‘Bloody guwowees, now!’ muttered Chimdy to me, with a roll of the eyes.

I smiled and reached for my Senior Service. 

Though the game we were meandering to at the City Ground was largely meaningless, with Wolves already relegated and Forest with nothing to play for but a fourth-place finish in the days when that meant as much as a 22^nd place finish, for The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft (VCCCCCC) it was a top-of-the-table clash – even, perhaps, a cup final.  After strong local showings against Cannock Chase Coniferous Conveyors and the confusingly-named Pendeford Pine Perambulators (they were actually from Aldersley) they suddenly found themselves facing the giants of the game, a team so steeped in history that to visit their home ground was to take a soak yourself in the primeval soup of log-carting as a sport. 

And the VCCCCCC were getting a bit giddy about it.

It had started, naturally enough, with Robin Hood.  Bob Whitehead had claimed a distant relative was Friar Tuck, which caused merriment among the men as ‘Friars day have girlfriends.’  Bob argued that Friar Tuck was a renegade, had more girlfriends than ‘Handsome’ Joey Briggs (though a Wednesfield lad, Joey’s reputation reached across the town) and that it had been he, rather than Robin Hood, who had successfully wooed Maid Marian.  The truck driver, Wally Harburst, pulled in at Brownhills, opened the back doors and called a hault to this line of conversation, as the pretend swordfights would affect how the lorry handled on Watling Street.

Once on the move again, the talk was of a pack of wild dogs who had marked their territory on the Major Oak and made the area entirely unsafe for humans.  Bob Whitehead agree with Shem Carver that the dogs were dangerous, and he also added that they wore medieval costumes and carried bone swords, a claim taken less than seriously but restated by Whitehead with oaths of the most grievous nature. 

Not even Bob Whitehead, however, made any case for the existence of guwowees.  This was purely the work of Frankie Nash, the oldest VCCCCCC.  He spoke just as the battery-powered lamp gave out, so his face was mostly illuminated by the cigarettes of his audience, sitting around him cross-legged amid the tools and machinery, but even in this dramatic light we couldn’t suspend our disbelief.  The guwowees he described as jelly-like entities measuring around twelve feet in height, though this was an average as they were capable of adopting any shape.  I decided at this point to adopt the shape of a sleeping human and didn’t wake up until we reached the forest.

Chimdy was not a member of the VCCCCCC, but his keen piloting and engineering skills had caught their attention.  They had unsuccessfully invited him to join a couple of times, but in the end settled for his making the occasional guest appearance with them if it coincided with the Wolves’ calendar; for The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft, a battle with Major Oak more than warranted the playing of their trump card.  I was happy to help cart some of the gear towards the competition area and watch proceedings, but I had made it clear I wouldn’t be getting my suit dirty with any chopping or sawing.

Oddballs they might have been, but the VCCCCCC could certainly build.  Within an hour they had felled a 60-year old Oak, made pretty sturdy axles from some lower branches and hewn out a cockpit from the trunk, while all the while singing the Anthem of the Vehicular Carpenters and Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft, a loping slow waltz:

The…
VCC-CCC-C we are,
We travel quite near and sometimes quite far
We chop with our axes and saw with our saws
At speeds the world never has seen before

The carts that we make are not built to last
But if you’ve got a hill they’ll go ever so fast
If you’re good with a chopper it’s never too late
To join the VCCCCCC, my mate.

Chimdy was assiduous with the steering design – as pilot, his life would depend upon it in this densely wooded section of Sherwood.  The choosing of the axle, from three the VCCCCCC had put together, was a case in point.

‘It needs to handle, Bob!’

‘I know, George, but the weight…’

‘Give me a choice between a broken axle and an oak to the face I’ll take the broken axle.  But it looks strong enough to me anyway…’

‘You know, we’ve been doing this a while…,’ said Bob.  I understood where he was coming from.  I knew he respected Chimdy, but he did have experience with wood.

‘Give me the narrower one; I’ll manage,’ said Chimdy, in a way that was calm but also authoritative.  The discussion was over.

Half an hour later, Major Oak wheeled their cart from their preparation area behind some gorse, to join the VCCCCCC creation at the start lline (vehicles were never named in these competitions, probably due to them only seeing out a single race).  Dougie Winterton and Fred Giles were trying to sand down the nose a bit more, but it was ready, its steering reins hanging over the cockpit wall.  Chimdy looked over at the Major Oak pilot, a pointy, moustachioed man, and nodded.  Then a third man emerged from the crowd and climbed into the Major Oak vehicle.

‘Copilots?’ shouted Shem Carver.

‘Yeah.’

‘What are yow on aboot?’

‘April races eralways copiloted.  You need ter get ter more away games, pal.’

Some conference took place amongst the VCCCCCC.  I didn’t really know why.  Major Oak were the sport’s royalty, and nobody spends three hours building a log cart and then not race it.

Finally Chimdy split away from the group and walked towards me.  ‘Get in,’ he said.

‘Me?’ I said, ‘Surely one of the lads will want to ride.  It’s their hard work after all…’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but whichever one they picked would always want to interfere.  Just sit there and enjoy the view.’

So we climbed in – it was a bit of squeeze, in truth, given that the cockpit hadn’t been hewn for two – and waited for the guy holding the leafy branch to bring his arm down.  When he did there was a concerted heave from the VC6’s behind the vehicle and we began careering down the hill towards the Major Oak.  I admit it was a thrill, and wouldn’t have swapped my place now for all those ethical concerns.  Chimdy weaved through the trees expertly, and took a healthy lead.

That’s when I felt it.  One look to my right confirmed that Chimdy had felt it too.  Before I’d even asked he said, without taking his eyes off the track, “Axle.”

I braced myself and felt a bump on the underside of the log.  We were still [bump!] travelling, still ahead; the incline might [bump!] even see us to the Major Oak, looming up around three [bump!] hundred yards away.  But equally the log might [bump!] just disintegrate, get stuck in the ground.  We came to a stop. I looked around and saw the Foresters gaining ground quickly.  I looked at Chimdy.

‘We’ve lost this,’ I said, but he didn’t reply.  He was looking ahead with a mixture of wonder and fear.

I turned to see what he was looking at.

A large jelly-like object had emerged – I had no idea where from – and it reached out towards Major Oak’s cart as it overtook us.  Quickly the blob formed hands and trapped the vehicle and then launched it powerfully back up the hill.  I saw its crew fall out, the spoiler they had fitted to the back break.  I also saw some of their number break ranks and run away.

‘Get out and push!’ said Chimdy.

‘What?’

‘We need to win this,’ he said.

‘What if it comes back?’

‘Jack Dudley has put eight bob on this race.  Now who are you more scared of?  The guwowees or Margaret Dudley?

I got out and pushed us over the line, helped by a few VC6’ers who were fleeing the carnage above.  Jack won his money, the Wolves won a consolation victory, and The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft were on the map as a team to be reckoned with.  All in all not a bad day out and one with plenty of talking points to cover in the William Gunn afterwards.  Up the Wolves!