We’ve heard several stories of heroism following the Oslo massacre, but one big story seems to have slipped through the cracks. The story of Toril Hansen and Hege Dalen, who saved 40 teens from Utoya island in their boat, is remarkable. The couple made four trips to save the youths despite coming under fire early on in the rescue.
This went unreported until last week when a Finnish reporter heard tell of the Dunkirkesque act of heroism. Tirol and Hege were having dinner on the opposite shore when the shooting started.
'We were eating, then came the shooting and the awful screaming' says Toril. 'We saw how the young people ran in panic into the lake.' The couple took immediate action, pushing their boat into lake Tifjorden and crossing to where the children were entering the water. They pulled as many as they could into their boat before crossing to the mainland. In all they made four round trips, rescuing 40 people. Some were wounded, all were terrified, freezing cold, soaked to the skin and, thanks to Toril and Hege, lucky to be alive.
After the first run they noticed several bullet holes along one side of the boat. Yet they made three further trips to make sure they saved as many as possible from the gunman.
It seems incredible that their story should pass unnoticed until now. It could be it was lost in all the craziness that followed a day of confusion and horror, yet other stories of equally brave rescue have come to light outside of Scandinavia. Some have suggested their extraordinary tale, reported on 24th July in the Helsingin Sanomat, the Finnish capital's largest daily newspaper, didn't circulate more widely because Toril and Hege are a married couple who both happen to be women.
Is it possible in this day and age that our media is driven by homophobes and bigots who would shun a great story because it highlights a married lesbian couple as heroines? Yesterday I posted a link on Twitter to a story about precisely that. The piece is here. It's the same story told with the central characters sexual orientation to the fore. The reaction I got was astonishing. Huge support and retweets from the lesbian, gay and transgendered community as you might expect, but also opprobrium from right wingers who wanted to know why I was so strongly supportive of 'these types of people' and what the hell did gender or sexual proclivities have to do with the story?
The answer to that is posed as a question at the mast of the original piece. I wonder would a Tea Partier, vehemently opposed to same sex marriage in their own country, object to having their kith and kin saved from the bullets of a 'Christian Fundamentalist' by such 'deviant' couple?
It's an ugly moral maze for some. To me it's simply a cracking story that needs telling, far and wide. Spread the news.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A quick google news search reveals that there was plenty of coverage of the story around 25th July... in the gay press only. I do remember hearing a mention of the story on the radio on or around the time of the shooting, but nothing since. Then again, I don't consume much media. But you're right Sweder, it's a tale of amazing courage. One would expect nothing less than a national bravery award in due course. Let's wait and see...
Nothing about this in the Spanish press either. Maybe the 2 ladies involved just didn’t want the publicity and the press were sensitive to their wishes.....that would be a first!
And congratulations to Phoebe. Maybe she could write a report on the experience here...
(03-08-2011, 09:20 PM)Bierzo Baggie Wrote: Maybe the 2 ladies involved just didn’t want the publicity and the press were sensitive to their wishes.....that would be a first!
They seemed more than happy, if not especially driven, to speak to the Finnish reporter. It just seemed to me the kind of story that tabloids/ Fox news would usually be all over. It's hardly a secret as Dan pointed out. Perhaps I'm too cynical/ sensitive on their behalf. I just admire that kind of courage. It's like EMS people who rush into burning buildings in the hope they might save a life.
(03-08-2011, 09:20 PM)Bierzo Baggie Wrote: And congratulations to Phoebe. Maybe she could write a report on the experience here...
Thanks. Sadly it's not a done deal as all the nominees go into a hat for a random draw. Much in the same way the Olympic tickets were allocated actually. If she get's picked I'll be sure to cover it and ask for her thoughts. A written piece might contain a lot of txt spk and lols.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Some more gentle outings to report. I'm trying to work in some cross-training, making a return to mid-week badminton sessions which has proved unsurprisingly challenging, especially for my knees and ankles. The twisting, turning activity does help core/ upper body strength, a subject touched upon in these parts of late, but I must guard against too much damage to my somewhat fragile pivot points.
