Phone - a friend...

I was back in the Guildford office last week to do a few interviews and catch up with some administration, or more accurately, to do all of the things which my contract or professional etiquette prevent me from doing from my customers' offices.

I had a couple of phone interviews lined up. I don't particularly enjoy phone interviews, firstly because it's much more difficult to get a candidate to relax and open up than in a face-to-face situation, and secondly, when we come across good candidates, I'm into selling mode. For the record, if I had to make my living from telesales, I am convinced I would starve.

Last week, the phone became my friend. It saved my credibility.

Whenever I'm interviewing a candidate who has done some technical research, I ask them to explain to me what they've done, pitched at the level of an intelligent but non-technical lay-person. (Two reasons - firstly, we need people who can explain the complex and the technical to non-teccy customers, and secondly, pitched at that level, I can usually understand enough to be able to ask reasonable questions (or so I hope).) It's a particularly harsh exercise to do well over the phone, as it's usually the case that a quick sketch will aid the understanding no end. So when my name cropped up as the interviewer for a gentleman who is just finishing a mathematical PhD, my heart sank a bit. I have had bad experiences of listening to seemingly endless, non-contextualised formulae over the phone. Having looked over this chap's PhD, though, my mood lifted.

So, I'm on the phone to the candidate. At some point after I'd run through the admin and a bit of spiel on the company, I launched myself at the CV.

"I'd like to move onto discussing your experience - I see from your CV that you've spent the last four years of your life studying the way sperm swim. Perhaps you could explain to me why the prospect of spending four years studying semen appealed to you, what you've actually done during your research, what conclusions you've been able to reach, and what the motivation of the research was?"

It's not a question I've had the opportunity to ask before...

The candidate launched into a what seemed a well-practiced and humorous routine on the hows and whys of a PhD in modelling the swimming strokes of sperm. Evidently, this wasn't the first time he has been asked those questions, and at times, I felt like I was at a comedy gig - if only more phone interviews could be so funny...

Twenty minutes, much smirking, trying not to laugh, emergency covering of the mouthpiece, and the most engaging and enlightening conversation on the subject of semen I have ever been a party to later, my credibility as an interviewer remained more or less intact, and I was thoroughly impressed with the candidate. Anyone who can explain the effects of fluid viscosity on flagella beat patterns over the phone whilst making four years of life studying sperm seem like time well-spent is someone I want on my team. As an added bonus, he'd also remembered (or had noted down) what my original questions were and answered all of them. That's attention to detail and getting things right - all good signs. He's been invited back for a face-to-face grilling with a colleague.

I hope I'm in the office that day - I'm rather looking forward to watching one of my colleagues try to keep a straight face when they interview this chap in person.

WEHoRR

In yesterday's rowing time trial on the River Thames, 237 women's eights (rowing boats) competed in The Womens' Eights Head of the River Race (WEHoRR) from Mortlake to Putney Bridge, a distance of 4 1/4 miles. Our boat finished 102 places higher than it did last year. Winter training has evidently been paying off.

(pictures courtesy of RachelC)

Lining up for the start

Lining up isn't as easy as it sounds - the river is flowing quickly, with the current pushing the boat into the banks. All the while, coxes are trying to keep their boats away from the banks, and away from the boats ahead and behind them, whilst not being able to see straight ahead with their view blocked by their crew. This led to a number of coxes finding themselves with no alternative but to disembark (illegally) to prevent their expensive boats (~£15k when new) from running aground. Our cox tried this and misjudged the depth of the water. He spent the next half an hour with bits of river sloshing around in his wellies.

The first hundred boats line up before the start line, fifty on either side of the river, and spin into the stream when told to do so by a marshall. They set off in order, speeding up under Chiswick bridge such that when they reach the start, they are already at their race pace. Once one set of fifty eights has gone, the next fifty eights on that side paddle down to the start and so on. Once all the boats have got themselves into order, it's fairly straightforward. It's getting 237 boats into numerical order in a fast-flowing stream which is the hard and chaotic part.

