James Bond spinning stationary bike

Ideal positioning of a fridge and a stationary bike.

When writing this blog, for some weird reason, all the time I tried to write stationery instead of the, in this case, correct spelling stationary. Stationery spinning could perhaps be related to spinning thread from stationery, or something, or someone getting stationery from a warehouse with a bicycle. Anyway, as I see it, stationary bike spinning is an excellent form of exercise; stationery spinners are paper tigers.

I’m just doing my daily stationary bike spinning at the same time watching a James Bond movie The spy who loved me, with Roger Moore and Barbara Bach. I usually watch TV when spinning, and in this way the profoundly running sweat, time, and festering underpants lose their significance. A moment ago, James Bond handed a fish to someone from his amphibious sports car that appeared from the sea in front of surprised sunbathers. Immediately, it just occurred to me whether James Bond ever would have demeaned himself to anything like what I’m presently doing. But if he had, what would have followed from that?

There of course is a chance Mr Q would have equipped him with an extraordinary bike, not to mention all Bond Girls spinning around him shaken but not stirred, yet. Definitely there would have been some mixed weaponry hidden in the framework of the bike, however, I don’t think guns are of any use in domestic warfare. Or, what about a moving stationary bike...don’t be stupid Esa. In my opinion, James Bond should have had a bike with much more sophisticated gadgets. For the next Bond movie, I have a couple of suggestions that late Mr Broccoli most likely would have appreciated in his time.

When spinning my bike, I of course follow the time on the monitor in front of my eyes. There also is a display for speed, distance, burnt calories and pulse. Anyway, something is missing. First of all, alongside with an indicator for calories, there should be a display where burnt calories are translated into e.g. sausages. Sausages, in my opinion, speak an international language that all men understand; men speaking sausages may be another story. Seeing Mattheson wursts pass your eyes gives you an extra boost and motivation. Also,  when visiting the fridge the next time after biking, your conscience is much lighter. Sophisticated gauges of course have a selection table where calories are translated into sandwiches, beer, chicken legs, pizza slices, or seven course meals, but I prefer sausages.

Now, as I mentioned a fridge, it occurred to me that some six or more years ago in Honolulu I bumped into something worth mentioning. In our hotel room, there was an extremely clever mini-bar that, based on a bar code reader, immediately knew when something was removed for consumption. This method could be applied to a fridge that naturally is situated right next to a stationary bike. The sausage reader of the fridge would be connected to the sausage translator display on the bike by infrared beam, or blue, yellow, or green tooth, whatever. Now, when exercising, you could directly read your recent sausage consumption and destroy it. First you destroy all eaten sausages, then bottles of beer etc. Considering seven course meals, the things might get a bit complicated as the readers should be installed at restaurant doors. Well, Mr Q surely would have fabricated a portable one at least for Commander Bond’s disposal.

If this concept could be extended to the time spent on a sofa, I don’t know, but I’m only a dentist. On the other hand, when the sausages and other consumed stimulants have been burnt by spinning, a spring installed to the saddle of the bike would ingeniously return you to the precious sofa. A true precision tool, only waiting for inventing.

James Bond's stationary bike would naturally have a powerful aggregate for producing electricity, not only for the display, but also for forceful headlights and probably the TV too. I don’t know what the headlights would be good for, but again I’m only a dentist. Using this power solely for the needs of a fridge is not a good idea because warm lager and mouldy sausages are not that delicious. On the other hand, if 007, 008, 009 etc. combined their efforts and used the bike in turns, perhaps even this innovation would work. In military circles there is a plenty of manpower and a 007-sort-of-bike, or lots of them, could help in maintaining the power supply of garrisons. A spinning rota on a notice board in the barracks could raise an eyebrow or two.

Deep in these creative thoughts I realize that the sound track melody of the movie, presented by Carly Simon, has died down. Now I can hear the front door open and close. No, it is not Barbara Bach; my wife Pirjo has returned from work. A Bike Girl is on the premises.

Squash the kids

These two are a dangerous combination.

Our balcony is an area where lots of things grow. Because our flat is located not far from the City Centre of Manchester, we're practically in the middle of everything. It is completely paved and easy to maintain, so there is no need for a lawnmower. On the other hand, continuously appearing green stuff, such as moss, could interfere our well-being all the time. Moss that doesn't grow high is not so bad if you think about wandering around, but it may stick between the toes. My athlete’s foot is continuously fighting against it. These two do not get along with each other.

