Have Wheels, Will Travel

My first car had been pedalpowered, and my love of them had grown from there!

IREMEMBER the first time I drove a car. It was bright blue with white wheel trim. The sunshine reflected off the shiny bonnet as I waved to my parents. I was so proud. This was something I’d dreamed of for a long time. I was four.

“Please, Dad! Can I? Can I?” I had pleaded.

Dad had offered to let me have a ride on the merrygo-round.

“Look at those lovely horses, Alison,” he said. “All those different colours going up and down, up and down.”

But I wasn’t like other little girls. Horses and ponies held no attraction for me. I wanted to race cars and motorbikes.

“You don’t even know if you can work the pedals,” Mum said.

I was sure I could. I had seen Kevin from next door. He had his very own pedal car. I’d had to make do with a tricycle that Dad had rescued from the scrapyard where he worked.

It didn’t even have a front tyre when I first got it, but after a couple of weeks, he found one of those, too. “I can,” I insisted. Kevin’s dad seemed to have more money than mine. He didn’t put on overalls to go to work, like my dad. He wore a suit with a white shirt and a tie.

They had a little car, too, whereas we had a motorbike and sidecar. “Please?”

Dad finally relented with a sigh. I knew he had to be careful with our holiday money. Ice-creams were rationed to one every other day and we only had one hot meal during the day after our breakfast at the guest-house. “Yippee!”

We were near the end of our annual holiday. We had gone down to Great Yarmouth on Dad’s bike with me and Mum squeezed in the sidecar and our case strapped to the back.

Most days we had walked past the attractions along the seafront, but today Dad said that, as I’d been a good girl, I could have an extra treat.

He had been expecting me to jump at the chance of a ride on the kiddies’ carousel at sixpence a time. But all week I’d had my eye on the pedal-car track further down the road. The fact that they were a shilling a ride meant nothing to me.

“Go on, then.” He smiled as he handed over the coin to the lady at the kiosk.

I’d already picked out my vehicle of choice. A young boy had just finished his turn and had parked it at the end of the line. I raced along and stepped in before it was snapped up by someone else.

“Be careful!” Mum shouted.

Once I’d sat down I realised it was bigger than it looked from a distance. I just about managed to reach the floor with my feet so I could push it backwards into the play area.

Once I was facing in the right direction I shuffled forwards in the seat, placed my feet on the bars and began to pedal.

It wasn’t the same as riding a bike. It was more forwards and backwards than up and down. Harder, too.

I wasn’t going to admit that I was struggling. I leaned back and pushed as hard as I could on each stroke of the pedals.

Once I had gained a reasonable speed it became easier. I got myself into a rhythm and sped around the little track as if I had been doing it for years. “Whee!”

I even overtook a few of the other kids as I hurtled round the bends. “Brrm! Brrm!”

I didn’t want to come off when my time was up but I stopped short of making a scene.

It had been a great holiday and, even at such a young age, I appreciated how much effort Mum and Dad had put into it.

“That was great!”

****

Fast forward 20 years and I was behind the wheel once more. This time it was my very own vehicle and, once again, Dad had come up with the money for it.

He never had learned to drive, preferring to ferry himself and Mum around on the motorbike combination.

“Thanks, Dad. This means I can take that new job in the city.”

“You deserve it, sweetheart. You’ve worked really hard.”

I was taking Mum and Dad into town to do their shopping. Then it was on to the cinema. Mum wanted to see a film called “Bugsy Malone” so I said I’d go with her while Dad spent a couple of hours at the British Legion.

The summer of 1976 was proving to be the hottest on record and I don’t think he fancied sitting in a stuffy auditorium with dozens of other people.

“I mean it, Dad. I’m going to pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” Mum cut in from the back seat. “We put that money aside just for you.”

It was a secondhand Hillman Imp;

not the classiest of cars and a bit tricky to handle, but it would get me to work and back.

I’d been the first one in our family to go to university so Mum and Dad weren’t going to let the lack of transport hinder my efforts to get a decent job.

I think the money had originally been intended to pay for my wedding, but as I had put my career ahead of any relationships, they seemed happy to change their plans.

