Hackney woke to the salsa beats of Rio de Janeiro on Saturday morning as Carnival hit the borough from Shoreditch, through Dalston, to Stoke Newington.
On what seemed like the first day of sun in a month of Sundays, shorts and t-shirts replaced jumpers and thermals to reveal pale limbs unused to the light of day. This was just the beginning, though, as the temperature rose to greet the Olympic flame later in the afternoon.
My own Olympic journey in search of the eternal flame of Olympia (where the Torch gets lit every 4 years) had begun a month earlier in the Derbyshire Dales. A visit to family was carefully planned to incorporate a trip to see the Torch as it passed through the Peak District on its way through the nations and regions of the UK. So, on the 29 June, three generations of my family lined up on the road through Darley Dale and waited for history to be made as locals and notables congregated to support our torch-bearing local heroes.
What happened was somewhat different. The first sign that not everything was as we were expecting came with the arrival of a “sponsorship vanguard”. Leading the way through the village was a large open-top heavily branded “Coca-Cola” coach from which bottles of coke were distributed (whether you wanted them or not) to the disconcerting sound of middle-of-the-road house music – carefully chosen to suggest a ‘down with the kids’ outlook, but tuned down just enough not to upset everyone else. Recovering from the bad taste in the mouth this promotional assault left, onlookers had to do a double take as next in line was a Lloyds TSB coach which, using a similarly anodyne musical formula exalted us, not to the Olympian values of excellence, friendship and respect, but to a world of cash ISA’s and investment opportunities. This jarring experience was only partly redeemed by the arrival of the Samsung vehicle and PR team – at least the technology retailer hadn’t destroyed the global economy and brought the world to its knees recently!
Having successfully set up a commercial and soulless scene, we prepared ourselves to be uplifted by the arrival of the Torch. However, things are never as easy as they seem. Peering over the horizon – just past the DFS warehouse – and hoping to glimpse the inspiring vision of the Torch coming into view, our gaze was met by yet more coaches, cars and a transit van. Like a super-model unwilling to get out of bed for less than £10k a day, it appears the Torch (surrounded by an entourage that the wannabe celebrities of Big-Brother would die for) does not actually do the whole route. Instead, it is ferried between photo-opportunities where it allows us to gaze upon its magnificence – it is the master, and we are its obedient servants.
Leading this procession around the country are the motorbike outriders of the Metropolitan Police. Unlike knights of old (and with considerably more horse-power) they herald a less than magisterial arrival. They do, however, appear to be having a lovely time and a lot of fun, and it became a curious highlight to see them high-fiving the crowd (while narrowly avoiding running them over) as they drove through town. It was like watching a very British (and very rural) version of CHiPS: (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAidnO64NE4). I suppose in an era of austerity, phone-hacking and riots, you take your plaudits wherever you can find them – even if it is from a four-year-old caught in the awe/fear-inspiring glare of your headlights!
Quickly coming to terms with these new realities, we readjusted our expectations and got ready to be introduced to the Torch (a little like meeting the Queen). Standing roadside, cameras (babies and pets) at the ready, we waited………
The first I knew that something had gone wrong was when I found myself looking at the coach (which had carried the Torch to this leg of the relay) as it passed me by, followed by the van. The show was over!
Where was the torch-bearer? Had he vanished – born aloft by the purity of the flame and ascended to Mount Olympus to sit with Zeus and Hera? Had I slipped between parallel dimensions (which would explain the bizarre sponsorship parade) in which some other me had glimpsed the Torch? Alas no.
The Torch-bearer, known locally as Ben, had passed and waved to us all, but I had failed to register the fact. Like a trick of the light, Ben had been lost to me. Preceding him on his run was a truck on the back of which hung a number of TV cameras and other recording equipment – the watching world (or at least those who watched BBC East Midlands news that night) was not to be denied its pound of Olympic flesh. However, so close was the truck to Ben that it obscured him right up to the nanosecond he was parallel to you. My confused brain could not keep up and chose only to remember the truck passing inches from my nose. Like those signs on the back of lorries warning drivers behind that “If you can see this, I can’t see you”, I failed to spot Ben in the melee.
