Competed in the winter event a couple of years ago.
Forget the marathons and tri-athalons, they’re a stroll in the park:
When I took part in this event, there was an eleven mile cross-country run before reaching the obstacle course which continued for a further one-and-half miles.
The first eleven miles consisted of a lot of hill-running, and running along the length of flooded drainage ditches which bound the fields. Naturally, when running in water at the end of January - which is considered to be the coldest time of year in England – the cold water just saps one’s energy. So by the time one reaches the appropriately named ‘Killing Fields’ obstacle area, one is already shagged before the fun begins.
Why do you Poms need to find new ways of forcing mud up your arses instead of sticking to established traditions? 
Just simple country folks’ pass-times 
- like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qU6QvtS168Q&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZm97iPc0Po
I think the Friefly’s in there somewhere. 
Like ferret legging?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRI640ddugk
Here, we just race them, with all the excitement happening inside a tube nobody can see. (A principle which has been successfully demonstrated in other human endeavours. ) It’s farken weak compared with Pommy sports, and takes a bloody sight longer for a lot less interest.
I wouldn’t know about that. Seems more like one for MOS.
Mate, seriously, I am highly impressed. Without that explanation I thought everybody looked a bit timid in the first video. It’s amazing some of them are still mobile. I had my arms in my swimming pool for about half a minute yesterday and was thinking about how long I’d last with full body immersion in that water which is a fair bit warmer than the English Channel, never mind the North Atlantic, during WWII even in spring, possibly summer.
I just about need a nap after driving 11 miles (much longer - up to 30 miles - as a passenger due to my high endurance levels when conserving my limited energy ;)) in heated or air conditioned comfort.
WTF do you do that to yourself?
I like to stay at home and see how my liver measures up to medical limits. So far, the doctors have got it all wrong. Plus I’m warm and happy all the time.
The first time I entered was in 2000. It took about fifteen minutes to walk around the lake, in the water. As I emerged from the water, this chap ahead of me saw members of his family among the spectators. He ran across to them for a quick chat; collapsed and forty minutes or so later he was dead. The Para-medics fought to revive him but he never regained consciousness and his heart failed in the end.
I often wonder whether he would have been okay if he hadn’t have stopped and just kept going. I know I found it easier to keep going rather than pause.
I tried to get an old chum of mine to join me, but he said he didn’t need to jump in puddles to prove he’s a man. Personally, I prefer things to be somewhat on the juicy side.
Gee, I wonder if there could have been a warning there. :rolleyes:
I wonder if he would have been okay if he hadn’t started. I have a feeling that if I started a poll on this, the smart money is going to be on starting rather than stopping.
I’m on his side.
Me too. But the juices I wish to experience are rarely found in mud wallows, at least outside depressed mill towns.
It was to escape a north Manchester mill town that I joined up and first encountered this sort of thing. I used to impress the chaps by the way I attacked the obstacles, but it was only because I was shit scared of heights and wanted to get it over with. I began to think I’d gotten over my phobia, until I went up into the French Alps with 2REP that was a real arse-twitcher., scared me fartless.
Now, being a bonafide desk-jockey, which I hate but one has to make a living, I do it for the rush and I usually have a roast dinner and a few pints of real ale awaiting my return, cooked by the delicate hands of my chum’s wife.
Raises an interesting issue about facing or, if one is lucky, conquering fear.
Nothing ever scared me in my thirty seconds of military training, except for a few minor instances which aren’t worth recounting (several of which would have put our officers in gaol for close to life if they’d gone wrong) and a repeated one that is: going over knife edges and other contours at speed on a tank range sitting on top of an APC (M113) as top passenger on a few joy rides. I used to look at that hatch cover behind me and hope that whoever was responsible for locking it down had got it right, because I didn’t want it coming forward and demolishing my devil may care attitude, and spine. Stupid thing to focus on, but there it was. I took the same attitude I took a few years ago to being a passenger in a powered hang glider: the pilot doesn’t want to die, so I should be safe. (That turned out to be wrong, but fortunately not with me aboard.)
But we all pretend we’re not scared about whatever it is we are scared of and, in a platoon of 30 or so men or equivalent just about all fears have to be present, but somehow that body of men manage to appear fearless when most are shitting themselves individually, to a greater or lesser degree, even in training at times.
My missus cooked a roast lamb a few nights ago and I had a bellyfull of beer before and after. And all I did was come home from my desk job.
I think you’re missing something in the domestic area.
Had some fun with a AFV432 in a similar way, but wasn’t much of a fan of armour, preferred to have my feet on the ground and trust in God when soldiering.
But we all pretend we’re not scared about whatever it is we are scared of and, in a platoon of 30 or so men or equivalent just about all fears have to be present, but somehow that body of men manage to appear fearless when most are shitting themselves individually, to a greater or lesser degree, even in training at times.
The first time I was really really scared, as a young sprog, I looked around at the old sweats and noticed they were scared too (not shitting themselves, as a matter of fact they would joke around about arse-twitching and the smelly, brown, runny stuff - bravado). Then I realized that it was okay to be scared, so, somehow, I wasn’t quite as scared as that any more, and once things got moving, all of that training and discipline kicked-in and I was with me muckers, so, all became well (and that fear wasn’t to do with a phobia, just lack of experience).
My missus cooked a roast lamb a few nights ago and I had a bellyfull of beer before and after. And all I did was come home from my desk job.
I think you’re missing something in the domestic area.
Maybe, but, if so, it’s a secret well kept from the missus and I.
Being a lazy bastard, my motto was ‘Why walk when you can ride?’
