Traffic

Strange exclusive concept - traffic. It’s always everyone else on the road that constitute traffic. How many times have  I heard the phrase "the traffic was dreadful”? Were you in a car? Were you in a queue with other cars? Hmmm … that dreadful traffic includes you!

Traffic takes on a life of its own when it reaches a certain density. There have been studies done of movement in traffic systems. Complex maths, chaos theories they've all been used to try and model traffic flow and the random nature of traffic jams. One factor they all have in common is that there is a critical mass beyond which the likelihood of a minor perturbation in flow at one point in the system will reverse propagate a wave of slowing and then stationary traffic. I really don’t care about the maths, I do care about the fact I can no longer make progress, even on my bike. 

If critical mass is one prerequiste to bring traffic to a standstill, channeling high volumes into confined spaces - i.e. towns & cities will precipitate the problem. Add a few roundabouts, traffic lights, traffic calming measures, busses, cyclists & pedestrians and traffic flow rapidly sets, like concrete. Anyone driving in town needs to have set out with expectation that their average progress may be barely faster than a nonagenarian picking their way along an uneven pavement with their zimmer frame.

Cars standing stationary when they really want to be moving guarantees random and sudden attempts to change lanes. Whilst this may make my life more exciting as I try and guess which vehicle might execute such as manoeuvre, I could do without the additional challenge. I’m already trying to ease a 250Kg motorbike balanced on a few square centimetres of rubber on an uneven surface at sub-walking speed through a queue of expensive metal boxes without scratching them or clipping wing mirrors.

Finally an added risk factor is boredom. Drivers read or text in their cars as they crawl onwards whilst they drift vaguely across lanes. Necessitating the sounding of horns alarming imminent contact to awake them to their peril. Who  can blame them? Cocooned in warmth, settled in comfortable seats, music playing so loud the door panels vibrate, isolated from reality - they could be at home on their sofas. Frankly, I wish they were, anywhere but sharing the same patch of road with me.

Traffic? Who? Me? 

Grad-u-aint

It’s a strange time of year. Packs of young people, ravenesque black gowns flapping, anachronistic headware in place, walking through town, filing into their collegiate halls. Parents and friends trailing on behind. The ceremony and speeches unchanged from last year, or the year before and probably several years before that, relying on the fact that reappearance at a such a ceremony is an unlikely occurrence. A short walk across stage, a handshake, the conferring of a simple slip of paper. Thus endeth student life.

The immediate realty is an unstructured life for most. No more lectures, studies, deadlines. Replaced by new urgencies; what to do next, how to do it, who with, where does the next cash injection come from? Polishing up the curriculum vitae, trying to write a convincing personal statement. So starts the the next phase. If they are lucky they will avoid the easy trap; the life of rat race bound wage slave. Is that really what it was all about? Perhaps for some that was the goal. But will others sidestep the confines of convention and carve their own path? And in so doing, hopefully drive onwards the boundaries of humanity. A new optimism? New views on old problems. Disruptive, but constructive. One can but hope so.

Cras

Have you ever wondered what is the difference between now and tomorrow? It’s not just twenty-four more hours. It’s not a petulant child’s cheeky “Tomorrow never comes” answerback to a task promised but never delivered. It’s the infinite scope for change. The endless potential of what might be. The paradox of tomorrow’s indeterminate possibilities is that they all begin with now. The choices I make now, walk or ride, my next step, deciding to be nicer to people, letting loose that sarcastic jibe, scribbling this article, they all determines my future. 

Leo Sayer sang "Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life”. This is procrastination. There is only one point in time that change can happen, that is now. Could I change my life tomorrow? Possibly. But, if really want to change my future, that change starts immediately. If the future is mutable and now is when change happens, then what of the that which has already occurred? The past has a vital place in our lives, it acts as a guide. Prior experiences provide the basis for current judgments, actions, reactions and outcomes. Being cognisant of the past and being aware of how it effects us in the present allows us to make a conscious choice about what happens next, about change.

Sometimes, though, the path to tomorrow is outside our conscious control. A relative dies and leaves an unexpected fortune, you boarded the wrong London bus on the 7th July 2005 or a myriad other events beyond calculation or prediction. But, having arrived at an unexpected future, how we adapt to it certainly can be within our influence.

If the only certainly in life is change. The corollary is skilfully summed up in Reinhold Niebuhr’s 'Serenity Prayer' 

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference."

A bit religious for my taste - but the essence, even in my secular world, holds an inescapable truth. Finally, lest there be any misapprehension that I have achieved a state of self awareness that would allow me to manage change in a sane & sensible fashion I quote my old Latin master who quipped “Today’s Latin scholar is tomorrow’s crass idiot”. He was a man with a fine eye for a pun and a solid pragmatism.

If You Can’t Stand the Heat

It’s been pretty warm here in the UK of late. On 1st July, we exceeded the previous warmest day on record reaching 36.7 °C (98.1°F). So, it was probably not my smartest decision to venture out on the bike for my daily commute in black heavyweight leathers. The ride in, early enough to be ahead of the heat,  just about tolerable even in traffic. Roads dry, warm and debris free so I was able to corner at speed. Quite a fun start to the journey. The latter half, picking a path on my bulky GSA through queuing traffic was less amusing. 

But the trip back, a different matter entirely. From the start, cars and trucks clogged routes. No easy way through at sufficient velocity to feel stable which necessitated paddling the bike through opposing wing mirrors. I may have mentioned that the handlebars and mirrors on the GSA are wider than the average bike, and higher. This combination is a pain in the proverbial now that the majority of vehicles appear to be either SUV, taxi, or man in a van. Swaying and twisting 250Kgs on tiptoes is a tedious means of making progress.