And so back to Hackney, my beloved home, and the continuation of my Olympic Torch Odyssey. Plans were carefully made, maps and charts consulted (as was the Oracle of Delphi), and watches synchronised for 21 July 2012. Nothing could go wrong this time. Nothing!
Having picked the space between Ridley Road market and Boots as my Torch territory, Inigo and I decamped in the middle of Kingsland High Street, just north of Dalston Junction (between static traffic caught in an Olympic jam – a taste of things to come!). Like a good boy scout I came prepared and had been practicing suddenly staring at the space behind lorries as they passed by for days – the disappointment of Darley Dale, and Ben’s valiant efforts, would not be wasted. I was also prepared for the sponsorship onslaught which preceded the Torch – like an old-hand on the tiller of life I was serene in a sea of incomprehension: I’d seen it all before
The moment was nigh, all roads had led here (literally – it was part of the Torch route!). A wave of excitement swept the expectant crowd – the spirit of the Olympics was amongst us.
And then it unexpectedly appeared, taking us by surprise – here was the TORCH!
Dressed in white tracksuit, and with no lorry in sight, a man triumphantly carried aloft the Olympic Torch and waving to the crowd ascended E8 from Dalston to Stoke Newington.
In the box marked “Olympic Torch Dream Realised”, I placed a big tick!! Our vigil over, Inigo and I packed our bags and turned for home.
Clearly, the excitement of the moment still hung over the scene as the crowds were rendered almost immovable as they digested what had just happened. It took some effort to push our way through the layers of people to Kingsland Shopping Centre and the back route home. We came, we saw, we conquered!
It was only as we were passing the Costcutter on Dalston Lane that the doubts started to nag. Where had the lorry and police outriders been? Why had I been the only one shouting at the top of his voice? Why did people look at me so oddly as I left?
I had seen the Torch (Check√), I had seen the Torch-bearer (Check√), but I hadn’t seen the Flame (Not Checked!). Damn, that wasn’t the flame – it was the next torch-bearer in the relay running up the road to take position and waving to the crowd with his UNLIT TORCH as he went.
As the cold shiver of realisation ran down my spine I heard behind me the mighty roar of the crowd watching the Olympic Torch – I had left before it had arrived.
Wiping away the sorrow of the ages, Inigo quickly pointed out that the day was not lost and that satisfaction might yet be found on this, St.Arbogast’s day. The Olympic Torch was still to make its journey to Hackney Town Hall. A quick pit-stop at home and we were off again. Our heads held high and our spirits reignited – our Olympic destiny lay before us.
As we closed in on Reading Lane and the back of the Town Hall you could feel the atmosphere build as the cheers accompanying the Torch grew louder as it got nearer. We were on the cusp, within reach, we could almost smell it. And then Inigo fell asleep…
Actions speak louder than words, and I couldn’t help feeling that Inigo was trying to communicate an important lesson as I turned on my heels and headed for the quiet of the park (after all, he’s only 5 months old and he hadn’t slept all day).
What was that Olympic saying about the taking part and not the winning that mattered? In the distance the voice of Leona Lewis pounded out over the PA system as the crowds started to wend their way home, their minds saturated with Olympic overload.
We had taken part, hadn’t we: done our bit, got involved? We may not have actually seen the Olympic flame, but we had, I think, found something just as valuable. In a curious way, we had learnt what its stands for. I may have missed Ben, but speaking to his family on the roadside afterwards about this young man’s numerous charitable works, I was inspired by his selflessness and glad that we could give something back to him. As I stood on Kingsland Road in Dalston and looked around me, I felt closer to my local community than I had for some time – people of all ages and persuasions shoulder to shoulder, sharing the experience. At the Dance Nation event in Hackney’s Gillett Square the borough’s cultural diversity was on glorious display – even the police were smiling. And as I walked slowly back from the Town Hall and talked with strangers and neighbours alike, I was aware that only at times like these do you allow yourself to take time-out from your own immediate interests and ambitions and listen to the voices and rhythms that make up and enrich your community.
On my Olympic Torch Odyssey I may have missed the flame, but I did find an abundance of the values it stands for: excellence, friendship and respect. Now, if only we could make that eternal – we’d be laughing!
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