Friday, 10 July 2009

"Once more unto the breech...

This is the line up for the start of the first multisport event of the middle ages. This involved running climbing then fighting. The guy being played by larry olivier was the race director who can be seen here getting ready to set of the of the pros in shiny hats in the foreground. The hatless AGers can be seen in the background behind the stockade. As seems to be the fashion these days they will be held back for a few minutes to let the Pros have a clear field so to speak. The tents in the background are part of the event expo with the familiar sponsors flags, Then as now they sold bits of flashy kit that the anxious competitors would purchase even though they did nopt need them. You know the stuff, portable sword sharpeners, spare lightweight shields, carbon fibre lances and so on.
The full and highly motivating quote from Wil Shakspyr goes a bit like this*(see at the end of post).The call to arms is where I feel I am on the cusp of IM Switzerland. If I can gather up the motivation and get a bit of luck, mojo whatever I think I could race well this sunday. The no taper taper was pushed yesterday when I followed the group bike tour. Following a large german and Jonathan Hotchkiss at around my racepace for 70km was great fun but maybe a bit unwise, we shall see. Still the racebuild here in Zurich seems good and the weather is gonna match it. Just hope I can find my sinews stiffened enough to see me home strongly.
*Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

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