Stuck inside on this miserably wet November day has me thinking as I wait for a doctor to phone.
Most children of almost any age, love wheeled toys, from their very first buggy, to go-carts or ride on plastics. They never forget their very first bike, or as mid-teenagers, their first car or motorbike.
For my generation things were very different, because we wartime kids never saw or owned new toys, there just weren’t any to be found, unless battered pre-war junk. So, as resourceful little groups of both sexes we would scour our neighbourhood, for the wherewithal to construct our own, perhaps under the guidance of a granddad or older uncle.
Short planks of wood, shallow vegetable or orange boxes, other odd bits of timber from the firewood pile. We sourced and straightened dozens of bent nails, unscrewed old screws from discarded furniture. The most difficult items were a nuts and bolts, plus the biggest target of all, four old pram wheels with axles, it might have taken us a week or more of the summer holiday to get the whole kit together. Our aim, was then to produce, the best steerable go-cart in the neighbourhood, they were all very similar in design.
A strong plank about three or four feet long, with a box-seat fixed to one end, at the other a strong cross piece formed a footrest, always pivoting on a nut and bolt. From each end of this a loop of strong cord or rope co-ordinated hand and feet steering. Braking was a simple dragging of a shoe or boot on the ground.
We all discovered that large pram wheels at the back and smaller ones at the front gave better speed and control. The sheer noise of a group as their creation took shape increased to a crescendo as the final touches were applied, a flag, a sail, or a roughly painted name. The natural leader of the group, girl, or boy always had first go, others took turns to push or to pull the lucky driver, until the favourite slopes were reached; then turns were taken.
It was then that the real fun started, depending upon build-quality, all go-carts would increase in speed down the slope; poorly built ones would disintegrate, others attempting to turn would roll-over, spilling driver and passenger into the path of the others. One of the most common failures was the disconnection of axles from plank chassis; the poorer of the groups could only use bent nails as fixings…the best built used strong screws or even nuts and bolts, with the help of an adult.
So, small noisy groups, would gather at street corners, on waste land, bomb sites, or at a favourite hill. Bruises, scabby knees and elbows were the norm as were splinters and hammered thumbs. There was often rivalry as to who had the biggest scabs…. They were so very common. Back at home, Vaseline, Germaline or even mum’s saliva would be the cure.
During the record cold winter of 1947, many of these homemade go-carts were pushed or pulled through the deep snow or on icy roads to the Gas Works in Dalehouse Lane. From there shivering children would pull and push home a hundredweight sack of coke, to help hard pressed mum’s to keep the house warm……. painful chilblains and the hot-aches made us cry real tears. It was a long walk from Roseland Road.
All of the above came about, because I have just taken delivery of my first set of wheels since I stopped driving over fifteen years ago. My advanced age and medical condition have forced me to acquire a new mobility scooter, a good deal smarter than the go-carts of the past, but have I retained the thrill of trundling along close to the ground again? Or will I have to scare myself, a few times first. I really don’t want scabby knees or roll-over accidents do I?
A new learning curve awaits me, frustratingly todays rain is preventing my first solo trip, but that is life….. I just need to wait, as we did a long ago – to find my wheels.
Cyril Hobbins. November 2022