SlackLondon: A peek into the SlackLife

Friday

It was one of those mornings that started with sweaty sex.
The kind that burns calories. Fellas know that if you want to start your day jacked and natural, relieving the morning glory is a good way to go.
And if that wasn’t enough, what is it about walking round someone else’s apartment, naked, air-guitaring to Jimi Hendrix that is so invigorating?

With more energy than expected from my packet of chocolate buttons and a fromage-frais breakfast, I decided to set myself a mission.
Not two days ago had I bought a cool earring, and I’d taken even less time to lose it.
My mission - to find it.
Needle in a haystack.
Earring in London.
You get the idea.

But I felt lucky.
Sat on the tube, I ran a montage. There, before my feet was the silver ring, glinting, as if the sun had found the sacred spot. I felt like Indiana, mounting that medallion onto his staff.

The tube took a sharp turn, and then another ten. Jerked from my daydreams, I rationalise the ridiculous probability of finding my earring. I smile to myself, taking a deep breath in as 8 civilians cram themselves into a 3-man spot, along the train’s aisle and along my face.

I was off to Victoria Park. Not only the sacred burial ground for my earring, but the location for the 2011 SlackLondon festival, which I was rumoured to have been organising.

In true balls out fashion, I had set Victoria Park as the location disclosed to the public, yet not cleared our slacking permission with the park’s ranger service. And, the previous day on my first visit ever, I had managed to lose something. Things were looking bright.

Friday, during a British September, doesn’t conjure up images of perspiring brows or uncomfortably aligned underwear. Yet that’s what half of the city of London was experiencing. With an extra third of my body weight in rucksacks, I waddled into the park’s grounds, mentally grinning at the weekend ahead of me. What would it hold? Who would I meet? Who else’s shower would I operatically dismantle before clocking awkward eyes with the neighbour? Universe, give me a sign!


Bags down, roughly the same number of paces from the trees as you sat yesterday. Look for bottle cap dug into floor, and snapped twig the width of a chippolata sausage.

Looking. Found the cap. Still Looking. Found the twig. 15 minutes later, but still no earring. Sweating. Hopeless. I quit.

I bent down to pick up my bags, letting the frustration of losing something wash over me. Just then, as my hand reached for the backpack strap, the most glorious glint pierced my gaze like a heavenly gift.

That was it.
That was the omen.

From here on in, everything would fall into place, and I, into a deep sleep.
Blanket down under a shady canopy, Tom Sawyer position. I lit a pipe and drifted slowly in to my central city siesta.
The slacking wouldn’t begin for another hour or two. Perfect.

I awoke to a vibrating lump of plastic, hovering over my chest. Nothing to worry about. Friends were calling to say they had arrived. A dump of internal chemical excitement hit my veins. I was wired to go!

The first thing Aborigines do when they arrive at a new location is to set and burn a fire. With nomadic slackers, they rig lines.
The three of us put up what lines we had. Not just to slack with, but to show presence. SlackLondon was born. And it felt incredible.
Tunes, sunshine, slacklines and an open invitation the whole of the country. Things were looking peachy indeed.








Britain was in a good mood, and that was reflected in its sky. So good in fact, that Jake was able to set up his solar powered sound system. It wasn’t long before the public were captivated. City workers stopped their stomps momentarily, squinting their eyes to see if we really were levitating. A couple even joined in and tried the lines out. From 3 we grew to about 30 plus. Not bad for a facebook event’s page and a paper plate sign I ductaped to one of the park’s infinite gate entrances.





A few hours in and the rangers had pulled up.
‘Sorry mate, but we don’t allow slacklining in this park.’
Heart drops to my arse. It was an inevitable situation, but still, the imaginary version didn’t have the same, gut-wrenching quality to it. Think fast. Faster.



‘Well, in fact, I cleared it with Jivesh just the other day brother. He said it was all cool,’ I recited, in an on-the-spot manner of Event Organiser superiority.
The dialogue continued.
I name dropped as best I could.
I mentioned how Saturday was going to be the big one, how people from all over the country were coming to jam with us.
Still the head honcho wasn’t going to budge. His authoritative position meant too much to him in front of his colleague.
So I tried a different black-belt method of diversion.

