Fight for Flight

There is a poster in San Diego airport detailing the (literally) ground-breaking exploits of the Wright brothers. Of course, we all know the Wright brothers? For those that don't, the poster explains them thus: "they conducted the World's first successful powered, heavier-than-air machine to achieve controlled, sustained flight with a pilot aboard".


It was clearly a well-chosen phrase intended to express the sheer complexity of their task and the multi-faceted success achieved. I couldn't help thinking, however, about all of those before them who had laid down the easy path for them to follow. Daniel Potomo, who in 1847 managed uncontrolled powered flight in a lighter-than-air machine without a pilot. Or Stephen Wacco, who in 1872 managed to put a pilot in a controlled, but not sustained, unpowered flight in a machine that was about the same weight as air. And what about Abraham Guffman who led a successful controlled powered sustained flight in 1889, but the judges measured his machine as being lighter-than-air. After that, all the Wright brothers had to do was add a carry-on case and an in-flight meal to the design to get the weight up, and Bingo!

Anyone who's ever been to a baseball match will be familiar with similar such flattery. Everyone's the best!! Chip Smugmansky's up to bat, and the ever-changing giant screen display informs you that the San Diego Padres have never lost a game where Chip reached first base in the seventh innings during October (unless it was foggy).

I like it. It shows the American Dream is alive and well. Anyone can be best in class, so long as you choose the class carefully. It is fair to say that there is some risk that true greatness would not get the recognition it deserves, but being a democracy, the majority rules. Tiger's got all the money, so I don't mind if his achievements gets stirred into the muddy waters of the rest of us achievers.

For the record, this is officially the best blog post this week relating to aeronautics and sports statistics written by a heavier-than-air uncontrolled Englishman.

The Mexican (haircut)

Had a long overdue haircut tonight. After finding all my local haircut places booked up, I came to Tijuana to avoid the queue.


I tried to overcome the lack of a common language via a superb mime rendition of cutting my hair, using just my index and middle fingers. It didn't work first time; half the salon was dedicated to manicure, so the confusion was understandable. In the great tradition of all Englishmen abroad, I merely mimed in a more exaggerated fashion, in an attempt to shout what I was trying to communicate.

The benefits of getting your hair cut in Mexico:
- No one asks you how your weekend was, or what you're doing for the holidays, or anything about sport
- You don't have to pretend to know anything about what hair should look like, or describe what you want. You're getting shaved, just hold up fingers to denote the grade number.
- You're not at all tempted to read shit magazines
- You can say you don't like the cut, with a smile, and they won't understand you. They'll be happy to think you like it, you'll be happy that you expressed your true feelings for once.
- They don't bother to ask you if you want it rounded at the back or straight across. I always get stressed when they ask that, like it really matters. Maybe it does to some people. For me it's the worst kind of choice - the arbitrary. I have nothing on which to base a judgement, and yet I feel like one of them must be the lesser option.
- You get to try slick gel for the greasy throwback look, in an environment where no one knows you.

All that entertainment, for just $11.45. Plane ticket was $280, but given the benefits I don't think many would argue the overall value.

Urinals: Time for a sensible debate

Sometimes it's only when you experience something beautiful that you realise the rubbish you previously put up with. Take urinals, for instance. I'm talking about splashback, I'm talking about cigarette-butt blockages (not so bad since smoking in toilets became a hanging offence - but what about gum?!). And don't even mention the communal trough design, whose only redeeming feature is the ability to challenge friends to a game of cigarette-butt tennis.

I give you the second best urinal I've ever seen:

Spotted in a local clinic (I suspect the emphasis on design is an acknowledgement that the users may be a bit shaky). You'd need a pretty high pressure hose to suffer splashback with this baby, and with an 8-inch exhaust you couldn't block it unless you tried to dispose of a Sunday paper. AND, looking at the sturdy design and generous rim, I reckon it could serve as a backup if the stalls were engaged and you were desperate!

It doesn't, however, get the coveted 'Best in Class' award; that goes to an obscure entry from the Svarta Manor Hotel, about an hour north of Helsinki. With it's tall, slender good looks and similar anti-splash design, it wins even though it was prejudiced against shorties. Unfortunately my Finnsh experience dates back before I got in the habit of taking my camera into public conveniences.

My attempts to create an upswell of public opinion have been hampered by people thinking I have a funny way of saying 'urinal'. It tends to detract from the key issues.

Ending the yoga hell

I've practised a bit of yoga, and I've even enjoyed it sometimes. I have a million ways of slouching, and there's nothing like getting the mat out to demonstrate how stiff you didn't realise you were. Aside from the physical exercise it gives, the main benefits are to de-stress and as a way of remembering how to breathe. But there's always a catch...

An hour of healthy stretching and breathing can be undone in a second if you can't achieve the final crescendo - the perfect roll.

