March Madness: Manama-London-Riyadh 2013

It has been a crazy few weeks, work has been manic meaning that over 60 hours a week have been spent in the office, I have even been dreaming in SketchUp, there has been no training, no guitar playing and no new writing to contribute to the blog, although with 20% of registered architects in the UK out of work and countless architecture graduates unable to find placements I am not complaining.  What I have managed over the last few weeks is a rushed visit to London meaning that I have not really seen London, another to Riyadh where I have not really seen Riyadh and come to think of it I have not really seen much of Manama, deadlines have been met and life goes on.

What I have seen is signs of progress some rapid, some steady, and some limping along viewed out of the car or train window as I have been on the way to somewhere that I have not been to in a while.  The daily commute to work in the morning comprises threading through traffic and diversions that change on an almost daily basis as the Bahraini Ministry of Works move things around to dig great big holes, resurface roads that are far better than those in the UK and continue with the relentless construction of flyovers, slip roads to connect the emerging Bahrain Bay to the mainland. As a result most of the drivers don’t seem to know which lane to be in so do one of two things, one is to drive along dead slow causing everyone else to fall over them, the second being to change direction at the last moment, usually without indicating...Mirror, signal, manoeuvre does not operate here anyway, if it does it is in reverse, manoeuvre, and if you are lucky mirror and finally signal, in most cases the last two do not happen. Other drivers and diversions aside it is a pleasant drive with the sun glistening off the sea, and driving alongside rows of date palms. At Bahrain Bay a huge billboard announces that the development is ‘Celebrating Bahrain’s Future’  and in the background the Four Seasons and Wyndham Grand are really taking shape.

A rushed handover of work responsibilities for the next few days, a pint of Guinness at the Irish Lounge at Bahrain International Airport, constitutes my first drink of the year, not because it is not available, but with all the training it is not needed. An overnight flight with generous quantities of red wine courtesy of British Airways and arrival into the world of Richard Rogers at six in the morning. Heathrow Terminal 5 with its sculptural steel connections of the type that I first saw at Beaubourg, Paris in 1995, that form the structure that make the roof span a vast clear space effortlessly, through a network of automated lifts and underground shuttle train to the main terminal, quickly an efficiently to the smiling lady on immigration, and equally quickly and efficiently through baggage reclaim to the Heathrow Express’ which at 15 minutes is currently the quickest way to get into London.  Out of the tunnel into the very wet looking English countryside under the grey sky passing by rapidly out of the train window, joining the main line just west of Hayes. At Hayes a relatively new mixed use development sits one the site of a stone terminal if I remember correctly, with apartments looking directly over the railway, that must be a quiet place to live...

Onward towards Old Oak Common, and a huge billboard alongside ABK’s disused Eurostar depot  ‘Say hello to 186mph’ signifying that the neo-Thatcherist government have been forced to commit to HS2, the new high speed rail line that will link Heathrow to the Midlands and the North of England, probably reducing the need for domestic flights, reducing congestion on the motorways, and with the ability to remove countless heavy goods vehicles from the road. At Acton a clear sign of the legacy of Thatcher, the privatisation of the national rail network, freight trains stand proudly displaying the branding of their current owner. DB Schenker, in short, Germany’s national rail operator.

Arriving into London Paddington, much of which is a construction site as ‘Crossrail’ limps ever closer to connecting the East-end with Heathrow.  Out into the cold air beneath Brunel’s great cast iron and glass roof and the morning rush hour, coffee to go, newspapers and watching movies on iPhones. Into the underground having let the first train go, squeeze onto the next one, change at Baker Street and repeat the process. As the train makes its way eastwards, different groups of people board and leave as stops are made, speaking so many languages...Japanese, Polish, German...Does anybody speak English here anymore? The recongisable stations of Foster at Canary Wharf and Alsop at North Greenwich and out into the grey daylight to Canning Town. Onto the DLR, Royal Victoria Dock looks as magnificent as ever, very still water, mirrorlike reflections, the Crystal looking very much part of the landscape and a dormant Emirates Airline?

A quick reunion with my family and out into the London traffic to drop Mummy off at work, well behaved drivers, indication before changing lanes and potholes everywhere! A quick tour of Canary Wharf and cross the bridge next to Alsop’s ‘Chicken’ and a day of much needed quality time with Natasha, my daughter on her last day of being 3. A drive to Kent of see her prospective school, and lunch at TGI Fridays, Westfield Stratford sitting in a car that somehow reminds me of ‘Pulp fiction’.