‘All the kids coming tomorrow are so excited. If you take us out now, they’ll be so upset. Hey, in fact, why don’t you have a go, man. Here, I’ll help you walk the line.’

Laughs all round.
Suddenly the conversation turned from competition, to cooperation.
They declined the offer of trying the slackline.
‘Wouldn’t look too good doing it in uniform now, would it?’ they said, grinning.
Suddenly they didn’t seem so bothered about winning the battle of shutting us down.
I held my ground, for the good of us all and for the sake of SlackLondon. It paid off.
‘Well, I can’t stop you guys from doing it, I s’pose.’

And that’s all I needed to hear.
I beamed a smile of smugness to all the slackliners as I confirmed to them all, and to myself, that SlackLondon was going ahead. Result.







The sunset Friday night was just beyond majesty. I faced west, tilting my eyes to the sky, wishing I could somehow kiss it. Slacklines bordered my peripheral, gentle tunes accompaning my personal postcard. What could have been better? This is heaven, I thought. This is SlackLife.

With hardly any light but the effervescent, tangerine glow of the city, we de-rigged and de-littered our spot. A pint was in order, sadly not to be shared with other slackers, but that didn’t matter. They would return tomorrow.
Ben, Jake and I took ourselves to the nearest watering hole we could find. We re-rigged the sound system as we sat outside – the first time being our own DJs at someone else’s pub.



It was fantastic – the public’s mood shifted into a bubbly sense of euphoria the moment Jake’s funk collection hit their ears. Our excitement for Saturday couldn’t be contained. Even the barmaid was slung information on how to find us the following day.



Back in Jake’s palatial van and Ben wasn’t feeling too good. We’d scored a wicked park up spot, right along side the park’s western section. What better way for us to leave our mark than for Ben to projectile vomit over a whole section of fencing? Lads on tour indeed, even after only 2 pints.
Something for the squirrels I suppose.



Together we smoked ourselves out, listening to some fine Dub and lounging in the twilight of a small lamp. Kids passing by obviously heard, and thought it would be funny to shake, rattle and roll the palace from the outside. It definitely got our attention, and nearly caught my temper. A swift shout and flinging open of the door found no one in sight. All part and parcel of a travelling SlackLife.
The three of us drifted into our mellow slumber, smiles all round.


Saturday

The radiating heat of the morning sun was filling the van, prying us from our reclined status. The pangs hit us simultaneously. And so did the headaches. We needed to find a greasy spoon, soon. Neither of us had drunk enough water the day before. Topping that off with a couple of pints and some pre-sleep-rum-swigging meant that we were all missing the back section of our skulls. A fry-up and some caffeine required. Together, we trotted with light feet on a blurry-eyed grub-mission.



On the horizon read ‘BREAKFAST – 10 ITEMS FOR £5’. Done.
‘Had a rough night then lads?’ said our waitress.
Did we look that bad? We’d had 30 hours sleep between us!
Must have been a dirty fingernail giveaway.

Out came a plate the size of my torso, filled with meat and chips. We must have devoured a pig’s worth. Hangover cured and fuelled for a day of slacking, for less than a tenner. It’s deals like that that gets us pumped.
Excitedly, we blurted to our waitress where she could find us, and together we witnessed her realise that we were travelling slackers, not homeless drunks. Relief!

A leisurely lunchtime approach seemed the perfect time to rock up at the park. But not before visiting one of Jake’s contacts for the use of a shower.
Feeling new, we were ready to get on to day 2 of the weekend. We wheeled a whole trailer full of gear back to our spot. As soon as the first couple of lines went up and the sound system started pumping, it was show time. The public’s attention had been captivated with ease.



Gradually numbers of people began to accumulate on our lawn. Local indoor rock climbers came to check out the day, bringing with them everything they needed for a good sesh – from bags of fruit and nut, to lines of nylon tubular.






At the peak of the day, I recorded a whopping 13 lines that were rigged for everyone to try. Most were trick lines, but it wasn’t long before the 30+ meter lines came out. And then, the 56m ‘Widow Maker’.






