LAST weekend while watching the Liverpool vs. Manchester United game in the English Premier League my most difficult moment as a Liverpool fan came in the 73rd minute of the game. The Reds were already leading via a fantastic Torres strike, but Sir Alex had just made a substitution. Michael Owen had taken the field at Anfield, in a Man U. shirt. It was a strange feeling for someone who'd seen Owen from his earliest days and one of the reasons Liverpool became my favourites was Owen's style and enthusiasm. But then 'Boy Wonder' left his nursery for Newcastle, and a few frustrating seasons later committed the footballing equivalent of apostapy by signing up with Manchester United. It was a strange feeling akin to the great cricket writer Nevile Cardus's who used to pray "Please God let Trumper score a century tomorrow in an England win". Cardus loved the Australian batsman Victor Trumper, but after all he was English. So, Anfield did roundly boo Owen, but surely some (Ok, at least me anyway!) were secretly hoping for some magic from Owen.
When one of Mersyside's favourite sons moves over to their archrivals, it is hard not to get sentimental about it, say what you will about the professional sportsman and dreams of avarice being the fuel that keeps their engines running. Or take the case of Brett Favre - NFL quarterback who spent his entire career with the Green Bay Packers first retires and then comes out of it (un-retired, as some savvy newspapers put it!) and dons a Minnesota Vikings shirt. And then? Well, he returns to Green Bay to beat the Packers (thus becoming the only QB ever to earn a win against all of NFL's 32 franchises!). Green Bay fans, players and officials obviously weren't totally kicked about it - again never mind the fact that they wouldn't have given Favre a start had he stayed with the Packers. And of course, the biggest case of them all - Boston Red Sox selling Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees in 1919. The Yanks, led by Ruth, went on to become one of baseball's most successful franchises (actually, the most successful) while the Red Sox suffered from the 'Curse of the Bambino' going title less for 86 long years in baseball. Wonder how the Red Sox fans felt as Ruth rocked every department for the Yankees.
But in this modern world of globalized sport, should this 'Judas' strain be considered so seriously? Yes, players will move where the flow of capital takes them (you know, it's way more than 20 pieces of silver for which Jesus was betrayed) and often they may land up with bitter rivals. But if they are true professionals they will continue just the same - plying their trade at the highest level possible. Naturally, a Michael Owen can't let the sentiment of returning to Anfield mar his chances of making a contribution to United. For the fans, though, it will always remain a different story. And boy, was I glad that I was saved some seriously conflicting views had Owen scored a winner or an equalizer. As a student of mine put it, 'There would be a riot out there'. Sure...a riot of conflictinf emotions.
RUN CITY Berlin. Bogota. Buenos Aires. Guadlajara. Guangzhou. London. Mexico City. Milan. Monterrey. Mt. Fuji. New York City. Oslo. Padova. Rio De Janerio. Rome. Seoul. Singapore. Taipei. Tel Aviv. And of course, Bangalore. These were the cities across which Nike was organizing its giant and unique marketing effort - the Nike + Human Race 10k. There is no question about Nike's marketing prowess but even by their lofty standards involving about three quarters of a million runners across 27 cities in the world on the same day in a celebratory run was quite something. It was the uniqueness of the experience that drew me in. A 10k road race was no longer a 'will-I-finish-it' challenge. But the prospect of bettering my competitive 10k timing was incentive enough. Nike believes that if you have a body, you are an athelete. And true enough, about a 1000 Bangaloreans of all shapes and sizes showed up on a Saturday afternoon eagerly waiting for the race to be flagged off. It was the pre race warm up ritual that was the most fun. Usually in races runners tend to stick to own personal styles of warm ups, but here we were asked to organize into files and gym instructors on stage ran us through the steps. Looking at 900 odd people going at the manouvers at the same time and half of them going right when the instructor screamed 'left' almost made me feel I was back in the middle of a school P.T. class! Chaotic warm up over, it was time for the starting gun to be fired. START ME UP The emcee for the evening VJ Yudi had a few words of encouragement as everyone took positions. He explained how the world was running together and once we'd all run the race everyone's timing would up on the Nike website (thanks to a timing chip everyone was wearing) and you can impress people all across the world with your timing. 