Zaha Hadid’s Aquatics Centre looks magnificent as the wavelike sculpture begins to emerge from the grandstands as they are being steadily disassembled. The stadium every bit as impressive as it was on the TV last summer and the Orbit? Still not decided on that one yet, looking forward to being able the park when it re-opens.

A Disney princess birthday party, a night at the Legoland Resort Windsor, three happy people, and all too quickly it is back out into the cold heading back to the world of Rogers. On the returning Heathrow Express, the on board TV’s show Kent being paralysed by snow, M23 blocked for 12 hours and the usual finger pointing about authorities not being prepared.

Into the heat of Bahrain and the heat of the project, passport submitted for Saudi Visa, and a few days later back to the Irish Lounge my second pint of Guinness of the year and the brief flight over to Riyadh. Arrival at King Khalid not too dissimilar from my first time, a long static queue of Pakistanis in a glacial surge towards a gate that is not letting people through. For me a relatively short wait in line to be sent back, fill in a landing card (I did not need to do this in January) a longer wait in line as another plane load of people arrived whilst I was filling out the card,  fingerprints scanned, again, mugshot taken again, and out into Arrivals. No sign of our company driver so it is out to do battle with the airport taxis, except they are more like the minicabs driven by Birmingham’s Bengali community, usually a Toyota with dodgy steering, dodgy shock absorbers and a gear box that grinds along.

Here I have a Saudi driver so it is a white knuckle ride, driving over any available bit of road surface irrespective of lane markings and other road users. The bing! bing! bing! of the electronic warning that you are not wearing your seat belt does not seem to worry the driver, and it is very quickly replaced by a different bing! bing! bing! to tell you that you are travelling at over 120kph. Dodging in and out of the traffic along the Eastern Ring Road, neon signs flash by announcing a staggering array of fast food joints. Past Al Rawda, an area which was home to me for over a year and onto the Khurais Road which was my former commute to work.

My commute to work used to involve driving for about half an hour to an hour depending upon the volume of traffic, through what I can only describe as gaps in the traffic, and in most cases those gaps were millimetres from the wing mirror of the car alongside, and in many cases it felt as though my car was being squeezed from both sides as five lanes become one. Here I am back again sitting beside one of the worst offenders, I read in a guide book that Saudis automatically assume that they have right of way and therefore do not stop for anybody, I had not forgotten this from my time living in Riyadh, but being back again brings it all back in very clear focus. Squeezing into impossible gaps to get onto the highway, many sights familiar to me pass unseen as we head through the underpass no more than six inches behind the car in front, a lurch to the right and onto the service road, and a blaze of neon signs announcing a whole row of car rental offices and a sea of beaten-up old Japanese cars much like the one I that am currently travelling. At the intersection next to the Wooden Bakery, the road has gone, so it is a trip around one of Riyadh’s famous detours where the procedure is squeeze into a single lane perform a U-turn and cut across three lanes of traffic to make a right turn, to get back onto the road.

Arrival at the hotel and the customary haggling over taxi fare, he wants to rip me off, I don’t want to pay that much so there is a bit of a Mexican stand off  until I pay something closer to what is only slightly less than daylight robbery, although it is night-time. Into reception, ‘Welcome to Riyadh!’...err...Thanks.

Riyadh in daylight passes by slightly slower and more controlled in the hands of our company driver, but around us the madness continues. Omrania’s offices do not feel like Riyadh at all, it feels more like walking into a London studio, there are many European Expats as well as Arabs which reinforces the illusion. Three days of workshops, long intense days with client team, specialist consultants and our Architects, Engineers, Interior Designers to review our progress on a new expatriate compound.

Security strategies deal with requirements that are more stringent than a military establishment. Water treatment strategies get interesting as the site is so far north of the tide of development that is the expansion of Riyadh that the proposal is to use ground water, taken from a borehole that is 300m deep, it is brackish so will need treatment on site. The landscape design is for a lush ‘oasis’ and will be irrigated using recycled water on site, except that there is not enough landscape to use it all so some of it will have to be transported to a local facility, which I am led to believe currently comprises dumping it in the desert. Over the course of the workshop more planting  is introduced to reduce the amount of waste water being taken away, all of which is counter intuitive as the trend is toward arid landscape planting to reduce water demand.  How do we ‘green the desert’? some further study required I think.

