This Saturday, I underwent the most trying physical experience of my life, running the 11-mile Super Spartan race on the Mountain Creek Ski & Snowboard course in Vernon, New Jersey. The ski lift wasn’t operational and bridges were sparse, so between the 30 obstacles laid out, we had to climb up, and down, and up, and down the ski slopes; and swim across the lakes and rivers interspersed between them. A Tornado Watch and intense storm shut the course halfway, but we continued on regardless, through abandoned water stops and obstacles, with only our fellow Spartans for safety and support.

Here is my story. It’s not a short one but, neither was the race.

Warmup
Our race started at 2:30 in the scorching midday sun, to the usual inspirational call-and-reponse speech and a charge through the smoke and fire onto the first hill.

This first hill was, of course, a ski slope, as were the three that immediately followed it. The first 30 minutes or so were spent in this fashion, walking up endless inclines in scorching heat, with smiles on our faces and minds firmly fixed on what was to come.

A couple of easy obstacles later – some up-and-unders and cargo netting – we came across a river with some boats parked at intervals within. Plunging into this provided much needed relief from the heat, and swimming across the river and under the boats was the first challenging obstacle of the event.

Past this, spirits still high and muscles nicely warmed, we ran through some beautiful nature, through thankfully flattish forest trails and around lakes, passing Jersey party kids listening to Call Me Maybe with beers in hand and laughing at soaked runners. Then thin balancing poles embedded in the mud to be run across, with 15 burpees for anyone who fell. In fact, most people, feeling confident about the race after the flat stretch, dropped for a quick workout even after succeeding. This was not, it turned out later, a wise use of energy.

Descents and Storms
After this was a tricky downhill section, made heartbreaking as we saw dispirited and tired Spartans trekking and crawling back up the very incline we were heading down on the other side. At the bottom was some much-needed water, and smiles prevailed as we got to the next obstacle, a 25-foot jump off a cliff into the water below with a decent swim at the bottom. Peer-pressure reigned supreme as people stepped to the edge and nearly bailed upon seeing the sheer drop beneath them, but were convinced by chants and clapping behind. A couple of folks even chose to jump despite not being able to swim, but at this point the course was still open and lifeguards were on duty to pull them out.

Running back uphill after this, drenched once again, the weather turned in just a handful of minutes, going from the scorching sun that greeted me as I took my heart into my hands and leaped into the water, to darkness beneath ominous clouds, with violent winds ripping the very water from our skin into a light mist.

At the foot of the next obstacle stood a solitary course staff member, with his 4 volunteer helpers nearby seeking cover from the elements. In his hands he held hostage the rubber bands to be tied around our feet for the next obstacle, and stared out at the crowd of 300 or so Spartans that were massing at the foot of the obstacle waiting on his next words.

We’re on tornado watch, there’s lightning just ahead. The course is closed, the obstacles are closed, you have to go back down to the last water station.

The mob looked at one another and, without word, without gesture and, alas, without a battle cry of ‘SPARTAAA’ decided that, having come this far, the mere potential of a tornado wasn’t going to stop us, and charged the hill past the bewildered staff member who was swiftly discovering a name badge and a clean set of clothes were mere proxies for power once civilisation had been abandoned. 300 Spartans held the Thermopylae against a horde, but a single volunteer with no natural defenses at his side had no hope of stopping this 300 from rushing up the hill and on to glory.

Abandoned
It was in the pouring rain, hail and winds that we struggled up and down hills before reaching our first abandoned obstacle. Here, with no staff or volunteers in sight, Spartans were wordlessly passing 50lb sandbags to one another and working as a group to fulfill Sisyphus’ legacy, bringing these bags up and down a hill, before flipping over tractor tyres in the mud. Having completed these challenges, we began our ascent of a hill which had equal amounts of traffic made up of those quitting the race and heading for the road below; and those gritting their teeth against the elements and beginning their ascent.

It was now, with the ground mere mush and slurry beneath us, that we were to climb the hill which, even when dry and firm, we’d scrambled down with fearful glances at those climbing back up. Bent at the waist, looking like hunchbacks and pressing our palms against the tops of our knees with every step, we’d urge legs straight for just one more cycle. Eventually we’d realise this wasn’t sustainable and, straightening our backs, take a series of more determined steps, looking around at the phenomenal altitude achieved and the immense distance to go, before bending in exhaustion once more.

Walking past the wounded and exhausted littering the sides of the road, lying down and giving themselves completely to the mud and the rain, words of encouragement were sparse as everyone fought their own inner personal battle with the hill.