I hit the downs yesterday, completing a rather pleasant 8 kilometre jaunt in just over 50 minutes, reassured by my ability to complete the hilly circuit without too much discomfort. Having just popped my head in P2P HQ it's now abundantly clear that my training will need to start in ernest, or at least in Sussex (I'm here all week) in the not-too-distant future. Blackcap hill reps and Big W ascents are on the agenda. The thought of scaling the latter only to 'drop down' and go again, and again, makes me feel slightly queezy.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey. I've never really known the literal meaning of that odd expression but the implication - to take things gradually over a period of time - is clear enough. The time has come to make a start.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You know me BB, I don't really do 'plans'.
I have however spent a week off work (at home) putting in some morning hillwork, topped off yesterday with my first real middle distance effort in some months.
Brighton running appears to have divided into franchises, enclaves of like-minded runners each pursuing their goals along similar routes. The Jog Shop group are not currently active, at least not in an organised sense. Run, however, have started Sunday morning outings for those of us with autumn races or looking to get a lead on the big Spring marathons. I joined the Run group, ably lead by none other than our very own Gillybean, for a lope to the Wire. This was a 12 kilometre round-trip taking in some tasty undulations along the east Brighton cliff tops. Moylebird was on hand to offer some company at the back of the pack and we chatted all the way out to the pit stop at Telscombe. I was pleasantly surprised at my residual fitness whilst at the same time nonplussed at my inability to keep pace with the bulk of the runners. C'est la vie; I'll need stamina, not speed, on my P2P challenge.
During the conversation I learned that local runners Fiona and Cathy had attended Haile Gabrselassi's invitational run in Ethiopia a couple of months back. I say attended; they placed first and second respectively, all finishers shaking the Great Man's hand at the finish which would be worth the airfare alone to many. My mind boggled to think I've run/ trained with these two, albeit a lightness short of that standard. Then my heart sank as I realised the shape I might be in had I kept up my training over the past couple of years.
No use crying over spilt milk though; there's much to be pleased about after this outing. I finished well, jogging home in 70 minutes with miles still in my legs, breathing steady and still able to talk along the way. It's a good start. Next Sunday I hope to complete a leisurely Snake route, around 17 kilometres or so, with that eponymous climb offering a P2P taster.
On on!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Turn on your speakers and click 'play', then read on ...
Ye Olde Waitrose Store on the outskirts of Town.
Here to pick up a few things. A wild wind whips through the rain-slick streets. I saunter in, eyeing the fruit and veg.
One or two strangers cruising the aisles, looking lost. Some regulars too, mostly hovering around the wine section. Drunkards.
I fill my basket with victuals, essential supplies before my journey home.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I glance about but see no obvious danger.
I make my way towards the front of the store, reach the checkout, the empty belt still and silent as hills at night.
The lone cashier flashes me a smile. I nod, start to load my purchases on the belt.
‘You gonna need any bags today?’
She chews gum slowly, blond locks scraped back into a tight bun. She tilts her head, waiting for my answer.
‘Maybe ... one or two.’
I stroll past the till, eyes locked as she swipes my dry goods across the code reader. I slide the merchandise into the bags.
Time slows.
‘That’ll be forty-four twenty’
I reach into my back pocket, shoulders tense.
I’m prepared, know this feeling all too well.
It’s a show-down.
I take my visa card out of my beer-stained wallet, slide a finger across the chip as I ease it into the reader.
The girl looks up. She squints, pretty face folding into a challenge. My eyes turn to burning slits. We both know now.
Time slows.
‘You want ... cash back?’
I shake my head. A bead of sweat betrays me, slides down my cheek, across my stubbly chin.
The overhead lights burn into my face as I punch in my PIN code, slowly, deliberately . . .
I stare at the LED screen.
[Please wait ...]
