TASHY DID - A LIFE
1957
Now I have no one left to tell you about, so it’s just my life. Great for you as you have less to read and even better for me as I have less to write.
I continued at school and mother continued to be unwell. During January she had daily injections and blood-counts. I walked to school on my own each day
and also came home alone. We had a new lady who came in to help mother and she was there three days a week. Mother’s diary says that in January of this year
she wrote to father’s ex-wife. She gives no clue as to why. I do know that his daughter had written asking if, now she was 21, she could meet him but he wrote
back declining the offer and, rather sadly, signing the letter with his initials and surname. I don’t think, having decided a complete break was the only answer
all those years ago, he could cope with a reunion.
On 25 March I attended Leeds Grammar School to take part in their entrance exam. Two weeks later I learnt I had passed. I really don’t remember anyone
making a fuss, which made me think maybe it was just a formality and everyone got through. Of course it wasn’t, but it was the beginning of me never really
appreciating my own achievements. That will surprise some but the outward signs I show are never the true feelings I have. That may be sad but it’s how I have
learned to cope with life. A few years later, when back in London, I got the maths prize for my year. We did three exams in Arithmetic, Geometry and Algebra.
I got 100% in arithmetic and geometry and 85% in algebra. I went home and told mother and her only reaction was “what a shame you didn’t get 100% in everything”
In June of that year mother, who had been complaining now of chest pains, had an x-ray and there was talk of a mild heart attack. Of course, at the time,
we, my sister and I, had no idea. In July, so her diary says, she didn’t really get out of bed for three weeks. And yet, I can’t remember anything strange about
our lives. Why? Father would have been at work, my sister not yet at school, what went on? Unfortunately that’s a rhetorical one, as I will never know.
In July came the event that would so change my whole life. I watched, or saw clips about, the 1957 British Grand Prix. I was hooked. A British win. First
one in a Grand Prix for 34 years I think. From that day forth, motor racing became an incredible part of my life. Of course, at first, I wanted to be a racing
driver. That was the dream but also for birthdays and Christmas, my requests for presents were either books about motor racing or little model cars, with which
I could create my own races. Stirling Moss became my first hero. I am absolutely certain that, although my literacy skills were good for my age, being a consistent
reader of motor racing books and magazines intended mainly for adults helped develop them further.
Just before this momentous event, I had been taken to Curry’s in Leeds City Centre and been bought my first bicycle. At the same time my sister got a doll’s pram.
You may spot something unusual, for a boy, about my bike. Correct. It was a girl’s bike with no horizontal cross-bar. Knowing how, in later life I would be so
productive, mother didn’t want me to suffer any untoward damage. She felt this might happen with a boy’s bike. Of course what I did suffer was acute embarrassment
as I had to explain to any friends why I had a girl’s bike. I have no idea what I said. I will jump forward a year here because it fits in so well as, in the end,
this bike caused me far more serious, and lasting, damage than any boy’s bike could have done.
We had no car. Our neighbour opposite, who would by then be taking me, my father and his own sons into the city centre each day to work and school, had two cars.
He used our garage for one of them. In those days, cars often leaked a bit of oil. Our garage floor was a place for such a leak and so mother, just in case we
walked in it when the car wasn’t there, had put down some sand to cover the oil. I discovered that if, when cycling hard down our driveway, I entered the garage
and applied the rear brake, the rear wheel would slide on the sand and I could perform a 180° turn and head off back up the driveway. Obviously, speedway style,
you needed to put your left leg, I was doing a left 180°, on the ground to help with balance but otherwise, all was great. Note the use of the verb “was”. On
the last occasion, not intentionally the last but circumstances dictated it to be, while using the brake, turning the front wheel and balancing on my left leg,
the left pedal also made contact with the ground. This made the bike come to an abrupt halt sadly, with my left knee firmly jammed between the two diagonal
cross bars found on a girl’s bike. I screamed. It was, I remember, extremely painful and mother ran to the back door.
“What are you doing”, she shouted. The correct answer was “wearing a bike on my knee thanks to you”, but somehow this escaped me. She called father and with
liberal use of butter and other lubricants, after about half an hour and probably less than five minutes from a call to the fire brigade, the bike and I parted
company. My knee, by now, was at least twice its normal size and I couldn’t walk on it. If you have been following this saga, you will know I have a dislike of
hospitals so I declined any suggestions of such a visit and went and sat down. I know, from mother’s diary, that I couldn’t put weight on the leg for over a week
but eventually it cleared up…………..except now it causes me constant pain. It was also the knee upon which I pivoted when delivering those vicious off-breaks in
years to come and, even when I started to drive, I used to “ride” the clutch as I couldn’t manipulate this knee as much as I should.