Endurance is mental, not physical.

It was after we’d scaled this, and run through some more forest trails that the peak of our hardships came and our resolve was truly tested. Rounding an innocuous corner we came upon a sight to cripple the strongest spirit. The previous hills we’d climbed had, at least before the heavens opened, been reasonably climbable. The next few hundreds of metres would be a scramble up a rocky slope, with cargo netting spread over the steeper areas to prevent a full-scale landslide as we dug in hands, feet, knees and elbows and strove for the summit. Weary, battered and covered in mud, all I could do at this prospect was to laugh, uncontrollably and loudly, and as my race-buddy Noemi and other Spartans came around the corner too, they understood, but few joined in the merriment.

The End of Civilisation
Finally, we reached the top. Noemi and I limped in wordless tandem to a muddy puddle here to wash the worst of the mud from ourselves and, as our eyes met over the dirty water, we realised we were pretty far from home, and had a hell of a distance left to cover. The next sets of obstacles, with more running between them, were all empty and abandoned, looking like ruins of some lost and oddly competitive civilisation, but the entire set of racers still standing never considered for a moment simply running past the climbs, hill walls and rope-obstacles.

A rotating cadre of Spartans had even replaced the volunteers, after completing obstacles we would hold down nets, ensure safety on the walls and treat one another for various injuries, including some awful cases of cramp which lent the air of a battlefield to the course with screams of pain howling through the hills.

Eventually we reached a manned obstacle, a set of ziplines across a lake, which Spartans were to pull themselves along whilst hanging upside-down. These were in the process of being dismantled and a smugly dry member of the course staff urged racers to bypass the obstacle and run around it. Naturally, he was ignored with a smile and a nod, and we lined up to take turns on the remaining 3 zip lines whilst the 4th was being winched away. Plunging into the lake after reaching the goal halfway across the wire helped to remove some of the more ingrained mud, and the shock of the water combined with having some new authority to flout perked up spirits, as we continued along with smiles and banter once more the order of the day.

Yet more obstacles and more muddy paths awaited us after a brief swim. I finally succeeded in passing through monkey bars and scaled walls so high that I could only just get the tips of my fingers onto their rim with a running jump. A heroic volunteer had chosen to drive up with water and man a water station, providing much needed hydration and provoking laughter when, smiling at the wall-climbers nearby, he told us that everything was closed and would we please all just leave the mountain, knowing no-one would think of doing so.

The next obstacle, again unmanned and turned back on by some mischievous anonymous racer was the downhill water slide (tarp laid over rocks with water pumped down it) and, with no-one to give directions, I plunged headfirst down this, sustaining a few extra scratches and scrapes, but earning applause and shouts of Pete Rose from the top, and the opportunity to plunge face-first into yet more muddy water at a fantastic speed.

Home Stretch
From here, it was all downhill. With the knowledge that we were more than 9 miles through, given to us by that heroic water-station volunteer, our smiles grew with every step and the sight of some fresh obstacles at the camp couldn’t deter us. The remaining three obstacles were nearly identical to those from the 3 mile Spartan Sprint. The sideways bouldering climb had some extra barbed wire on top to deter cheating. The fire jump was a lot higher.

And then, the barbed wire crawl. What felt like unending death after 3 miles was a mere annoyance after 11. Crawling uphill under thrillingly low barbed wire, with thick gravel and sharp rocks beneath us, the vantage was too low to have any idea as to progress. Crawling on hands and feet worked for the first few minutes, before tired muscles gave way and eventually we were reduced to lying in the mud, rolling our bodies sideways up the hill and allowing any number of rocks to cut and bruise us. Fleeting attempts to resume more sophisticated methods of ascent invariably led to cuts from the barbed wire and nervously outstretched hands trying to still the dangerously bouncing wires.

The End
We cleared the bouldering wall. We cleared the barbed wire. We cleared the fire jump. We ran through the finish and nearly collapsed with hunger, exhaustion and jubilation.

I have used the plural pronoun throughout this post. Only 30% of the starters finished this race, and without others by my side, I would have been on the wrong side of that split. Without the 9 people I started with, 3 of whom I lost early and 4 more who dropped back when the rains started, I wouldn’t have spent the first third of the race in such high spirits. Without runners on every side of me, constantly providing me with support and drawing strength from mine, I wouldn’t have been safe and would have struggled to persevere.