'Even the ladies in France will be checking the timings', he quipped. The female runner just ahead of me shouted, 'What about the men in France?' Just then, the starting gun wen off, fired by Indian cricketer Sreesanth. Yudi was at it again quipping that it was a good thing Sreesanth did not fire the gun at somebody! This was a race I was feeling really confident about running because for some reason I was feeling very light on my feet. From the first kilometer onwards I focussed on keeping the steps quick, nimble and light. There were live bands along the way murdering rock songs twice over, but the runners were concentrating too hard on their rhythm or were not keen enough rock fans to care or both. I ran at a fair clip, and lest you think I was idling, let me assure you I was at my productive best. Having received a call at the 3rd kilometer, I had managed to book tickets for 'Wake up Sid' that evening for my boss by the 7th kilometer, all without even breaking into a sweat. No wonder, I was feeling amazingly light. Between the 5th and 6th km, thirst took over slowing and breaking my rythm. I ran to the nearest aid station and emptied a glass of water on my head only to realize it was actually electrolytes! Heck, I thought, my brain was screaming for glucose anyway! My body has actually been built perfectly for a 7k race. At every 10k race, I virtually trick it into running the remaining 3. In this race it was no different, but the 'glucose-in-my-head' therapy seemed to be working because I felt stronger in the final stretch this time. HOME STRETCH In what was my strongest finish in a 10k race (alright, I have run only 3 of them, but it was my strongest finish!) I ran hard in the last kilometer and sprinted the last 100 yards or so. With about 20 yards left, I could hear someone chanting 'Nike. Nike. Nike. Adidas. Nike.' Puzzled, I followed the sound and could see a guy near the finish line chanting that into his walkie-talkie. As I ran past, and he shouted 'Reebok!', I realized what was going on. He was tracking the shoe brand for each runner! Oh, yes, I'd forgotten that we were all in the midst of a giant marketing gig from the mother of all marketers. Capitalism's queer cries were not enough to distract me though as I crossed the finish line in 56 minutes and 22 seconds! An improvement of 3 minutes and 20 seconds over my last time at the Sunfeast 10k! Shaving off 5.6% off your personal best is no joke (just ask Usain Bolt whose jaw dropping 100m world record - 9.58 from 9.69 - at the IAAF World Championships imrpoved on his earlier record by about 1.5%). Ok, I exaggarate. About the only thing I have in common with the 6'5" fastest man on earth is that we both wear Puma socks while running. But still the excitement was hard to contain, though I maintained a straight face and didn't exactly indulge in Bolt-like celebrations. A satisfying race completed, it was time for community cool down exercises and this time the crowd was much smaller - about 100 - since a whole lot were still running. I hadn't really thought I'd shatter my personal best in such spectacular fashion but there's something about the spirit of the runners in this city that eggs you on. I felt light on my feet, because hundreds of Bangaloreans were gliding past me effortlessly well.
All I can say is that when Nike chose its only city in India for staging part of the Human Race, it chose well.
Queen released this song on 13th October 1978. Freddie Mercury, the Queen's lead man is said to have come up with the ideal while on a holiday in France when the Tour De France went past his hotel room window. Almost 31 years to the day (11 October 2009), Bangalore saw its first ever cyclothon. To release the song, the band staged a bicycle race featuring 65 naked women. The BSA Hercules Cyclothon, mercifully, featured clothed contestants including the writer of this blog.
