Race Walking was the ‘second sport’ of The Stock Exchange. The very nature of the work meant that many people walked thousands of miles in their working life. The daily average, goodness knows but if todays technology were around I think it would make interesting reading. Indeed I can’t remember any fat people at all working on the floor which is surprising considering the average alcohol consumption.
There were many club race walkers but one, man stood out. Adrian James, an Olympian. Whilst the 6 miles walking race was considered the ‘blue ribbon’ event of the annual Stock Exchange Sports the undisputed ‘big thing’ was the annual London To Brighton ‘Race’. A daunting 55 miles 4 hundred and something yards. In truth there was only one winner, Adrian, but there were a few athletes who would annually strut their stuff. There would be only around 50 people in the ‘race’ but a huge convoy of followers would make the early May day something of a ‘day out’. Firms would stage picnics on the route and competed for the most ‘lavish spread and bar’. Pinchin always had a representative because a former senior partner, now retired, Todd Slaughter by name, was in charge of the whole affair. He was a prickly man and insisted on ‘the letter of the laws’! Being represented in the race became a Pinchin tradition. Unfortunately in 1973 the senior partner of the firm, Lewis Powell, who was not a man I felt comfortable with, put his hand on my shoulder and announced to me of my ‘selection’ to represent the firm. Some measly comment surrounding the fact I had often taken time off to play rugby was used as a final confirmation of my obligation to race. I started training-beyond tedious.
For some reason Adrian James would always make an appearance on the Stock Exchange floor on Friday lunch time. He would arrive with a blue button badge of the firm Cazenove on his lapel a clipboard in his hand. He would then move around the Stock Exchange floor in a sort of display. He might write down some prices then suddenly, with a swirl of his hips set off in a sort of gavotte. He was in truth a strange man but the cult of celebrity was alive even in the mid 70s and people would line up to greet him and on one occasion I saw him sign an autograph-bizarre!. As a rugby player the furthest thing I could imagine from ‘cool’ was ‘race walking’. Unfortunately some wise guy walked up to Adrian and told him I would be ‘racing’ him in the forthcoming event and maybe he could give me some pointers. Oh no! There may have been some who were genuinely interested but what was for sure was my mates lined up to take the piss. Adrian ordered me to show my paces. I reluctantly strutted across the floor. He sucked his teeth and let go on a monologue of hip and waist rotation. The comments of my mates were not helpful and were way more basic. Out of respect I went through the ‘training session’ and if truth be told I did realise why race walkers do their thing. The extra inch or two in the rotation of the hip mounts up over 50 odd miles!
AT 6 am on a sunny May morning we lined up on the start line outside The Houses of Parliament. The gun fired by one of Todd’s assistants and we were off. Before I was halfway across Parliament bride Adrian was disappearing off the end. Each competitor had a ‘second’ who, despite the numerous feed stations along the way, was in place to support, sponge down and feed his charge. My second was of course Chris Jones. He had offered his services immediately the news of my selection was made as I think he had a small sense of guilt that someone with his athletic gifts had escaped the ‘privilege’ of representing the firm.
Liz joined him in his car and Chris, like all other ‘seconds’ had a collapsible or similar bike in the boot of the car in case the ‘walker’ got into difficulties and needed moral support. The rules, of which we were all reminded at the start, were such that the second, if he ‘took to the bike’, must at all times stay behind the ‘walker’. There was a cut off time for the race of 12 hours 8 minutes or something similar. Which had been arrived at over the years to be a time that coincided with the arrival of the weakest walkers at the finish line. Probably the only real theatre of the race was in the finishing shute when Todd Slaughter would leap forward a grin on his face, stopwatch in hand to declare a poor unfortunate soul a ‘non finisher’. Apparently there was always one or two who suffered that fate. Please don’t let it be me I thought as I wobbled along the main street of Streatham on my way. Amazingly considering todays traffic the whole event took place down the main road from London to Brighton!! Somewhere at the end of Streatham a motorist pulled out in front of me and I twisted myself in trying to avoid him. Something pulled and I winced. Chris gave me a cold sponge and I carried on.
As I mentioned above along the route were various places were picnics were staged. Families would gather and they would applaud the walkers through. It was quite a buzz really as many of my own firm were there to cheer, including lots of the partners. My dear friend Bellingham took the whole thing very seriously. It was touch and go whether this event or The Twickenham Sevens was his biggest ‘day out’ of the year but with me ‘walking’ he had special incentive. He had rented an open top bus and he had installed some beer barrels on it. Around 40 or so of his ‘best mates’ had shared the cost and from time to time as I progressed this noisy lot would pass by cheering, before they found another lay-by party to gate crash. As the day wore on they all became very drunk such that once they passed me by without seeing me as they were belting out some rugby song or other.
My longest training walk had been 30 miles and as I reached around that point my hip began to really ache. Chris immediately set up the bike and somehow he managed to ride the next 25 miles on it. Encouraging me, dousing me in water and all the rest. Liz kept circling ahead to hand Chris more supplies. Finally at 50 miles I got to the entry of Brighton-there was a sign that said something like “Welcome to Brighton”. As I got there something went in my head. ‘I cant do this Chris I shouted” I was in agony I could not see straight and all my resolve had gone. Still five miles to go however. There and yet not there-panic! It was like hitting the biggest ‘wall’ in the world. Chris would have none of it. ‘Keep going’ he ordered. He injected some further paranoia by declaring ‘you can still make the cut off time”! I hobbled on, I swore at the official photographer who tried to take an atmospheric shot of me by lying on the pavement and shooting upwards but inconveniencing my route.
Somehow we got to the main street of Brighton. The shops were just closing and it was very busy. all of a sudden that wonderful man behind me, squat of stature, with thick black glasses on his nose broke into ‘The School Chorus’. At the top of his voice he began the first verse. ‘Oh stand we together, together let us call” I joined in ‘On God on high who love us who loves and cares for all”. We sang all six versus and I felt my spirits beginning to rise. God knows what the shoppers must have thought as we did not hold back in our song. Polite applause saluted me from the sides of the road and just as I turned on to the Brighton seafront the bus moved along side me. Bellingham was upstairs at the back hanging off the rail. The boys did me proud ‘There is only one Dennis Elliott’ they blasted out to the familiar tune. At long last my ordeal was over. I completed in 11 hours 22 minutes 15 seconds, well inside the qualifying time but way behind Adrian James who won in a shade over 8 hours. I have never ever been so tired, exhausted, so utterly horrible. I have subsequently taken part in many endurance events at which time I have often consoled myself that nothing could ever be as bad as that day in May. To Chris Jones I offer a silent prayer of thanks. Yet again he was as good as his word and supported me along my way. Liz drove me home in total silence I was gone.
A curious sequel to the event was that in the official photo of me crossing the finishing line in the middle of the picture is the face of a man applauding me. At the time I hardly knew him but in time this man was to inspire some amazing adventures proving that sometimes good will come from bad. His name was Micky Rolfe.
Tales of a Life Well Lived 