The hotel is one that I know quite well although there is not much time to appreciate it, the days involve getting back from the office, order room service, eat, sleep and do at all again the next day. The hotel is undergoing a major redevelopment, next to the current hotel is a site hoarding, which I know has a three storey deep hole behind it as this is a project that I was involved in for a few months. In reception is a visualisation of the proposed lobby which is a rendering of a SketchUp model that I built two years ago.
On the drive out to the airport, through the ever present traffic, developments over the past two years are all the more apparent, a detour/U-turn combination that I used to have to negotiate is nearing completion, and now comprises a flyover that was not there before in fact at the time there was not indication that a flyover was imminent. High quality paving defines what looks like a public square over an underpass along with trees and ground-cover planting. Heading out on the new road, date palms are everywhere, planting defines verges what are either sand or concrete elsewhere in the city.

On rejoining the East Ring Road, the Hilton Hotel project at Granada is progressing nicely, structure is still growing out of the ground, glass and cladding is going onto the lower levels...Beyond the newly completed GOSI Office park. Continuing past the Princess Noura University for Women, a development so large that it has its own monorail system, but there again women are not allowed to drive in Saudi so how else are they supposed to get around? Onwards to another sign of Saudi Arabia’s development, Zaha Hadid’s Exhibition Centre, under construction with crystalline forms growing out of the ground, and trademark concrete pavilions in the landscape. And so to HOK’s King Khailid International Airport through an ever expanding swath of green as more and more trees are being planted to line the approach road and soften the edge of the desert.

Through departures, and a most definitely not smiley face on the person checking my passport serves as a reminder why I prefer living in Bahrain.

Saudi Adventure Begins. 2010

Arrival at 2.50am into King Khalid International Airport Riyadh, out of the Emirates Boeing 737 onto the sky-bridge that feels dark by contrast, beige and dark brown walls, dark green floor, through the typical airport corridor into an impressive space with geometric shapes and planes intersecting with each other in beige. Arabian sandstone is everywhere, with steps cascading down into immigration, with date palms set to a grid, and a huge collection of people, the biggest queue, if that is what you call it, that I have ever seen…men standing, sitting, sleeping against each other, chatting in small groups, waiting for the immigration gate to open, no pushing and shoving but a calm sense of urgency, a silent, static stampede. Having read the signs this was the line I was going to have to join behind at least 300 others.

Having taken my place or tried to protect it from the constant press of Indians trying to push through me for the best part of an hour, I felt that nothing was going to happen so went for a wander, found a comfortable bench and took a seat and just sat back and watched, having observed the static push for a still closed gate for another half an hour I happened to notice that there was another far more orderly queue comprising about 15 people under the sign that said ‘Diplomats and visiting business persons‘…worth a try…joined the back of the line to stand in place for another half hour…every now and then somebody would appear at the booth and then promptly disappear. Beyond, the baggage carousels had long ago ground to a halt, and baggage had taken up residence on the floor, any fears of bags being stolen are quickly allayed as nobody is the other side of the gate except for airport staff.

Eventually the man appears back at the booth, the gate opens and slowly one by one the people standing in front of me find their way through to the lush green pastures of the baggage hall, that is until it is my turn, look confident I tell myself, what do I have to lose, stand a chance of getting through, or stand at the back of the silent stampede that is still very much static. I step forward hand over my passport and employment contract to be faced with a very serious look from the immigration officer, stampede beckons…no there is a problem with the system, I am waved over to the adjacent line which is for GCC although at the time I was unclear what the letters stood for, wait my turn once again…step forward once again, and…system is down again, by now the guards are beginning to find the whole thing a bit of a joke, so for a third time I move to another booth and hand over my documents, my details are checked on the screen, my fingerprints are scanned and I am through. My bags have been placed next to each other, so bags on trolley, complete with porter it’s time to head out into Arrivals, I have never been so glad to see a complete stranger clutching a sign with my name on. It’s 39 Km from the airport to Riyadh, so it is quite a drive, the road surface is shiny like it is wet but is bone dry, there are lanes but nobody seems to use them other motorists will pass you on either side and sometimes quite close, there appears to be no need for indicators. It is 5.30am when I arrive at Al Mutlaq Hotel, home for the next few days.