Finally, without my fellow Capoeirista Noemi constantly by my side, I would have quit, without doubt. My body wouldn’t have been able to take the punishment and my mind wouldn’t have pushed it on anyway. She was a rock for me, as I was for her.

It was hard. It took nearly 5 hours. Two days later, my body is still a wreck. But it was worth it.

Xx

Last time I visited New Jersey, in what was not the most pleasant of experiences, I gave someone else a well-deserved, and rather impressive, black eye. When I went back to the Garden State last weekend though, I discovered that it had simply been biding its time and waiting for revenge, and I ended up leaving with one of my own, and a handful of stitches to go alongside it.

This was, however, just one of a series of bad-luck events that hit us on Friday, beginning with a flat tire and a rained-out beach day, and culminating with a 2am arrival at our hotel, to find that someone had been fatally stabbed in the lobby. Our night’s accommodation seemed a rather low priority at the crime scene, and a relative of the deceased was particularly incensed that we were hanging around the area – we declined to complain to him about our predicament – so we made a swift exit and ended up crashing at the houses of some of the NJ capoeiristas we’d come to visit.

In fact, I ended up sleeping on the futon of the, wonderfully hospitable and mildly guilty, capoeirista who had hit me with the beautiful roundhouse kick that led to my stitches. Moreover, he drove me to the hospital after that kick, and then on to the bar where he bought me a beer, so hopefully his guilt is now fully assuaged; and I bear no grudges there. Although, I might change my mind about that if the nickname pirata (pirate) ends up sticking.

In the hospital, I managed to not to stray too far from my healthy eating streak, as some friends arrived with a McDonald’s grilled chicken salad (which is surprisingly healthy, at 190 calories, 5g fat, 3g sat. fat and only 25% of my RDA for cholesterol and sodium). I even managed to get in some Emergency Room ABs, much to the amusement of the AB Challenge Facebook group.

All obstacles aside though, travelling with my Capoeira fam is an experience I don’t think I’ll ever forget, and can’t wait to repeat. Even if it means going back to NJ.

Xx

Ever see this scene from The Cable Guy?

Yeah. They didn’t just make that up for the film. It’s a real thing. Together with some of my Americans, and Jimmi – visiting me from the old country and wanting to experience the modern, trendy, fast-paced NYC scene – I went there for New Years’ Eve to ring in 2012 in style.

Medieval Times offers both genuine regal cuisine from times past, together with a jousting tournament (and harrowing back-story) between knights in authentic armour, within the walls of their 11^th-century style castle. Ahem.

I could critique the fact that this particular castle was built in 1990 and is, frankly, fundamentally indefensible against all but the weakest of attackers. The overly-wide arrow slits; the ground-floor windows; the lack of a moat, drawbridge, motte, bailey, keep or any other standard defensive features; the naïve welcome offered to strangers: these are all basic mistakes. I speak as a bit of an authority here, having spent many of the formative years trudging around castles, and growing up in Cardiff where the town centre is dominated by the 2000 year old castle.

I could, perhaps, also doubt the veracity of the knights’ dialogue, the King’s American accent, the glow-sticks, the oven-cooked food or the diet pepsi and Slushies on offer. But that would be doing Medieval Times a disservice. The odd broadsword, robe and dubiously accurate map of medieval Spain aside, they make very few claims to offer a real historical insight, and instead focus on making sure everyone has a good time whilst watching some live-action fighting and trickery.

Courtesy of our smuggled alcohol, we, along with the myriad teenagers and old folks who also turned up, definitely enjoyed the night. And, can you ever claim to have had a King counting you down to the New Year with a flagon of mead? Didn’t think so.

Now, how on earth can the rest of the year live up to this?

Xx

After my Christmas Eve experience, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that New Jersey would be buying me a new iPhone. I wasn’t about to turn down the offer, but it seemed, as a couple of commentators pointed out, rather a frivolous use of tax money to recompense me for a phone that, honestly, I could afford to buy myself and should have taken insurance out on anyway. So, I looked into the scheme a little more closely.

New Jersey’s Victims of Crime Compensation Office is just one of many variants upon the general concept of governments looking after victims of (generally, violent) crimes. These schemes have come about in many ways, in the European Union member states have signed an agreement to implement them, whereas in the US they have been implemented in a more ad-hoc manner at a state level, often due to public demand. The State of Washington offers a nice example of this:

Washington’s Crime Victims Compensation Program began primarily as the result of a series of editorials in the early 1970′s in the state’s 2 major newspapers.

