while being shouted at by buff former soldiers. America has “boot camp” style workouts, too, but they usually take place inside temperature-controlled gyms.
Fit or not, most people in England share a love of their unspoiled countryside. Green Belt legislation has restricted urban sprawl, so that within minutes by car or train of any town or city (even London) one can reach—instead of strip malls and big-box stores as far as the eye can see—unbroken stretches of walkable land. Even where homes and farms exist, rights of way—paths where members of the public have a legal right to pass—are protected. The Ordnance Survey, which maintains the definitive record of every geographical feature in Great Britain, publishes 650 different maps of every corner of the country. Although customizable maps are available free on their website www.ordnance survey.co.uk, they still sell around 2.5 million paper maps each year—a testament to England’s devotion to country walking.
Combining this love of the countryside with a certain masochistic pleasure is the sport of fell running, or trail running, which originated in the mountainous regions of northern England. Basically, it is running straight up and down mountains. In an interview with the
Telegraph
, Richard Askwith, author of
Feet in the Clouds: A Tale of Fell-Running and Obsession
, said the sport “reconnects you with the most basic of your instincts:the survival instinct, for example. Running down a rocky mountain at speed is dangerous, but that is what is so attractive: the chance to throw off the caution most of us live with most of the time and feel free again.” Askwith completed the Bob Graham Round, a fell run comprising ascents and descents of forty-two peaks, in twenty-four hours—a distance of seventy miles and total climbs of twenty-seven thousand feet, saying that “there would be no sense of satisfaction without the pain.” He considers himself an amateur, by the way.
Perhaps it isn’t surprising that the Tough Mudder races were invented by two Englishmen—Will Dean and Guy Livingstone. Their first races were held in America, where it took them just three years to find one million people willing to leave their gyms behind, if only for a day, and put themselves through their punishing, British Special Forces–designed obstacle courses, which are ten to twelve miles long and include freezing swims (the “arctic enema”), narrow pipes full of mud (the “boa constrictor”), and electric shocks, in case the course isn’t harrowing enough. The races have since expanded internationally, including to England. Participants get the satisfaction of a race completed, but they also raise money for veterans charities.
The English are far more willing to take on a physical challenge if they have a charity fund-raising goal in mind. I have never met an English person who planned to run a marathon, jump out of an airplane, or take part in a 150-mile footrace through the Sahara Desert in one-hundred-degree heat without first asking friends and family to pony up for a cause. There is a sense that taking on a grueling training schedule is rather selfish and solipsistic and that one needs to offset that somehow. Needless to say, pushy slogans and lifestyle branding are nottheir thing. Americans also raise money for charity by performing feats of athletic prowess, but they are more ego-driven and likely to see training for such events as virtuous in itself.
For a sense of how much individualism and self-actualization motivates Americans, look no further than the US Army’s recent recruitment slogans. For years it was “Be all that
you
can be”—emphasizing the individual over the group, even though there are not many jobs more communal and team-oriented than being a soldier. Recent army slogans have taken the theme even further: “An army of one” and “Defy expectations.” The British Army’s slogan, “Be the best,” doesn’t address the individual at
Fit or not, most people in England share a love of their unspoiled countryside. Green Belt legislation has restricted urban sprawl, so that within minutes by car or train of any town or city (even London) one can reach—instead of strip malls and big-box stores as far as the eye can see—unbroken stretches of walkable land. Even where homes and farms exist, rights of way—paths where members of the public have a legal right to pass—are protected. The Ordnance Survey, which maintains the definitive record of every geographical feature in Great Britain, publishes 650 different maps of every corner of the country. Although customizable maps are available free on their website www.ordnance survey.co.uk, they still sell around 2.5 million paper maps each year—a testament to England’s devotion to country walking.
Combining this love of the countryside with a certain masochistic pleasure is the sport of fell running, or trail running, which originated in the mountainous regions of northern England. Basically, it is running straight up and down mountains. In an interview with the
Telegraph
, Richard Askwith, author of
Feet in the Clouds: A Tale of Fell-Running and Obsession
, said the sport “reconnects you with the most basic of your instincts:the survival instinct, for example. Running down a rocky mountain at speed is dangerous, but that is what is so attractive: the chance to throw off the caution most of us live with most of the time and feel free again.” Askwith completed the Bob Graham Round, a fell run comprising ascents and descents of forty-two peaks, in twenty-four hours—a distance of seventy miles and total climbs of twenty-seven thousand feet, saying that “there would be no sense of satisfaction without the pain.” He considers himself an amateur, by the way.
Perhaps it isn’t surprising that the Tough Mudder races were invented by two Englishmen—Will Dean and Guy Livingstone. Their first races were held in America, where it took them just three years to find one million people willing to leave their gyms behind, if only for a day, and put themselves through their punishing, British Special Forces–designed obstacle courses, which are ten to twelve miles long and include freezing swims (the “arctic enema”), narrow pipes full of mud (the “boa constrictor”), and electric shocks, in case the course isn’t harrowing enough. The races have since expanded internationally, including to England. Participants get the satisfaction of a race completed, but they also raise money for veterans charities.
The English are far more willing to take on a physical challenge if they have a charity fund-raising goal in mind. I have never met an English person who planned to run a marathon, jump out of an airplane, or take part in a 150-mile footrace through the Sahara Desert in one-hundred-degree heat without first asking friends and family to pony up for a cause. There is a sense that taking on a grueling training schedule is rather selfish and solipsistic and that one needs to offset that somehow. Needless to say, pushy slogans and lifestyle branding are nottheir thing. Americans also raise money for charity by performing feats of athletic prowess, but they are more ego-driven and likely to see training for such events as virtuous in itself.
For a sense of how much individualism and self-actualization motivates Americans, look no further than the US Army’s recent recruitment slogans. For years it was “Be all that
you
can be”—emphasizing the individual over the group, even though there are not many jobs more communal and team-oriented than being a soldier. Recent army slogans have taken the theme even further: “An army of one” and “Defy expectations.” The British Army’s slogan, “Be the best,” doesn’t address the individual at
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