She’s watching me, hand on her till roll. Her index finger twitches and my muscles react, arm reaching an inch or two towards the plastic card. I stop.
A smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. She’s confident. She’s been here a hundred times . . .
[Please wait ...]
Sweat beads on my brow, feet planted shoulder-wide, waist pressed up against the checkout.
I’m ready, a coiled spring.
[Please wa – BA-BLINK!]
I strike like a rattlesnake, lightening fast!
Index finger and thumb close on the sharp plastic card edge. I tense to pull –
‘Please take your card ...’
Noooooo .....
I sink to my knees, anguish writ large across my furrowing brow, incredulity pooling in my wide, staring eyes, card held aloft as both hands reach for the sky.
I had her this time, I was so sure ...
‘You’re fast Cowboy ... but not fast enough. Have a nice day.’
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
An updatelette on my P2P preparations is overdue.
Eight runs in eleven days, mostly modest plods at around the thirty to thirty-five minute mark. All hilly and, with the exception of Sunday's Wire session when I took on some tarmac, off road.
So far so good. A few minor niggles have surfaced but the overall feeling is one of returning form and tired muscles. That there are any muscles at all is a source of relief after what by any standard has been a slothful summer. Running thirteen miles up a Tazmanian mountain carries a number of prerequisites, primarily good lungs, strong glutes, a decent core and a tiny brain (so as not to think too much about the improbability of the challenge). To (loosely) paraphrase Mr Loaf, one out of four ain't terribly good, but it's a start.
Travel looms large and ugly on the good ship Sweder's horizon.
In two weeks I head to Hong Kong for an event, thence to the choking smogbowl that is Mexico City (via San Francisco) before the final slog home. 22 days on the road with minimal running opportunities and a plethora of invitations to imbibe and overindulge. It'll take a monumental effort to strap on the runners before or after working 16 hour days. I set sail safe in the knowledge that if I don't I may as well try to run up Everest as attempt P2P in November.
Selah, and, as the vertitable Hashers of Hong Kong would say, On on!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Great to see you back out there, big guy. Good luck for the forthcoming mental / emotional challenge. As you say, make or break time. We know you can do it.
August has ended rather better than it started in many respects as I topped off a decent fortnight with back-to-back runs.
On Saturday I took the dogs up to Black Cap for a slow, fat-burning run, working the hills until my flabby glutes glowed. The downs looked spectacular, their late summer finery draped in light morning mist. That afternoon I took my seat in the press box at the Dripping Pan for the match with Billericay Town as 'live match tweeter' @Rookmeister. It was, Jim, a game of two halves, the first forty five all Lewesian pass and move rewarded with two fine goals from The Man With Two Names, Michael Malcolm. The second period turned into squeaky bum time as Lewes retreated and started banging the ball back to the Bills, inviting unnecessary waves of pressure.
At half time I bumped into one of the Bills' supporters in the Lewes FC bar, his tribal blue garb offset perfectly by dyed blond hair, a gleaming ear stud and a rugged gold link chain looped out over his BTFC shirt. As he took delivery of his halftime lager I asked if he might try our Town's celebrated ale. A look that could shatter wall-mounted flying ducks was followed by a rasped
'Fuck off mate, I don't want any of that muck'.
I've rarely cheered the home team as vigorously as I did in the second half. The Rooks conspired to let the Bills back into it and even to score a late goal. Happily it was not enough to reach parity. Our visitors cut a disconsolate figure as they trudged off in the knowledge that the mighty Lewes had just leap-frogged them up the table. Come On You Rooks!
This morning I met up with Moylebird for a lope up Old Snakey. It's been a while since I trod this path and I confess to being a little nervous. The clouds scuffed in from the ocean to unveil a clear blue sky, a gentle zephyr nudging us eastwards across the cliff-tops. By the time we reached the foothills of the Snake my legs were throbbing, tight as piano wire, calves moaning softly. Just shy of the summit, right on the final bend along this teasing, twisting track Cam stopped.