Moving out to overtake a slower crew

In head races (time trials), there is always the prospect of overtaking. Whilst motivating for the faster crew, it can also be a detraction, having to move out of the fastest water to get past the crew ahead, who have no obligation to let you pass. It is fantastically motivating to move past other crews early on in the race, and I'd much rather pass crews than have no opposition to push off from during the course, but having to overtake many boats is not the most efficient method of getting from the start to the finish.

Nurture the pain...

My ability to sense of the passage of time disappears completely during races. Once in a race, it is as if there is only a single moment, the cycle of a stroke, which is endlessly repeated, the start being an incomprehensibly long time ago and the promise of the end being an agonisingly incomprehensible long time into the future.

We overtook five crews on the way down to Putney. Our first victims tried to steer into us at one point (this is not very sporting and nor is it very bright). Fortunately our cox had words with his counterpart, and they moved across with roasting ears. The second crew we overtook seemed to be having steering issues, too, but these seemed beyond their control. Judging by the way they were apparently moving at random around the river (including clashing blades with us a couple of times) they'd probably lost their rudder and weren't able to steer.

Our crew were collectively a little wound up by this point, having lost valuable seconds through being impeded. It was therefore a welcome sight to pass under Hammersmith Bridge, a noteworthy landmark in any case, and to read the banner that one spectator had unfurled which declared "Pain is weakness leaving the body". It re-focused my mind wonderfully on what I was supposed to be doing. Judging by the way the boatspeed had picked up, the rest of the crew had read it too.

The next two crews in our sights were better mannered, and moved out to let us through. One of them must be heartily sick of the sight of us by now, as we have roundly beaten them in every race we've rowed this season. They're getting better, though, sufficiently so that we might have our work cut out over summer to keep them in our wake.

Coming up to the finish, we had a sixth potential scalp, overlapping them coming down the finish. They evidently hadn't been working hard enough out on the rest of the course, as they had plenty left in the tank to hold us off until the finish. Drat...

It is a very peculiar pleasure to get to the end of a hard race, with nothing left to give from your pain-racked sleep-deprived body, certain that it has been worthwhile because you have beaten some other people who were similarly inclined to race. Agony and ecstasy reside together on the winner's side of the rower's coin, an exquisite confirmation of the dominance of the will over the body. The flip side of the coin is agony and disappointment, performing poorly and knowing more could have been given, a pain which doesn't dissipate after the finish line has been crossed.

Recycling

I went for a run yesterday - I'd finished early for the day and decided to make the most of a few extra bonus hours of daylight, so packed provisions for a riverside run west to Kew, east to Putney and then home. It's a distance of about 20 km.

There were a few things I should have thought of before setting off. The first was that I spent the first few miles running into a stiff headwind, which wasn't exactly my idea of fun. Secondly, and more soggily, I should have checked the tide times. About 50 m of my route was made impassable through flooding at high tide. Being a bit of an idiot, and being on the home stretch, and also deciding that a bit of water might help cool me down, I decided to run through the flood rather than detour.

Note to self 1: River water is unpleasantly cold at this time of year.
Note to self 2: Thames floodwater isn't exactly the cleanest liquid to splash through.
Note to self 3: Next time you're running about 20 km, remember that a few hundred metres of detour isn't exactly a problem, and besides, the point of this exercise was to run a long way. Fool...

Half a mile further on, a little lad out for a stroll with his family was amused to find me wringing out my socks, insoles and trainers. His mother (I assume...) tried to explain to him what I was doing. God knows why she thought I'd been for a paddle in the river in my trainers and socks. She made it sound so... so stupidly premeditated. It wasn't. I'd just been an idiot and not checked the tide conditions before heading out, and continued to be an idiot in deciding to run through the water anyway. Perhaps it would have been better for her to tell her son this rather than trying to invent an unlikely tale about how some people like to go paddling in their shoes and socks because it protects their feet...

Pulling my socks over my cold, wet, unresponsive and grit-covered feet was horribly unpleasant, particularly as the visual cues I was receiving which told me I was indeed putting my feet back in my soggy socks in no way married up to the lack of sensation in my feet and numb, cold hands. Heck, I'd been stupid. My feet were going to be fertile territory for blister-cultivation, and the combination of broken skin and dilute sewage has never been one I've eagerly anticipated. Luckily, I only had another half hour to go. As I squelched the remaining water out of my trainers, I took the opportunity to wring out my cap, too. At least that was only drenched in sweat, a far more predictable and altogether less grim substance than the dilute effluent known as The Thames.

