Byker Books

 

 

 

It was going to be the biggest event of the year. Every kid in the neighbourhood would want to win this one. This wasn’t about who was the fastest or who could jump the highest. This was about endurance and guile. This was about wearing the right clothes; this was about learning the course in advance. This was about being the coolest kid in Gateshead for the next thousand years.

I knew I had it in me!

Hedge lobbing, which equates in the native Geordie tongue to “jumping over hedgerows” was big business where I grew up. You need a mixture of speed, strength and toughness to be good at it. Not enough speed and you won’t have enough power to get over or go through the hedge. Not enough strength and you could get stuck on the top of the hedge. You need the toughness for the scratches and cuts and banged bones you receive in the process of tackling these mighty bird shelters.

The hedges range from three-feet high, to about eight feet-high. The taller hedges are thinner than the shorter ones. If you time your run and locate a weak spot you can just sail right through the tall ones. Get it wrong and you wind up on your butt with mud all over your clothes. The shorter hedges are much wirier, they can tear the flesh of any exposed body parts and they can leave you stranded in the middle because of their width.

We had named the race The Grand National after the famous English steeplechase. Those horses jumped the biggest fences in the world. We were going to emulate them.

*****

The people of Greenside, a street in the Felling housing estate, had spent most of their days pruning and shaping these hedges. We were always on the lookout for challenges as kids; this street had been the find of a lifetime. I was fourteen; maximum age for entry was sixteen, minimum age was twelve. There was a lot of pride at stake here. You had the best runners, the best climbers and the best robbers. Everyone had entered. Tall, short, fat and thin, they were all up for it.

There were thirty-six hedges in a row, about thirty-feet of garden separating each one. The gardens were roughly forty-feet long. There were about sixty kids entered into the race. It was not going to be for the faint-hearted. I knew my strengths and weaknesses. I had done my sums.

There was a hundred foot sprint to the first hedge, and then there was one thousand and fifty feet of pure madness. Sixty kids trying to sprint over lawns that were covered in rosebushes, flowers, trees and a whole host of other things. Then there was a hundred foot dash at the end to the old oak tree.

I was average at running; I was above average in the toughness stakes. I was average at climbing but I was bloody good at robbing. I had been chased across gardens many times and never been caught. I knew I had what it took to win this race, so I started my training. I had two weeks to prepare.

*****

Ask any athlete; it’s all about your preparation. I had already chosen my clothes, black Levi’s, an old pair. A t-shirt covered by a black wool-jumper then my Harrington jacket on top. This would stop my jumper snagging. Most of the kids would opt for training shoes, not me; I was wearing my Doc-Martin boots. Those air-cushioned soles gave you extra spring and they protected your ankles. My outfit would be finished off by a black ski-mask-bank robber-style, just in case the cops got wind of the race and tried to catch us.

I had walked the course twenty times, always noticing something new. Behind the fifth hedge there was a greenhouse, you had to stay right or you would be eating hospital food for a while. The eighth garden was covered in rosebushes; you don’t want to fall into them. The sixteenth garden had a low hanging washing line right behind the tall hedge, definite chance of strangulation or decapitation. The twenty-second garden had string criss-crossed all over it. He was growing a new lawn and it kept the birds away. This would only be combated by staying high on the previous garden and landing on the pavement that ran right past his front window.

I had left nothing to chance; I had it all stored away in my mind. The thing that bothered me most was the run-up. This was a license for fast runners and bigger guys to get in front of me. That could cause major problems to my planned route. If someone was ahead of me and they didn’t make the jump, they would be in my way and could cause me to lose momentum. I had to make a decision, go for a fast sprint and get as clear as I could or hang behind, keep out of trouble and hope for a quick finish.

I decided on the latter. I figured if I kept out of the way until halfway I could still make a move on the leaders and catch them. My only danger would be the occupants of one of the houses catching me if they were quick out of their doors when the chaos started.

*****

The day of the race was fast approaching and I had begun to hear tales of bad sportsmanship. Lanky Smith, a lad of six-feet seven and only just turned sixteen had already been ruled out. He had mysteriously been hit on the head with a cricket-bat the night before. He had ended up with concussion and was grounded for a week.

Another victim was Billy Wiz. He was the fastest kid on the estate. His Dad used to run for England and Billy looked like he would do the same. They were a family of keep-fit fanatics, which was why his father grounded him for a year after finding a box of ciggies in his school bag. Ginger Johnny was rumoured to have planted them.

Another of the favourites was Alex Mahon, a wiry Irish kid with the best looking girl I’ve ever seen for a sister. For some unknown reason she asked me to go to the pictures with her on the night of the race. I knew it was a ploy, so I said no. What did it matter? If I won the race, every girl in Gateshead would be mine.