That was before I discovered that joining a cavalry rather than tank (I thought ‘armour’ meant ‘armour’ for everyone :rolleyes:) unit meant grunts like me were just mechanised infantry with militarily superior but vastly less comfortable vehicles than infantry trucks which, unlike infantry trucks, can go off road and cause the occupants discomfort which breaches all modern occupational health and safety rules.
Should the worst happen, apparently our superior vehicles were intended to put our superior skills and superior bodies up the sharp end ahead of the real infantry who, surprisingly enough, seemed to be less expendable than us as they weren’t actually employed in clearing their own path towards the enemy.
This seemed rather unfair to me, as the real infantry looked down upon us and peppered us with a range of derogatory terms impugning our soldierly skills which, apparently, were inferior to theirs as they wandered along behind us on the roads we cleared for them.
As none of us ever got anywhere near a real conflict, we confined ourselves to fighting with the pretend infantry following our pretend heroic advances ahead of them, bravely clearing decrepit bridges on unused roads in the middle of nowhere and being very proud of heroically getting a few leeches in our breeches. :mrgreen:
The first time I was really really scared, as a young sprog, I looked around at the old sweats and noticed they were scared too (not shitting themselves, as a matter of fact they would joke around about arse-twitching and the smelly, brown, runny stuff - bravado). Then I realized that it was okay to be scared, so, somehow, I wasn’t quite as scared as that any more, and once things got moving, all of that training and discipline kicked-in and I was with me muckers, so, all became well (and that fear wasn’t to do with a phobia, just lack of experience).
Age teaches most of us that’s there’s nothing wrong with fear, except the lousy feelings it engenders.
The problem is that wars are fought mostly by young blokes who haven’t learnt that yet, unless they’re lucky enough to have blokes around them like you who bolstered then.
It’s one of the reasons I have the highest regard for our 39th Bn which stalled the Japanese on Kokoda. It was composed mostly of militia teenagers who, quite seriously, generally had less training than I got in a couple of weeks of full time basic training but who held up against superior numbers of battle hardened Japanese troops long enough to allow better Australian forces to confront them. They found a courage in themselves that is very rare in such young, untrained, and green units.
I can relate to that to some extent. Providing I can de-bus at the FEBA.
That was before I discovered that joining a cavalry rather than tank (I thought ‘armour’ meant ‘armour’ for everyone :rolleyes:) unit meant grunts like me were just mechanised infantry with militarily superior but vastly less comfortable vehicles than infantry trucks which, unlike infantry trucks, can go off road and cause the occupants discomfort which breaches all modern occupational health and safety rules.
Should the worst happen, apparently our superior vehicles were intended to put our superior skills and superior bodies up the sharp end ahead of the real infantry who, surprisingly enough, seemed to be less expendable than us as they weren’t actually employed in clearing their own path towards the enemy.
This seemed rather unfair to me, as the real infantry looked down upon us and peppered us with a range of derogatory terms impugning our soldierly skills which, apparently, were inferior to theirs as they wandered along behind us on the roads we cleared for them.
Once worked with some Geordie Tangos. They were rather short and stocky, reminded me of crucifixes as they were almost as broad in the shoulder as they were tall. They looked as if they would have been equally at home in a coalmine as in a Chieftain. A real bunch of hard bastards - glad they were on our side.
As none of us ever got anywhere near a real conflict, we confined ourselves to fighting with the pretend infantry following our pretend heroic advances ahead of them, bravely clearing decrepit bridges on unused roads in the middle of nowhere and being very proud of heroically getting a few leeches in our breeches. :mrgreen:
I doubt it is unique to the British Army that they invest quite a lot into adventurous training. We were always told that it was character building. I have to agree, it’s a good way of having to deal with fear. Kayaking was always great fun and held no fear for me as I’m a strong swimmer, but climbing was something else. I embraced climbing as it was a real arse-twitching experience for me and I became rather good at it… arse-twitching that is!
Me and me mates used to take off at the week-ends; sign bivis and rations from the stores; and head off to Snowdonia and the Welsh Mountains or the Lake District and the Cumbrian Fells. We’d park up a few miles away from our planned climb and jog over the hills and fells; spend the day climbing and then jog back to the car. Back to the campsite; drop off the gear and then down the pub in Llanberis, or Borrowdale, for a few pints and see if we could pull some of the tourists - good days.
Age teaches most of us that’s there’s nothing wrong with fear, except the lousy feelings it engenders.
The problem is that wars are fought mostly by young blokes who haven’t learnt that yet, unless they’re lucky enough to have blokes around them like you who bolstered then.
It’s one of the reasons I have the highest regard for our 39th Bn which stalled the Japanese on Kokoda. It was composed mostly of militia teenagers who, quite seriously, generally had less training than I got in a couple of weeks of full time basic training but who held up against superior numbers of battle hardened Japanese troops long enough to allow better Australian forces to confront them. They found a courage in themselves that is very rare in such young, untrained, and green units.
Yes. I believe most soldiers will eventually find themselves in situations where they must accept that the chances are that they are about to die or become seriously injured. It’s really about how they deal with it. As you point out, they can look to others for inspiration but they have to deal with it individually also. They can become resigned, or stubborn or even angry. However, being among others, there’s usually some joker, full of bluff and bravado who will raise a laugh.
How does a cobber deal with being told he has a vey small penis?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drVghkMEYMQ&feature=related
and did RS stumble upon the latest, low cost, UK special forces freefall training techniques?
No point asking me.
When my thousand volt love pump comes out, all I ever hear are gasps of awe.
So that’s what happened to the Rampant Rabbit - I’d heard they’d sold out!
Or were you meaning the Duck?
What it’s designed for, and excels at, rhymes with duck.
Cook…cooking?
The 55 year old commando
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUQ4cjQiifI&feature=related
Pegasus ‘P’ Company