Once again, as if by coincidence, the Boxing Day Handicap fell on the 26th December, and once again we had weather.
The Met Office was predicting snow. When would be another matter, but as we gathered in the Clubhouse to collect our numbers, it was rain that started drizzling down. And it was cold.
Master of Ceremonies on this day after the day before was, as ever, Francis Upcott. Entry taker, handicapper and generally good egg, Francis enjoys December as Club members try to cajole, bribe or otherwise hoodwink him into giving them handicaps. It might appear to be the least event on the SLH calendar, but it is the only one most members can aspire to, so getting a good handicap is all important. Another Speckled Hen Mr Upcott?
This year Francis had insisted on taking all entries at the Clubhouse rather than have people turning up at two minutes to the start at the start. Great idea, well, great theory.
You see, one of the problems of this event is its success. It used to attract a couple of dozen members and a tramp from outside the tea rooms. Now everyone who's ever met Anne Roden seems to want to run with his brother, daughter, son, cousin and dog. Next year, we ban dogs. Right?
In these days of falling numbers of competitors, when we struggle to get forty running in maroon and white against the mortal enemies of Blackheath (and Bromley Ladies or Whatever) Harriers, we can rustle up nearly eighty for a hack over Happy Valley. From the babe of fourteen days (okay, so he didn't run, alright) to the bald bloke barely able to put one foot in front of another, (Dave, how long can a hangover last…?), they were all there.
Trouble is, Francis wasn't.
The eleven o'clock kick off passed. Ten past. Quarter past. There's only so much warming up a man can do. Twenty past, and sage (and onion?) heads starting discussing what to do. Where was Upcott? Had he absconded? Was there no parking? Had he broken down? Had he been offered just too many Speckled Hens in the Clubhouse?
Twenty five past. There are two, no three plans of action, which involved either crossing fingers, a rival handicap or a mass start. One of the gathering stepped forward to address the congregation, but was drowned out by Bill Long blowing his whistle. Everyone was now hanging on the every word . . .
Then a cry goes out, as if from the crow's nest of Nelson's Victory. A sighting. Santa was coming . . .
With pens and clipboard, holdall, camera and tripod in hands, up came Upcott. He had apparently been inundated with late entries, but now, finally, we all had a starting time. We gathered round, expectantly, to be told our fate.
It was a Major division! Stuart Major, as ever, was given the biggest handicap, but Pippa, his wife and the mother by just a fortnight was starting from scratch along with a cocker spaniel, a six year old child and the novelty French tart. Okay, maybe that slightly exaggerates it, but how could someone who had given birth so recently be expected to run at all . . .
We were off, Pippa and co, Nina (first race for a while), previously winner Marketa (one of five Martins in the field), Granty, young Carter, Danny boy, Danny's missus, and all the rest…. Finally some eleven minutes or so later, Stuart set off, chasing his wife.
Never let it be said South London Harriers is not at the forefront of modern technology. Consequently, and for the first time, the climax of the race was captured on film at the finish, and if anyone has on old Bell and Howell projector at home capable of showing 8mm reel to reel they will be able to enjoy it! Unfortunately, the Best Boy in charge of firing up the equipment managed to totally miss the winner coming in, and after that, due to the late start, it was getting dark, so who knows who came where after that.
After the usual Steward's enquiry it was determined that first home and by nearly two minutes was Pippa Major. Surely some mistake, but no, the old competitive instincts were as strong as ever. So, for the second time, she was presented with the Iszatt Cup, and becomes the first person to win it with two different names – she was a Crocker the last time!
However the honour, albeit a minor one in comparison, of fastest time, went to Stuart Major who was seven seconds faster than Jamie Atkinson. Fastest woman, not too surprisingly, was England International, Eleanor Baker.
And so with the prize giving back in the Clubhouse completed, and the traditional presents handed around amongst the finishers, there was only one thing left to do.
Another 'Hen' Francis?
Peter Emery