Ready, Unsteady, Go

One of the greatest regrets in my adult life, and I can truthfully say that I do not have many at all, is that I never got to take part in a Dad’s race at the school at which my three children attended. 

I am not sure why what used to be a pivotal event (alongside, of course the Mum’s race) was never held over the four year window of opportunity that coincided with that period in my life. 

It may have just been the policy of that particular Junior School, the overriding Education Authority or down to a lack of enthusiasm for such a competition amongst my peer group of playground fathers. 

Personally I think it was because of a social and demographic trend. 

The summer sports day was typically held in an afternoon towards the end of that term. Pressure of work and a lack of empathy amongst employers will have made a request for leave of absence for such a reason to produce an awkward atmosphere. Most of my contemporaries at the school gates may have felt that in their roles as step-dads,, boyfriends, partners, benevolent “uncles” or just neighbours doing a favour that their entry into a traditional Dad’s race would be fraudulent. 

On a more realistic level, and given that I am nowhere near as fit and athletic as I used to be or would aspire to, the disinterest in a short and fierce running race will have not appealed to those like me of challenging physique, unsatisfactory body mass index or those with hereditary or other ailments, not withstanding the possibility of pulling a muscle, rupturing a quad or ligament or something way more serious and life threatening. 

In those years of just waiting for a chance to participate I knew for a fact that the school did not have, in its standard equipment, a defibrillator and I could not remember which members of the permanent school staff were trained to a level of proficiency in administering CPR. 

My attendance at school chucking out time was as part of my working day and I would often have to rush to the back gate between appointments to pick up one or more of my children. In suit and tie I stood out from the other males on collection duty as they were mostly in casual or leisure clothing. In fact, you would be justified in thinking, from their attire that they were just arriving to take part in a sporting event. Talk about top brand trainers, trackies and designer logo’d polo or branded football shirts. Some afternoons I felt like I was an onlooker for a photo shoot for a Sports Direct or Jacomo brochure. 

In hope of one day being called to starters orders every June or early July I made sure that my old spiked track shoes were always somewhere in the boot of my car. They were certainly well used as in my student days I had represented Trent Polytechnic, Nottingham  at sprint events from the Dorothy Hyman Sports Stadium in Barnsley to Alsager in Crewe and other places in between that I cannot remember the name of. 

I could, because of their quiet anonymity, quite easily have sneaked those lightweight wonders onto the school sports field and slip them onto socked feet without drawing attention to their serious intentions. 

Even now, with my children in their twenties, in vague moments of daydreaming I often imagine what winning a Dad’s race would be like.  

Alas, it was never to be. 

I blame political correctness and that generation before me who were deprived of the expectation and thrill of competing to win so as to have no ambition or will to do so if the opportunity arose. 

I was therefore pleased to hear that the parents race was making a comeback in some local schools. 

If I keep myself in good shape I may be able to sneak in a stellar performance one day in such an event although I expect that when that time comes my grandchildren, sat amongst their classmates on the grassy trackside, will disown me.