I got home with my pack now considerably lighter, having been relieved of two litres of fluid, one maltloaf and half a pack of peanuts and raisins along the way, and my kit considerably heavier (thanks to all that sweat and floodwater).

A shower and a few drinks later, I felt brave enough to sort out my kit. My trainers, socks and insoles went for a long, cool shower. I didn't want to take a chance on leaving my trainers to dry without a decent rinse first to get rid of any Thames nasties which might have made themselves at home.

As for my sweat-soaked cap:

20 km later...

I wasn't sure what that white stuff on the cap was - it certainly hadn't been there when I'd set off. Then I wondered... I poked it a bit, looked at the crystals, had a bit of a sniff and then resorted to the chemist's standby of tasting it and hoping not to die in the process of identification.

My suspicions were confirmed. The white stuff on the (free with a job interview) cap was salt. Not so long ago, it'd been sitting happily dissolved in my bloodstream, having an escorted tour of my arteries, capillaries and veins, before ending up in a sweat gland on my head, from where it was dragged out of my body in a watery fluid in an attempt to keep me cool (this was no doubt before I ran through that floodwater - brrrr!). Having then leached through my cap to the cap-sweat-air interface, the water has evaporated leaving the salt to fend for itself. After my identificatory tasting, some of it has been recycled, and is enjoying its second journey on the scenic route to my eccrine glands. A bit more of my sweaty salt will now be on its way out to sea via my shower and washing machine, a friendly local wastewater treatment works, and discharge into a handy stream or river. No doubt some of it will end up as table salt in due course.

I was pondering this as I tucked into my egg and chips after this morning's outing. I wondered who'll next be consuming the sweat from my brow, and whose ex-coolant fluid was I sprinkling over my chips?

Grrrrr....

This is wrong.

I should not be blogging.

I should instead have been having my first lie-in since Christmas*. However, I've been rudely awakened by an accursed SIM update at 0815hrs. On a Saturday. Did no-one think about the scheduling of these updates?

Damned technology...

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*36 hours of norovirus-induced narcolepsy does not meet the criteria for a lie-in.

Post-Valentine's Day

I have a new love!


It's VERY exciting!!


It's unrequited, of course :(








It's a bridge...

It's a thumping, fantastic, ornate Thames landmark of a bridge, the first suspension bridge over the Thames, and possibly the most beautiful bridge on the river.

It's Hammersmith Bridge.

OK, it's far from being amongst the most beautiful bridges in the world, but they don't make them like this anymore. The last time this bridge was rebuilt, they didn't spare attention to detail...

I love Hammersmith Bridge. For sure, it'll never be the most exciting of bedfellows, and I suspect any attempt to share a duvet with it would leave me exposed for the night, but that's not going to stop me from worshipping this bridge from afar, or even from being up close and personal with it. Or underneath it.

Why do I love it?

Well...
It's a stone's throw from the boat club, an unmistakable landmark, and a welcome sight at the end of a long outing. It's dependable. It's (touchwood) not going to go wrong. It's also pretty useful for when you need to get across the river and don't have a boat handy. And it's unashamedly, disgustingly ornate. Why it was felt necessary to paint it in that off-putting green colour, I have no idea...

It does make the gilding look particularly striking:

Mind you, I have heard the bridge described as "looking like a monsterous, overgrown Harrods bag..." That is possibly an unnecessarily unkind description of its charms, though in this case I'm prepared to admit that the observer may have had a point...

So, what do you think? Should I be worried? Or is falling in love with a bridge OK really??

Nuff respect

At risk of this becoming a rowing blog...

I did a 2km test erg on Tuesday - my first one of the year, pulling a reasonable 7min52s. This is some way off my best (set as a student with all the luxury of being able to train twice a day, have the college kitchen cook my food for me and deal with things like washing up, and feed me subsidised steak, leaving me plenty time to get extra bonus sleep and recover properly between sessions). I got a text message from our captain the next day. It read: Thanks for doing your 2k. Saw your time in the book. Good work! So far so good, but I'm not content with the score and am unshakeably confident that I can knock twenty to thirty seconds off that over the next twelve months with a bit more training, a few fewer post-work-stress beers, and a bit more adrenalin. (This does pre-suppose that I do not find myself commuting to the other side of the country on a daily basis.)