But this blog on the race is not just about me. It's about the 6,000 odd Bangaloreans who came out in wholehearted support of cycling; it's about the octogenarian who smoothly rode alongside riders 1/4th of his age without missing a beat; it's about one of India's most familiar brand experts who was childlike in his enthusiasm; it's about the children whose enthusiasm was unmatchable; it's about the entrepreneur who just wanted to 'feel young'; it's about the joy of cycling that thousands discovered and will hopefully hang on to after that mad rush of a morning. Nobody was exactly Lance Armstrong or Alberto Contador out there but with bicycles of every conceivable type and make they showed up early in the morning at the magnificent BangaloreInternationalExhibitionCenter (BEIC) and stood patiently in line for getting to the start line. A cycle race would be a misnomer to describe the event I was a part of - a 'community ride' would be more appropriate. All the riders were expected to complete the 25km course but there was no competition. As if realizing the festive spirit the weather had smartly stepped aside, leaving us cloudy skies, no sun, a light breeze and fantastic conditions to ride without getting vaporized on the smooth stretch of the Mysore-Bangalore NICE Corridor. I use the word 'smooth' mostly in a figurative sense here, since I discovered how undulating the course was when on my bike.
UP THE STARTING BLOCK, WITHOUT A PEDAL
A bike race is fun alright, but the devil was in the logistical details for me as I ran against the clock to make sure I deposited my bike to the organizers on time for it to be transported to the race venue. In the haste, one of the pedals of the bike came off compounding my woes and as I deposited the cycle in, I realized I would be at the starting line the next morning with one pedal missing, and the bike in a condition that it cannot be ridden! In a sense, I was up the starting block, without a pedal!
ON A BOLT AND A PRAYER
I am fond of all things 80s (perhaps a rub-off of being born in that crazy decade, and living through most of it!) and one of my all time favourite TV series was MacGyver which starred Richard Dean Anderson as MacGyver, a secret agent armed with infinite scientific resourcefulness. He could wriggle out of any situation using stuff he found in and around him. I took inspiration from MacGyver as I searched for something to become my replacement pedal for the race, failing which my race was over before I even got to the starting line. After trying pieces of wood, a piece of plastic pipe, and other stuff I stumbled upon an unclaimed bolt with a nut lying on a table. It was the perfect size to fit through the pedal groove. The idea struck me immediately (confession: I flicked the bolt immediately. Warning: Children, stealing is bad...well, except when a cycle race you've been looking forward to for two months is in jeopardy. 'Better to live with dodgy morals than dodgy pedals!' I say) and I put the bolt in the groove and tightened the nut around it. It fit like a dream, bolstering my belief that the bolt had been delivered by angels at God's behest who'd answered my prayers. Or I was incredibly lucky. Serendipity or Spirituality? Whatever! Seeing the contraption, a fellow rider asked me if I could ride the cycle this way. I confidently said yes, though I seriously doubted if the makeshift pedal would survive 25km. But at least I had a pedal to start with. Thank you, MacGyver!
HERE WE GO
I pushed the cycle into the holding area and after some light warming up began chatting around with fellow riders. There was Harish Gulati, a 47 year old entrepreneur who had decided to become a part of the race to feel a little younger. Looking at the tattoo on his left arm, I suspected running cyclothons were not the only adventurous thing he was upto to feel younger. And the Bianchi cycle he was prodding around led me to believe that his business wasn't doing too badly either. (Bianchi road bikes, the last time I asked, begin retailing at about Rs. 30,000) I also bumped into Harish Bijoor, the brand expert, now clad in cycling gear. His face was lit with excitement, and all you could sense was childlike enthusiasm as the starting time drew near - quite a contrast to his suave demeanor when he is delivering his talks and workshops! But, by far the most inspirational character was Mr. Mahalingeshwar (pic above), an octogenarian (the first words of his on the introduction - 'I am a 1928 model!') who says he's been cycling for over six decades (disclosure: he's even had a heart bypass surgery!). He pointed to the Sport 18 (the organizer) logo on his bib and said that my age is the opposite of that number but I feel exactly this old. He punched me and Mr. Gulati lightly on the arm, pleased with the joke he'd just made. We could only watch wide jawed and I was thinking that at 81, I'd probably be fortunate to participate in a wheelchair race of some sort!