The tension was the issue. Out of the ten plus people who tried, only three people sent it. And that was after we had to de-rig and re-tension. Before that, no man could tame the beast.



It was a personal battle for myself. The longest line I had tried to date. I didn’t feel pressure from surrounding slackers, as such. But I knew what it meant to me and what it would take to send it. That created a pressure of its own.
Somehow, I locked in and found the pocket. I had sent the beast and felt stoked as could be.
Unfortunately, I returned and found Jake had bailed and given himself mild-concussion. He couldn’t remember shit, so I figured dowsing him with beta on the Widow Maker wouldn’t sit well with his state of confusion.




The twilight of the day was drawing in, my favourite time. The skies opened up their chambers of super nature for us all to gawp upon in awe. Sunset lines and barbeques. I was in sending-celebration mode, and went to stock up on feast material. Sat round together, we chomped and chatted away, reminiscing on highlights of the weekend. Getting to know everyone there was a real pleasure. Some real diamonds had come out to play.



As darkness fell, we played out the SlackLife in full, packing and de-rigging with next to no visibility. Out came the head torches. We marched the trailer and all our gear across the park, only to find that we had been locked in! Again! Between four of us, we hauled the beast over the fence, tunes still pumping, much to the surprise of the locals drinking in the park’s border-lining pub. Trawling the streets with tunes would be our final chapter. We missioned to the nearest kebaby, all in the name of chips. Jake and Ben managed to confuse our cashier so well that he forgot to ask them for any money. As the four of us sat on the curb, barely able to keep our deep fried delights within our palettes, from laughing so hard, it dawned on me that I really was in the pocket. This really was heaven.

Sunday

A lazy Sunday morning came around in a haze. SlackLondon had played out its scene.
We awoke, all in level positions. Falling out of the palace, one by one, we realised we’d been done. The front right tire had been slashed. Along with about 50 other cars down the street and in the immediate local area. Mindless, infuriating vandalism, and yet, we couldn’t be happier. We juggled for the neighbours, admired the yuppie dressing gown talent, and even scored a free cuppa each. Locals lent us tools, and together we got on the case and changed the truck’s tire in street circus style. I’d like to think our grins were contagious. Thanks to the hot middle-eastern chicks for the tea!






Most of the slackers had retired to their abodes to rest. However, a few of us remained that were keen for some final day action. Dan brought his line to rig, and in between rain spells, we eventually rocked up to the park at 6pm.
A 64m was on cue, myself and Jake’s longest challenge yet. Internally and mentally, I was still in the pocket from sending the 56m the day before. Keeping that presence, I sent the line first try and back again, and so did Jake. It was a taste of bliss, I’m sure. I was so relaxed and so aware. I felt like a nylon Buddha.




Our final mission was one of style. All that was left was to say our goodbyes and figure out how to leave the sprawl that is central London.

Right by the station, the final three musketeers, Jake, Ben and myself, called in at the most badass Indian restaurant I have ever eaten at. This place had tree houses in it, man! We all double took as we walked past the window. Realising this would be the greatest novelty mastication had ever seen, we piled through the door and waved a ‘three’, pointing to the tree house cabin. We scored our own unit – 4 or 5 steps up a ladder, looking out over the whole restaurant. The waiters climb the ladder to serve you, and yes, clearing the table was both nerve wracking and hilarious. Yet they didn’t drop anything. God forbid. A stray item of cutlery from our cabin’s altitude would have resulted in a lawsuit. Or even another concussion.

We ran through the flavours of East laid before us. We laughed at all the discrepancies and raucousness of SlackLondon and how incredibly well it all came together. One conversation in a sub-urban park of Swindon a month previously, had manifested itself into a waking dream; 3 days of living in the pocket with friends and a whole selection of new people to add to that title. Incredible.

So excited and late for my train home, I legged it with 25 keys of gear strapped to my torso, up one massive, broken escalator. My legs gave out, I slipped on my sweaty flip-flop and sliced my foot clean open on the side of the metal step. And I missed my train.




Back to the palace for a smoke with the boys then?





