12 February 2019 8,363 steps no running weight 77.9kg
1978, what a year that was! I was working in my first job, learning rapidly what adult life was about and not especially liking, nor understanding it. Above all else, it was confusing. In school I’d no real trouble coping with the workload, understanding most subjects quite readily and being good at them. But this … this working for a living in an adult world was complicated. The only thing I properly understood was that my school years had in no way prepared me for the complexities, responsibilities and hardships of the working world.
One of the few advantages of working life on the other hand was the regular pay cheque. This did, mercifully, enable me to indulge in my great escape, which in those days was fundamentally music. I knew every record store in the city, and they all knew me. Records were expensive, so I didn’t buy that many, but that didn’t stop me browsing through every record bin in every record store. The store owners didn’t mind … they knew an addict when they saw one. Like any seasoned drug dealer they knew I’d be back to spend every cent I could on their wares, and I did. Many, nay nearly all of those purchases are still in my possession.
In many ways 1978 was the watershed year of my life. I’d left school far too young and was quickly becoming despondent at what the working world had to offer. Until that point my interest in left-wing politics had been merely simmering away on a back burner, but 1978 saw it come properly to the boil. I indulged in socialist writings; visited the left-leaning book stores and market stalls, and a little later even listened to Radio Habana, Cuba. I nearly won myself a trip there in a competition, writing an essay in which I explained, apparently succinctly, the disillusionment of a young Westerner disenfranchised with capitalist society. The essay was shortlisted to a field of eight, but sadly I missed out on the two major prizes. I gather my essay was read out on air, but I didn’t hear it. Strangely, I didn’t keep a copy of my essay which is now lost forever, except perhaps surviving somewhere in the Cuban archives. Maybe.
Politics were important to me, but even they were overshadowed by the music I listened to. Politics raised my hackles; and even got some juices flowing, but their full realisation was still some years away. It was music that properly shaped me back then. The albums I bought in 1978 still stick in my mind unlike any others: David Gilmour’s first solo, eponymous album was a complete revelation, immediately making sense to me. I’d been a Pink Floyd fan for some time, but this solo album was sheer genius. Rick Wright, the Floyd’s keyboard player also released his first solo album that year – and similarly it told me what these great artists had been wanting to say through Floyd’s music all along. It was astonishing in its clarity.
Also in 1978 I purchased my first Yes album, Tormato. I was already more than familiar with their early work, such as Fragile, Close To The Edge, and Tales from Topographic Oceans, but these were all pirated (cassette) copies of my brother’s records. Tormato was the first Yes album I’d purchased with my own hard-earned cash and I fell in love with it immediately. Of course it wasn’t all British prog and psychedelic rock that saw me parting with my cash. Other major influences and purchases included Grateful Dead, The Eagles and Meatloaf, among many others.
But what, I hear you ask, has this got to do with running? Well, as it happens, quite a damn lot. The last few days and weeks have been rather … stressful, in some respects, with the workplace being at the forefront of my troubles. We finally have seen the back of our now former General Manager, a psychopath of the highest order, being without conscience, nor having any concept of morals. To blatantly lie on a daily basis was as natural as breathing to this man, and he made our lives miserable. We survived it only by taking him to court on no less than three occasions, merely to force him to abide by the written employment agreement which dictates our working conditions, and which he was determined to ignore.
Eventually he brought about his own undoing, and we celebrated his departure with aplomb and not a little gusto. Now, however, we have a new round of difficulties. The mess he left behind is a thankless task for anyone to clean up, and the new boss has our sympathy in that regard. However, that has also made things difficult in other ways and we are once again in the midst of industrial troubles which will take time and effort to resolve.
I am a workplace delegate for not one, but two industrial unions. This is because I hate exploitation. Hate is a strong word, I know, but few things anger me more than seeing people exploited, whether it be by corporations or individuals. And so I battle it as best I can. Socialism has an unfortunate negative connotation with many people, which is understandable given how tyrants such as Josef Stalin and Mao Tse Tung turned the tables on the concept, and rather than defeating the exploitation of workers, they instead became the exploiters. Socialism and communism were never intended to subjugate and destroy an individual’s right to better their lives. It was only ever intended to prevent them from doing so by exploiting others.
Today, then, and over the last few days, I have been largely focused on work-related matters. This requires at least a modest understanding of industrial law, federal legislation, workplace policies and the ability to tiptoe through the minefield of personal opinion and attitudinal differences among the staff I aim to represent, and the managers whom we attempt to negotiate with. This is never easy, and usually involves weeks and months of careful and delicate negotiations for perhaps one small step of progress, and sometimes less.
All this, coupled with the exhausting nature of the work we undertake anyhow, makes the almost-mythical work/life balance equation of utmost importance. And this is where running and music come into the picture.
Today, as will be seen from my running log, was a day of no running. It was also a day of barely any walking, and my minimum target of 10,000 steps per day will not now be met. It hardly matters. Overall, my year of running and general fitness is progressing well. Which brings me back to the music of 40+ years ago.
To my way of thinking, melancholia and nostalgia are dangerous beasts. Like inertia, they are self-referencing, feeding on themselves and stifling you of motivation and killing momentum. Properly assessed and managed, however, they can become powerful tools, providing re-assessment of a given situation and providing the impetus to once again take up the fight.
There’s no way David Gilmour or Jon Anderson way back in the 1970s could have imagined their work would not just survive over four decades on, but help someone like me through some troubling and tricky times. It might be easier to burn some incense, ingest some relaxing substances and chill out to an album by Gong or Arzachel and forget about things for a while, but those early influences as a young man struggling to come to terms with becoming politically aware in the world, and yet stuck in the mindless tedium of my first place of employment as are important to me now as they were back then, even if I couldn’t begin to understand why as a callow youth.
I like to think of running as being the lifeblood, the essence of vitality if you like, and of music as being the spiritual essence, the elemental spark of life. With those two things, nothing that life throws as you can keep you down for very long.
And a decent bottle of red can help, too.
I’ll run again tomorrow, clear of mind and ready to tackle … everything.
Fun-filled funky Feb
