My last thoughts as I drifted off to sleep that first night in Cornwall revolved around wondering what Dad would have made of the whole LEJOG enterprise. Before I go any further it might be a good time to write a few words about my Dad. Jack Elfred liked sport. He was a lifelong Crystal Palace supporter, in fact he had a trial as goalkeeper for the club in his youth (sad to say he didn’t get the job). Later on, he became an Amateur Football Referee which earned him tickets for all the 1966 World Cup matches at Wembley and so he saw England beat Germany – “…they think it’s all over, it is now!” He liked cricket and was passionate about cycling. Long after his riding days were over he held the position of Chairman of the Old Portlians Cycling Club. Naturally enough I guess, he wanted his only son to grow up to be a sportsman and so I was taken regularly to see Palace play until the day Dad realised that I was not the slightest bit interested in the game and he was wasting both his time and his money and so, wisely he stopped taking me. What interested me at the footie was not what was happening on the pitch but what was happening on the terraces; in other words, the behaviour of the crowd as a whole, and certain individuals in particular. Perhaps this was the beginning, the smallest of seeds, which would, in my middle years blossom into training and becoming a psychotherapist, who knows. Suffice it to say that people and what makes them tick, and I include myself in that, interested me from an early age.
Not to be put off, Dad attempted to interest me in cricket. In order to do this, on sunny summers evenings after school or in the holidays, he would take me over to Thornton Heath Recreation Ground near our house where there was an avenue of large old trees the bark at the base of each was largely worn away by hopeful and enthusiastic fathers endlessly bowling cricket balls at their sons. I really didn’t go for this either, and when I was hit in the ear by a rogue ball, which resulted in a flow of blood and considerable pain, that put an end once and for all to any thoughts of playing for the school let alone the county or even for England.
From a very early age I had however been introduced to cycling and that was a different experience entirely. My first time on a bike was on a small seat at the back of my parents’ tandem. After I grew out of the seat the tandem lived unused in our garden shed for many years. My mother it seems decided that my birth was a good excuse to stop cycling for good. My guess is, and it is only a guess, she put up with bike riding to indulge my father in the early days of their marriage.
Over the years as I grew, Dad bought me a succession of bikes. I can still remember the feel of my first proper road bike. Like many dads around during my boyhood, he taught me how to ride it independently by holding onto the back of the saddle whilst I wobbled about getting used to the fact that if you went fast enough you would not in fact fall off, which is what I feared doing. After a few outings with him hanging on, finally the day came when he let go. This happened at the top of a slope in Ecclesbourne Road, Thornton Heath and so I descended at what, at the time, felt like suicidal speed. I can’t remember how I fared, but I am pretty sure I didn’t fall off. Suffice it to say, I was far from happy about the experience. What I do clearly remember however, is when we got home and my mother asked him how I got on, Dad uttered just one word, “diffident”. At the time, I didn’t know what the word meant but my guess was that it wasn’t a particularly good judgement on my performance that afternoon.
Despite the shaky start we both persevered and, once diffidence gave way to confidence, cycling did interest me, not specifically at first as a sport in its own right but as a means of being mobile and getting me from place to place. I did however like going on Sunday afternoon rides with Dad. Perhaps the first thing I learned and admired about Dad, which I discovered on our weekly trips out, was that he was the kind of person who lent a helping hand without making a song and dance about it let alone seeking personal gain by it. He was a man of few words and so he didn’t say much but often on a ride when I was lagging a bit or struggling to climb a hill I would feel his hand in the small of my back giving me a push.
There was however a downside to the Sunday cycling. If either of our bikes developed a squeak or some abnormal noise we stopped and Dad attempted to eradicate the offending acoustic interruption, even if this meant taking the bike to bits by the side of the road. Sometimes he would strip the troublesome bike down and put it back together again only to discover that the noise was still audible. Once many years later when we were out in my car together he noticed a strange sound emanating from who knows where and he said to me, “listen to that, what are you going to do about it?” to which I replied, “turn the radio up then we can’t hear it!”
I smiled to myself in the dark and wondered how long Lejog would have taken us had Dad been the team mechanic.
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