Three years ago, while walking down a hallway at Badminton, I turned quickly, and it just locked up with an incredible pain shooting down my leg. I then
just couldn’t bend it more than about five degrees. Needless to say, I had paid for the court so I played for an hour, even winning a couple of games, and,
despite no improvement, continued to play in future weeks. A few weeks later we went to the beach for my daughter’s annual “Beach Olympics” and I, of course,
joined in. It hurt but it wasn’t going to stop me until I got an incredibly dirty look from one of her friend’s when I was about to attempt the standing long
jump. I actually didn’t do it. Two months later, I limped through my son’s wedding but the following night, fed up with the pain, I took drastic action. I had
had an X-ray and been told it was arthritis but I didn’t believe that. To my simple mind, something had clicked out of place and it needed to go back. I felt
around the knee, found a bit of a lump and then, over the course of about twenty minutes continuously hit this lump first with my fist and then with a book.
It hurt and I went to bed that night in a lot of pain.
Next morning I woke up and, believe it if you will, I had no pain and no loss of movement. It still hurts sometimes and I have to be careful with
movement but those four months of limping are gone. In August 2012, I ran an “It’s a knock-out”, more later, and the venue was a farmers, unlevel, field. Walking,
and running, around on this surface all day meant that by early evening I could hardly walk but I knew the cure. Find the lump and bash it. At this point I
need to add the well-known phrase, “don’t try this at home”. The world needs no more idiots than it already has.
In September I started school at Leeds Grammar School, Junior Branch. Can’t remember exactly where it was, think it might have been Clarendon Road, but
I would come home alone each afternoon. The journey started with, I would guess, about a mile long walk, the last part being along the footpaths that zigzagged
across Woodhouse Moor, to Woodhouse Lane. I would then catch a bus along Woodhouse Lane, Headingley Lane and Otley Road for the further 2 or so miles to the
top of Ancaster Road, where we lived, and then walk down this road. I would do this each day, rain or shine, or, indeed, fog. I have a vivid memory of one
occasion when I came out of school and could hardly see 10 feet in front of me, sorry still used feet in those days. The walk along the road was OK but across
the moor it became rather scary as there were no walls, houses or anything you could see. I eventually made the main road and the bus stop but when the bus
arrived the conductor, we still had them in those days, was walking in front of the bus carrying a lamp. The rest of the journey home was pretty slow.
One little but highly significant story about my first days at school. In London we had played football and at Richmond House it was possibly netball and
rounders. This was the era when girls played gentle games and Stirling Moss enjoyed crumpet with his winnings.
But back to my story. In Leeds, the school played rugby union. I had never heard of it let alone played it. Father had. On the first games day, when I
came down to breakfast, there on the table was a complete diagram of a rugby field. Positional names and a few rules. I went off to school feeling I knew
something about what was about to happen. I studied that piece of paper well and now know what brilliant parenting skills it showed. No fuss, no don’t worry,
just an understanding of what was needed to make me feel at ease. He may have had faults in other ways but he was the best father anyone could ever have.
I actually quite enjoyed this school too and, indeed, my time in Leeds. Mother was now feeling a little better and I had friends to play with and, of course,
my dreams of motor racing to enjoy.
Just before this momentous event, I had been taken to Curry’s in Leeds City Centre and been bought my first bicycle. At the same time my sister got a doll’s pram.
You may spot something unusual, for a boy, about my bike. Correct. It was a girl’s bike with no horizontal cross-bar. Knowing how, in later life I would be so
productive, mother didn’t want me to suffer any untoward damage. She felt this might happen with a boy’s bike. Of course what I did suffer was acute embarrassment
as I had to explain to any friends why I had a girl’s bike. I have no idea what I said. I will jump forward a year here because it fits in so well as, in the end,
this bike caused me far more serious, and lasting, damage than any boy’s bike could have done.
We had no car. Our neighbour opposite, who would by then be taking me, my father and his own sons into the city centre each day to work and school, had two cars.
