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What sport says

This week, a political party in Catalunya, Spain, labelled grid girls as the reducing of woman to lust objects, and announced its intention to ban these girls from the MotoGP and Formula One events that are held in Catalunya each year.

In a discussion on Reddit, the common reaction was that the girls have to decide for themselves whether they wanted to have this scarcely clothed job or not. If most of them seem happy with the job, why ban it and limit their freedom? It’s hard to argue with that logic, although it misses the bigger issue.

This proposed ban isn’t so much about individual rights of the girls that choose to exercise this profession, but rather what international sporting institutions wish to tell about the role women should have in male dominated sports, and that this role can be more than wearing scarce clothing and holding umbrellas for male athletes.

Gridgirls are by far the cringiest aspect of top tier motorsport, a heritage from a forlorn era of traditional roles. And while many institutions around the world are promoting equal opportunities for women, the FIM and FIA, who organise the MotoGP and Formula One races, choose to turn a total blind eye and stick to old gender roles.

Staying stuck in the past is hurting cultural change, as the biggest barrier to women entering motorsport, whether it’s as a driver or engineer, isn’t actual liberty to do so, not financial and obviously not biological. The biggest limit are the roles imposed on us by culture. And right now, we’re telling our children that a woman’s role is to be an ornament.

It’s worth asking; what’s the point of sport? For sure it’s entertainment, but sports can also be an inspiration for life, educative in how to overcome obstacles and achieve great things. It is this why we should be more conscience about the lessons we let sport teach to our children, whether they’re boys or girls.

Jenny Tinmouth, photo by Rob Clenshaw

Wholesomeness

Does the quality of your life come from the quality of your decisions? Or, does the quality of your decisions come from the quality of your life?

At first this seems like a chicken-and-egg kind of dilemma, a search for causality. But the present day mantra lays heavily on the former; decision making is the ultimate solution to problem solving, and — either through discussions, strategies, or careful calculations — it leads to good decisions, which in turn leads to a good life.

This is reasonable, but the latter part is equally true. We rarely focus on the interdependance of our decisions. But a good life leads to good decisions. An enthusiastic life leads to enthusiastic decisions, and an angry life leads to angry decisions.

The answer thus seems overly simplified; if you wish to make the right decisions, live the right life. Good decisions flow from good decisions. The opposite is also true; live the wrong life, and every decision taken will be wrong, even the smallest ones.

This explains how, in general, poor people make poor choices; spending more time behind the television, spending less time with friends, and eating less healthy. Poor people aren’t poor because they make bad decisions. They make bad decisions because they are poor.

But the connectivity of decisions is also visible in positive examples, for instance when people start exercising to stay fit. Often, also their diets improve, because they appreciate the feeling of losing weight or feeling fit. As a result, they become more self confident, and dare to socialise more. As a result, they become happier and the quality of life improves.

Accomplishments like this are the result of holistic solutions, not singular decisions. Football teams don’t win just because they have a good goalkeeper. And armies can’t win with soldiers that don’t have their bellies full.

The famous chess player Garry Kasparov was once asked by a journalist how many moves ahead he could think. The people in the room were probably expecting a huge number, one that would explain the brilliance of Kasparov, but he simply replied: “There is no answer for that. The main thing in chess is not how many moves ahead you can think, but how you analyse the situation.”

If the journalist thought that Kasparov was a good chess player because of the many decisions ahead he could make, then Kasparov’s answer proved he was a good chess player because his skill allowed him to handle each new situation. In other words; it was not his good decision making that led to his ability to play chess, it was the other way around.

All this means that focusing on individual good decisions could be less productive than laying a foundation for good decisions. It’s not acts, it’s habits that raise quality of life.

And while the goal of chess is straightforward, life itself doesn’t come with any objectives. But when people know what they want to achieve, know what they want to be, they’ll find out how. They’ll endure. Bad options disappear and good decisions become obvious, prompting more good decisions. Life becomes wholesome, reason becomes automatic.

Image by Tom Anders Watkins

Moral creativity

When we’re young, we understand that insects eat plants, that small predators eat insects, that big predators eat small predators. We understand that all of life is connected, that tadpoles become frogs, that rain turns to clouds to become rain again. When we’re young, we think about ourselves in unlimited impossibilities, how we’ll become fire fighters, singers, astronauts, or more likely, all of those.

Yet when we grow older, that unlimited imagination disappears. Instead, we accept how things are, what is told to us. We divide the world into work and personal life, so that can look at the evening news from afar, without having the need to feel responsibility. We look for cause and effect, and categorise everything neatly, so that we can solve problems one after the other one, or pick up the ones we feel good about.

