Fight For Your Dream (2 page)

Walking In Dad's Footsteps

Sport was always the main topic of conversation in our household, much to the dismay of my eldest sister Sylvia whom we usually referred to as Sylv. Sylv was eight years my senior and was quite motherly towards me on occasions, although sometimes I seemed to have the knack of irritating her with my childish antics, and she used to yell at me to desist. Sylv was always the typical young lady: pretty, very photogenic with cheeky dimples and a mass of dark hair as well as a lovely singing voice. Sylv, Denise and I attended our local church, and every Sunday morning we went to Sunday school, but it was Sylv who went on to be May Queen one year. Although I was only young I can remember Sylv, and her chosen Sunday School Captain, proudly walking around the congregation and up onto the stage to the sound of the New Seekers' ‘The Carnival is Over'. She was crowned Queen Primrose.

Denise on the other hand enjoyed athletics and was quite a decent runner; but from a young age it was her back that became her Achilles heel. At the tender age of seventeen she had her first prolapsed disc. Mum and dad engaged the expertise of a specialist consultant who visited Denise at home; but it took weeks before she was able to get out of bed. I can remember vividly the nights I slept on a camp bed at the side of the single bed Denise was sleeping in. I used to try and console her by tickling her arm until the pain subsided and she could drift off to sleep for maybe an hour or two at a time. I never left her bedside until she could sleep through the night. Denise was sixteen when she started work at Sheffield University along with Sylv, who had also worked there since leaving school. Denise used to spoil me rotten in those days. Every monthly pay check she received she would buy me a present, or give me some spending money, or take me to town for me to choose something nice to wear. She was my soul mate as well as my sister. Denise and dad were my number one supporters throughout the time I spent in competitive athletics; they followed me just about everywhere around the UK to watch me compete. I represented Sheffield and Yorkshire on numerous occasions running 400, 800 and 1500 metres during the track season, and cross country during the winter. I suppose it's fair to say that I was blessed with a great deal of natural ability. I didn't really have to try that hard to achieve; it just came naturally and I did have a fair amount of success.

Unfortunately, the success that I was having in my athletics was by no means replicated in the classroom. After leaving Morley Street Junior School, later renamed Rivelin Middle School, I moved further away from my home on Manvers Road to attend Myers Grove Comprehensive School. Both my sisters had made the same transition, and now it was my turn. Academia was never really important to me at that stage in my life. Most of the time I spent daydreaming about the possibility of one day winning an Olympic Gold medal; how it would feel to be stood on the rostrum with the medal being hung around my neck; how I would turn toward the Union Jack to see it being raised aloft with the sound of our national anthem belting out across the Olympic stadium. Oh, how wonderful that would be! ‘Elaine Allen, are you taking part in this history lesson, or would you like to tell us where you are? No doubt thinking about your next race!'

Most of the teachers were well aware of my athletic exploits, because most weeks I would be called onto the stage from assembly to be congratulated by the headmaster, or to be presented with a prize I had won the previous weekend. They say hindsight is a great thing; no one can turn the clock back, but how I wish I had paid more attention in the classroom and not wasted my school years. The sad thing is, I now know that I didn't do myself justice in my exams. I've proved that time and time again since. I only achieved mediocre CSE grades, whereas instead I could have achieved much more. By now I was sixteen, and very soon I would be leaving Myers Grove for good, to stretch my wings in the big wide world. There was no way I had any ambition or intention to stay on into the sixth form, so I needed to start looking for a job. Looking back I can't believe what a casual attitude I had towards a working career.

During this time in my life I was still being coached by the Sherwoods. Debbie was a good friend of the Sherwoods, and also a member of the squad. Although I was five years her junior, we did get along very well. We had known each other for some years so, when Deb knew I was looking for a job, she suggested I consider applying to the Sheffield Magistrates Court, where they were advertising a vacancy for a member of staff in the fines and fees department. I was fortunate enough to be accepted for an interview, and later that same evening I had a phone call from Deb. I was amazed when she told me that if I could ‘keep it under my hat', the powers that be had informed her that I was going to be offered the job. Sure enough, five days later I received a formal letter offering me the position.

My time as a school girl was nearing an end and, to be honest, it couldn't come quickly enough. It had not been something I had embraced with open arms. Even to this day I have never really understood when people say, ‘School days were the best days of my life.' They certainly were not for me.

However, I was now seventeen and, a couple of years prior to this, Sheffield had introduced the ladies ‘Star Walk'. This was a nine mile course, three miles shorter than the men's race, and it was to take place on the same day as the men's, and around the majority of the same course. Again as was tradition, the day being Bank Holiday Tuesday in May, I decided I wanted a crack at it. Wouldn't it be fantastic to follow in dad's footsteps, especially if I could win it!