He used our garage for one of them. In those days, cars often leaked a bit of oil. Our garage floor was a place for such a leak and so mother, just in case we
walked in it when the car wasn’t there, had put down some sand to cover the oil. I discovered that if, when cycling hard down our driveway, I entered the garage
and applied the rear brake, the rear wheel would slide on the sand and I could perform a 180° turn and head off back up the driveway. Obviously, speedway style,
you needed to put your left leg, I was doing a left 180°, on the ground to help with balance but otherwise, all was great. Note the use of the verb “was”. On
the last occasion, not intentionally the last but circumstances dictated it to be, while using the brake, turning the front wheel and balancing on my left leg,
the left pedal also made contact with the ground. This made the bike come to an abrupt halt sadly, with my left knee firmly jammed between the two diagonal
cross bars found on a girl’s bike. I screamed. It was, I remember, extremely painful and mother ran to the back door.
“What are you doing”, she shouted. The correct answer was “wearing a bike on my knee thanks to you”, but somehow this escaped me. She called father and with
liberal use of butter and other lubricants, after about half an hour and probably less than five minutes from a call to the fire brigade, the bike and I parted
company. My knee, by now, was at least twice its normal size and I couldn’t walk on it. If you have been following this saga, you will know I have a dislike of
hospitals so I declined any suggestions of such a visit and went and sat down. I know, from mother’s diary, that I couldn’t put weight on the leg for over a week
but eventually it cleared up…………..except now it causes me constant pain. It was also the knee upon which I pivoted when delivering those vicious off-breaks in
years to come and, even when I started to drive, I used to “ride” the clutch as I couldn’t manipulate this knee as much as I should.
Three years ago, while walking down a hallway at Badminton, I turned quickly, and it just locked up with an incredible pain shooting down my leg. I then
just couldn’t bend it more than about five degrees. Needless to say, I had paid for the court so I played for an hour, even winning a couple of games, and,
despite no improvement, continued to play in future weeks. A few weeks later we went to the beach for my daughter’s annual “Beach Olympics” and I, of course,
joined in. It hurt but it wasn’t going to stop me until I got an incredibly dirty look from one of her friend’s when I was about to attempt the standing long
jump. I actually didn’t do it. Two months later, I limped through my son’s wedding but the following night, fed up with the pain, I took drastic action. I had
had an X-ray and been told it was arthritis but I didn’t believe that. To my simple mind, something had clicked out of place and it needed to go back. I felt
around the knee, found a bit of a lump and then, over the course of about twenty minutes continuously hit this lump first with my fist and then with a book.
It hurt and I went to bed that night in a lot of pain.
Next morning I woke up and, believe it if you will, I had no pain and no loss of movement. It still hurts sometimes and I have to be careful with
movement but those four months of limping are gone. In August 2012, I ran an “It’s a knock-out”, more later, and the venue was a farmers, unlevel, field. Walking,
and running, around on this surface all day meant that by early evening I could hardly walk but I knew the cure. Find the lump and bash it. At this point I
need to add the well-known phrase, “don’t try this at home”. The world needs no more idiots than it already has.
In September I started school at Leeds Grammar School, Junior Branch. Can’t remember exactly where it was, think it might have been Clarendon Road, but
I would come home alone each afternoon. The journey started with, I would guess, about a mile long walk, the last part being along the footpaths that zigzagged
across Woodhouse Moor, to Woodhouse Lane. I would then catch a bus along Woodhouse Lane, Headingley Lane and Otley Road for the further 2 or so miles to the
top of Ancaster Road, where we lived, and then walk down this road. I would do this each day, rain or shine, or, indeed, fog. I have a vivid memory of one
occasion when I came out of school and could hardly see 10 feet in front of me, sorry still used feet in those days. The walk along the road was OK but across
the moor it became rather scary as there were no walls, houses or anything you could see. I eventually made the main road and the bus stop but when the bus
arrived the conductor, we still had them in those days, was walking in front of the bus carrying a lamp. The rest of the journey home was pretty slow.
One little but highly significant story about my first days at school. In London we had played football and at Richmond House it was possibly netball and
rounders. This was the era when girls played gentle games and Stirling Moss enjoyed crumpet with his winnings.
But back to my story. In Leeds, the school played rugby union. I had never heard of it let alone played it. Father had. On the first games day, when I
came down to breakfast, there on the table was a complete diagram of a rugby field. Positional names and a few rules. I went off to school feeling I knew
something about what was about to happen. I studied that piece of paper well and now know what brilliant parenting skills it showed. No fuss, no don’t worry,
just an understanding of what was needed to make me feel at ease. He may have had faults in other ways but he was the best father anyone could ever have.
I actually quite enjoyed this school too and, indeed, my time in Leeds. Mother was now feeling a little better and I had friends to play with and, of course,
my dreams of motor racing to enjoy.
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