Box Hill
I dug a brown glass beer bottle out of the flinty, chalky soil on the lower slopes of Box Hill, Surrey.
It had caught my attention and momentary interest because it was just proud of the surface of the raised verge on which I would be perched for the next 5 hours as part of my attendance at the London Olympics 2012.
The decision to occupy that specific point had not been taken lightly. As we, my wife and The Boy, had joined the huge queue at the gates of the venue for the Womens Cycling Road Race we congratulated ourselves on the early start to the day even though some of the number had obviously been in transit and had arrived at quite an unearthly hour in their part winter and optimistic summer attire of shorts and T shirt, typically part shrouded in a very British cagoule and the embellishment of something with the Union Jack colours , either a large flag, a hat, tote bag or folded travel rug.
Amongst the red, white and blue were many other National colours, the very, very orange Dutch, Maple Leaf Canadians, green and yellow Aussies, a few less obvious Americans and many more. The long, snaking line displayed perfect manners and consideration for personal space as we shuffled along towards the ticket area and security. It was airport style and collectively everyone knew what to do and what to jettisone before the bag search procedure undertaken by the cheery military in their desert fatigues.
Then, the buzz of anticipation upon hearing the tannoy system broadcasting from the start line on The Mall. It was still a couple of hours before the riders would embark on the tough race route through the south western London Boroughs and into leafy and undulating Surrey lanes but we listened attentively to the commentary of the signing on and a few interviews with the main contenders.
Our vantage point on the raised bank of the verge, bottles aside, was rough and stoney. A few of our neighbours for the duration undertook mini civil engineering projects to excavate and level the surface. Others ventured into the woods and returned with short stumps, branches and logs out of which were fashioned rustic stools, refectory benches and picnic tables. We just sat on our coats, wiggling our buttocks to form a perfect mould in the ground.
On the lower approach slope to Box Hill we watched as the constant stream of people passed by heading for the loftier heights of Butterfly Bend, Donkey Green and Dormouse Drive. It was a mass transit situation. The three person sized gap on the bank adjacent to ours was briefly occupied by a father, mother and grumpy daughter but they did not settle and left to rejoin the flow up the hill. The words about the other mans grass was always greener came to mind as they left. A quiet family group moved in next and after deciding on the boundary of our spaces in an amicable way we chatted. They were cycling fans as well so we were spared any technical explantions of what was to take place on the roadway at our feet.
A cheer reverberated around the crowd as the race started from Buckingham Palace. I had made a point of checking the anticipated arrival time for the race at Box Hill. It would be at least another hour and forty five minutes. A few of our neighbours looked excitedly down the narrow tarmac lane for the race to appear instantaneously. It would be a long day for them. There were plenty of things to do. Mostly people watching. Then cloud watching followed by sheltering from the rain under cagoules, hats, flags, tote bags and travel rugs. It poured down with no respite from any overhanging boughs.
Those who had spent time on hands and knees on the road scratching away with quarried chalk saw their works of art depicting the names of the GB riders, overseas flags, words of encouragement and a couple of rude depictions simply diluted and then washed away in the steady downhill stream. Before the race arrived the graffitti had to be refreshed two or three times to restore its sentiment.
The commentator was getting animated conveying reports from around the route and this was transferred to the drip-dry crowd. The race had come through torrential downpours out on the course, localised floods, multiple punctures and frequent tumbles on the greasy town roads but were now on the dual carriageway at the base of Box Hill.
Police motorcycle outriders showboated past offering gauntlet clap high-fives, the official vehicles blasted their horns and the occupants waved whilst their passengers held their cameras up to the windscreen to record the scene and atmosphere. We leaned out from the bank, as did everyone, or some spilled out onto the thick white lines on the road to be physicallly pressed back by the stewards. The noise was deafening from the early warning screeching of a megaphone, to cheering and the overhead TV helicopter. More vehicles at speed. Then the cluster of riders, grubby and grime spattered but determined and at close quarters came through on the first of two circuits. Spectators either saw at first hand or recorded it for posterity. The speed of the riders passage prevented any attempt at multi-tasking. The nearest of the peleton were within touching distance.
We breathed in to give them a bit more space between the loose banked verges. They must have been able to smell the crowd and the rain sodden laundry odours mixed with red wine, sausage rolls, salt and vinegar crisps and bacon baguettes. Then gone, trailed by the team cars with bikes and wheels precariously positioned on roof racks. A few riders, off the pace on the hill, were raucously cheered. Chile, Thailand, Venezuela on the first lap and a few more of the European riders on the second lap as the main contenders kicked in for the return to London.
We joined the damp but happy cyclng fans and casual observers on the descent of the hill. It poured again and the scene took on a misty and surreal appearance of an exodus but in rainbow colours of flags and pack-a-macs. Manners and behaviour were of course, impeccable.
