The Ego of Finn

Article Health & Food >> Health & Body :: Movnat
By Finn Christo
Last Saturday, slowly sun-burning Londoners on Hampstead Heath were witness to a
group of people crawling around on all fours, lifting logs, throwing rocks, jumping (and
occasionally landing) from trees generally following the instructions of a barefoot, barechested
Frenchman seemingly made up entirely of tan and muscle.
This is Movnat (‘natural movement), a grassroots revolution that ensures you’ll be in the
best mental and physical shape of your life without a 2 year iron clad gym membership
or 3am call-now-infomercial-equipment. From its slightly story tale origins (ancient tribal
skill-sets turned into a 19th century training system, adopted by French military and
then almost blasted into extinction thanks to the First World War) Erwan Le Corre has
revolutionised and breathed new life into the system making it more relevant to the 21st
century ‘zoo humans’, who suffer physically, mentally and spiritually to being
disconnected from the natural world. Modern society being the zoo.
Erwan is the charismatic and obviously passionate proponent of the idea our true nature
is to be strong, healthy, happy and free, travelling the world to ‘rehabilitate zoo humans’
escape the confines of their conventions and lead happier, healthier lives by sidestepping
the convoluted orgy of Swiss balls and rubber tubing the fines industry has entangled
itself into. He’s also a hard task-master who demands I muscle up a tree; seemingly
uncaring of the shredding my soft, supple northern skin is taking against this cheese
grater of a London oak. I jump back down ready to pick up the nearest block of stone
he’s made us carry all day and cave his head in but then explains why I’ve had to shed
blood to climb the tree and the gestalt shift stays my hand.
I consider myself fit and regularly train boot camp style to the obvious distain of my
fellow gym brethren, but this is hard! Sure, I can do a pull-up or twenty in the gym but
Erwan demands to know if that means I’d be able to do the same if my life depended on
it? Short answer; no. The shredding design of the swaying branch that has miraculously
become an osmotic part of my arm is very different from the pristine, rubber covered
pull-up bar hidden away in the corner of my gym and Erwan forces me to ask how much
of what I’ve done in the gym is transferable to a real life scenario. Am I fit or as fit as a
zoo human could get?
Would I still be able to get up on the tree if I was simultaneously being chased by a wild
animal with a pack on my back and having to save a small child (an example Erwan uses
with alarming regularity all day making me wonder if we need to call somebody). It’s not
paranoia but constantly qualifying every exercise and movement, creating what Erwan
calls ‘a situational mindset’.
The entire day is the same, forcing us to strip away the conventions of fitness until we
have to relearn the very basics of body movement; the principles of correct tension,
using gravity, ‘bodyweight shifting’ and ‘transfer’ as well as mental acuity, willpower,
focus and concentration, optimum body alignment and placement. Muscle size becomes
unimportant compared to the output they can achieve, flexibility only goes as far as how
low you can crawl and how much you can lift is as important as how far you can throw.
Where some systems like Crossfit aim to recreate real life demands on the body and
general preparedness, Movnat, cuts out the middle step and places you barefoot in any
given situation, creating a deeper, more vital understanding of how our body works and
what its capable of.
The 5 hour seminar has suddenly become 8 hours, infused by Erwan’s genuine desire to
help and educate. It’s a joyous yet demanding experience that is surprisingly
empowering. MovNat has subscription fee, no instalment plan or need to attend weekly
classes. ‘In fact,’ he playfully admonishes, ‘after today, I don’t want to ever see you
again!’ Basic movements are stripped down to basics then combined with other skill
sets; as your skills increases so do the variations you can perform until you’re left with a
seemingly never-ending toolbox of movements that focus on essential techniques and
fundamental principles. Movnat has an inherent scalability and dedicated coaching
system which, alongside natural movement means the system is applicable to everyone
from all walks of life, ability levels and ages. Even after eight hours it’s obvious we’ve
barely begun to scratch the surface of what Erwan wants to share.
It’s hard to want to go back into the gym and do a bicep curl in the air conditioned,
mirrored confines of the gym when we could be running barefoot and bare-chested
under the glorious sun, surrounded by fresh air and nature, using our own bodies and
what unprepared materials around us. This isn’t just monkeying around in a local park
but rediscovering the same joy of movement most of us felt in our childhoods. With an
almost Ayn Randian approach to fitness, Erwan highlights what was good and pure about
how we interact with our bodies by discarding the unnecessary and conventional and
finding something purer and more honest.
For more information check out www.movnat.com or email Erwan at
contact@movnat.com

A cold drizzly Tuesday morning. Dig deeper into the warm cavern; trying to retrace the steps I wandered through and out of the quasi-sleep, footprints on the quilt, warm underneath, freezing white snowscapes on top.