Yet when we look at reality in neatly organised pieces, we fail to see the dependence of everything with everything. The biggest challenges of our time, climate change, poverty, and political unrest, are all interwoven in a web of causes and effects, and don’t have a singular cause or solution.

The new generations carry lots of talent, knowledge, and experience, as well as the ability to change the world for the better. The new generations are smart and creative in the things they do, hence it’s a pity seeing this ability so rarely being applied to life or work causes; the bigger picture. Many youngster arrive at work and play by the rules of their seniors, more duty bound than passion filled.

Ask yourself; ‘How do you want the world to work?’, and ‘How is my work contributing to that?’, and ‘Should I be doing what I’m doing right now?’ Make that the new zero.

When you have a mission in life that goes beyond paying off student debt or mortgage, that’s when you can develop your style, your unborrowed vision, your creative morale. It’ll make progress for yourself, your employer and all of us together, undeniable.

It’s a much richer life, even if it may make you poorer money-wise. Finding your creative morale is a search, but once you’ve fond it, it’s as immersive as falling in love. So give shape to yourself, it’s too important to let others do for you.

Photo by Roberto la Forgia.

The papers

“After Oswald, men in America were no longer required to lead lives of quiet desperation. You apply for a credit card, buy a handgun, travel through cities, suburbs and shopping malls, anonymous, anonymous, looking for a chance to take a shot at the first puffy empty famous face, just to let people know there is someone out there who reads the papers.”

Have you ever read a book with a paragraph that was so powerful that it made you think the author wrote the entire novel just for that passage? I think Libra was written by Don DeLillo solely for the purpose of these two lines. Lines which so painfully expose Lee Harvey Oswald’s impact on modern culture, in which terrorism has become a reality show, played out in front of us in mass media.

Libra was written in 1988, but its dark thesis is still alive today. After this week’s attack in London, Anthony Lane wrote for The New Yorker: “The only surprise is that these attacks don’t come along more often, given how frighteningly simple they are to stage, and how hard they must be to police and prevent. If you wish to spread terror, these days, you don’t have to know how to handle a weapon or to construct an explosive device. All you need is a vehicle, or a blade, or—as in this instance—both.”

In 1839, the pen was coined to be mightier than the sword, but nowadays the camera rules supreme.

Strategic Time

We often think of quantities in a linear way. We know that a thousand millimetres go into a metre, and that a thousand kilograms go into a single ton. We know that a ten-by-ten centimetre square equals one hundred square centimetres, and that when we add ten centimetres of height, you get one thousand cubic centimetres, or one litre.

We often apply this logic elsewhere in our lives. We think expensive products are superior, that bigger engines make cars faster, that more time spend at work means more productivity. We think that wealth means success, and that success means happiness.

But while time, money, distance, and other resources increase in a linear way, their values often don’t. This principle was introduced to me by Ross Brawn, a former team principle in Formula One.

Formula One is a good metaphor, because at first glance it seems like a linear challenge. The winning team has the fastest car, which is the one that travels a set distance within the least amount of time.

This challenge is set within regulations, stating that for instance, the wings on the car can’t exceed certain measurements, and that the engine capacity can’t be more than 1.6 litres. But teams have plenty of variables left to achieve time reduction.

And you could argue — following the linear logic — that all time reductions have the same effect, and that it doesn’t matter whether you reduce the total race time by one second through aerodynamics or mechanical grip.

But in the book ‘Total Competition’, which he co-authored with Adam Parr, Brawn highlighted the importance of time gained during pitstops over other time gains.

Strategic timeDuring races, cars enter the pitlane to be fitted with new tyres, and once on fresh rubber they rejoin the track, often neck-and-neck with competitors, coming out narrowly ahead or narrowly behind.

While half a second reduced from total race duration might not make a huge difference, half a second gained during these pitstops can be decisive. Brawn thus refers to this time as ‘strategic time’.

The principle is interesting, because the value of this time is higher than the same amount gained elsewhere. It’s non-linear value to something as linear as time.

This asymmetry also applies off the racetrack, and we see it happen often. Some beers sell well, not because of their taste, but simply because they have a quirky name. Some movie reel in profits, not because of the quality of the writers, but because a famous actor plays in it.

Applying this to life clarifies how, when meeting new people, first impressions are more valuable than other impressions. It clarifies how, when writing an essay, the conclusion is valued over other chapters. And the principle also clarifies how, when giving a presentation you’ve worked on for days on, arriving just ten minutes earlier allows you to check to see if the screen and sound works, instead of fumbling during your presentation.