Regarding Beer. Beer, a beverage that I have come to understand is central to British, European and probably all ‘civilized’ culture, so what happens in a country where alcohol is forbidden by the local culture? Easy you get the same American and European beer with the alcohol taken out, although having tried it I think the process has taken more than the alcohol out, the taste and the sensation of a refreshing drink particularly on a hot day comes from part of the brewing process which naturally produces alcohol, so what you are left with is something that resembles beer but is not…a bit like liquid bran flakes That said, when it is 44 degrees outside and the air is dry not having alcohol that would cause you to be dehydrated is probably a very sensible idea,

Riyadh is a car city, modern Riyadh has developed following the American model, freeways, wide streets, and the recent addition of diagonal parking on the side of the street and in some cases no sidewalks, so it appears to be very much step out of your apartment get in the car, drive right up to the front door of the mall…so navigating the city on foot becomes quite an adventure, most roads/streets have at least 3 lanes of traffic flowing in either direction and in most cases five (that is if they use the lanes), cars don’t always stop at red traffic lights, in fact it is like the American system, red means stop unless turning right.

The city is under construction, there are tower cranes all over, in the areas where there are sidewalks, you could be walking along and the sidewalk stops…replaced by a large hole in the ground that is at least five stories down with concrete barriers around it to prevent cars from driving down into it, there are large areas that resemble bomb sites, new areas of city are growing up around the periphery, highways run out into sand heaps, this place will be amazing when it is finished…

Marathon Training 2013

Over the past few weeks my writing has taken a bit of a back seat due to the training to get through my first marathon, so I thought why not write a piece about the training, not exactly a how-to guide as completing one marathon does not make me an expert in the field so to speak, but I thought I could share my experiences of the journey. So this is a story not about architecture but the journey to a special place.

The journey really began in 2011 when I arrived in Bahrain and spent the first weekend driving around the north of the Island looking for somewhere to live I arrived at Amwaj Islands and drove a full circuit thinking this would be a great place to start running. So the rest is history in that sense I have been living at Amwaj ever since. The circuit that I drove on my first look is a 5k loop (or 3 miles in old money) with villas and apartments and water on both sides, fresh sea air and relatively little traffic. Starting running at 40 takes longer than say in your 20's in that recovery takes a little longer and I suppose experience gives a sense of when and when not to push. The first runs were not always runs, sometimes more walk than run sometimes not running through 'stitch' where years earlier I would have just gone for it, but then running was a support activity to my rowing so there was always another goal and purpose to running.

Here it was all about the running, but with no goal it is difficult to remain motivated, and indeed when out on those early runs it would be more that my concentration would go than any physical barrier to running.  From March 2012 as the temperatures steadily climbed through the 30s into the 40s running became more laboured and it became a bit too easy to say it's too hot tonight and runs would get er..missed. Into September the pool at the apartment complex looked more and more inviting and running would become supplemented with swimming, short distances at first but gradually building up to 800m. The advantage with Bahrain's temperatures is that I was swimming well into November.

I found out about the 2012 Bahrain Half-Marathon only after it had happened, although in January 2012 I was nowhere near ready. At the beginning of November I returned from a visit to London with a clear intent to complete the 2013 Bahrain Half-Marathon. At this point I had recorded around 50k running, I did not start keeping a diary until later but there were a lot of runs that were below 5k, and 110 lengths of the pool adding up to 3850 metres, after a year's work I felt that I was ready to start training.

I had done my homework, downloading training program and settled on one from 'Marathon Rookie' that prepares you for a half-marathon in 10 weeks. and went out running with a purpose. The program is quite simple: 3 runs during the week and a longer one on the weekend. Rest days are important and never run more than 2 days in succession. I also made a couple of rules of my own: 1. If I missed a run for any reason, I would not try to make up for it by adding another run into the week, just move on to the next one. 2. If there were niggles that were making running difficult I would switch to gym work, using the general rule that 5k run = 10 on the bike, I was also using my old friend the ergo machine usually doing 5k after the bike. I  did weight training could help on rest days to build strength, using light weights but high reps.

So with a training program underway I joined Bahrain Road Runners (BRR), and quickly discovered that my 10 week program would be shortened to 8 as the half-marathon date was confirmed at 2 weeks earlier than in the previous year. I looked back at what I had done previous to starting training, and felt that I had enough in the bank so decided to 'keep calm and carry on'. December, my first event with BRR the Cross Island Classic' a nice gentle run across the desert for 17k, which turned out to be at the right place in the training program (relative to the end) to be running that sort of distance, with a time of 1:54:46, I felt that I was relatively close to my previous half marathon time of 1:50:00 in 1994.