Blank, dank light, white on white, traffic outside, unknowing and uncaring.  Cats, idly prowling around in their fur coats, attacking computer wires and chair legs before scarpering downstairs against the sudden tectonic reveal.

The snow lifts, revealing footsteps leading back to the warm sleep-cocoon that self-destructs in slow arches and ribs of warmth. Cold air attacks every square inch.  Stand.

New Zealand 2006
Once upon a time, I woke up at 5am.  Got dressed and quietly let myself out to walk under brilliant stars and sodium arcs.  The rest of North Island slept with the exception of the wild dogs that silently roamed alongside me.

I walked with them, not really seeing them, not really listening to their langauge as I quickened the pace and began to jog.  They joined in, half heartedly, then went off to investiage some day-glo scent that still lingered under that cold night. 

I jogged, then ran, found the beach and the sand, ran barefoot with the moon at my back and the thunderous applause of the ocean to my left. 

Ran faster, sand biting into each footfall, heart thudding , blood alive with some wildness reserved for 5am runners.

Cornwall 2008
Once more upon a time I woke up at 5am.  My brother slept next to me in the ice cold tent, snored and grumbled like some drunken animal, butt naked and somehow restrained and entwined by his sleeping bag.  I got up quietly, tiptoed out and shut the tent flap.  The rest of the campsite sat still in dew.  Random rabbits patrolled the alleyways and streets our tents had created, yellowing squares that would remain after we'd left.  From inside each tent came the nasal, contented snores of kind hearted strangers who had eaten, drank and laughed together.

I walked past the tents, past the cabins past the receptions, the shops, the streetlamps, the trees, the river, all traces of civilisation, until I was knee deep in salt water. 
The tide was in, and always would be for the likes of me.  I was the first one awake. I was the last one alive.  My footprints were the only ones that scarred the cold wet sand from town to water's edge. 
I walked, I ran, I climbed over rocks and crawled into tunnels.  Stood under giant walls of granite, laced and bleeding with prehistoric copper, listened to schools of mussels gasp in their tidal absolutions, jet black hands pressed together in prayer.  Lichen and moss hung like garlands, celebrating my arrival, like some inspecting stranger.  Walking on, past the cove and its rocks, hip deep, trainers tied together and hung around my shoulders, then on to some forgotten corner where a lamb had fallen into the sea, drowned and washed up, it's eyes thankfully closed  Seemingly asleep.

I went back, this time the water chest high, trainers wet, regardless of where I had tied them.  My back to the sea, the dawn, the cold air cut into ribbons by sharp rocks.  Went back to sleep and eat, to shower and shave, to talk and laugh, to seek out and avoid.  And all the time, a corner of the world held a lamb that looked like it slept.

And at some point the sea would reclaim it and whatever industry of consumption toiled within its pure white wool would go out again, burning in salt as the Vikings had burned in fire.

With steel cold waves rushing onto and through the shoals of pebbles, she sat down on what remained of the grass and looked out over the water.  It stretched away to the horizon, one that for me had always held hope.  I don't know what she said, what she saw, how long she stood there looking across the sea, only what she did.

My mind’s eye won’t let me see what happens next, it pans up to the grey steel sky which looked down with cold indifference at that unspeakable act.

I don't remember the months that followed.  The world within me grew like some physiological defence, taking me in, alternatively shielding and exposing me to what had happened. Life and death had never been so close, so interchangable. 

Even now, when I am alone, silent spaces fill with the metallic tang of the sea, the sound of waves rushing through cold, lifeless stones and cover me in an indifferent sky.  I think of her, what she would be if she hadn't been lost.

Jolted and displaced, I ran away, reduced my life to a backpack and roamed towards the horizon, still naively sure that whatever hope had been buried behind me, would be waiting for me ahead. 

I walked, I ran, I flew and sailed.  My feet cut the earth of mountain tops , I stood knee length in tidal drifts staring up at an upside down moon, I sat on the edge of Icelandic cliffs, staring out over jet black seas or braced in valleys with a branch in my hand fending off wild dogs. 

And in each of those times, when I was truly alone, with no one but God to answer to, I said her name out loud. 

Now and then I would see her getting onto a bus, going into a store.  If I fell asleep on a bus, she would be sitting next to me, and without opening my eyes I would know.  Without substance or pain, without judgement or guilt, without language.

There is Hope. I want to tell her.  There is Hope.  Her name, my words, still linger and vibrate in every place I’ve said it.  In case she ever returned, I would point to them, to prove that there was Hope and that they all pointed to the Horizon. 