TOUR DE CHANCE
The race began and ended without event for me and despite all the apprehension about the pedal, it held good. I didn't have to get down from the bike even once (I was carrying my own water so didn't have to stop at the aid stations either) as the distance was conquered in an hour and 20 minutes (5 minutes more than I'd targeted). From the start to the halfway turn there were climbs galore. Granted, they weren't exactly the alpine climbs riders contend with at the Tour De France but they were quite taxing no less. Happily, on the return leg they turned into pleasant downhill stretches. A combination of luck and dexterity had seen me end the race in eventless fashion with all bones intact and the cycle still in good shape. I was pleased with how the chances I took paid off. As we crossed the finish line, the teen's ride was flagged off and the plucky teens were immediately off to strutting their stuff. One young boy, about 13-14 I guess, demonstrated a neat wheelie, much to the chargin of the race marshals. I later spotted him boasting 'Uncle! Uncle! Maine stunt maara!' to the ice cream walla!
Cycling is a brilliant amalgamation of both the body and the mind (keeps both invigorated), not to mention the eco friendliness of the endeavor (there were lots of riders with messages on their t-shirts about commuting to work on cycles) and that's what makes it such a joy - whether you are 13, 30 or 81. All I can say is, pedal on! Oh, shoot! That reminds me - gotta take that bolt out and put in a proper pedal there!
I MUST confess that I have never been a big fan of my body. Let's just say if the Greeks looked at the body as a temple, I look at it more like an utilitarian warehouse - as long as the stuff inside is safe, who gives a damn about the aesthetics! You might think talking this much about sport might have driven me towards being physically fit, but the armchair enthusiasm seems to remain confined to the chair itself. As a result I am technically still eligible to be boxer in the flyweight category. Anyway, recent health concerns finally made me pay attention and realize the dire need for a visit to one of those vanishing island of fitness and health in an increasingly sedentary world - the gym. Somehow (even I find it difficult to comprehend how!) I have managed to stick around for a month, and actually plan to stick around for longer. The workout is a nice way to relieve stress, and I wouldn't terribly mind not jumping up to a higher boxing weight category. Actually, in all likelihood, I am not jumping categories anytime soon because I have realized one disconcerting truth in the month I have spent there - I suck at gymming! Yes, I am so terrible, I might make the trainer's dog look better if the canine ever showed up for a workout.
Now, now, before you blame my physical shortcomings, let me clarify that I am not exactly unfit; just that my mind wanders whenever I get down to excercising. And a crushing experience in my first gym about 4 years back didn't help either. In the third week, I was supposed to be doing some heavy lifting with the bar bell. The trainer put the bar on its groove above the bench and asked me to lift. Having seen the entire 'Rocky' franchise, I was disappointed that there were no cool loking weights fitted on the bar - it was just the bar alone. I asked the trainer, 'no weights to be put on?' He calmly smiled, 'Let's do the first set with the bar'. The rest is painful personal history. I almost got crushed under the bar's weight (the trainer came to my timely aid, thank heavens) and I never went to a gym again...until early in September this year, that is! This time, I'd decided it would be different and there shall be no 'I-am-so-pathetic-I-can't-even-lift-a-bar-on-its-own' tales to tell (or hide). But the routines kept distratcting me. While doing dumb bell curls, I'd think less about the pressure on my biceps and more about the physics of the equipment. (In my earlier gym, while doing a set of excercises with the dumb bell, my trainer asked 'do you feel the pressure on your triceps?' In all honesty i shot back, 'remind me where the triceps are again!') I am so fascinated by the structure and engineering of the gym equipment, so elegant yet so brillaintly flexible, that the workout feels like a lesson in understanding pulleys and levers and how they direct force and momentum! Sometimes, when I can't seem to go on with the count on say a bench press I try to think myself as Indiana Jones who has to exert all pressure to keep that treasure cave door from closing and failure is not an option. In most those imaginary scenarios Indy gets his foot or hand crushed and the treasure locks itself.
But despite all the pain and the cheating on counts while doing repititions or thoughts that hell must an endless repitition of weight excercises, I am hooked on to the experience. Perhaps, my beginner's spirit(something I mentioned about in an earlier blog) keeps me going. Perhaps the cries of 'Push!' from the trainer have an effect. (I must say, the gym does sound like a maternity ward sometimes, with so many cries of 'Push!Push!' going around!) Or quite simply, there's a little part of me that still believes that I can be Rocky Balboa and fight in the heavyweight category one day. Hey, trainer guy, would you mind putting on 'Eye of the Tiger' on the gym music system right now? :)
P.S. I heartily recommend everyone to weave a workout in their daily schedule; it just too refreshing to miss out on!