With the 17k under my belt I had the confidence that I could easily cope with 21k (13.1 miles) particularly as some of my new friends from the Cross Island were saying that the terrain makes it harder that the half marathon. The last week of the training programme is more about preparation than training, which turned out to be a hard week at work, long days, and one of those days where meetings mean that healthy eating and carb-loading go out of the window, as the day's diet comprised mainly coffee and biscuits. The first 15k of the half-marathon went well, keeping good pace, the last 6 got more and more difficult as my energy levels depleted rapidly, finishing with a time of over 2 hours I felt that I should have done better, but at the time that was the best I could do and maybe I should not be comparing my time with the last one that I posted 18 years earlier.

The decision to go for the full Marathon came the day before the half at bib pick-up when the gem of an idea was inserted into my head, (thanks Zoe) that it is possible to go from half to full marathon in 4 weeks. Again I did my homework I downloaded a training programme from the same site as before, this time 16 weeks and figured that the first 12 weeks are gone and concentrated on the last 4. I also read a lot of blogs from people saying that the marathon is a 'different animal' and it is not possible to just go from half to full, but I made the decision that the half was only part of the build up to the full, and largely ignored what I felt was negative advice.

First night running after the half-marathon 8k (5 miles) felt amazing, I was stronger, quicker and increasing the distances should not be a problem. Second night the 13k (8 miles) became only 3k as I just had no energy. Two days later tried again and felt the same after 5k also the cartilage in my right knee had began to get inflamed and the marathon looked doubtful. On the following day I went back to the gym just a light session with weights, and made the decision to concentrate on gym work for the coming week, energy levels recovered and I started recording my ergo times over 5000m dropping from 25:35 to 22:40 within 10 days, in the same 10 days I had completed just one run over 7.5k. I kept up the gym work until one week before the marathon, I mapped out a 30k circuit where I had no choice but to keep going: Amwaj along the highway to Dry Dock, over the southern bridge to Mina Salman, along the corniche past 'Funland' and the National Museum, back over the middle bridge and along the corniche on Muharraq, past the airport and back to Amwaj. A route that looks great on Google earth, but in reality is challenging due to the Ministry of Works' love of digging great big holes everywhere along with the regional dislike for footpaths that actually link up. The circuit completed probably running 18k and walking the other 12 and a couple days to recover I felt that the Marathon was a 'go'.

So here I am one week after completing my first Marathon still feeling good, it has taken a few days to recover but I am ready to start training again, and start planning the next events. OK just to sum up then: Training following the program: 12 weeks.

Distance ran in training: prior to half marathon: 132k. Cycle: 90k. Row: 22.5k. Swim 800m.

Distance ran in training:  Half-marathon to full marathon: 56k. Cycle 63k. Row: 32k.

I will just finish up by just 'sticking with it' and staying fixed on a goal has made training far, far easier and it was also easier starting the gym when I was already reasonably fit, I find training on machines quite difficult. There is a quote on the training program that I have been using that has kept me motivated and it goes like this:

"Now if you are going to win any battle you are going to have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do. The body will always give up. It is always tired morning, noon and night. But the body is never tired if the mind is not tired" - George S. Patton, U.S. Army General, 1912 Olympian.

Amwaj 2012

What is the German for Bus Stop?

Sometimes when travelling, there are experiences that emphasise the poor language skills that most of us British possess. In student days in 1998, two of us such Brits had made friends with a group of Erasmus students from Frankfurt, Brussels and Strasbourg, the majority being from Frankfurt so after a semester of working in a design studio with these guys it only seemed fair to visit them in their natural environment. Two days in, the Germans are in classes so it is time for the Brits to fend for themselves in the city. Thinking we understood a bit of German it was off on the bus to find the School of Architecture.

Bockenhiem Worte is a twenty minute bus ride from the Facultschule, (The faculty housing the school of Architecture) that our Erasmus Exchange operates with. Having no natives to show us around it was off to find a bus stop.  In Germany Bus is still bus, however bus stops are marked by the letter ‘H’ on a yellow stick. The ‘H’ stands for  Haltestelle, hot to be confused with ‘H’ for hospital or helicopter that would usually make sense in England. Haltestelle actually means Busstopstation, the word bus is dropped from the description to leave us with the abbreviation denoted by the initial ‘H’, quite logical really. This squashing ten words together to make one long one is going to take a bit of getting used to. After waiting at the Haltestelle for a few minutes, one of the cyan coloured buses arrives, and we board the bus to encounter our first problem and it dawns on us that we are in a foreign country, and actually unable to hold an intelligible conversation in German. The driver did not speak English, we couldn’t speak German, and there is this kind of Mexican stand off while we try to buy our tickets, however a helpful native behind us. Who can tell us that is cost us six eighty for two of us to ride on the bus to Neibelungenplatz, and we are issued with a single joint ticket, and take our seats feeling just a wee bit silly, and at the same time impressed at how friendly and helpful the natives are.