*****

The sun shone through the small holes in my heavy-cloth bedroom curtains. I woke up full of hope, full of nervous energy. Today was the day! I pulled back my curtains to reveal a beautiful September morning. I had hoped for a little rain to slow down the speed merchants. I had scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast, lots of pepper.

The day seemed to drag; the race was at nine PM.

I tried to conserve my energy but Dad wanted me to mow the lawn. I got through it as quick as I could, bad mistake. Dad said because I had finished cutting the grass so quickly I could chop the hedge. It was going to be a long day.

Standing in the garden with the shears in my hand I began to study our hedge. It was six-foot high and about four-foot in width. It was springy; it would be a test for the best of hedge-lobbers. I laid down the shears and took six paces back. I felt the muscles in my leg tighten as I pushed off and ran straight for it. My air-cushioned soles lifted me from the ground and I was in to it. I managed to make halfway and then it sucked me down. I was stuck. It took me three-minutes to clamber back out, which would have cost me the race. It was time to practice.

*****

As I walked down the street towards Greenside the heavens opened. I mentally thanked God; he had done me a favour. I may not be the fastest but my balance and stamina were second to none. I could see the crowd gathering at the top of the road. I was focused. I shook a couple of hands and gave a few nods of respect to my fellow contestants. I was in the top ten contenders.

My confidence was high as Jocelyn Smith walked in front of the large crowd and took off her scarf. She laid down the rules in her ridiculously high-pitched voice.

“When my scarf hits the floor the race will start. There are no rules except the person who touches the oak tree first at the other end of the street is the winner. My cousin Marcy will be there to make sure there is no cheating.”

“Are you ready? Are you steady? …GO!”

The adrenalin kicked in and we were off. I hung back a little and managed to trip about three or four over before we hit the first hedge. The sound of the group hitting it will stay with me for the rest of my life. Screams, wails, the sound of clothes tearing and the sound of branches snapping.

As I came over the first hedge I landed on Fatty Thompson. The hedge had flattened under his great weight and he had landed in the freshly formed mud on the other side. My boot hit his back as he was trying to get up. I heard his fat face squelch down into the soggy earth. The next three hedges were pretty straightforward, small and broad. A good leap would take you straight over without touching them. Then came the fifth.

I was pretty much near the back of the field so I heard the crash long before I got there. Some people hadn’t done their homework and had gone crashing in to the greenhouse. By the time I had conquered the hedge there were girls running into the garden to attend the wounded.

Next there were two-tall hedges; I managed to break straight through them without much trouble. I was slowly moving up the field. As I approached the eighth I could hear the screams of boys snagged on rose bushes. I ploughed through it and used the felled bodies as a path. I could feel my heavy boots trample them down.

I looked ahead; there were maybe six in front of me. Alex Mahon was one of them. We crashed and tore our way through more hedges; kitchen lights were turning on at an alarming rate. You could hear the screams of the house-owners as they quickly assessed the damage to their gardens.

We approached the washing line hazard. There were six of us pretty much in a row. I smashed through the centre of the tall hedge remembering to keep my head low. I heard the sickening sound of windpipes being crushed as the line took out Big Geordie and Beanpole. Alex had done his homework.

We kept on full throttle towards the next hedge; my boots were getting heavy as the mud gathered on the soles. Posh Paul was laughing hysterically as he ran along side of me. I remember thinking that he would need psychiatric help when this was all over.

We approached the twenty-second. I watched Alex run high up the garden. He was taking the same route I had planned. The last of the challengers got caught up in the stringed garden. I heard their bodies hitting the sparse lawn as they fell. There was just the two of us, me and Alex Mahon. He was pulling away from me on the ground, but I was catching him as we jumped the hedges. I knew if he was level or better over the last he would beat me.

The hedges rolled past, we were over the thirty-third. I was starting to make up a little ground. He was fast but his stamina wasn’t as good as mine. The next two hedges were no test; we just ploughed straight through them. Then we approached the last, it was roughly five-feet tall and the same in width. It reminded me of my own hedge at home. I knew how to do it, jump and roll. Don’t scramble, just roll right over it.

Alex took off slightly in front of me but he was square on. He wouldn’t make it, his feet would stick, and he was going to have to scramble. I leapt forward and turned side-ways on in mid-air. I felt the hedge beneath me as I rolled straight over the top. I dropped to the other side with a heavy thump. I scrambled to my feet and waited for the screams. There were none.

I looked behind to see Alex stuck in the middle of the hedge, there was nobody else left. I put my head down and sprinted to the old oak tree. My hand hit the cold wet bark and I dropped to the floor. I remember Marcy kissing me and grabbing my balls. She was clambering on about a date or something.

A finer sight you will never see. Sixty of Gateshead’s top boys (barring injuries) walking down the street and chanting my name. It is still the greatest moment of my life. 

 

(c) Will Diamond 2008