Putting the 'P' in "Peak 8"

I've been pretty fitness focused lately - doing a new routine called Peak 8, aimed at getting the most out of what our bodies are genetically inclined to do: run like hell for short periods of time. It is crazy hard and most days I leave the gym feeling more than a little bit queasy, so you'd forgive me, dear reader, for making the odd locker room faux-pas. Many times (more than other men might consider reasonable, or heterosexual, probably), I've walked into the showers without a towel or even soap. I'm sure my colleagues thought I was just there for a look-see, but I really was just in a post-workout haze. I've also, of course, forgotten clean underwear (making the rest of day quite daring, really), socks, deodorant... you name the socially unacceptable locker room behaviour and I've probably stumbled upon it once or twice in my day.

Today, however, was worse than normal. Today, BEFORE my workout, I did my normal routine:

1. Walk into changing room.
2. Give a macho nod and 'what's up?' look to other gym goers while avoiding all eye contact AND sightlines that would lead to penises, asses, or other body parts.
3. Strip off (remembering Unwritten Rules of Eye Contact from #2).
4. Put workout clothes on.
5. Strap on heart rate monitor.
6. Attach iPod.
7. Run iPod chord under the shirt and attach the little clippy thing INSIDE my shirt so it looks like I have a reverse nipple in the middle of my chest. Classy.
8. Get water bottle. 
9. Fill water bottle.
10. Put water bottle on sink.
11. Pee in rubbish bin.

Hold on... I did what in the where now? Yes, only a few embarrassing drops of pure golden shame, but today, for some reason, after setting down my water bottle on sink, I slid over one place and started to pee in the bin. The bin RIGHT NEXT to the six or seven available urinals. Only for a second, and without any witnesses... but W. T. F.??

I'm thinking it's a good thing I won't be playing in this weekend's game because I may have already taken one too many shots to the head this summer...

Crimes Against Technology: The Flymo

From where I'm standing, Karl Dahlman has a lot to answer for. And, for the record, about ten minutes ago I was standing in a yard full of half-cut grass. I had spent the previous hour or so trying to manhandle my hover mower around my pretty un-demanding lawn. Let me say those two words again: Hover. Mower. A flying machine with deathblades attached to the bottom of it that is meant to whizz around the garden like some 25th-century robot, effortlessly allowing me to clip my grass to perfection while sipping my Pimms and enjoying some late afternoon sunshine. That's what it's meant to do. What it actually does do is to engage me in an hour-long struggle, fighting against my lawn and the laws of physics to garner a mangy lawn that looks more like garden alopecia than a putting green. And, to my mind, Karl Dahlman is to blame. 46 years ago, Karl Dahlman invented the Flymo, Britain's #1 lawnmower, and people like me have been cursing his appropriation of hovering deathblade technology ever since.

Don't get me wrong: spinning blades, hovercrafts, lawn mowers in general: all very cool. I'm a big fan of Krull, and strapping a couple of his awesome whirring knives onto the bottom of a hovercraft sounds like a truly magnificent marraige of science fiction and DIY. And, to be fair, combining blades and suction works very well in other industries... like grooming, for instance. Who could malign the Flowbee, back in the day? An amazing product that does exactly what it says it'll do: it cuts your hair and sucks it up. And although the IDEA of a feather-light mower that simply glides over your lawn is really quite inspired, the reality just doesn't live up to the hype.  

Maybe it's me. Maybe I remember too fondly how easy cutting grass with a petrol mower is. Maybe I've been spoiled by its power, consistency, lack of a frickin chord and ability to cut grass longer than an inch in length. But as I look out over my lawn, clumps of uncollected grass mocking my eyes where ever they turn, patches of uncut grass standing defiantly erect giving me the green finger time and time again as I survey the results of my considerable efforts, I think: no. No, it's not me. It's Karl Dahlman and his infernal machine. Damn you, Karl Dahlman. Damn you and the hovercraft you rode in on.