June 2014

[Sweder]

Aberdonians share a quaint refrain on greeting a person.
Fit like? (Hello, how are you?)
Nae baad, yesell? (Not too bad, thanks for asking. How about yourself?)

'Fit' has all sorts of modern connetations, including use as an adjective amongst society's youth to show appreciation for an attractive person. In my world the word is used to describe one's condition in regards to ability to run. This morning, scurrying out under heavily pregnant skies, I resolved to test my fitness.

Regular visitors will know I'm more Ray Winstone than Robert Winston. Less Big Bang theory than 'Ave a bang on Nat'. So it will come as no surprise to learn there was little by way of science in my study. What we set out to do was to take a slightly lardy, middle aged man, make him sprint down steep slopes and run steadily up harsh inclines in order to measure his state of knackerd-ness. I ran hell-for-leather down the new Moyleman start, plummeting towards the A275 like a thief on the lam. I turned and set off up what appeared to be an endless hill leading into the belly of a big dark cloud. I almost made it, giving way just before the summit, puffing like the Fat Controller tidying his office before a visit from Network Rail.

There are reams available on fitness and how it all works. To me it's a simple case of supply and demand. Your muscles demand fuel, lungs suck in and pump oxygen through the blood to feed the furnace. Repeat until done (or done-in). Supply and demand, or, as I like to think of it, Swedernomics. When the system breaks down, as it did at the top of that long hill, one has to assess the failure. No question, I'm not getting the 02 to the muscles in time. This service failure could be respiratory, circulatory or simply lack of capacity in the muscles themselves. The remedy is simple: training. So, back to it.

I hit the woodland trail. The HSE would have a fit with their legs in the air if they saw the lurking slip and trip hazards, not to mention the lack of lighting. Roots lunged through brambles, soil slid away underfoot. I leapt up and over a fallen bough, stepping on the slick green bark to launch forward, only to slide like a skateboarding youth along its surface. I believe they call this grinding, m'lud. On, on, down, down into the real darkness, brambles and nettles reaching out to sting my legs, spindly branches brushing my head and shoulders. Then up, up into the light and the mizzle, more hands-on-knees wheezing, then off up Mount Harry. Helter-skelter wall-of-death down the rutted trail to the stables, walk break, two hundred metre sprint along the all-weather, jog across the gallops, eye-popping plummet down Sweder's Hill and a steady grind back up to Houndean Rise. Knackered, recovery, knackered, recovery.

By the end of all this I was slick with sweat, windcheater tied around heaving middle, grinning like a fool as the warm blood rushed to repair torn capillaries, releasing the endorphins onto their parade lap.

Fit like?
Nae baad, Chummy