****

Now it’s another few decades on and, this time, the situation is reversed. It is Dad who is test-driving his new vehicle.

“That’s right, Dad. Accelerate gently and don’t get too close to the kerb.”

The years of working outside in all weathers at the engineering yard have finally taken their toll on his knees and back. Mum has done her best, but she’s too old herself to be pushing Dad around in a wheelchair.

“Now have a go at reversing.”

He wasn’t keen at first, but we managed to persuade him to try one of those new electric scooter things that are beginning to appear around the place.

I insisted on paying for it to say thanks for all he’s done for me.

The whole family is here to support him. My husband is making sure that he knows what all the controls are for and my two teenage daughters have the manual open and are checking how far he can go on a fully charged battery.

“It’s not all that different from riding a motorbike,” Dad insists.

“Yes, but it’s been years since you were on one of those.”

“It never leaves you, lass. You never forget.”

Trundling just those few yards up and down the street seems to have given Dad a renewed vigour. His eyes are sparkling and his whole face is creased in concentration as he comes to a halt just in front of me.

“Do you remember when I used to take you all over the place? Me on the bike and you and your mum in the sidecar?”

“A lifetime ago,” Mum says.

“Remember that holiday in Great Yarmouth? We could barely afford it but we had the best time ever.”

“You wouldn’t get to Yarmouth on that thing, Dad.”

We all laugh.

“I haven’t been there for years,” he says. “We should go; all of us.”

“What, six of us? To the east coast?”

“No,” he says. “It’s probably a stupid thing. I said it on the spur of the moment.”

But I can sense the disappointment in his voice. It takes a couple of minutes for the idea to settle in my mind and I turn to my husband.

He shrugs as if to say, “Why not?” and the matter is settled.

****

“We didn’t stay in a place like this the last time,” Dad says as we wheel him up the ramp.

We managed to get a late booking in one of the larger chain hotels which has excellent disability access.

A six-seater hire vehicle with ample space in the back for Dad’s scooter solved the transport problem.

I hadn’t been on holiday with Mum and Dad since I left home and I didn’t think that my two daughters would relish the prospect.

They love their grandparents, however, and were curious to find out how we used to spend our holidays.

To be honest they were a little spoiled as, so far, all their vacations had taken place abroad.

“Let’s take a walk down to the seafront as soon as we’re settled,” Dad suggested.

I thought the journey might have tired him out but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I don’t know if it was the change of scenery or the sea air, but from the moment we arrived he seemed alert and invigorated.

“Let’s try the pleasure beach,” he suggested as he manoeuvred his scooter along the pavement.

“The girls are too old for fairground rides, Dad,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be fun.”

We wandered amongst the crowds for a few minutes until Dad stopped his machine next to the carousel.

“Remember when I tried to get you on one of these?” he said. “But you preferred the pedal cars.”

“It was just a kiddies’ ride then, Dad. And I never did like just going round and round.”

“Go on it now. Just for me.”

“What?”

“Go on. All of you. I’ll take some pictures.”

So the four of us each chose our horse and rode on the merry-go-round while Mum and Dad stood by and waved as we sped past. Dad insisted on paying even though it was considerably more than the shilling he had paid over forty years before.

He was being mischievous, of course; making me take that ride all these years later.

“Woo-hoo!” I yelled at him from my gyrating mount.

I had already determined I was going to turn the tables on him, though. From my lofty perch I had spotted a go-kart track on the other side of the fairground.

“Can I, Dad? Please!” I mimicked after we had dismounted our steeds. “Can I go on the karts now?”

My husband and daughters hadn’t a clue what the joke was between Dad and me.

But they went along with my little indulgence and soon I was showing them how competitive I could be on the racetrack.

“You all drive like old ladies!” I said, having lapped each of them at least once.

Dad laughed so much he nearly fell off his scooter. “That’s my girl!”

That holiday was even better than the one I remembered from my childhood. It wasn’t the fact that we stayed in a posh hotel or that we had more spending money.

We were all together as a family, the girls loved spending time with their grandparents and Mum and Dad enjoyed visiting the old town.

I think I went some way towards repaying them for all they had done for me. Just a little bit. n