In Olney, women limber up for the race of their lives
On the high street that winds along to Olney market place, the buttery-sweet hit of batter on pan scents the air. A loudhailer rigged above the oblong war memorial on the village green burbles over the crowd. It is Shrove Tuesday, but more importantly for residents of this syrup-stoned town in Buckinghamshire, it is the day of the Olney Pancake Race.
Every year, 20-odd local Olney ladies don aprons, gingham headscarves and their best running trainers to race the 400-yard course from the market place to the church of St Peter and St Paul, for the traditional prize of a kiss from the verger. They have done so since the sickly reign of Henry VI. “Run since 1445 whatever the weather” goes the motto – whether that means a solid month of drizzle, or the Wars of the Roses. A rare mid-February wash of full sunshine has graced the racers this year.
In preparation, the entrants are instructed only that “you will need a skirt and a pancake” and to gather at the unfortunately named “race control” tent. Here, I meet Bethan and Sophie, who run the race three-legged – their sporting fates yoked together by a high-vis yellow elastic strap around their ankles. Even though they have run it half a dozen times, they still feel pre-race nerves. “I’m a little apprehensive,” says Bethan, who is resourcefully holding her phone in her frying pan. “There’s always the risk we might faceplant in the middle of the street in front of everyone we know,” adds Sophie.
Their tips for racers? “Don’t practise, and leave your dignity behind.” I am about to ask more when we’re interrupted – morning telly is in town. The media is a heavy but ill-fated presence here; in 1980 no winner could be declared because a TV van blocked the finish line. “We’ll need to ask you why you’re doing this, and keep it to a couple of sentences,” an ITV This Morning producer gabbles, half to the runners and half into his earpiece. I notice a prompt on the presenter’s cue card as she prepares to go live: “Fav toppings?”
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In the market place, I find all the cornerstones of a jolly English half-term day out. Kids swing their legs on the seats of a fire engine stationed in the square. There is the obligatory opportunity to splat the rat, a spaghetti of balloon animals, and market stalls including Lavender House (“all things lavender”) and Potato Headz (“fun potato items”). Sponsors this year are a local pub and a care home, the European jam hegemon Bonne Maman, and the US global asset manager Blackstone. A neat story of Britain’s economy.
Raffle tickets flutter about like confetti at a wedding. You can win a black kettle, a John Lewis voucher, and an eye test. I find less stoicism deeper into the marquee, where a group of women – who have run the race many years in a row together – are finishing their race-day breakfast. One has had eggs royale with kefir and dill, another shakshuka. We may be in England circa 1445, but the melting pot still simmers away. Will they have any appetite left for pancakes? “Oh yes, I’ll definitely be having pancakes for tea. Just sugar and lemon, every time.” They decided to opt for the posh brekkie and a nice day out this year, rather than run the race. “It takes the pressure off,” one tells me. The others nod.
The origins of this unlikely women’s sport are hazy. A favourite local theory goes that a hassled housewife was frying pancakes when the church bells rang for the Shriving service to mark the beginning of Lent – late for church, she ran there with frying pan and pancake still in hand. Another tale is that a gift of pancakes was hurried to the bellringer to bribe him to ring the bell early, hastening the day’s celebrations of the long Lenten feast.
Whatever the history is that they’re honouring, the women are honouring it with gusto. A Hollyoaks-handsome personal trainer limbers them up – star jumps, squats, heel flicks: “Keep it up! Beautiful work!” Bethan and Sophie, ankles strapped together, soon become tangled. They right themselves. Bethan’s phone remains steadily in her frying pan. A pro.
As the women begin to stretch their tossing wrists, I go to watch the children’s races. Olney’s nursery kids are up first, headscarves unravelling, pancakes already slithering out of pans bigger than their heads. There is a delay to the start – the compère tells the children to wait a minute for a television link. “Oh, brilliant, toddlers will definitely have the patience for that,” a dad mutters beside me.
The “pancake bell” is eventually rung, and off pelt the kids: a boy is out in front, tongue clamped between gappy milk teeth in concentration. Pancakes flop to the ground like autumn leaves. A little girl falls, pauses to absorb the enormity of the moment, then wails. A dad does a sports-day sprint past with a frying pan forgotten at the starting line: it’s his moment.
Geeing up the crowd is an entertainer known as The Great Gappo, who unicycles up and down the route, juggling pancake flotsam. Everyone here knows Gappo. With his greying mutton chops, top-to-toe tweeds and bowler hat, he is the court jester of Olney’s big day. I tell Gappo I’ve already heard all about him. He looks bashful: “Don’t believe the hype.” He’s been doing this gig for 25 years. I can only imagine how lush those mutton chops must’ve been when he started.
Shivering beside the Union Jack on the memorial green is the sunflower-emblazoned flag of Kansas. In 1950, a civic leader in the Kansas city of Liberal saw a photo of the pancake race in a magazine and contacted Olney’s vicar, challenging the town to a race against Liberal’s women. The tradition stuck. One American has come to Olney for today’s race, having run it in Liberal 24 times.
It’s nearly 11.55am when the main race begins. The ladies gather at the start line. The crowd lines the route to the parish church. Everyone is waiting, everyone is smiling: two white staffies, peering out of a sash window; the little girl whose tumble reduced her to tears; the local Labour MP Chris Curtice, looking relieved to be away from Westminster; the ITV producer, still muttering into his earpiece; Gappo – but then he always is.
Four minutes to go. “Four minutes? Those pancakes will be freezing!” (another dad). “Very shortly, you’ll be given the demand to toss your pancakes,” buzzes the tannoy. Fists tense around the handles of the quivering, outstretched frying pans. The bell rings. They toss, one tumbles to the tarmac, and they’re off.
And all at once, it’s over. A giant stopclock at the finishing line reads 1.05.37: the race time for third-time winner, Eloise Kramer. The press pack ask what her secret is. “I’ve done a bit more sprint training in the last two weeks,” she says, still panting. This is a bittersweet moment for her: three wins mean you can’t enter again.
We file into the church for the Shriving service. The racers settle into the front pews, headscarves still on; they look like a row of jam jars. The priest makes some Essex versus Bucks gags (“the Only way is Olney!”); a visiting delegate from Liberal, Kansas says the race reminded him of “the journey of grace for Jesus Christ”. The hymns begin. This is John Newton country. The slave trader turned abolitionist was a parish priest in Olney, where he wrote “Amazing Grace”. It closes the service, sung with the solidity of a congregation that has sung it so many times before. The American runner raises her hands.
My brain is full of England: medieval Catholic capers, the hint of protestant zeal, and all that butter. My heart is full of fondness. But my stomach is empty. In all the excitement, I realise, I forgot to have a pancake.
[Further reading: Arsenal fans are not needy! They just want an expensive lunch]
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