Open Writing

We were on a bike ride to nowhere in particular when we discovered our Olympic stadium.

An abandoned pit yard near Grange Moor.

This was during the 1948 London Olympics.

We Whitley lads had been running ourselves silly , racing up and down Scopsley Lane.

“I’m Harrison Dillard.”

“I’m Emil Zatopek.”

“No, you’re not Emil Zatopek. You don’t know how to say the name properly.”

Eventually we got on our bikes and went for a ride, just to get our breath back.

Chance led us to the long derelict yard of Clough Pit near Liley Lane.

The yard was strewn with dust and bricks. Parts of it were overgrown with weeds. But underneath there was a sound concrete base.

“If this was cleared,” said Big Neville with an Einsteinian flash of genius, “it would make a track.”

We immediately saw what he meant.

The Whitley Olympics!

“We could do with a shovel,” somebody said.

“We’ll make do,” said I.

We pulled up the weeds.

We broke branches from a tree and used them as brooms.

We gathered up the bricks and laid them out to form a huge oval.

The work took a morning and part of an afternoon.

The Olympics began as soon as the last brick was in place.

“One hundred metres is once round,” said Big Neville. “Two hundred metres is twice, four hundred metres is four laps and a mile is eight laps.”

“They don’t have miles,” somebody said. “They have 1,500 metres.”

“We’re having miles,” said Big Neville.

We all took part in every event.

First the 100 metres, then the 200, then the 400...It seemed the logical way to proceed.

“We should have medals,” somebody said.

“Calf head!” said I. “Where are we going to get medals from?”

Thereupon there was a brief wrestling match which was not part of the official schedule.

We decided against medals.

The mile was not a happy event for me.

I was leading, going into the last lap when someone banged into me from behind, knocking me down.

I sprang up, caught the someone and kicked him on the leg. What next took place, I have to admit, was not in the best spirit of the Olympic Games.

We moved on to the field events, all feeling a little unsettled. It had been a long day. Non-stop Olympics takes it out of a lad.

The long jump was one big argument about who had and who hadn’t crossed the line before take-off.

The shot-put was a disaster. We were using a brick as the shot. Someone dropped it on someone else’s foot.

The language which ensued would not have pleased our mothers.

“I’m off home,” said Big Neville. “I’m hungry. I’ve done enough running for one day.”

So we all got on our bikes and rode back to Whitley.

That was not the end of our stadium. The athletics track was converted into a cycle speedway track. Boys came from miles around to ride on that track. It was a huge success, providing us with days and days of excitement.

I wonder if any youngsters these days have been inspired to found their own track?

Whenever Olympic Games come around I relive the wonderful day of the Whitley Olympics.

And I don’t need medals to remind me of one of the happiest days of my life.