This wasn't going to be that easy. I needed dad's blessing and, after the trauma of Helsinki, dad had always been adamant that if ever a ladies' race walking was introduced to the sport, he certainly did not want me to be tempted to go down that route. ‘It's not a free sport,' he would say, ‘too many restrictions which aren't judged fairly.' I needed dad's blessing, and I wanted him to coach me.

It was a cold, wet January evening and, after much debate, dad had finally agreed to take me out for a training spin around our local area. ‘Come on then, lets see how you walk; if you don't roll ya feet smoothly, you'll be no good, an' I'll tell ya,' he said. ‘Okay, okay,' I said, ‘give me a chance.' As we walked down Manvers Road I looked up towards the sky, where small snowflakes were starting to fall. They were sticking to my pale blue bobble hat, and I can remember turning to dad and saying, ‘What a night to start training for the Star Walk.' He turned towards me and replied, ‘Let's see what ya like first.' About 10 minutes into my initiation test, I was aware that dad kept dropping back now and again. I guessed that he wanted to see what my race walking style looked like, as the next minute he would be back at my side. This went on for the whole time we were out. Turning back into Manvers Road dad said, ‘Pick up the pace and finish fast,' so that's what I did. From a sporting angle, dad has never been one to give out compliments willy nilly if they haven't been earned, so when dad said, ‘Aye, yer not bad, yer place yer feet well... yer might make something,' I took that as an overwhelming vote of confidence. Yep, Star Walk here we come, I'd got dad's blessing. Two weeks into training, dad thought it would be a good idea to introduce me to the Sheffield United Walking Club. Dad had been awarded life membership after his sporting achievements, and was always a popular figure with them. The following few months was a gradual learning curve on the finer points of Race Walking. Dad planned a training schedule for me, building the training sessions up until I was physically strong enough to cope with them. He was very aware that, although I was seventeen, I was still a young girl, and he didn't want to stress young bones that were still growing. Maturity comes with gradual progression, and during dad's sporting life he had seen many promising young athletes pushed too hard, too soon and completely burnt out. He wasn't going to let that happen to me!

During the build-up to the race the club were of enormous help and support to me. I trained with them a couple of times a week to start with, and slowly I was beginning to reel in athletes who at first used to leave me for dead. The training was paying off and I was improving with every week that passed by. Derek Slinn was another coach for the club. He'd known dad for years, and he encouraged me train with his squad. This would enable me to have the additional help of other team members to improve my competition and speed. It was at this point I became friendly with a girl called Diane Wood. Diane was also coached by Derek, and over the following months and years we became firm friends. The first of June (competition day) was rapidly approaching, and three weeks before the race dad and Derek decided that it would be a good idea for me to walk the course as if I was racing it. Although I trained on the course at various stages of my build up, I'd never actually covered the whole distance; so Derek would be in charge of the stopwatch during the time it would take me to cover the 9 mile course at racing speed.

Let's see what I could do!

It had been hard walking alone. Derek and dad had been following me in the car giving me encouragement along the way, and at various points dad had joined in with me as a tow to pace-make for me. It had been some time since dad could match my speed and, although that showed how quickly I was improving, I can remember missing the camaraderie of dad permanently being by my side. During this latest training session I completed the course two and a half minutes inside record time. I was ready. I was finally ready, and I was hungry for success!

The Race

Tuesday 1
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June had arrived. So many times in my mind I had wondered what I would feel like on such a monumental day: not just for me, but equally for dad. It was a big occasion and I so badly wanted to deliver. All the family would be watching and supporting, but I tried to keep focusing on the job in hand. Dad suggested that I warm up by jogging down to the area where the race was to start. This way I could have some time to myself, and hopefully stay as calm as possible.

As I approached Hillsborough Park, I can remember thinking how uncomfortably warm the day was. Crikey, this was going to make things even more difficult. Everybody had the same conditions though, so I tried hard not to think about it. The race was due to start at 10.30am, but it was only 9.30am. Already the pavements were rapidly filling up with people who wanted to secure a decent viewing position for the men's race, which was due to come through first. I was a local girl, and now and then I would hear people shouting, ‘Good luck, Elaine,' as I jogged past. Due to dad being very well known in Sheffield, I had created quite a bit of interest in the local newspaper, and the press had been eager to interview me as the daughter of an ex-Olympian.

Eventually we were called to the start line. It was called an all ladies race, so I was surprised to experience ‘ladies' jostling for a decent position; but I had been taught well and stood my ground. ‘Ladies, on your marks, get set,...' The starting gun fired and we were off. The first bend was upon us quickly, and I could remember dad telling me to get off quickly to secure a good position on the inside of the bend. I felt like a formula one driver trying to find the correct line to accelerate out of the apex of the turn.

