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Because It's There |
| Written by Paul Harris | |
| Tuesday, 15 July 2008 | |
The earth bank rose up from the floor of the woods, the clear blue sky some thirty feet above them beckoned the three young boys to climb up to meet it. The old green iron fence was broken and pulled down where boys before them had climbed. Bicycles were abandoned at the fence and with much scrabbling and grabbing hold of trees the three explorers arrived triumphantly at the summit. From their vantage point they could see the old banked motor racing circuit curving away to their right. To the left the banking had been demolished to make way for the end of the now disused runway. Ahead of them the tarmac drove a thick black line through the rough grass. Thin green veins streaked across the black scar where Mother Nature tried to reclaim her desecrated ground. A mile away, at the far end of the runway they could see the old aircraft assembly hangers and, in between buildings the dirty grey surface of the old race track.
Frank rummaged around in his pockets and produced a crumpled packet of cigarettes and some matches. The boys sat on the weathered, pock marked concrete and smoked. The smoke rose lazily from their cigarettes, with no breeze to disturb it. The silence was broken only by a Skylark singing from way above the old airfield. To each boy the place meant something different. For Frank it was a retreat, somewhere to smoke illicitly without being caught. He was fed up with being caught and having his precious stash confiscated. He would be fifteen soon and he reasoned that he was old enough to make his own choice. This was not a view shared by his step-father. To Phil it was somewhere to get away from the nagging of his mother. She was always on at him to tidy his room or wash his face. So what if he was a disgrace to the family, he didn't like them anyway. For Mikey it was a place of magic. Ever since the day that his uncle had told him what was hidden in the woods to go there. To touch it, to drink in the atmosphere of it. He had read about it. Seventy five years previously this place had opened to the great new invention, the motor car. An enormous concrete amphitheatre where daredevils in their fire breathing horseless carriages could compete against each other at speeds previously unheard of. The magical noise of big engines and the smell of hot oil. The crowds marvelling at the new spectacle. The sheer excitement of something new. How Mikey wished that he could have been there to see it and smell it for himself. Then came the aviators, flying their wonderful heavier than air machines. Some no more than stick, string and canvass. The first Englishman to fly flew from that very place. Dashing young men wowing the crowds with loop the loops and other stunts. Great air races around Britain and to far flung parts of the European continent. Then the war came, motor racing stopped and aircraft production stepped up. The once magnificent place became silent, broken and derelict.
The magic was still there, though. Hanging in the air. Rising up through the ground. Whispering in the trees. The stillness hiding secrets of greatness long since past. As the three boys sat silently surveying this once magnificent grand old lady, Mikey's mind conjured up the images of a time long since past. He stood within a great crowd, leaning forwards, craning their necks to see the beasts thundering past. The hot air from the unleashed pack blowing dust into their eyes and throats. Cheers as a favourite driver took the lead. The roar diminishing as the gladiators streamed into the distance. Silence again, broken briefly by the noise of a small propeller driven aeroplane, struggling to free itself from the shackles of gravity.
Now though, it was a refuge for junk. Discarded washing machines and cookers, bags of garden waste, anything that was difficult to take to a refuse tip was left here. Scattered around, glinting in the sunlight like broken glass on the floor of a derelict house.
Phil dragged a large flat piece of metal out of a bush. Placing it at the top of the concrete banking, he sat on it. Mikey and Frank watched open mouthed as, with an enormous din and a considerable shower of sparks, he slid down the one hundred feet long slope. A cheer arose from the two onlookers as Mikey disappeared into the trees at the bottom. When he emerged, he was dragging something much more interesting than an old flat piece of metal. This time he had a shopping trolley.
Frank held the trolley at the top of the banking while the two brothers climbed in. With a shove he jumped onto the back. The three friends flew down the bumpy slope, nearly helpless with laughter. Before they had reached the bottom, the trolley succumbed to the forces acting upon it and tipped up, spewing the three boys from it as if they had been fired from a catapult. Momentum carried the lads and their wire framed chariot in a jumbled mass to the foot of the slope. For a second or two each remained still, evaluating his injuries. A grazed arm, a twisted ankle, a slightly bloody nose.
Frank was first to his feet. He grabbed the battered trolley and began to drag it back to the top. "C'mon, let's do it again." Copyright 2008 Paul Harris |
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