The Billycart Derby, or the BPS Olympics
A chance to prove oneself a sprog above the rest.
Image Credit: Golburn Mulwaree Library
The Billycart Derby. A biennial event of Olympic proportions for every five-to twelve-year-old growing up in my small town. With prizes for speed, costumes, and cart decor, the Derby was an opportunity to express both creativity and athleticism.
A chance to prove oneself a sprog above the rest.
My first Billycart Derby took place in the cool sunshine of late term three when I was a tender six years old. I was lucky enough to have my parents greenlight the construction of a bright pink, Barbie dream cart for me and my friend Rose.
At the hardware store, sturdy wheels and two-by-four were carefully curated. Rose and I were given a full run of the paint aisle. Hot pink would surely be the obvious choice for a Barbie-themed cart, but how passé! We selected an exquisite baby pink whose hue would mingle excellently with the bright patterned canvas we chose to upholster the seat. We perused ribbons, fake flowers, and self-adhesive gemstones — anything to elevate the glitz of our cart.
“Mum, my bike helmet’s black!” And with that, a fuzzy pink helmet cover was thrown into the shopping cart.
Derby day really started the night before Derby day, when nervy little grasshoppers hopped about inside my stomach and made it impossible to sleep.
Will our cart be the prettiest?
Will we win the race or will Rose slip and make fools of us both?
Was Rose a bad pick for a partner?
Of course she wasn’t. But the thirst for glory does strange things to a kid in year one.
We arrived at school in the morning to see that the billycart track had usurped the playground. Outlined by witches’ hats, it wound between trees in Grandma’s Woods and crested the ridge by the veggie garden.
We were called to the starting line by age group. To avoid any trickery or nasty interceptions, we were made to run the race one team at a time.
Too bad, I’d have kicked that rock into the spokes of Jake and Annie’s cart wheels.
There was no time for me to consider the competitive monster I had become. With a rough-and-tumble readiness, I jammed on my helmet and a set of knee and elbow pads.
We pulled the cart up to the starting line, where Mrs Harold held an air horn. I leant down with gritted teeth. Rested my hands on the back of the cart as Rose clambered inside. With the squeal of the horn I took off, thudding along the frost-hardened grass with all the speed my squat legs could gather. I heaved my full weight to the side to help Rose steer us around each corner. When we finally crossed the finish line, she hollered from our humble pink throne.
We did not win the race that day. Nor was our cart deemed most beautiful. But I was not deterred. No, indeed, I was spurred on.
It was another two years ‘til the next Billycart Derby; there was no time to waste.