The theme of the editorials was that criminals were having their room and board and medical needs met by the state’s prison system while victims were left with medical bills and other costs because of the offenders’ crime.

The EU system is a wonderful example of when member-state co-operation is both actually implemented (without the French objecting and blockading any ports) and also, as far as I can tell, efficiently and effectively run. Council Directive 2004/80/EC states:

Crime victims should be entitled to fair and appropriate compensation for the injuries they have suffered, regardless of where in the European Union (EU) the crime was committed. This directive contributes to this by:

• Requiring Member States to provide in their national legislation for a compensation scheme for victims of violent intentional crime committed in their territories;
• Setting up a system facilitating access to compensation for victims of crimes in cross-border situations (possibility of making an application in the Member State of residence, designation of central contact points in Member States, etc.).

Perusing the EU directive and the US’ National Center for Victims of Crime, which lists the various schemes now available in every state, it becomes clear that NJ is unusually generous in refunding ‘economic loss’, so I looked into quite how much this is costing them. In a quick breakdown of their figures for 2011, roughly:

$4.95 million was paid for medical/dental [bills]; $2.72 million was awarded for economic loss; $1.27 million was paid for funeral/burial services; and $.71 million was paid for counselling.

At first glance, it seems this money is taken from a rather strained state budget of around $4 billion. However, charitable donations to this fund actually reduce the burden on the state to a much smaller figure – well under $1million – mostly used to pay the administration costs. This disbursement of $10million seems a fair average for a state the size of NJ. Similar-sized states I could find figures for include Washington, North Carolina, Michigan and Massachusetts.

The majority of these schemes, in the US, therefore, are aimed towards helping with medical costs incurred in violent crimes, and counselling for the victims, together with much smaller costs to recompense travel or short-term accommodation for those testifying against their attackers, or those who have to move to get away from domestic violence or similar situations. Within the EU, where high-quality, free national heath schemes are the norm, the award is effectively disposable income, although in actuality is often be used to offset wage loss or other costs incurred as a result of violence.

Finally, it’s interesting that the UK seems singular in explicitly stating their unwillingness to help in a number of circumstances. Having looked up some examples, it seems the last point isn’t so much of a penalty for tardiness, which would be very harsh in cases of domestic abuse where the victim takes time to speak up, but is more aimed at those who attempt to use a historic incident to revenge themselves for a more recent slight.

We may also refuse or reduce an award because of:

• Your behaviour before, during or after the incident in which you were injured
• Your criminal record
• Your failure to co-operate with the police or with us
• Your delay in informing the police or other organisation or person of the incident

It was very uplifting to discover the wealth of support available, but I hope it never proves useful information for anyone reading.

Xx

I was mugged on Christmas Eve. I’m fine — the only upshot is that the State of New Jersey are kindly paying for me to replace my stolen iPhone with a slightly newer model, and also for me to repurchase a wonderful book I’ve been reading on and off for the last few months. But, that said, there’s not much I can think of that’s worse than the thought of getting mugged whilst changing trains on Christmas Eve. Other than spending Christmas Day in jail with a black eye, perhaps.

But, let’s start at the beginning.

I was heading out to a lovely part of New Jersey to spend Christmas with my housemate’s family;- the folks who so kindly hosted me for Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. Unfortunately, this involved transferring trains at the not so lovely city of Newark, NJ, which is famous for race riots; for having every one of its mayors since 1962 criminally indited whilst in office; and for having an airport which isn’t too far from New York City. It’s the 23^rd most dangerous city in the US, and after March 2010 had a celebration to honour their first full calendar month without a homicide in the city since 1966.

I probably should have picked an alternative route.

As I was sitting in the waiting room at the deserted station (it was cold out,) texting drivel to some friends, I noticed a couple of people walk past me, and barely looked up. They left the waiting room and a third walked in, and it was a little harder not to notice him as he punched me in the face a couple of times and demanded my phone and wallet. Now, any Cardiff boy will naturally know the correct response in this situation: I stood up and hit him back. Unfortunately, it seems the first two were simply playing lookout and one of them came in and hit me too. He looked a fair bit smaller than the first chap, so I punched him as well, but after the third lad ran in and pushed me backwards over the chair I’d been sitting in, it became quite clear things weren’t going to go my way.

They ran off with the bag I’d had by my feet, and the phone I’d dropped, but weren’t inclined to try and get my wallet from my pocket, and (scandalously) decided not to take the flowers I had with me back to their mothers for Christmas. Clearly these boys hadn’t been brought up very well at all. Chasing them down the stairs and onto the streets of Newark didn’t appeal too strongly to me, so instead I headed to the nearest payphone and dialled 9-1-1, just like on TV.