It had caught my attention and momentary interest because it was just proud of the surface of the raised verge on which I would be perched for the next 5 hours as part of my attendance at the London Olympics 2012.
The decision to occupy that specific point had not been taken lightly. As we, my wife and The Boy, had joined the huge queue at the gates of the venue for the Womens Cycling Road Race we congratulated ourselves on the early start to the day even though some of the number had obviously been in transit and had arrived at quite an unearthly hour in their part winter and optimistic summer attire of shorts and T shirt, typically part shrouded in a very British cagoule and the embellishment of something with the Union Jack colours , either a large flag, a hat, tote bag or folded travel rug.
Amongst the red, white and blue were many other National colours, the very, very orange Dutch, Maple Leaf Canadians, green and yellow Aussies, a few less obvious Americans and many more. The long, snaking line displayed perfect manners and consideration for personal space as we shuffled along towards the ticket area and security. It was airport style and collectively everyone knew what to do and what to jettisone before the bag search procedure undertaken by the cheery military in their desert fatigues.
Then, the buzz of anticipation upon hearing the tannoy system broadcasting from the start line on The Mall. It was still a couple of hours before the riders would embark on the tough race route through the south western London Boroughs and into leafy and undulating Surrey lanes but we listened attentively to the commentary of the signing on and a few interviews with the main contenders.
Our vantage point on the raised bank of the verge, bottles aside, was rough and stoney. A few of our neighbours for the duration undertook mini civil engineering projects to excavate and level the surface. Others ventured into the woods and returned with short stumps, branches and logs out of which were fashioned rustic stools, refectory benches and picnic tables. We just sat on our coats, wiggling our buttocks to form a perfect mould in the ground.
On the lower approach slope to Box Hill we watched as the constant stream of people passed by heading for the loftier heights of Butterfly Bend, Donkey Green and Dormouse Drive. It was a mass transit situation. The three person sized gap on the bank adjacent to ours was briefly occupied by a father, mother and grumpy daughter but they did not settle and left to rejoin the flow up the hill. The words about the other mans grass was always greener came to mind as they left. A quiet family group moved in next and after deciding on the boundary of our spaces in an amicable way we chatted. They were cycling fans as well so we were spared any technical explantions of what was to take place on the roadway at our feet.
A cheer reverberated around the crowd as the race started from Buckingham Palace. I had made a point of checking the anticipated arrival time for the race at Box Hill. It would be at least another hour and forty five minutes. A few of our neighbours looked excitedly down the narrow tarmac lane for the race to appear instantaneously. It would be a long day for them. There were plenty of things to do. Mostly people watching. Then cloud watching followed by sheltering from the rain under cagoules, hats, flags, tote bags and travel rugs. It poured down with no respite from any overhanging boughs.
Those who had spent time on hands and knees on the road scratching away with quarried chalk saw their works of art depicting the names of the GB riders, overseas flags, words of encouragement and a couple of rude depictions simply diluted and then washed away in the steady downhill stream. Before the race arrived the graffitti had to be refreshed two or three times to restore its sentiment.
The commentator was getting animated conveying reports from around the route and this was transferred to the drip-dry crowd. The race had come through torrential downpours out on the course, localised floods, multiple punctures and frequent tumbles on the greasy town roads but were now on the dual carriageway at the base of Box Hill.
Police motorcycle outriders showboated past offering gauntlet clap high-fives, the official vehicles blasted their horns and the occupants waved whilst their passengers held their cameras up to the windscreen to record the scene and atmosphere. We leaned out from the bank, as did everyone, or some spilled out onto the thick white lines on the road to be physicallly pressed back by the stewards. The noise was deafening from the early warning screeching of a megaphone, to cheering and the overhead TV helicopter. More vehicles at speed. Then the cluster of riders, grubby and grime spattered but determined and at close quarters came through on the first of two circuits. Spectators either saw at first hand or recorded it for posterity. The speed of the riders passage prevented any attempt at multi-tasking. The nearest of the peleton were within touching distance.
We breathed in to give them a bit more space between the loose banked verges. They must have been able to smell the crowd and the rain sodden laundry odours mixed with red wine, sausage rolls, salt and vinegar crisps and bacon baguettes. Then gone, trailed by the team cars with bikes and wheels precariously positioned on roof racks. A few riders, off the pace on the hill, were raucously cheered. Chile, Thailand, Venezuela on the first lap and a few more of the European riders on the second lap as the main contenders kicked in for the return to London.
We joined the damp but happy cyclng fans and casual observers on the descent of the hill. It poured again and the scene took on a misty and surreal appearance of an exodus but in rainbow colours of flags and pack-a-macs. Manners and behaviour were of course, impeccable.