And so, while time’s amount moves linearly, its value does not. It’s as George Orwell would say: ‘All time is equal, but some time is more equal than others.’

 

iRacing screenshot contest winner!

A sense of time

In the first two weeks of this year, I’ve often looked back on my life in a very practical, non-philosophical way. I revisited my former schools in Google Streetview, I went through designs made years ago, I played a video game which the teenage-me also played, and I read emails sent a decade ago.

Perhaps what triggered this, is that my sister and brother-in-law are expecting a baby. It’s wonderful, of course, in nearly every way. Yet in some ways, it’s frightening.

New life confirms the feeble nature of time. Until now, I don’t think I’ve really understood this, but it’s something everyone has to understand at some time in his or her life, and a topic on which poets and writers have emptied their pens on for centuries.

We often measure time in minutes, hours or years, but when we zoom out and look for measurements like generations, that’s when we can understand time.

My parents will be grandparents soon. What makes it scary is not the associations I have with the noun ‘grandparents’, but the fact that in the past month, not only the year has changed, but also a generation has passed.

The good thing of looking back on life is the appreciation for all the places in which we’ve lived, the things we’ve done and made, the people we’ve met.

When you add it all up, it’s mind blowing. And it somewhat soothes the passing of time, up until the point were it’s, you know, totally acceptable.

St. Kilda Beach

In 2009, I was doing a six-month internship in Sydney, Australia, at Marketing Mechanics. Since Melbourne was really close, I bought tickets to the Australian Grand Prix.

I arrived in a dirty and cheap hostel, and had a roommate from France, who was a huge Lewis Hamilton fan. I was reading a book from 2001 by Dutch commentator Olav Mol, and read that Mclaren had an annual lunch on St. Kilda beach, on the Wednesday afternoon before the Australian Grand Prix. I told my roommate, but he didn’t believe me, so come Wednesday I went alone.

When I arrived on St. Kilda Beach, I saw the team of Force India, instead of McLaren. Adrian Sutil and Giancarlo Fisichella on roller skates! There were only a handful of journalists, and suddenly I saw Olav Mol! I had a great chat with him, I mentioned that I had read about the beach in his book. I also chatted with Sutil and Fisichella, and wished them luck for the race. A journalist told me McLaren would be there the next day…

So I got back at the hostel and told my roommate. He still didn’t believe me, until I showed him the photos. When we arrived on Thursday, Ron Dennis and Martin Whitmarsh parked their car and we were somewhat starstruck. They went into the restaurant, in which obviously we weren’t allowed, so we waited for the drivers to finish their interviews and lunch. Lewis Hamilton came walking out and we both got autographs. I quickly said ‘Goodluck Lewis!’, and he smiled: ‘Thank you’. Kovalainen didn’t wait and rushed to his car, but Pedro de la Rosa was nice and waited for us and gave his signature too.

My hostel-roommate was the happiest McLaren fan in the world, he couldn’t believe he just met Lewis Hamilton. Back at the hostel we made the bet (me wearing a Ferrari jumper) that if Mclaren would finish ahead of Ferrari, I’d give him a bottle of rum (and vice versa).

The race was a big shock and won by Jenson Button in the new BrawnGP. Hamilton finished third, ahead of any Ferrari driver, so I bought him a bottle of rum which we both enjoyed. After that we parted ways. He went on a roadtrip in Australia, I went back to Sydney to complete the internship. We didn’t exchange Facebook or email or anything.

When I was back in Sydney, Hamilton was disqualified in which was called ‘Lie-gate’, putting Ferrari ahead of McLaren. It meant the Parisian guy should have paid the bottle of rum, yet I didn’t mind; I had an awesome weekend.

Here’s Hamilton signing my notebook, with Kovalainen dashing away

Coanda’s 2016 year of sim racing review

Here’s a look at Coanda Simsport’s last year. Hours of sim racing compiled into three and a half minutes, with victories in the iRacing 24 Hours of Le Mans, the 24 Hours of Daytona, and the titles in the NEO Endurance Series, the World Championship GP Series, and the Blancpain GT Series.

Man at the bay

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The man next to me took his phone from his shirt pocket and aimed it at the sun, which was setting into Mumbai’s bay. It was of no use; the sun, red and bright in front of our faces, was barely noticeable on his phone’s screen, reduced to a mere pixel. He threw his hands in the air, and saw that I saw it. He sighed and laughed, and we started talking.