Hazardous Davis


Photos: Hazardous Davis
Matt Locke
Lubos Horvat - www.luboshorvat.com

True Self-Expression; Slacklining; The Swiss Mission Part 2; Sunday Funday

The Swiss Mission, Part 2; Sunday Funday




In a couple of hours’ time, I would be staring down one of the biggest monsters Lausanne had ever seen.

A combination of early morning summer-sweats and excitement became my alarm clock. Navigating the young, heat-less hours was our incentive, as James had been plotting the rigging of the 125m monster to be our first mission, and the cooler the temperature, the better.
The previous day’s excitement had meant we were a little geriatric in our movements down to the bus stop. We soon began to limber up however, as the enthusiasm grew in unison with the sun’s rising line above us, somewhat defrosting our stiffness.

I hadn’t really any expectations for the day, I’d travelled too far to risk being disappointed by events not living up to my train-time daydreams. I had more a gut feeling; elements of the radical were about to present themselves in full effect. Much to everyone’s delight.

When a season gives itself in its entirety, like it has one last chance to prove itself, it strikes a note that leaves an indelible impression.
Nature was giving her last performance - not one member of the audience was to leave with a hint of negativity, and I had managed to get a ticket.


Riding the Dragon



James is an up and coming PhD wizard, so something as technical as rigging 125m of nylon-knarliness was all figured out. In his head.
In these situations, it’s just easier to act the servant. If Pharoah were to explain to his masses how the pyramids functioned, instead of where to stack stones, he would probably have had a revolution on his hands.


Rigging the Dragons



It all became clear what the James-brain had conceived after about an hour of jogging, adjusting, tugging and tightening. The tug of war tensioning efforts felt like a re-enactment of a Viking Longboat scene; every man giving his brawn to the rhythm of the drum- his own pulse. All we were missing were the silly hats.

The 125 line cut the park in half, sitting at about 8ft off the ground. A royal-blue, nylon dragon had landed in Lausanne, deciding to uncoil itself between the two tallest trees it could find. And little did it know, it would be battled by many a knight throughout the day.



It was an intimidating sight. I was witnessing one of the longest lines I’d ever dared to look at. I personally only made a few steps before the dragon seemed to realise something was on its back; casting me off like dust upon its scales.
Only the most skilled and courageous in attendance managed to send the beast – a crossing time of anything from 5 to 20 minutes, end to end.


Mounting the Beast

Beast Awakens

The 75m line would prove to be my personal task for the day, and although I didn’t cross it, the lessons became more about how to cross a line so long. I made the most of the skilled slackers in attendance, asking where possible for tips and advice on various aspects of the art of balance.
And slacking wouldn’t be the only form of entertainment for the day.



Taming of the Beast



‘What happened over there?’ I asked, spotting some activity by a big tree.
‘He tried to take a piss in my bag!’ Fabian replied, through a grin that was comprised of half shock and half hilarity.
Lausanne’s drunk and homeless population hardly existed from what I saw, but we were graced by one fellow’s presence, and to his credit, he did very well: free beers, cigarettes, food and a place to have an afternoon nap. Apart from the moment when we decided to take a piss in his bag, as a reminder.

Only joking.




That was only one of the many social delights that would unfold on this summer-like Sunday. A very successful BBQ, supplied by no other than James’ science department, provided a re-enactment of what felt to be the feeding of the 5000. For those not yet accomplished in slacking, they brought with them an array of culinary delights and chef skills, grilling up mean meat-feast material.

First Grill Results

During the digestive period, where many of the crew were out of action combating numerous cases of food-coma, the longer lines even served as temporary volleyball nets. Who would have thought park life to be so innovative?
One of James’ friends had done especially well to not only bring racks of chicken wings and sausages with him, but at least 10 women also.
(Fellers, take note; if you’re invited to a meat-feast, balance out that energy with some of the feminine. It’s the least you can do.)

James had done very well at organising everything. More than thirty people showed themselves throughout the day, some experienced slackers (with enough Swiss precision to make Victorinox envious), some keen to try, and some experts in chilling.



Higher than it looks!

There were a selection of different lines to try, of varying lengths and difficulties. Beginners had the freedom to attempt sending the shorter lines by themselves, or ask one of the many competent slackers present if they would show them how it’s done. Members of the public stopped in their paths, some even joining in amongst what looked to be a mix of circus escapees with barbeque connoisseurs, all laughing and lounging together.