The Newark cops and transit police were wonderful. They were all local guys, and once they’d quickly established I was fine (a couple of bruises aside) they got straight to work manning the security cameras and driving around. Sure enough, the biggest of the culprits – the one who’d attacked me first – was to be found walking the streets four blocks away with his distinctive striped ‘do-rag‘ hanging out of his back pocket and, slightly more tellingly, my bag on his shoulder. Now, it’s possible that he was also a big fan of The Strand book store and, indeed, I’ve often seen other people on the subway with the same bag as me, but evidently the Newark PD thought it worth looking into.

They got him (the ‘possible suspect’) to stand on the side of the street as I (the ‘victim’) was driven past in the passenger seat of a police car. Sure enough, it was the right guy, now with the beginnings of a wonderful black eye, and once I’d identified him (making him the ‘suspect’) the cops took me back to the main station for a proper statement and all the various paperwork involved.

Back at the station I was reunited with my bag, somewhat more blood-splattered than when I left my apartment. I guess my second punch was a good one. The police weren’t able to recover my iPhone, and also missing was the heavy paperback book (Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid) about metaphysics and intelligence. Clearly they’d stashed these two items safely immediately upon getting away: I’m told both have a very high resale value in the Newark projects.

After giving a written statement about the whole thing, and filling out the various forms, including the one that means I’ll be updated by post about the suspect’s criminal case, I sat back with the local police and watched the canonical American Christmas film, A Christmas Story, which runs on endless loop over Christmas on TBS, whilst we waited for a detective to come and take my verbal statement. During this time I got to overhear some radio traffic and banter, and discovered that (at least) one of the two that got away was a juvenile, and that when the police arrived at his mother’s door looking for him, the first words out of her mouth were “He did it! I know he did it!”, which perhaps shows the low expectations she’s developed for her son.

All three of them are apparently on probation, and the one they caught was in violation of his probation due to the fact he was not wearing his house arrest ankle bracelet. Although, presumably, robbing someone in a train station would also count as a violation of his probation.

The whole thing seemed endless, but only took a little more than two hours from start to finish, when my wonderful housemate arrived to whisk me away to a glass of scotch and Home Alone 2. A couple of bruises on my face and hand aside, there was no lasting effect: I still enjoyed Christmas just as much and got a story and a new phone out of the experience. The money for that comes by way of the Crime Compensation Fund, which will simply write me a cheque for my losses once I exhaust all other options: namely insurance, which I didn’t have; and considering suing the protagonist, which will be pointless as he won’t be able to pay.

Maybe this is a sign that next year I should try and actually make it home for Christmas.

Xx

n.b. this does not supersede any of my statements to the police and should never be taken as evidence or sworn testimony in a court of law etc etc etc

The ravages of Hurricane Irene, other than those that made it into the mainstream news, were many. My housemate’s hometown in New Jersey, for example, was turned into a flood plain:

But what’s not available for people to discover, even on YouTube or in small local papers, was the effect that Irene had on individuals like me, those of us completely out of the flooding, power-outage and evacuation zones. Some think I had it pretty easy, but with no transport and everything closed it was very difficult not to look into the alcohol collection and make some bad decisions.

The damage from that seemed to clear up by Sunday afternoon, but I’m sure there were longer-term effects on my health from the hurricane too. I’m particularly worried by the impact that spending two and a half days eating nothing but nachos, chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon will have. Most people in the city I’ve talked to have a similar story to tell: a weekend of junk food and at least one night of debauchery. That may say more about my friendship groups than anything else.

However, if, for fun, we assume that each of the >8 million residents of New York City proper gained a mere 3lbs from the hurricane, then that’s about 10 gigagrams (10⁹ grams) of weight gained overall. This, incidentally, is equivalent to 10 kilotons of TNT, which could produce only slightly less heat energy than the nuclear bomb dropped on Hiroshima, and is the generally-believed size that a terrorist tactical nuclear weapon would be.

If you prefer a different analogy, then we could also say that the (hypothetical) combined weight increase of New Yorkers was equivalent to two-and-a-half times the weight of the army Hannibal famously marched through the Alps, according to my rough calculations.

Fortunately, chocolate chip pancakes aren’t as explosive as Trinitrotoluene and war elephants have a five-day waiting period in this state.

Xx