I see No Ships - Birmingham 1998

On the approach from Moor Street Station, the traveler sinks down beneath the rat race into the rabbit warren of subterranean passages. The echo of the singing accent of market stall traders fills the concrete chambers, whilst bright colours dance on the wall as people move to and from at the end of the tunnel. At a crossroads the natural land form leads into a forgotten plaza where one could get a haircut from someone situated in a hexagonal booth. You could buy newspapers and cigarettes from another, beneath the grime and shadows is the shell of the former Chinese supermarket, great quality cast iron woks for three pounds. Dormant rock music stored on vinyl discs used to be procured from beneath the vacant multi-storey car park. From this point directly opposite, over the concrete wall and railings and four lanes of traffic at the end of Digbeth High Street, is the totally black façade of St Martin’s church. Nestling between strangled trees.

The aroma of over ripe melon and bananas fills the air as you emerge from the North end of the Bull Ring Subway into the interface between small shops selling cheap goods and the fruit market. The familiar banter of the market traders, the rotting vegetables on the floor, as you stop to get your bearings, the whack in the leg from some old lady’s shopping basket distracts your train of thought as you look for Nelson. The statue of Admiral Nelson stands in a strangely concealed and at the same time prominent position, from the fruit market you need to work your way through the rabble past the aromas of mature cheddar from the region, to the flight of steps that doubles back on itself, at this point Nelson is completely invisible. Up the steps, treads coated with blackened chewing gum and pigeon droppings, passing by chipped paintwork of the steel box section handrail. Along the ‘promenade’ heading back in the direction of Moor Street Station, although disconnected from it by the traffic intersection, the air heavy with the smell of salt and vinegar on fish and chips, to be led to Nelson who stands in a kind of plaza, surrounded by people eating their lunch whilst sitting on park benches overlooking the 'harbour' where the market stalls become the boats and the heads of people the sea.

As Nelson observes the scene from a respectful distance, the route from the plaza takes you past trees and shrubs trying to hide the noise of constant traffic, curving down past the boarded up public conveniences, a rat scurries across your path and disappears into the cover of shrubs, and it is back at the subterranean crossroads. Turning right into the tunnel once again, following the path straight ahead the route passing the market stalls on the right, shear wall on the left, market traders’ clothes racks dominate the scene, at the bottom of the ramp that rises back up to the stairs and fish and chip shops, continuing onwards beneath the shopping centre building and into the narrow gully of Bell Street Footpath. Walking past the crumbling brick and concrete façade of the centre, blackened windows obscure the view of the indoor market behind, the image of the former market hall is set into the finish of the concrete wall opposite in a type of tactile mural, the wall holding up the traffic, overhead ramps span the gully to link the cap park to the ‘Ringway’. Along the gully brightly coloured paintwork heralds the entrance to the ‘new’ market hall where you can buy fresh fish or poultry but you need to climb down from the street to get to it. At the end of the gully a subway to the right takes you into Manzoni Gardens which we will come back to later, the gully curves round to the left rising gently to the grand entrance to the Grand Parade, the entrance faces the back of the Odeon Cinema and constant clouds of diesel exhaust that issues from new street station in the pit below.

The grand entrance sits on a deserted plaza as though addressing an event that has yet to happen. To the left a supermarket, to the right a night club. Above the entrance sits a dull green office block with the legend ‘FUJI FILM’ in six foot high letters running along the full length of the facade on the top level. Into the entrance, tatty old worn grey and green lino, chipped and peeling paintwork, an undersized and under-lit foyer with a sign that informs you that the management reserves the right to refuse admission. Dark timber varnished doors invite you into…the car park, dark, dark place air heavy with exhaust fumes, forming the heart of this city within a city. From the so-called foyer, crowd control stairs double back on themselves to lead the unsuspecting visitor on the bridge link between the Bull Ring centre and the department store building complete with banqueting suites on the top floor. Taking the route along the one sided bridge, when you can avoid being bumped into by bargain hunters. The left taken up with shops, the right dominated by heavy concrete columns. The view over the pit seems to demonstrate that the plaza was originally intended to span across to the station buildings to form a central public square. At the edge the trees of Manzoni Gardens make a brave attempt at shielding its predominantly inebriated inhabitants from the constant dizzy whirl of traffic.In between the traffic flows a central reservation with a giant north point, rumour has it that that was where it was on the drawing, and the ground workers just built it.