'It's around here I think'.
She peered under a thicket and pointed to a small collection of white stones. She and her Mum had visited this spot earlier in the year to scatter Moyleman's ashes. It's a fitting place for a tribute, one I've approached many times, often trailing in the big man's wake as he drove relentlessly onward. It's the point on the Old Serpent where runners know they're one corner away from the straight sprint to the top. It's a place filled with hope and happy memories, marked appropriately with tiny purple wild flowers. We shared a quiet moment to remember our brother and friend.
At the top of East Brighton park Cam sensed my eagerness to press on.
'You kick on Ash, I'll see you soon'. I smiled and set off, feet flying over the cinder track. Somehow my legs had new life, hurling me down the hill at four minute kilometre pace. I felt certain I'd seize up at any moment yet my arms pumped and my feet flew all the way back to the Marina. In all just shy of twenty kilometres in a smidgeon under two hours. I'm very happy with that and especially with the strong finish.
Forty five minutes later I was hiking over BlackCap once more, this time towards the excellent Half Moon pub in Plumpton. A seven mile round trip interrupted by a two-hour lunch with Mrs S, neighbours and a small posse of hounds. I inhaled a succulent roast pork dinner and two pints of Harveys before strolling back across the hills.
As we walked home in glorious late afternoon sunshine I glanced at my mobile. Man United had just gone 2-0 up and Arsenal had missed a penalty. What a day! It couldn't possibly get any better. Until I got home and watched United score a fifth, RvP pull a second back for the otherwise hapless Gunners before the home side slammed in six, seven and, best of the lot, number eight. SAF appeared sorry for his opposite number in the post match interview, possible the most damning of all indictments. I confess to being more interested in the goings on in the Ryman league these days yet with Citeh's ransacking in Tottenham this was surely a most remarkable day in football's Top flight.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
For those of you who know the route here's the location of Moyleman's Ashes.
As you near the top of the Snake, just before the last bend, under the last gorse bush on the left, is a small pile of white stones surrounded by tiny purple wild flowers.
It's a fabulous spot with views across the valley towards Castle Hill nature reserve, home to wild orchids and a perilous descent along the Jog Shop Jog route (mile 11/ 12).
I've no doubt thoughts of Chris just here will help lift weary heads and add a little fire in the belly as we tackle these sections of the race.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Two runs to end a reasonable running month. The recovery on Monday went surprisingly well, with few niggles to report and barely any residual pain from Sunday's long run. Tuesday was a rest day. I don't have a training schedule as such, just take occasional days off to rest my limbs. Yesterday I really wanted to run but self-denial appeals to my twisted nature. Just as it feels good to end a long run with a strong finish it can feel good not to run when your body wants to get out there. Muscles need time to mend and Tuesday seemed like a good day to knit some fibres.
Serves me right then that this morning the ole carcass went on strike. Stiff, aching all over, feeling a good ten years older I creaked and groaned out of bed, dragged on my boots and wobbled off into the east Lewes hills. Even my soundtrack started off a bit rubbish. Happily Planet Rock's a bit like the weather in Texas; if you don't like it just wait a while. Thankfully Van Halen's cover of You Really Got Me leapt out of the dross. My tired limbs responded, driving me into the last two kilometres with something approaching renewed vigour. 5.7 kms and a monthly total well over 100k for the first time in who knows how long?
September is a month of long distance travels and longer working days. Running at all will be tough. I'm determined to get out as much as possible, even if it's only for a mile or two early doors. I've shifted some timber this month and I can really help myself by reeling in my thirst/ appetite. Hong Kong will test the former, Mexico City the latter.
The Jog Shop Jog rolls around on October ninth. My aim is to complete the twenty mile course in something close to three hours thirty. To put things into perspective, Sunday's twelve miler offered approximately one third the ascendant distance expected at P2P. The JSJ, one of the most brutal tracks in South East England, a shade over three quarters. It's tough to over-estimate the challenge that awaits us in Hobart.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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