The toes are an important feature for a man who plays squash. When I was a bit younger, I used to play lots of squash. It is a game where people hit a small black ball from corner to corner with no apparent idea. Well, there actually is an idea, but not so many see it. In a squash court there is no need to try to avoid moss, anyway you really need your feet and legs there. I was never a really good player although not so bad either. As an observer, I visited the British Squash Open Championships twice, and on one of these trips my team happened to find an Indian restaurant for lunch, just a couple of minutes walk from the arena. The name of this place was Surma Valley. For those who don’t speak Finnish, as a clearance, the word surma in Finnish means pretty much the same as "to be killed".

It was a nice Sunday early afternoon, and in England in the early 80’s there was no beer serving at that time of the day. Almost all the places we saw were closed, and Surma Valley was the only one we found open. I have always liked spicy food, and thus I found no problems in selecting an extra spicy dish from the menu. For drinks we could only have lukewarm lemonade. Eventually, I couldn’t finish my dish as I was sweating like a pig after only a few mouthfuls. A couple of days later, we heard that one of the best Scandinavian squash players, a Swedish guy whose last name is related to nuclear physics, had to retire from the competition after visiting the very same restaurant. If you know anything about squash, you also know who this very friendly Swedish player was and is.

An extremely well known American author John Irving is somewhat familiar with squash. I have an impression that his friend, one of my own idols, the late author Kurt Vonnegut played squash as well. Wrestling and playing squash are well represented in Irving’s novels. In Vonnegut’s novels the items are more or less absurd, but wrestling and squash are too, aren’t they? Anyway, Vonnegut and Irving were friends and, as far as I know, Vonnegut did some baby-sitting for Irving’s kids at some point. I just wonder which sport did they select for entertainment. If you have read Vonnegut's books, it could have been either way.

As a young dentist I worked as a private practitioner, and my wife Pirjo, although by profession a medical nurse, stayed at home taking care of our kids. First came one, then a second, and eventually a third. I’m not sure if I’m completely proud about it, but after my wife’s water broke with the first, and the kid was ready in the "tube", I still had time to go play squash. Because of good timing I, however, was right next to her bed when the mid-wife called "time". It was literally my first real point in the "domestic court". When my wife was giving birth to our third child, I had our two elder kids with me watching me play in a competition.

So, I attended the first actual birth giving situation right next to the spot. My stroke had been right in a "nick". Pirjo told me that her water broke in a bank, in front of a teller, and she had to call a taxi for a ride to the local hospital. She couldn’t reach me at my surgery because I had an important meeting. She later tried to call me again, after arriving to the hospital, but my meeting had been extended to the fourth set. When I arrived in her ward, I had my squash pal with me. He waited outside, and I stayed in the surgery although my wife had to "play" some overtime. When the game was over, my pal gave me something to squeeze. It was a black squash ball with a yellow dot.

Nowadays, modern not-so-much-squash-playing fathers seem to knit one half of babys’ mittens. Although I was a squash player, I did such things too in some extent. I stitched a baby jumpsuit with a text Talbot above the left baby breast. At that time we had a Talbot as a means for moving from point A to B. Our first baby was a girl, and now she is a gynaecologist. I think I know the reason for her becoming a physician, interested in female particulars. Once, when Pirjo was at work, and I had to change winter tyres to our Talbot, I felled her baby buggy when pushing it forward with my forehead two tyres under arm. The buggy made a somersault in longitudinal direction. There is no logic or apparent connection between these events, however, I just told you, "I think I know". Later I used to search department stores trying to find baby sneakers with a Nike logo, but of course in the 80’s they were beyond reach.

Now you may have an impression that I was some sort of squash freak then. Regardless of that, I’m not sure, I may have worn some Björn Borg outfit in a squash court. Some of my old team pals still play squash, some even participate in over sixty-year-olds’ World Championships. They probably are intending to live and especially die as healthy as possible. However, they would never have descended to wearing Björn Borg shirts. Though, and this I know for sure, some of them continuously wear a squash ball in a pocket for relaxation purposes. If you don't get this inside joke, you won't get it.