The theory of Life
As I approach my 69th birthday this weekend with alarming speed it is surely a sign of the times when, somewhere in the media earlier this week, I read a report upon a study of 917 people between the ages of 14 and 77 by some Norwegian psychologists demonstrating to their own satisfaction that after the age of 53 most human beings lose the urge to try new things … and yet, as I begin this post, I cannot be bothered to go back and research where the hell I spotted it.
Apparently the purpose of the study was to try better to understand the relationship between passion, grit and a positive mindset.
You’d think that people who have more important things to do, wouldn’t you?
When I think back to the dim and distant past of my own existence I think it was at about the age of six that I reconciled myself to a life of mediocrity.
For some reason, in the tiny village in Derbyshire in which my parents and I then lived, the primary school that I attended held a summer sports day in the shadow of a long, steep hill.
The highlight of proceedings was the moment when the assembled multitude was taken by one of the school mistresses to a point about halfway up said hill, given the orders “Ready … Set … Go!” and then encouraged to set off in the nearest thing they could manage to a sprint on a course down the slope that involved two meandering bends and then a ribbon held across an informal finishing line approximately 200 yards away.
It was a long race for those of such tender years.
Being a competitive little bugger, I set off at what I felt was my maximum speed determined to win the race.
Because of the gradient and the galloping herd around me, I should imagine that the sensation of being involved was somewhat akin to that which those involved in the Charge of the Light Brigade [25th October 1954, the Battle of Balaclava, during the Crimean War] must have experienced … only without horses.
Even at one’s natural top speed, hurtling down the side of a steep hill added at least a couple of miles per hour to one’s flight and it was all each of the competitors could do to stop themselves over-stepping and falling over themselves as they strove to win the winner’s garland.
Several did unbalance and suffer cuts and bruises as a result – looking back now, quite how serious injury was avoided escapes me – but I suppose, those being the days well before “Elf & Safety” … at the time we Brits just “got on with it”.
Dear reader, I promise you that I did my very, very best.
And yet, at least 50 yards before the end of the race, even I could see that – as the multitude began to string out into some order of merit and speed over the ground – that I was going to come third.
Ahead of me were firstly, Giles – a thin, wiry crew-cut chap several inches taller than me – and secondly, Simon – my best friend at the time – whose main distinguishing mark was his ginger hair.
And so we scorched across the finishing line, me secure in third place but significantly behind Giles and Simon.
Sometime later – after the dead and injured had been removed from the field of conflict, the cups and badges awarded, and tea had been served – from somewhere came the proposal that, just for the sheer hell of it, the race should be run again.
The contestants were marched back up the hill to the starting position.
There was a good deal of mounting excitement amongst both contestants and (family) spectators – who would do better this time?
(Surely we couldn’t all win?!).
As Miss Stapleton, the mistress in charge of the “off”, motioned us to approach the start line she singled me out.
“Go on, Gerald – if you really try your hardest, you might win this time …”
It was the sort of seminal moment in one’s life that changes the course of history.
Not even Jesse Owens in the men’s 100 metres final at the 1936 Berlin Olympics came out of his metaphorical blocks faster than your author did that summer afternoon in 1957.
Buoyed by Miss Stapleton’s exhortation I gave it literally everything I had.
With the setting sun still on my back, the experience of the first running of the race behind me and giving me a couple of pointers which would improve my path to glory, I scorched across the ground like greased lightning.
And yet.
Coming out of the second bend and into the final straight, I suddenly became aware that for the second time that day I was in third place.
Not only that, the two boys in front of me – Giles and Simon – were once again in first and second position … but, if anything, slightly further ahead of me than in the first running of the contest.
And so the race was run – and the prizes awarded for the second time.
Story of my life, really …
