The Wall

Growing up in the 1960s, my Dad was my hero. In those days a lot of men left child rearing to their wives and didn't spend much time with their kids. I longed to go somewhere with my Dad so I could walk proudly beside him.

One autumn evening when I had just turned 11, he told me to put my warm duffle coat on because we were going out. He was a quiet man and didn't tell me where we were going. 

I was so happy sitting on the bus with him as we rode through the dark, silent streets.

We stopped at a place with twinkling lights and walked across wet grass to a big wooden structure. I followed my Dad up some rickety steps until we were standing on the rim of a circular room with a motorbike sitting in the middle.

A man climbed onto the bike and began riding round until he started to seemingly defy gravity by riding round the walls.

I could feel the whole structure flex every time he sped towards the top. Petrol fumes filled the air and above us were stars. I was entralled.

That was the only time we went anywhere together. I never knew why, on that one night, he took me to see the Wall of Death. It's my favourite memory from childhood. If he'd have thought for a thousand years of somewhere we could go, he could not have thought of a better place to take his little tomboy daughter.