Manoeuvre complete and I was out in front. As I rounded the bend I can vividly remember seeing members of my family cheering and clapping as they spotted me out in front. It was an awesome sight. I felt so emotional, so proud, but I had to concentrate on the task ahead. It wasn't going to be an easy one. Halifax Road was the first hill challenge and, so soon into the race, was going to be tough. I glanced ahead and I was amazed to see the pavements full of spectators. What encouragement they gave me that day. As I neared the top of Halifax Road I could see dad in the distance, with mum at his side. The heat of the blistering sun was really intense, and I was hoping that soon I would be in a shaded area, where I could settle down and take stock of my position. My mouth was so parched and dry that I was finding it difficult to swallow. Dad shouted, ‘Well done, lass. Try and relax on the downhill stretch. You're looking good. Just try and keep the rhythm. Don't push it for the record today. It's too hot.' I remember thinking, ‘Bloody hell, this is hard work. I must be mad.'

I was settling into a new stride downhill, which was a welcome relief after the shorter uphill stride. Just a change of pace felt good as I tried to prepare myself for what was still to come. I was soon beginning to pick off some of the back markers of the men's race, which had gone through earlier. Dad had given me information about the leading men, and who was out in front. I wasn't surprised to hear it was the favourite, but he wasn't having it all his own way; the leading bunch was giving him a hard time. I remember thinking, ‘Thank god I haven't got company.' Four miles in, and I was grateful for a comfortable lead. Blimey, the heat was making things so much harder than I had anticipated, and I was feeling desperately tired. Whether it was a combination of the occasion, the emotion and the heat I don't know, but I do know I wanted to get to the end. Dad, bless him, was always around the next corner, giving me words of encouragement, which was so comforting. It's funny, but I can still remember the colour of the shirt that dad was wearing that day; it was white with a blue stripe where the buttons fastened. Mum wore a short sleeved dress, which was pale blue, cream and white. How odd it is that I can vividly remember those things like it was yesterday. The human brain is so amazing yet, as I now know, so very fragile.

The remaining few miles seemed to take forever. The last big hill was Barnsley Road. I'd nicknamed Barnsley Road the ‘Big Dipper' because that's just what it looked like as you approached it. Down the steep descent with a small dip in the bottom then up the steep ascent. Nearing the top I felt my legs starting to wobble uncontrollably. At first I couldn't understand what was happening. I was finding it increasingly difficult to keep a nice smooth roll to my walking style. For about twenty seconds I had to revert to walking like anybody else would. My style just broke down, so I just tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I didn't realise at the time, but a spectator who knew me had got a message to dad to say that I wasn't looking too well, and that I could be in trouble. I honestly can't remember much about the following mile or so of the race. I was just concentrating on keeping moving. At times I was aware of dad jogging at the side of me, and hearing him saying, ‘Elaine, Elaine, keep shaking your head. Try and follow the white line in the middle of the road. You've not far to go, lass. Just hang on. You're nearly there. You've got a big lead. Nobody's anywhere near you.'

They say hindsight is a wonderful thing, but on this occasion I'm not so sure it would have been. Little did I know that I had started suffering the effects of heat exhaustion and dehydration. In the men's race, that had already finished, the leading man had experienced what was happening to me, but unfortunately he had collapsed just one mile before the finish, and had been taken away in an ambulance to hospital for treatment. It seems bizarre to say but, back in those days, it was against the rules to take on water to drink in any race less than twelve miles. How things have changed... and for the better! That last mile, dad was with me every step of the way. As I approached Hillsborough Park, I could see the stadium in the distance. I could hear the cheering crowds, and I so desperately wanted to be at the finish line. My hair was plastered to my head with sweat, and my white vest top felt like it had been attached to me with glue. It was so bloody hot! The course record, which I so wanted to break, was now long gone, but it didn't matter. I had nearly achieved my goal. Entering the stadium was a feeling that I will never ever forget as long as I live. I felt like a superstar. The stands were packed full of spectators. So many people who knew me were shouting out my name and waving their arms around, clapping and whistling. As I stepped onto the cinder track for my final lap, I glanced over my right shoulder to where the finish line was. Dad had entered the stadium just behind me and, as I stepped onto the track, he shouted, ‘Go on, lass, you've done it. You're on your own now.'

It would have been lovely to have dad crossing the finish line with me, just to enjoy the moment with him. But I know that for dad the win meant just as much to him as it did to me. I know that on that day, 1
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June 1982, Lol Allen was a very, very proud man, and for me, well...I'd won it for Dad and that's all that mattered!