It really annoys me. I'll give it two, maybe three goes, but each time I get mid-roll and there is clear coning going on. With each rotation I feel the prana seeping from my body.

I've tried a number of freestyle techniques, but nothing worked - so I've invented a solution:

It bears an uncanny resemblance to a piece of PVC pipe, but it is in fact a serene yoga roll-up helper-type thing.

See, it really works! Goodbye coning!

I'm assuming I'll become a millionaire from my invention, but the far greater pleasure will be achieving cone-free nirvana.

All I need is a catchy name and a guru with a big beard for the label.

Words fail me

I remember back when I was in the land of the original Portland, car journeys were made more enjoyable by looking through the road atlas and finding amusing place names. I obviously wasn't alone, as a web site was created solely for the purpose of searching these places out. Entering my old postcode DT5 1LF makes me feel homesick for places like Lusty Hill and Lickham Bottom.

Nothing, however, could prepare me for a similar find on the outskirts of my new Portland...

I mean...

But...

And it gets worse! Mentioned in Wikipedia, it is alleged that the name derives from some local settlers, and a swift look in the phone book confirms the presence of at least half a dozen Wankers in the Portland 'burbs. There is also a Wank. I need to do some more research here.

Making fun out of people's names and place names is not exactly the highest form of humour - but I felt very strongly about commenting on this one. It really is funny.

And - which is more- you'll be a man, my son*

Never having built a house, I'm in that category that defines manhood in terms of minor home improvements/repairs. I recently had occasion to celebrate my manhood using just a toilet.

It appeared that there was a leak somewhere, and excess water was literally flowing down the overflow spout! Without instructions, I was literally, uum, instructionless. I prised off a black plastic cap, to be greeted by some other plastic bits. It was late, and I had a poor track record of leaving jobs unfinished, so I decided to sleep on it.

The following day a handyman arrived. This was not for toilet-repair, but I thought I'd ask him about it anyway. He said that there was no problem. He did however, fiddle with some other bits and declared that it was fixed even though there wasn't a problem.

And still it overflowed.

With the whole day stretching out ahead of me (ample time to correct any mishaps) I took the whole thing apart, removed grit from the valve, and the non-existant problem was fixed. What a rush! I succeeded where the handyman had failed - the handyman who, it turned out, was neither handy nor a man. I had succeeded through curiosity, optimism, and a little persistence where skill and experience had fallen short.

I'm still not entirely convinced that I'm more of a man after such exploits (I didn't actually mention how long the whole exercise took me), but it feels good, and it's a lot less messy than having children.

*closing line of If by Rudyard Kipling

Waving practices

Being a bit of an outdoor type, and considering myself a fairly friendly person, I enjoy any kind of connection with other folk 'out there'. Whether it be a nod, a wink, a wave, or an invite to a Halloween potluck, I always feel like the world's a better place when you've said hello to a stranger. Maybe by the saying of that one word, we're one step closer to world peace. Or pumpkin pie.

It's interesting to note the varying circumstances and personalities that determine the choice of interaction. The results of my research in this area:
When hiking, there is a high possibility of a greeting of some kind, almost certainly accompanied by a head-nod. If dogs are present, owners will discuss the dogs' sex, age, breed, friendliness level - breathing in the easy, lower forms of communication in much the same way as the dogs sniff each other's arses. It is also common to converse while looking at your pets, thus avoiding awkward eye contact.

The double-line is always a tricky maneuvre, for intermediate greeters only. On a narror trail, two lines of four people passing each other creates a possible thirty-two greetings! You'd have to be crazy to take that on. The two leaders will always greet, and past that it's a free-for all. I generally give the leader a cheery "Hi" and alternate grunting and nodding for the rest of the line. If it's a long line of people, and I think someone at the back didn't hear my initial cheery "Hi", I'll repeat. There are variations on this - a friend of mine typically only says "Hi" to good-looking members of the opposite sex.

Joggers - you should always say "Hi", but don't expect a response unless they're on a downhill section. I believe that some unsociable hikers take up jogging just so that they have an excuse not to talk to people they meet.

I passed a couple on a trail the other day, one of whom was carrying a baseball bat, and the other was eating from a box of cereal. There is nothing in the rule book about this one, but, when in doubt, say "Hi" quietly and don't make eye contact.

I am very surprised to find cyclists generally don't make eye contact, let alone wave. It's not even a hiker/cyclist issue - I was cycling the other day, and got one "Hi" in two hours of cycling. Logically, there's not much value in a cycle-hi (there's no time for sniffing arse) but I always thought the trail-hi was a kind of tribal thing that would apply to cycling also. Granted, I didn't say "Hi" to anyone myself, but I was always primed for eye contact and ready to fire.

On pondering the no-hi cycle experience, I replaced the tribal theory with a theory that no one really wants to say "Hi". It's just that, at walking speed, the awkwardness of saying nothing outweighs the awkwardness of saying something.