Back Marker A torch is passed and one day, it will be passed on again.

A TORCH IS PASSED AND ONE DAY IT WILL BE PASSED ON AGAIN

BY PAUL TONKINSON

RH

There are many kinds of Dads in the world. Good Dads. Bad Dads. Funny Dads. Sad Dads. Some Dads will give you their last buck; some won’t give you their first.

As I remember mine, I think of the huge Starsky and Hutch-style knitted jacket he wore round the house, the blue-and-gold Gemini horoscope mug he drank tea out of. I remember the simple joy I felt to get the call to hop up and sit on his knee when we were watching TV. We laughed a lot; he’d stick on a Monty Python tape and we’d memorise sketches and do impressions together, or improvise obscene songs while walking into town.

When you’re a kid, your Dad is more a living myth than a human being. And somewhere layered into the whole experience is the fact that you are learning how to be a Dad yourself. Lessons are passed down, Moses-like, written on the tablets of the days; incrementally, values are being shaped, traditions formed.

Competition was the currency of daily interactions. The walk home from town after the weekly shop inevitably ended in an increase of pace as we took on the final hill, multiple bags in each hand. Running was a daily staple. Either he’d walk ahead and time me running between lamp posts, or we’d sprint off together, laughing. He inevitably pulled ahead at the midway point, gently mocking my efforts to keep up.

I ran all the time at that age; races between mates were common, sudden sprints and surges. It was part of the skill set you needed, along with soccer, fighting, climbing, pain tolerance, sense of humour, conker dexterity and courage.

Is there a fitter, purer state of being than that of the pre-adolescent child?

THE BIG QUESTIONS

By John Carroll

Q. I want to start running, but I have this terrible fear that other runners will judge me. What can I do?

A. When you are running, you will see runners wearing cargo shorts, runners wearing muscle tops, runners wearing Frankie Say Relax T-shirts and men wearing running tights but not shorts. You will see fast runners, slow runners and runners moving with the grace of a boozed-up puppet. You will not be judging them and they will not be judging you. Except the men in tights and no shorts. Everyone judges them. The 10- or 11-year-old, as yet unburdened by hormonal moods or tormented by thoughts of lust and thrown into the vat of hedonism that results from such confusion. That window where you feel the strength and stamina of real youth oncoming, but you still have the spirit of the child to enjoy it. You are unrestrained, without embarrassment. The body unpoisoned by booze or cigarettes, muscles bursting into life, lungs clean.

So I ran everywhere. And one day, during a race on the beach, I just ran away. Races had become closer, but the idea of beating my Dad had not entered my head. I’d noticed he’d had to try harder to beat me in recent weeks. It’s testament to his fitness that he could. He’d have been 38 at the time.

The sand was solid beneath our feet as we set off, me in my tan jeans and T-shirt, Dad in his jeans and denim jacket. We seemed to be level for longer than usual, and the usual trash-talking at the halfway point stopped as I edged ahead. His countenance changed as he realised this would take concentration; and then, just as I saw the effort he was having to put in, I felt this surge of power – my arms and legs seemed to pick themselves up and move more dynamically; I sped ahead. It was like I was being pulled by an invisible force.

I glanced back at Dad – he was laughing, bless him, but this was a new laugh, a surprised surrender. This was the first time I’d seen him failing at something. With every step I took, his mythical powers were weakened.

The end point we had settled on passed in a flash. I swept on. And then I stopped; we were breathless and a tad giddy with it all. I didn’t know what was happening, how big this moment was. But a baton had been passed.

And just how did Dad feel as we continued the walk? I would only truly understand it when it happened to me.