Horizon

Everyone did really well on Sunday, I thought a combination of heavy
rains, hailstones and terror would have scared the team off but people
still turned up albeit wearing three to four layers each. I don't really
think they knew what to expect and there were a few shocked faces when
I started screaming and pointing in my army training uniform.
The warmup got rid of those extra layers quick enough but I had to
punish everyone for one person not tying their shoelaces properly.  The
team had a bit of a sadistic streak I didn't see coming and three more
people confessed to having to retie their laces ending up in about 20 to
30 pressups whilst people stopped (rested) to tie their shoelaces whilst
everyone else sweated and swore around them.
One thing that really impressed me was that no
one cried off or stopped outright, everyone put in 100% effort, no one
gave up and no one let the team down.  If they can keep to that level of
commitment and intensity throughout their training for the 10k they'll be making leaps
and bounds.  I was expecting excuses and pussying out but
everyone made a fantastic commitment to the session.

A few team games later people were barking order at each other, and I
just smiled and watched the ordered chaos as people screamed directions, stop-go
commands and encouragement to ensure a winning time.

Great work, impressive effort and a great photofinish.

Next week, cage fighting.

DSC00619

I have memories close at hand, to help and hurt me.  To cut and heal. To force me to rest or push me to fight;

Sitting on the edge of the bed reading and looking up at her, arms slung overhead and snoring like an enraged baboon and still
devastatingly beautiful

With my brother, backpacks slung over each shoulder

Feet smashing through the curling leaves.

He says something funny

The other laughs and punches him on the shoulder then hugs me

Waking up at four am, philotic connections, like golden wires to my family still asleep spreading out in front of me

Being able to be thankful for everything I have, without plan or purpose, just gratefulness I’m able to experience it.

Drunk and buttnaked in Birmngham, throwing furniture at each other and wondering what housekeeping will say if they come to the door.  

A superspeed litany of ‘shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit’ under my breath while gripping wall-holds with just two fingers and trying not to fall to the ground

Making her laugh so hard we ended up holding each other close so she wouldn't fall over, my arms around her thin waist and kissing her while people walking by couldn’t help but smile.

(Apparently) shouting at a pt client that she could do it and don't she dare give up, being unaware of everyone else in the gym watching this hyperactive ethnic with a vein popping in his neck.

Being able to answer questions that start with ‘Can you help me with this…’.

Legs and feet dangling over a cliff face in Iceland,

Whole body trembling under a barbell knowing if I don't get the fucker up I'll be pinned under it...

again.

Broken sunlight and blood in salt waters

Broken locks and keys that snap in half

Being asleep while she knocked on my window in Dead times.

The past couple of weeks have been hectic. The usual kid icarus stuff as well as organizing the handover from two of my jobs as well as preparing for the other two I am going to keep.

Next Wednesday, from working four jobs I will only be working two and it didn’t really hit me until today when I got my shit ready for the upcoming week.

I know its hard to believe, especially coming from this online persona I posty under but I am a shit hot teacher. I know it sounds big headed but in every school I have ever worked in I have always been the best. It meant getting the extra classes, teaching kids with behavioral problems then being sent to other schools and training other teachers. Not once have I come across a better teacher than me.

And on and up kid icarus goes until he’s an assistant director of studies then director of studies and on until he’s teaching and running extra curricular departments as well as running the school website and all that jazz as well as cycling like a mutherfucker to local universities and highschools and writing and writing…

Then, in the frst two weeks of spring, I go a little nuts. The classroom is driving me crazy, I keep the windows as wide open as they’ll go, I’m bouncing off the walls and spending the least amount of time indoors. Slowly, slowly I shave off the hours of sleep I get until I get by on four or five. I study fulltime, do exams, race from Irlam to old Trafford to Chorley and every moment outside, at a speed faster than a walk, every time I’m using my hands and bellowing out commands over fields and hills a totally new person appears and grows.

Coming back to England is like stepping out of a timewarp, everyone I knew is either in prison or married or living with their partner and they whisper, guiltily, in starbucks to me that they wish they hadn’t rushed it. And ask me for stories of torn mountains and being chased by gangsters through shanghai and where I got all my different scars.

I know I should be settling down, and when people ask me what I do I give them a different answer/job depending on who’s asking.

And last fortnight, when I got the job, better money, doing what I love, all the naysayers came out of the woodwork.

Its as if I have made some personal affront by changing careers, the new Finn that snuck into the room with them quietly and secretly is a sudden stranger to them.

‘What do you do again?’ becomes the start of another confession, that they hate their jobs, their places, their ruts that they’ve dug for themselves. The idea of making such a bare ass leap into the unknown scares me but terrifies them. And I;’m not even thirty!

My contemporaries are older than their years. They dress in shirts from next and ties for topshop, they look forward to tiger tiger on Saturdays and fryups and sleep-ins on Sundays. At 5am I’m racing through empty fields, weights strapped to me like ammunition, covered in cobwebs and dew.