In a fit of benchmarking and seeking a second opinion, I checked out world records by age group for men and women, both heavyweights (open to all weights) and lightweights (that's 75kg (11st 11lb) or less for men, and 61.5kg (9st 9lb) or less for women). I've plotted the records as near as I have the data. My recent erg time is around the red line...

Thus, I would currently lose an indoor race to a couple of twelve year olds, a 60 year old lightweight woman and a 75 year old man, and only narrowly beat a 65 year old woman, and an 80 year old lightweight man. Whilst I have absolutely huge, massive, uber-amounts of respect for any pensioners who erg, and can barely fathom just how rock hard these world-beating erging pensioners are, I'd still like to be able to beat comfortably every octagenarian I might ever encounter, and (ideally) every twelve year old kid. Is that too much to ask of myself?

If that doesn't spur me into shifting those extra thirty seconds, what will?

Random Tag: 6 Quirks

I have been randomly tagged by Deepali and decided to play along, as I'm all blogged, raced and virused out and being told what to write is just what I need at the moment. I'm also half blogging and half watching England losing to Wales (rugby), which is saddening, as I will shortly receive a text from a Welsh friend who seems to get in touch only whenever Wales stuff England. C'est la vie....

Here're the groundrules, should you wish to play...

Rules on blog and links as appropriate. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. Tag six random people and let them know they've been tagged.

No surprizes there, then.

Of course, being a deeply dull person, I have no interesting quirks or characteristics, so you'll have to make do with the following...

• I can't hold a pen properly. Even my boss attempts to wind me up over the way I hold writing implements.
  
• I take great delight in inspecting my callouses. It's good to see how they're progressing - I've worked hard for them, and they're incredibly useful in preventing blisters, and tidying them up gives me something to do in otherwise dull meetings.
  
• My left groin is far, far more stretchy than the right one. No, I have no idea why this is.
  
• I can't use a pit latrine if I know it contains a frog. Latrines over-run with cockroaches are, on the other hand, perfectly usable.
  
• I've always had difficulty with the number six.

My randomish nominated taggees are: (do please consider these nominations - I am more than aware that some people hate tags with a passion which I reserve only for the opposition on race day).

Kahless: Not a total random, of course, we job-share the awesome responsibility of Nerd Deity. Unfortunately, all our followers disappeared shortly after we took up our appointments. (It was during my watch, I'm afraid...)

I would have tagged Random Reflections for the obvious reason, but she's randomly tagged out. So, instead, I have pre-delegated the tag to titration. Titration got stuck with the nomination for three reasons - I did endless titrations (in both senses, though you may have to be a chemist to get the second meaning) in a previous job and finding a blog entitled titration which I found I actually wanted to read was thus rather incredible; secondly, I was heartily relieved to find that this was, in fact, a reference to titration as I understood and remembered it (an analytical methodology), and not a blog about the trials and tribulations of underfed sucklings...; and thirdly, it's an interesting read.

Ruby: To the best of my knowledge, Ruby might find this a challenge, being illiterate and having oversized paws which makes it difficult to type. I'm hoping that a period of intensive training, some voice-recognition software, a Boxer-English dictionary, the loan of a blog for the day, and possibly the help of a sympathetic owner might conspire to make this possible...

Veda: Because I feel the need to strike a blow for the much maligned owners of straight hair.

Signs: Not really a random, but I do feel rather guilty at having pinched your excellent name for a rather cheap shot at a post. (Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, is the immediate jewel of their souls, and all that.) So, tagging you as a pseudo-random is the least I can do to make amends...

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P.S. Is it just me who found tagging randoms to be a bit like playing blind man's buff in an unfamiliar location with a bunch of people who might just thump you if you stumble into them?

P.P.S. I'm also going to belatedly tag Kindablue, who is currently giving the impression of having been abducted by potentially hostile extra-terrestrial lifeforms. (I would describe them as terrifying aliens, but fear tpe may use such words as evidence against me...)