I was particularly taken a back by the positive vibes from the whole day.
Usually you get one or two upsets at events like these, but even a drunk urinating in someone’s bag was laughed at and didn’t affect anyone for the worse. Slackliners have proved themselves, yet again, to be some of the most genuine, sound people across the globe.

We had moments of challenges; a game in particular I took part in, involved using a plastic plate as a marker to show the distance that each slacker fell off. The aim was to outdo all who fell before you and move the plate as far down the line as possible.
Thanks to that little charade, I managed to add another ten meters on to my attempts.
Personal records were broken.
If I’m not mistaken, James even had time to set a personal record by nailing the 75+ meter line.



And despite the dangerous first-impressions that Slacklining can give to members of the public and authorities, there were no injuries sustained and we weren’t once interrupted to be told that we had no rights to set up in the park.
The day had an underlying current of helping each other running through it, and the result meant that instead of coming to the park and losing, breaking or missing something, everyone seemed to leave better off than when they arrived.

We finished the day as the light began to remove itself from the sky, being replaced with the orange tint of Lausanne’s street lamps.

A cooler breeze swept through the air, and in true European style, we decided there was only one last thing left to accomplish -

Sinking a cold, white beer.



Next Up; Swiss Mission part 3 - A Lion's Guide to Waterlining

True Self-Expression; THE SWISS MISSION - PART 1

THE SWISS MISSION - PART 1

“I’ll meet you in the station at the little boulangerie, and you can play where’s waldo.”

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I had told James I could be on a train in 24 hours if the planets aligned themselves. They did.
The scorching heat of the day wasn’t in full display at 7am. But somehow you know that the furnace with be stoked for you later on. Walking to my local train station, a concoction of emotions stirred themselves with each step; excitement, language anxiety, curiosity, composure.

I would be taking a 4 hour train journey from Northern Italy to Lausanne, Switzerland, to meet James Clulow. An established Kiwi Slackliner, now residing in Lausanne, meddling with their science laboratories and even more so with the local talent, he’d organised a slackline festival in a local park for the Sunday, and I was on a trans-global mission to join in.

With somewhat confident, yet broken Italian, I managed to purchase a return ticket to Switzerland, albeit costing double what I had prepared myself for.
With a lighter itinerary and even lighter wallet, I picked my seats strategically, so I could gaze into some of Europe’s most humbling, yet epic scenery, losing myself before I’d even found it.

Adrenaline was obviously on this weekend’s menu.
For no reason other than enthusiasm, I attempted to converse with a local Italian paraglider on his way to Monterone for the day. Between us, like pigeons sharing prose, we managed to express the essential essence of our conversations.
The journey flew by as I felt myself sink into a semi-hypnotic trance. My train was my frequency, the scenery my pendulum, falling ever deeper into the eyes of the mountains.

Next stop, Lausanne.

This was my first official time in Switzerland. My last visit was an airport stop-over hook-up attempt, where I had less than an hour to kiss a Swiss-blonde bombshell I’d reeled in in Hong Kong.

It didn’t happen.

In that time she’d become taken, so the only souvenir I could take with me was that wrapped in foil, and contained hazelnuts.
This time I would have 3 days, and my mission would be to walk on as many slacklines as I could. Caressing a strip of nylon with calloused feet doesn’t sound quite as romantic but it congers up just as much passion.

James was rocking the Waldo outfit in true, striped style. As I spotted him from across the station, I felt smug, like I had just completed a real Waldo comic book challenge.
We wasted no time. James gave me a quick preview of the following day’s venue, then we headed straight to a part of the city where a 50m beast was awaiting our enthusiasm.


Captain Clulow demonstrates to the Swiss youth just how it's done

Switzerland’s public transport is pretty damn good. Even better if you have no money and are looking for free rides across town. The fine is 120 Francs if you get caught, but I guess that’s the beauty of having an international address.


