knew what we were doing. It was as new to my father as it was to me - an idea of a hobby we could do together.

It worked for a time but it didn't last. Nevertheless I have fond memories, which are revived when I pass fishermen by the canal.

No wonder walking is good for your memory. There are always associations, always cues.

(I suppose I ought to have illustrated this post with a picture of one of the fishermen - but I did not take one. Instead it is of a canal boat from behind the veil of a weeping willow)

2011 Streak 56/365: Abandoned Digger

2011 Streak 56/365: Walk - 5.04 miles, Time - 1hr 35min, Weather - pleasant and springlike but gradually clouding over

Diggers cost a chunk of change and need to be used to repay the investment. On the whole they do not spend their time lost, beside a little heap of gravel, doing nothing.

I have passed this digger numerous times and it has not moved. There is no sign of continuing activity, it is as if someone, after a half-hearted attempt at moving some earth, has given-up. But they have left a digger behind, abandoned with a coat still in the drivers cab; as if he finished one evening and walked away.

This is not a good plan. It already looks as if the rear window has been smashed and it might not long before it is fully taken apart. There will soon have to be a new warning sign, posted on the fence, telling us that this is not a suitable area for play, or the wilful destruction of equipment. We obviously need to be told these things. Especially as the current warning sign is now out of date. It says: "Danger Men At Work".

Although I have walked along this street regularly, I cannot remember when there was last activity. I do not know how long the digger has been abandoned. This says a lot about memory - you just do not notice when things are not happening. Only after a period of time does it sink in that nothing has moved.

As my 2011 project is as much about observation as it is about exercise, I find that interesting.

Running in Literature iii - That Memory Book

This is part of a very occasional series of posts about running in a non-running books. That Memory Book is onset of middle aged memory loss and what can be done about it. It explores the causes and the whole range of existing strategies. One of the key conclusions is the importance of keeping physically and mentally alert – always challenging yourself. This passage comes from the introduction:

One day I was walking the dogs at sunrise, on a bike path that ran along a nearby river. I was enjoying a full forty five minutes with nothing to do while I waited for my son to finish his session with his maths tutor, when I spotted an older man with an unusual gait. Every few running strides, he lurched forward, then caught himself and continued on his way. On each knee below the hem of his form fitting Lycra athletic shorts he’d wrapped an elastic brace, the kind you buy at the chemist. He caught up with me quickly and introduced himself as Zvi Dunenberg. He was eighty years old and he jogged between eight and fifteen miles a day depending on the weather. He’d run nearly eighty thousand miles in his life, in his own estimation, all of them since he’d turned sixty five, when the doctors recommended long, slow walks for a sore lower back. ‘To tell you the truth’ he said in an old country accent, ‘this walking, it bored me silly. So one day I ran a hundred yards, just to break things u, and that was it I was hooked.’

He was in excellent physical shape for his age but what was really important about the running, he confided, was the social life it engendered. It helped keep his brain in trim. ‘I know the names of two hundred and fifty people and dogs and some cats too, that I meet on this walking path’ he said, after ascertaining that the shepherd mutt sitting politely beside me was Rosie and that Radar was the little Havanese who was frantically trying to climb up his leg. ‘And you ‘ he said as if cementing the information in his mind ‘are Cathryn’. By now the sun was up and every few yards along the path, we stopped to greet another jogger or dog walker. He took pains to introduce me to everyone.

This passage is full of much that is wonderful and much that is strange.

What is wonderful is that the man is obviously a hero – anybody at that age who consistently runs that mileage puts me to shame - makes me feel like a dilettante. It is a vivid illustration of how running can not only be good for the body but also help keep the mind sharp. If you ever have to justify to yourself the value of time spent running, then this passage provides part of the answer.

The strangeness is in the culture of greeting and introducing strangers to each other in a public space, as if the people on the path are part of a club. I can perhaps imagine this happening in a safe neighbourhood in America, where there is more directness and openness to social interactions. Perhaps I can happen in a small community in Britain, where most people know each other, but I cannot imagine it in the towns of South East England. Here most people even avoid eye contact when they pass each other.

Mostly I don’t talk to others when I am on my runs. Sometimes I will meet someone I know and enjoy a short chat. At other times, especially when I am have a break wandering round to find a photograph, I might strike up a conversation with a stranger. The man and his dog is an example of this. We didn’t talk of much: where I had run from compared to his boat trip (I had gone quite a bit further as long boats are quite slow). But that was enough.

I will never be Zvi Dunenberg, with his enormous network of acquaintances but the occasional interaction is good – it makes the running feel better, as if you are part of the place.

P.S. The strangeness in this passage is not the runner but the author sending her son for extra maths at sunrise. I would guess there is a fair amount of pressure in that household.