Things The Trainers Say At The Gym I Believe As Well

My gym has profiles for all the trainers - all of whom are impressive - and each one has a little "philosophy" saying. A few hit me right between the eyes. Your body is the only thing you will ever truly own, look after it, and it will look after you.. Preach it brother! There have been two periods in my life when I didn't exercise regularly: about seven years between leaving secondary school and around the end of my first year working, and around three years in the Oughties when I started working in central London and stopped using a gym near my house. For a lot of that time I swam, and I started weight-training in the late… never you mind. I've been doing it a long time now. I have no idea how people can walk around with the bodies that most of them have. How can they tolerate the flabby arms and the soft muscles? Don't they know about the health advantages of training? It wouldn't be so bad if they were studying Aristotle and Sloterdijk instead, but they aren't. This also applies to the food we eat and what we drink. Says he currently eating the daily bar of chocolate and evening coffee. Which is what I do instead of what you do, which is booze.

Life isn't about finding yourself, it's about creating yourself. Because this says that we are who we make ourselves, and we are responsible for that. "Finding yourself"? Suppose you find an arsonist? Or an asshole? Addict/ alcoholic / ACoA that I am, I've learned how to do some stuff that the Laundry List says I'm not good at. I've been creating myself since I was about eleven, every time I decided to read, listen to or do something new. The body I have comes from a gym, not my genes, because weight training really can re-shape how I look. We make ourselves in reaction to what others make of us, within the limits of the potential given by our genes. (That, by the way, is Nature vs Nurture vs Free Will wrapped up into one.) I am never going to be a distance runner - my breathing is awful but within the limits I can make choices.

Progress is made at those moments when, although your body says no, you will your mind to say YES!. Hell yeah. This is the difference between the Normals and Us. We show up when we would rather goof off and watch a DVD or a movie. I may do two sets instead of three, or lift a little lighter, or something else to make the session do-able. When I get back into the groove maybe a couple of weeks later - this current hot, humid weather is starting to take its toll - I'm at 90-95% of full performance. The Normals, who have been standing outside pubs drinking for the same time, are going to need at least a fortnight to get back up again. Assuming they make it back in, and don't stay dropped out way past the end of whatever it was that kept them away.

If you are strong mentally, the physical achievements are endless.. If you are training at all seriously, you will remember the first time the body was willing but the mind wasn't there. No-one knows what causes it, it has nothing to do with work, relationships, food or the weather, it might be the early stages of a virus that your immune system fights off… but your head ain't in it and you may as well quit and go home. It happens to everyone at least once a year. If my head is in the game, and my blood sugar is where it needs to be, I can train like a mofo. If I'm distracted or down, I'm weaker. If I'm angry, I'm strong.

Self-respect, self-discipline, perseverance, mental and physical strength. Sounds good to me.

Who Da Man? Alpha Beta Bollocks

Over in the Manosphere they talk a lot about Alphas, Betas, Sigmas and the like. Try this

http://alphagameplan.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/socio-sexual-hierarchy.html

as an example.

My first problem with the usual typologies is that it's all a little too much like High School: swaggering Alphas, detached Sigmas, wussy Deltas, mass-market Betas. These ideas are supposed to come from "science", but it all sounds like a systemisation of teenage, and perhaps academic, life to me. People are not bonobos: that's why people make documentary TV programmes about bonobos, not the other way around.

So, is there a hierarchy? Don't think too hard: it's a trick question. A hierarchy implies someone who's judging, and a Man's reply to that will be "who the fuck died and put you in charge?" Men recognise hierarchy in objective achievement - running faster, lifting heavier, earning more, cutting neater code, laying tile straighter and faster, whatever - but not in the estimate of manhood. You're either a Man or a Male: it's  binary. Of course it is: Men are binary. Women and diplomats go in for fifty shades of grey. 