The route flows through to the Pallasades shopping centre, slightly cleaner, upmarket shops pink neon and considerably more browsing space. Escalators form the way down into the main entrance of New Street Station, an undersized concourse where people wait to meet others arriving from far away places, at the same time, others send their friends, family, loved ones away to far off places. That is if they can avoid being bumped into by people getting on and off trains. The whole melting pot of activity takes place in the airborne aroma of burgers and hot cookies. From within the pit that accommodates New Street Station part of the Bull Ring Centre remains visible. The rotunda, (formerly known as the Coca Cola building). The dull green clad office block (Fuji Film building) that stands above the main shopping centre. Trains can be seen passing beneath the subterranean streets that in turn pass beneath the traffic of St Martin’s Circus. At the opposite end of the station, a similar pit like arrangement is spanned by a very tired and weathered looking, ‘white’ steel and supposedly translucent paneled bridge link that forms the Navigation Street Entrance. Around the edge of the concrete walled pit, Birmingham’s entertainment quarter butts up against a solid barrier that defines New street Station and the Bull Ring Centre across a one sided street. The whole complex consists of things uncomfortably placed on top of other things: Car park on top of Shopping Centre atop Railway station. Apartment Block on top of Parcel depot, Shopping Centre atop Bus Station. Ring Road over Bus Station. The stench of Diesel exhaust dominates the gloom as buses move through regimented channels and the passengers move between the buses if they can. Concrete columns coated in grime obscure any real way of moving about comfortably whilst the only signs inform you that loitering is not permitted, A bit of a problem if you are waiting for a bus. A set of double doors lead through to the food hall and fish market, Fish and Diesel, what a combination!

The indoor bus station exits onto Edgbaston Street and the unofficial outdoor bus station, where more buses pass by than use the official one, making a moving barrier outside the rag market. Further along Edgbaston street is the Flea Market, across the road from St Martin’s Church. From this vantage the rotunda sits uncomfortably on the top of the hill. Walking beneath the trees, over cracked paving slabs, past broken park benches to the main external space provided by the Bull Ring Centre. A female street preacher with megaphone and sandals rants on a great speed whilst the market population continue about their business.

A spiral ramp leads somewhat awkwardly up to a deserted plaza with a manufactured Irish pub. Nelson looks out from across the sea of heads, in between being completely obscured by passing buses. The spire of St Martin’s casts a distorted reflection on a shear glass wall to mark the entrance into the main shopping level. Through the double doors is a narrow corridor, the central space shyly presents itself, Flagstone flooring, the now familiar gray lino and light green paneling. Escalators drag you sluggishly skywards through a green void, the solid wall being formed by the back of the car park, to another shopping maze. Round a corner, up a ramp, and the solid wall of shops gives way to glazing, forming a bridge over St Martin’s Circus, not much of a circus, more of a traffic island really. Over the pedestrian gully of Bell Street Footpath, Manzoni Gardens with its rows regimented of park benches with very few people. The journey through the centre ends with another escalator ride, past a sign that says ‘Thank you for shopping at The Bull Ring’ past flower sellers in the lobby, to another subterrianean crossroads, this one somewhere beneath the Rotunda. To the left Manzoni Gardens, to the right the fish and chip shops and the path to the statue of Nelson, Straight ahead, through the glow, painted murals adorn the subway walls, illustrating the Bull Ring past and present, all giving a pleasant view of life, which in this case are far removed from the experience.

Bahrain Half Marathon 2013

This is just a short post not exactly about the race itself, but that the whole race took place on a route on land that did not exist in 2000, in fact most of it did not exist in 2005, it was coral reefs in the sea. Much of the route is along what has been a construction site since I arrived in the Kingdom in 2011, the King Faisal Highway has been growing steadily wider, a massive overpass that I drive beneath every day has been steadily stretching from the piles of sand at Bahrain Bay to the mainland. For one morning one lane of the highway is closed off and has become a running track. running along the track opposite to the flow of the traffic gives a view of the development that you don’t normally get to see,  behind the fences that are normally not noticeable in the traffic, is the makings of a new landscape, although resembling a car park at present, and beyond a Corniche, a sea front, a place that I have grown up taking for granted is being built.

