Sponsored Mayhem

You could always count on the inhabitants of our small town to punch above their weight as far as sponsored events were concerned.

This was no more evident than for the annual charity fund raiser of a 12 mile walk every Easter school holiday.

It saw just about the whole of the self propelled population taking part turning the otherwise congested High Street into a ghost town on the day with shoppers, browsers, loiterers, ne'er do wells and poseurs relocated to the town park which formed the starting line and finish for the event.

It was one of the few activities that whole families could participate in and indeed a degree of parental or in loco-parentis supervision was required over such a long distance. In addition the usual route took walkers some 5 miles away to the west of the outskirts of the town before a wide, swinging arc brought in the southern leg and the return journey. There was a variety of terrain and surfaces to be negotiated including spooky forest rides, bleak heathland, flooded gravel pits and a few busy trunk roads to cross.

The potential for mischief, mayhem, injury, fatalities, disappearance and abduction was tremendous to such an extent that in todays' Health and Safety culture such an event would not get past the vaguest of ideas stage.

In those days, however, there was enough common sense and community spirit to negate the need for a Risk Assessment. All participants were fully expected and without any validation by the organisers to be appropriately dressed and booted, adequately provisioned with water and energy foods and aware of where they were going. There were no incidences such as those cited by Rescue Teams of people turning up in summer attire and flip-flops in situations requiring, at minimum, the full gear.

The day of the walk was eagerly anticipated amongst us kids. There was always a frantic jockeying for friendships and allegiances in arranging who you would tag along with. Some of our peer group would be bragging that they intended to run the route in order to impress the girls. This usually involved a fast start but with the rapid onset of stitch, shin splints or just plain exhaustion.

The Easter timing did introduce an element of unpredictability in the weather. The day could start off frosty and sharp and end in glorious bright and warm sunshine or it could just pour down all the time. I seem to remember that only thick and persistent snow one year was enough to cause the event to be cancelled, and reluctantly so with a few dozen townspeople turning up anyway and wading through the drifts on the off chance that the walk had survived even when the rest of the country had shut down.

These things were the enjoyable elements of the whole charitable endeavour.

The downside was the pestering, cajoling, blackmailing, bribery, bullying and extortion involved to get signatures and promises of monies from sponsors.

The first to be approached were parents, followed by grandparents, aunts and uncles, the neighbours, complete strangers and a few outlandish forgeries as if Walt Disney or Kevin Keegan were likely to have passed through the town at the same time.

A 12 mile distance could be an expensive outlay for those electing to put their names down for, say, 2p a mile. There soon developed the practice of expressing the donation as 10p or so if you finished, and could prove that you had finished, on the day and within the allotted time, without cheating, taking lifts, shortcuts, piggy backs or retiring early from dehydration, blisters, a sprained ankle or anything more drastic such as capitulating to the aforementioned hazards of field, forest, deep water and perverts.

On the day we would make our way to the Park to start. The organisers had a small caravan as the headquarters where sponsor sheets were handed over in return for a badge and number which would be our ID and the means of retrieving our sheets upon completion. Critically, the same number would figure in the raffle or tombola for an Easter Egg, again if the walk was completed. The tombola prizes were displayed in the big rear window of the caravan. These ranged from top of the range eggs in sumptuous packaging down to a Crème Egg or a handful of loose, leftover mini eggs.

Upon setting off,  the first mile always seemed to drag but the miles soon racked up as we got into a rhythm and manageable pace. The staggered start meant that there was a steady stream of walkers either ahead or behind and these could be chased down or allowed to catch up and pass, dependant upon who they were and how you felt.

The equivalent of hitting the wall in a Marathon came at about 9 miles into the sponsored walk. Those in our group who had not eaten their stash of supplies on the way to the Park feasted in front of those of lower levels of will power and poor planning. Deals were done over packets of Rainbow Drops and with shame I recall trading my girlfriend of the time for such a multi coloured, highly processed, excessively 'E' numbered delicacy. She was not best pleased when she found out.

Such an infusion of high sugar would result in a few hyperactive miles before the inevitable depletion of energy kicked in. Consequently the final mile always resembled Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow or a refugee trail. Tired limbs, sore feet, parched throats, a bit of chafing in the lower regions and bright red and rosey cheeks from outdoor activitiy were duly attended by the St John's Ambulance Brigade, or as we called them, the thick, creepy fat kids.

There was a feeling of elation and achievement in completing the 12 mile walk but tempered by the thought of having to ask family and acquaintances for the money to be paid over. Most years it was a case of the organisers calling at individual houses and co-ercing parents to write a cheque for the full promised, but still outstanding, amount. From year to year the charity would not really know how much had been raised at all. Perhaps it was just their guesstimate that made the town look benevolent rather than actual deposited funds.

The final act on the day was to see what prize would be forthcoming from the tombola. It was hit and miss what would be thrust out from the split door of the caravan as a match for your number. Many a family left the park with screaming, disappointed and distressed children clutching, in disbelief for their endeavours, the smallest, most pitiful excuse for an Easter egg that you could imagine. Of course, they would be back next year, that was for sure.