So let's dump the high-school hierarchy. There. Doesn't that feel better? Now let's also dump the stereotypes and classifications, mostly because they aren't relevant to the problem. We don't need to know anything about that schlubby-looking suburban pram-pushing, cargo-shorts wearing Dad at the door of the restaurant, about to inflict two tired and disgruntled children and a woman who may very well soon be his ex-wife for all the pleasure she seems to take in their company. It doesn't matter how much he earns, where he volunteers, what education he had or what culture he consumes. His political views are irrelevant. He's a disgrace, from his choice of clothes, through his slack posture to his shrewish wife. That's all we need to know, and we can tell it pretty much at a glance. We're men, it's binary: you're a disgrace or not. More to the point, you're an exemplar or not.

Let's talk role-models. When I was an impressionable young man, we had real heroes: Simon Templar, John Steed, John Drake, James Bond, Napoleon Solo, Kojak, Harry O, plus any character played by John Wayne, Steve McQueen or Clint Eastwood. Not a married man among them, all dashing bachelors without visible personal lives, capable, independent, tough, smart, cool and usually with neat cars. Only the great George Clooney carries on this tradition, and a young man could do a lot worse than model himself on Clooney's characters  - even if they are more ambiguous than the earlier ones.

By contrast with these admirable figures, married men tended to turn up in comedies and soap operas, and if they were the lead characters in serious dramas, their home life was a sketch, usually featuring a supportive wife and two children on their way to school. If a male character had a detailed home life, it was the same disaster we recognise today. He was an emotional klutz and his more in-tune-with-the-important-things wife was always explaining said important-stuff to him. And of course, the domestic, Peyton Place-style drama, is predicated on on everyone behaving like personality-disordered cliches. One reason that the media seems full of negative portrayals of men is that there are far fewer heroes and those few are more complicated. The airtime has been taken by advertiser-friendly series designed to deliver a large, high-spending female audience. 

So Who Da Man? Once it was John Wayne. Feminists hated him exactly because he was such a clear role model. Steve McQueen was the coolest white man that ever lived, no doubt. Miles Davis was cool, but he's a bad role model - maybe Arthur Ashe is better. My personal heroes (Socrates, Groucho Marx, Paul Feyerabend, Craig Murray) are all men who one way or another gave bureaucratic authority the finger, and were good at what they did. 

We're looking for outward confidence, self-respect, the ability to gain trust from other people, manners, taste, discretion, the competent exercise of whatever the appropriate life-skills are for the time and place, and the ability to know who to trust. And yes, psychopaths score highly on all those things, so we need to add in the usual requirements of consideration, co-operation and contribution. Princes used to be punctual and polite and, oh yes, they killed you if you dissed them. Since killing people is frowned on, a modern-day Prince is still punctual and polite, but dumps those who diss him. Autonomy is the central criterion. If you are running around after your girlfriend, wife, daughter, mother, alcoholic brother, best mate, boss, supervisor, clients or whoever else, then you are below the Man-Line.

Sure. I know. This excludes men who are pillars of their community who have loving wives and adorable children. I have agonised about this for a long while. Now I'm sure. Married men can do many wonderful things, but forty per cent of them get divorced, which leads to daughters becoming strippers and sons flaking college. 3:2 against with a limited upside and a lose-everything downside is not a bet any sensible person would make. If it's a dumb thing for you to do in your professional life, it's a dumb thing for you to do in your personal life. A man knows that if it isn't business, it's R&R, and doesn't make dumb decisions in the first place.

Does anyone exemplify these virtues today? Aside from George Clooney? I'm going to guess that Roman Abramovich and Vladimir Putin are pretty much their own men, but theirs is a hard act to emulate. I don't know where a young man looks now for a decent role model.

Images of June: London and Rome

Albert Bridge at 20:30 on a Tuesday evening (waiting for a 170 bus to Clapham Junction gets no more picturesque); the open roof girdering at Hammersmith Station (on my way into the gym Saturday morning); Weavers Fields, Bethnal Green; Hoxton Station (after suppering at Beagle); security queue at Stansted at midday; the Coyote club, Testaccio, Rome; jiu-jitsu at the Palazzetto dello Sport, Rome; the Spanish Steps; the crowds at the Trevi fountain, and the fountains.