Up and onto the overpass and what will become the main Bahrain Bay road, past Arcapita a kind of suspended glass box office block and some utilitarian buildings that resemble standard issue sub stations and bang! into a headwind, past the boxes and on to the top of the road, the view across to the shoreline is beginning to look dramatic with the Bahrain World Trade Centre, being framed by structures moving out of the ground that are beginning to resemble the renderings at least in form, the Four Seasons on its own island in the middle of the ‘Bay’ and the twisting form of the Wyndham Grand. Has a feel of the Victorian rush to the seaside in the UK during the19th Century, except the weather is good here all the time and the smog is not in the cites but the traffic. Continuing around the loop of Bahrain Bay to the financial harbour and the bookend office blocks and the twisted sisters, the 3 abandoned towers and back on to the highway this time running with the traffic, why do they all feel the need to ‘beep’ as they go by? Perhaps they think they are encouraging us, or is it that we are occupying their space? An hour later after I have remembered how to walk again, the cones are gone, the traffic has built up to its relentless rush and everything is back to what passes for normal.

Having experienced the makings of SOM’s master plan shaping up on the ground, there is the feeling of anticipation or is it trepidation? of how this place is going to shape up, either way looking forward the next event where we can get the running track back again in the ever changing landscape.

Cross Island Classic - Bahrain 2012

It is not every country where it is possible to run from coast to coast in an afternoon, an hour and fifty four minutes to be precise, in Bahrain it is.The format of the race is that we drive to the finish, park our cars next to the yacht club at Al Jazair Beach, board a bus to transport us to the other side of the island and run back...easy.

The bus trip on board an Indian Ashok Leyland school bus (complete with 1970s BL badge on the radiator grille) takes the less direct route, passing Al Areen wildlife park, the elegant stands of Bahrain International Circuit, Bahrain University before heading south along the narrow winding road that takes us to the East coast. The road crosses oil and gas pipelines that dive down beneath the surface and re-emerge on the opposite side. The desert is  punctuated by ‘nodding donkeys’, the oil pumps, and more and more pipes as the bus moves into the oil fields proper. To the South a rocky outcropping, said to be Bahrain’s only mountain, hardly a mountain at 300m but the highest point in Bahrain with giant golf ball to prove it. Past more oil company compounds, signs are everywhere saying Camping Prohibited right next to clusters of tents. The 'Tree of Life' stands alone on the sand and has done for over 500 years according to local history, planted by the Portugese during their time of global domination. Another walled compound punctuated by sentry towers marks the Air Base and the start of the race. The buses stop and disgorge over 200 competitors. The azure blue sea glistens to the East where it is not quite possible to see neighbouring Qatar and a cool breeze prevents us from overheating as we wait for the start vehicle to arrive. A few minutes later, the race briefing, a few photographs and we are off! Back up the road to take a left turn after the first kilometre to follow the course marked by orange flags.

The briefing made reference to the first part of the race being the hardest and boy! they were not kidding, soft sand...feet sink into the surface, legs labour to keep moving at a steady plod and shoes fill up with sand, the field spreads out at competitors try to find better purchase but it is the same for all of us. First obstacle, cross a pipeline, no jumping over the pipes but a stop and clamber over or under. The ground is rising steadily and the going is tough through more soft powdery sand punctuated by areas of shale.
A rough road is a welcome change in terrain and the pace quickens, the smell of oil hanging firmly in the air as the race encounters what resembles the set of a Mad Max movie, the deep roar Harley Davidson motorcycles on the road mixed with the buzz of quad bikes moving across the sand as the locals make their entertainment. The vehicular traffic becomes more pronounced as a steady stream of cars and 4x4’s joins in the parade. Running becomes easier as adrenalin kicks in with an audience (even a mainly uninterested one). The road climbs steadily to what sounds like the Thunderdome, as the smell of oil mixes with burning rubber and the flinty smell of airborne dust, augmented by the sound of engines and squeal of tyres as the kids practice donuts inside a fenced compound.

The road turns to the right and heads over a rocky outcropping, the air clears and the sea becomes visible on the west coast where it is not quite possible to see neigbouring Saudi Arabia in the distance. The dark zones near the horizon being the Al Areen Wildlife park a very marked distance away. Gradually descending on rough tracks, shale and more of the soft sand through gated zones patrolled by the National Guard, on to the Bahrain Endurance Village where Equestrians are preparing for an international event on the following day, watched by curious Bahrainis, the run heads back to the highway and a struggle to clear the crash barrier. Back on the road it is all about the finish, eventually turning the final turn to be welcomed by the sight of the final orange flag, smiling faces and a huge adrenalin rush as the pace builds to a sprint and it is all over! Totally spent but immensely satisfied, forgotten how to walk for the moment but what an awesome race!