He was forty-five years old and wore a green polo shirt with black horizontal lines. His hair was grey, his face friendly. He had grown up in a village in rural India, which nested on a beautiful hillside, or so he said. Some two thousand people lived there. He was the only one with an education — even his wife didn’t speak English.

Clearly he could see I was not from India: “Traveling is so good”, he joyfully said, “To connect with someone from another culture, it teaches you about people different than you, how they think differently, how they believe different things. And at the same time, it teaches you that we are all the same”, he concluded as he pointed at his nose, ears, and eyes.

I told him I felt the same about Mumbai. To me, Mumbai was a blend of familiarities and otherworldliness. The way people interact with each other is no different than at home, but the setting in which it takes place is vastly different. I told him I had seen a boy who lived on the street, who played with a stick in the mud, enjoying every second of it. I told him I had seen a girl in a with a shirt ‘Don’t Facebook your problems, face them’. And that I had seen groups of people without a house, having recreated somewhat of a living room on the side of the street.

I told the man that human behaviour seems to follows the same principles everywhere, no matter the climate, the culture, or the history, but the expressions vary vastly. I felt there was an absence of rules in Mumbai. Traffic is anarchy, slums are dwarfed by skyscrapers, and every where you look you’ll see a crowd of people. Yet somehow it all works, as a hugely diverse population of nearly twenty million peacefully coexists.

Although the man had never been anywhere outside India, he knew about the Netherlands. He had seen it in Bollywood films, and had also spoken with a Dutchman five years ago, on a train to Ahmedabad. He knew about Amsterdam, the canals, the bikes, hagelslag, and tompoezen. Again I spoke about the differences between our countries, now inverted. Amsterdam was quiet and cold compared to Mumbai. It felt a lot smaller and dense too, despite having a population density four times lower.

The man again spoke about his birthplace, the recurring theme: “If you want to make a phone call, you have to stand on the highest hill to receive a signal”, he said as he pointed out at the bars on his phone: “There’s no commercialism, people live and work together. Mostly from the land. There is no water, except from the rain”, he said: “Living in the village means everybody’s connected to nature, and to each other.”

How different to Mumbai, that was. Every material need one can possibly have is within a hands reach, yet emotionally, each is on his own. It’s painful to see, I said. I still didn’t know what to think of people who slept on the streets. How can one rationalise this to oneself? Especially as a tourist it feels unjust, visiting and looking at it, doing nothing. Among beauty, the world is packed with misery. It would be so fair if everybody in the world could go to sleep without being hungry. Yet, like a deer caught in the headlights, I feel overwhelmed, and I’m left with inaction, not knowing where to start.

And then, suddenly, the man had to speak about the problems that weighed on his shoulders. And so he spoke.

After his education he found work at a pharmaceutic company in Mumbai, so together with his wife and two children he moved from the rural village to the city of Mumbai. After nine years at the pharmaceutical company, the company changed hands and he lost his job. His wife, son, and daughter, had moved back to the village. That was three months ago. He had remained in Mumbai to find new work.

He applied to many jobs, hoping his experience and education would help. So far to no avail. Without a penny in his pocket, he sometimes couldn’t even travel to the application interviews. In the meantime he did day work, but the pay was poor, and because the municipality distributed the jobs fairly on a large group of people wanting them, it meant he could only work one in four days. He had slept the night outside, he said, and hadn’t had a good meal in days. But he didn’t give up. He was mixed with sadness and hope: “I like coming to the bay, because when everybody looks at the sunset, they can’t see whether I’m laughing or crying.”

As he told all of this, the contrast of our situations dawned on me. He was drawn to Mumbai to seek a better future, and was unable to make ends meet. I merely visited Mumbai as an escape, a leisure trip. It make me feel uneasy, ashamed of myself almost, being so privileged. Should I give him money? My mind raced.

At the same time, I feared that he would ask money, that our conversation just served him this purpose, but I instantly felt bad just to think that way; he never asked me for it.

Our conversation had started because he tried to photograph the sunset. We had connected on a personal level, and I had enjoyed every second of the discussion, for its only purpose had been to talk about life. We were equals.

Abu — I think his name was — brought forth the suffering of millions, in the shape of an individual. Until then, it had always seemed abstract to me. But now, I could relate to those troubles, because I could see the same patterns of thought in myself.

We chatted for only a bit more, until I shook his hand and left. By then, the sun had firmly set in the bay, reducing all individuals to mere silhouettes against the skyscraper-led-skyline of Mumbai.

They say India stirs your stomach, but much more than that, it has trembled my heart.