I WAS browsing a bookshop the other day, and a new arrival caught my attention. The reason was perhaps less to do with the subject the book was dealing with and more with its timing. With the Champions League Twenty20 tournament around the corner, there lay a book (titled 'Not Just Cricket') released by the Deccan Chargers (2009 IPL Champs) that claimed to talk about the strategy of how losers (last team in the IPL standings in 2008) became winners. Ah, that word again - strategy. Business Schools have made it an artform to drill the drivel called strategic thinking into young mellable minds that can't seem to think for themselves and the epidemic is even more pronounced on the sporting field, regardless of whether you've been (or even seen the inside of a even so much as a toilet of) in a B-School. Strategy remains a widely touted secret of (random?) success and stats like this one, that one third of all corporate strategies fail (according to a survey done recently by Forbes), are conveniently ignored.
Don't get me wrong here. I have great respect for the Deccan Chargers as a franchise and enjoyed their cricket at the IPL; it's just that I don't think a single swallow makes a summer or a singular piece of success makes for great 'strategy'. In IPL 2009, the Chargers started brightly enough (4 straight wins), but after that they hobbled to a record of 7-7 losing 7 of their last 10 matches (excluding the semis and final, of course). They even lost to the Rajasthan Royals and squeezed into the semis with Mumbai slipping up. With that much of variation, that too in a format that sometimes is akin to a lottery, there is much that can be attributed to chance, and the last I checked, chance and strategy weren't listed as synonyms in the dictionary. But it's not the team's fault. The marketing team obviously thinks selling a book at 700 bucks outlining some nonsensical sliver of a strategy and a few outdated interviews would be a great way to make a quick buck. Just like the current crop of comentators try to justify their raking in the moolah with trite observations and insights so banal, you might as well have listening to them commentate on a video game. Whether it's Tony Greig ('The batsmen will look at the scoreboard and find out how many runs to get and how many balls to get them in; that's what they look at and try to work it out') who's lost his charm, or Ravi Shastri ('Collingwood loves to play the cut on the offside' - as opposed to the leg side, you mean, Ravi? Ever heard of a leg side cut?) who's lost his keen sense of observation, descriptions of strategy have been reduced to pointless observations which hardly had any meaningful impact on the big picture.
I am currently reading Michael Lewis's bestseller 'Moneyball' which describes how using advanced analytical techniques to find baseball players who are underpriced, Billy Beane, the GM of the Major League Baseball team Oakland Athletics turned his poor team (a payroll that's only about a fifth of the New York Yankees) into a successful franchise. Now, that's some serious strategic thinking, because Beane threw all conventional evaluation methods (scouts looking at a player and rating his ability to making it in the big leagues based on his 'good face' and running abilities, not his stats) out of his Athletics clubhouse window and put computer generated models, which crunched the relevant data, in charge. But that's not it. Beane had the gumption to stick to his guns and carry out his strategy for long enough before the results started to speak for themselves. That's how good strategy works - when it works, the results prove its superiority. And yes, the first year when the A's turned it around and won an astonishing 102 games out of 162, they didn't go ahead and publish a book about the success of their strategy. It was the sheer anomaly of the results and consistency that led an author like Lewis to hunt out the story.
Sun Tzu, whose 'Art of War' is widely quoted by the B-School types (whether they understand the context or not!) had written 'Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.' Coming up with post hoc strategies after some battles have been (unintendedly?) won is exactly what, to paraphrase Bon Jovi, gives the concept of strategy a bad name.
LAST weekend while watching the Liverpool vs. Manchester United game in the English Premier League my most difficult moment as a Liverpool fan came in the 73rd minute of the game. The Reds were already leading via a fantastic Torres strike, but Sir Alex had just made a