Thirty seconds after leaving the office I'd broken into a sweat. By the time I had reached the first set of lights I was overheating. A glance at the stationary traffic almost convinced me that air-conditioned transport, though it might be slower, could have some advantages. Reaching the Blackwall Tunnel took a further 20 tortuous minutes. Road junction? Red light. Empty pedestrian crossing? Red light.  I began to wonder, had I developed a perverse telekinetic power?

If I was expecting the traffic would be lighter once I was through the tunnel I was dismally wrong. Those expectations proved to be off the scale optimistic. Two lanes of slow moving tunnel opened out to three lanes of stutteringly stationary vehicles. Paranoia sets in, is it too much to ask that drivers don’t hog the white lines? Surely a deliberate ploy to prevent even motorcyclists from making progress. “If I can't move then neither will you!”. Progress is slower than slow and I start to feel perspiration pooling in my boots, putting a new perspective on paddling. Wonder how much wear I’m putting on my clutch? Grrrrr! Just to put myself in abetter frame of mind I consider alternative modes of getting back. Car? I’m passing plenty those even at these speeds. Tube & train? If it’s hot out here, wonder what it’s like down there packed close with sweaty bodies. Perhaps the train would be tolerable, but the tube …. that’s not an experience I’d relish.

At last, space! Out of first gear and making enough progress to make it worth lifting my boots back onto the pegs. An hour later, arriving back, I have to peel myself, squelching, from my portable sauna. I decide that sometimes there can be too much of a good thing, and today was definitely those few °C too far.

The Joy of Paper

Guilty pleasures are the best. Reading a paper,  a full broadsheet, is a rare luxury. I read the news, most of the time this is consumed via web sites, Twitter or various dedicated apps. If take the train I’ll pick up a Metro, it’s a desultory reading experience. Red Tops are equally dismal. I wonder about the quality of the journalists or the editors or the combination of both. These papers are visceral in their response to any event. Analysis and reason fly out of the window and all I get is bias and sensationalism. They are the news equivalent of drinking brackish water. I really rather wish I hadn’t, wonder what diseases I’ve contracted and need something to cleanse the unpleasant residual taste.

Broadsheets though ….there is something mightily decadent in spreading almost a square yard of paper open to absorb the contents. You can’t easily read one on a rush hour train, unless you hold a black belt in origami. But, at home, on the sofa or at the kitchen table, I can hog  space. Using the vast paper acreage to, ostrich like, shut out the rest of the world and immerse my head in the tiny black and white print.

The sheer weight of paper in some of the Sunday papers is amazing, I’m pretty sure Lord of The Rings weighs in lighter. Yet, unlike the latter, which, once read, will sit on the shelf awaiting the next time, this broadsheet and all its supplemental inserts and magazines will shortly be discarded - compost, barbecue lighter or just more landfill. 

Yes, reporting is biased, that is inevitable, but they forsake the rabid fervour, overt xenophobia and outright propagandist soapboxing of the Red Tops for a more measured argument. At least some evidence of reasoning here, some detail in the reporting, an appeal to use one’s brain rather than being bounced into rash conformist judgements. Once I have reconciled myself with the  sorrow of sacrificed trees, my proxied contribution to global warming, and the final disposal problems; at least its a good read, an intellectual challenge and, coffee in hand, a very civilised way to spend a Sunday morning.

I Am Rage

Awoke this morning ready to rip the head off anything that even slightly irked me. Exit wrong side of the bed? There are 4 sides to a bed and I doubt that any of them could have been the right side today. Some sides much worse than others obviously. Clambering over the headboard into the wall, definitely contraindicated. Sliding down the bed and escaping over the footboard also ill advised, much pain and multiple bruises. That just leaves two potential soft exit options, neither of those would have resulted in me being in a better mood.

Buddhism proposes that I am not my emotions. It is alright to feel the emotion, but it does not define who I am. That is so much easier said than done. Emotion takes over. If I am water and emotions are the ripples, waves and currents, then rage is a tsunami. It is loud and destructive. It takes over and the rational part of me is submerged and awash. It’s not as if it is just me and few inanimate objects effected, anyone in the vicinity gets the full benefit as the air turns a shade of blue when I fumble something. Fumbling is so much more probable, rage has a physical effect; tensing muscles, ragged breathing, pumping heart. All the fine motor skills are affected, I’m so much more likely to be clumsy. 

But, if emotion is a surface effect, and after it has passed you are able to observe yourself again, there is still the aftermath to deal with. Like that tsunami, there is probably a trail of emotional, or even physical, consequences to manage. I say probably, I could have been lucky and just vented my spleen in private, no one around to witness the outburst and nothing damaged. In this case can I claim ‘falling tree in forest’? No, not really, I was there, I witnessed it, I know it happened.

Is it necessary to understand the cause of my anger. The cause may be frustration, something that needs to be dealt with. If it is possible to change the environment then I should do it. Sometimes easy and straightforward, often a struggle, but even trying can be palliative. Maybe there is no solution, in which case acceptance of the true state of the world is the only effective path forward. Knowing the difference, well that requires a wiser person than me.  

This Buddhist ideal, to be at peace with yourself, what of it? It is a goal, something to aim for. To realise your mental state, to moderate it if necessary, to be self aware. It helps to be conscious of the external effects on people I care about. Being angry passes on in the same way as being happy. The old cliche of a candles and flames applies just as well to propagating anger as it does to happiness. Finally, this concept of not being your emotion is rather dependent on everyone else around  being equally aware of their transient nature. I would really rather not be known as ‘The Angry Man’,  even if, sometimes,  that is exactly what I am.
with apologies to 'Being Peace; Thich Nhat Hanh' (Parallax Press 2005: ISBN 09380770077)