do the hustle

Dear Marianne,

One very hot June afternoon when I was about seven, my Mum stood on the start line for the Gossops Green Primary School Sports Day Mother's race. On either side of her stood other nervous Mothers hoping they wouldn't fall over, bump into each other, win the race or in any other way embarrass their children and scar them for life.

"On your marks, get set, go!" Twenty or so huge lumbering bodies headed towards us, as we sat confined to our class pens. I can still remember the ground shaking and the sound of forty middle aged thighs thundering down on to the dried, cracked, sun baked "field"; it was a sight you never really forget. My Mother in her tight, knee length blue dress with round cut neck and white trimming, looked great, and importantly, she didn't win, fall over, or bump into anyone else; she didn't even lose. The problem was she didn't start the race at all, she simply stood very still watched the other Mother's hare off down the hill, then put on her stilettos and walked calmly to the side of the painted white track.

In her defense - and it is hard to defend such a cruel and callous act - she was rather bullied in to the race by her colleagues, yes my Mother not only didn't run that day, she also taught at my school. The teachers who had organised the day knew that if they could get one Mother on to the start line others would follow, and others did reluctantly join my Mother, obviously feeling for her situation. I guess she then reasoned that she had done her bit and didn't need to humiliate herself by actually running the race. What she hadn't reasoned was that I would suffer from this act of tyranny and betrayal for years to come.

Since then I have been a Mother at a number of Sports Days and have always refused to take part in this summer madness. I really believe that adults should never run, unless it is a)for a bus or b)one is wearing body tight lycra, racing around a proper track in front of 40,000 screaming fans and there is a very good chance one will win an Olympic medal. There are no other times when running as an adult is acceptable behaviour, the "other times" always end in humiliation...

So when I turned up for yet another Sports Day, this time at Anna's Infant school last week, I knew what I wouldn't be doing, at least I thought I did. I hadn't banked on the guilt trip served on me by my "friends" who all chose to sign up for the Mother's Race. This meant that I was the only Mother in the group who wasn't running, or to put another way, the way Anna was looking at me, I was the only Mother who didn't love her daughter enough to run 50 metres with a bean bag on a bat. So against all my natural inclinations, against my gut instincts and most importantly in direct violation of the vow I made to myself after that painful day over thirty years ago, I stood with other foolish women at the start line, red bat in hand yellow bean bag sat on top stupid grin on my face.

Just before the school bell rang to signal the start of the race, some dummy mummys - I think that's the term - from the BMW 4x4/morning cappuccino at Carluccio's/swim in the salt pool at the spa/subscription to LA Fitness (never goes)/blonde streaks compulsory, crew, got hold of our group for a quick chat. They told us that at the Junior School, the parents' races were really competitive with warm ups and stretches and serious racing - we all laughed and tutted and said "how silly". Then dingaling! and we were off, my group and I laughed, we ran slowly, I pushed other people, cheated, managed to avoid getting taken out by the huge Dutch lady falling heavily in front of me, and generally made it slowly to the other end, remembering to smile at Anna and concentrating only on not taking it too seriously.

Meanwhile the pack of dummy mummys had engaged their 4 wheel drive and set off at a hell of a speed, ears pricked back, Fat Face and Jigsaw linen jackets flying in the wind, Crocs and Ugg boots barely touching the ground. They came first second and third, collected their stickers, feigned surprise at their achievement and headed off to hit the Pimms. The rest of us sheepishly made our way to the our children to apologise for our lack of sporting prowess and try and convince them and us it is the taking part that counts.

When my mate Red got home and told her husband about the outrageous behaviour of our "sisters", he said: "you were hustled" love. I think he was right, we was done. I just wish that having been compelled to stand at the start line, I had remembered the hustle my Mum had employed all those years ago, I think I get it now.

Rx