June 2013 Review

If you had asked me, I would have said that June was the worst month yet. I was tired, very tired at the start of the month. So much so that I brought my first full week of annual leave forward to the week of the 3rd. Good choice! The first and so far only consistently sunny week of the year. I didn't do much, but it was a sheer pleasure just walking round central London or sitting in my garden.

I ended the month benching three sets of three reps of 75kgs (that's 165 lbs in old money) - which is some kind of lifetime personal best for me. The target is now 85 kgs, as that's what my trainer told me she had done (one rep+spot) a couple of days before. Can't be out-pushed by a girl, even if she is a blue-belt jiu-jitsu medallist. Not doing so well on the pull-ups, as I'm still on 50kg of assistance. Six months to go.

I attended the two-day SAS Analytics 2003 conference in Westminster. Excellent keynotes from Tim "Undercover Economist" Harford on Wednesday and Olympic rower Greg Searle on Thursday, followed by a series of half-hour talks covering everything from analytics for beginners, social networks and on to fraud and logistics. It brought together a lot of what I've been reading about on blogs and in articles. The event was refreshingly free of sales pitches and recruiters, though there were a lot of in-house SAS people there. An excellent way for The Bank to spend £900 (inc VAT) of its revenues. (Banks, by the way, don't have VAT-able outputs, so they can't reclaim VAT.)

I saw Fast and Furious 6 (because entertainment), Piercing Brightness at the ICA, Before Midnight and The Iceman at the Curzon. Sis and I suppered at Beagle in Hoxton and took the Overground to Clapham Junction. I read volume one of Prince of Thorns, Neville Shute's Ruined City, Gary Taubes' Bad Science, Dr Robert Lustig's excellent book on diets and food Fat Chance: The Bitter Truth About Sugar, Ian Ironwood's book on the Manosphere, Jim Baggot's Farewell to Reality and William Bratton's The Turnaround. (Ah, so that's what I did in June: read!) Most of those on the Kindle. So far, I'm finding Kindle-reading is more absorbing than paper-reading, but I miss that symbolic act of putting the book up on the shelf after it's read.

I got into the swing of the Riemann-Roch essay, after spending way, way too long on the mysteries of one-forms on Riemann surfaces. I was starting to think I had severe brain rot and would never get it. 

The month ended with a weekend trip to Rome (Ryanair, Stansted) with some of the Lisbon gang. Friday night was supper in a random restaurant in Trastevere, followed by a long visit to the Coyote nightclub in Testaccio. We got back at 4 am the next morning, struggled up to the jiu-jitsu contest oat the Palazzetto dello Sport, had a very late lunch off the Corso and supper at AdHoc on the Via di Ripetta after getting a last-minute cancellation. Two of us went for the seafood tasting menu and pronounced it Yummy, with excellent service. Bed at 01:00. Sunday was a walk in the Villa Borghese and a quick lunch, followed by a ride to the airport. I promised to mention the moment when I walked into my bedroom and found a twenty-eight year old Russian blonde in my bed… but she's my trainer and we're friends. 

What made the month feel bad was a grinding project at work that simply would not go away and required endless reconciliations of this-run-with-the-last-run kind. I suck at those. I hate reconciliations. And it does not help when the IT people change the data codings under you. Once that got out of my hair, everything started to feel better. Also, I started to recruit an assistant analyst. Hard science postgrads with proven SQL ability only, please.

Coleville St W1 - Where I Would Live in London

Not Mayfair, Kensington or even off the back of Oxford Street. Coleville Place W1, hidden round the back of Goodge Street. 

It's about half a mile from Soho and my gym, which is just far enough to make it "going home" and restful, without actually being, you know, very far away. Charlotte Street is a hundred yards away. I have never, ever, seen a For Sale sign there. Ever. Maybe it's some kind of special estate and regular people can't live there.