OUR recent coverage of mini-motos and their occasional misuse caused me to cast my mind back to more relaxed days when lads could have fun and not bother adults.
My home village stands on a hill set back from the main road. Before the age of motorways, it was an isolated community with virtually no through-traffic. There was, however, a winding lane that ran for several hundred yards before climbing another hill and then falling away to a ford.
These were therefore ideal conditions for the art of carting. For long before motorised go-carts became popular, village lads would construct vehicles from old pram chassis, or even just boards nailed together with a wheel in each corner. They could either be crudely steered with ropes, or with another wheel attached to a pole.
We would often ride down the streets in these contraptions. When we came to a hill, it was just a case of hauling the machine up with a rope, and then starting again.
Now and again, we would stage a race, allowing a combination of gravity and sharp incline to do the work. I can still see Mick Chadwick plunge into the ditch and disappear under his upturned cart and Chris Keeley first past the post, the canny lad having had the foresight to slap oodles of grease on his axles.
Once a year, I return to the lane and reflect on those wonderful days. But I no longer hear the shouts and cries of village lads, just the traffic hum from the nearby motorway. They call this progress.
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