The elation of achieving stage one of my mission; arrival, started to set in.
I began to comprehend just how rad it felt, to be able to suggest a mission to someone in an online forum, who you’ve never met, then to meet them in person, in another part of the world, all in the name of your mutual passion.
Already I could tell this was going to be a weekend of hilarity, community and ‘Balls Out!’ efforts.

We metro’d across the city to meet James’ friends who had rigged a longline over a grass football pitch, surrounded by numerous towers of concrete apartment blocks.
If it wasn’t in Switzerland, you would have felt like you were landcruising through a portion of The Bronx.
Graffiti productions smothered the scratchy wall surfaces.
Kids kicked footballs through the dusty remnants of industry, spliff-smoke sailed in whispy currents disclosing the presence of a breeze in the air.
The setting had that strange aesthetic that seems to accompany the inherent ugliness of urbanism. Steel re-bar stuck out of breeze blocks, like rusty chocolate-flake ice creams.
Yet the strangest part was that it didn’t feel unsafe at all. In fact, I felt quite at home there.


SwissBronx


At first glances, the line was…long.
50m is well over double anything I had ever attempted to date.
It was rigged well over head height, waving in the wind like a ribbon of temptation.
I was blatantly getting on it.
There was no mistake I was in Europe.
Shirts off in April.
Pop-topped beers, open pages of foreign rock climbing magazines and half ripped packets of cheeses littered with crumbs of crusty bread.
A home away from home.

James sent the line as if he was just warming up. His friend, Alain, busted some moves mid-line which caught the attention of the locals so as to stop their game of footbag. I, however, mounted the monster and got flung off as if I’d just been shot from a human cannon! It’s alright, there was grass underfoot. And my bruises would be mostly internal.

My first impressions were just how strong the forces through the line, up into my body, really were. The distance of the line also meant that the weight of the webbing was far heavier than anything I had experienced previously. My initial reaction was to try and tame the beast, comparable to taming a bull, but barehanded.
The forces were just too strong to try and resist.
Instead, you had to absorb what shockwaves came your way, using your core strength to ensure those absorptions didn’t smother you to a point of imbalance.
Eventually, you get used to the sensations that began overwhelming you, gradually progressing further and further down the line.

The sun was pretty full force, so James decided we should set up a trick line down in the shade. There would be nothing glamorous about sun-dried tomatoes waltzing upon polyester string anyway.

Within ten minutes, James had won podium position for knarliest battle-wound of the weekend – a mach-10 line-whip across his whole right latimus dorsi muscle, looking like he came out from a 10 round, white collar, Thai Boxing match.
He definitely took it like a champ and I couldn’t resist snapping some shots for the ‘Bloodbank’ gallery.

BLOODBANK!

The boys taught me some new tricks, including ‘Charlies’, that look like the walks that Charlie Chaplin used to do when entertaining the masses; something I thought I was really clever for noticing, until I realised the trick was actually named after Chaplin himself.
Alain practiced his backflip attempts, a trick that seems to slow down the essence of time when you witness it in the flesh. And James used his long-legged advantage, gaining super hang-time with some atomic leaps which seemed to make the local air- traffic jealous.

I was blessed with some sweet Swiss-Sativa, and between us, the trick session seemed to lean in a whole new realm. The local kids were fascinated (as kids the world over seem to be) and amongst us we just had so much fun, right into the blackened hours of the night’s hot air.


Swiss Kids in Awe

The camaraderie of a ‘Session’ for men really does give us a kick – it exhausts you but it’s that exhaustion that leaves a smile in its wake, a smile of satisfaction at what a sick day you’ve had.
With my newly developed taste for white beers, James and Alain were keen to grab a pint as close to our location as possible. We hauled the gear like urban sherpas through the surprisingly quiet streets, until coming across an empty hotel beer garden; the perfect location to reflect on the days events and make the last minute plans for the big SlackFest the following day.

Back at James’ studio apartment – a modern, 3 metres squared, European tech-tardis – he treated me to Spaghetti Carbonara, Clulow style; a badass mouthful.
Carb loading never felt so good, especially after not eating wheat for the last 4 months. Food Coma hit hard, and after serving for a game or two of snoring-tennis, it was time to awaken from our slumbers, for the big day.


Next Up: Part 2 - Sunday Funday