As I have mentioned in a previous entry, I’m not normally a fan of organized athletics. However, there is one sport that is so thrilling, so keenly competitive, so rich in complex tactics, and so seeped in macho glory that I cannot help but be seduced by its siren thrills.
I refer, of course, to pancake racing.

Like its less prestigious cousin the marathon, the pancake race has its roots in a mythic event. According to expert sources, it began in the town of Olney, Buckinghamshire on Shrove Tuesday 1445. On that storied day, a housewife decided to make pancakes to use up the milk, eggs, and butter that would be forbidden during Lent. While the pancakes were cooking, she heard the church bells ringing, and realized she was about to be late for the service. Pan still in hand, she sprinted out the door, starting a tradition that would continue through the centuries.
Although the Olney race is the origina–and longest-lasting–of all pancake races, the event now occurs every shrove Tuesday throughout the United Kingdom. Unable to make the pilgrimage to Buckinghamshire, Lauren and I have decided to attend the nearest pancake race, which happens to be in Old Spitalfields Market.
First, of course, we’ll need to put together a team. Given that the race starts in half an hour, we should probably get a move on. Teams must consist of four people, and so far, we have Lauren, me, and our friend Courtney. Fortunately, a crowd has assembled to watch the event, and a quick canvas turns up a volunteer who is willing to join us on such short notice. Her name is Chantelle. She appears to be roughly our age, and she is accompanied by two 13-year-old girls, who join another team that is short a full two members.
True, we don’t know anything about Chantelle’s pancake racing credentials, but her willingness to join us 30 minutes before the race is certainly in the spirit of our team name–The Last Minute Irregulars. (This is the same team name I used for the 48 Hour Film Challenge, which I believe makes The Last Minute Irregulars the world’s only filmmaking/pancake racing conglomerate.)
The judges explain the rules to us. Two team members will stand at each end of the course, which runs between the stalls of the market. When the race begins, one member of each team will sprint along the course, stopping at two pre-determined points to flip the pancake in the pan. On reaching the other end, the racer will hand the pan to the next team member, and so on.
We collect our pancake, place it into the pan we’ve brought, and give it a few experimental flips. A problem rapidly becomes evident: we have brought too heavy a pan. Like racers in the Tour de France, the truly competitive pancake racer really ought to spend all his racing downtime attempting to design lighter, more streamlined equipment. We, however, just grabbed a pan out of our cupboard.
Worse still, A quick bit of scouting indicates that the other teams have the edge in virtually every category. A team of professional footballers from Fash FC, complete with team blazers, has it over us in athleticism; a team of City investment bankers, the returning champions from last year, has it over us in experience; and a team from Hampstead Bakery, clad in pristine white baker’s clothes, has it over us in pancake knowledge. But we have something they don’t: good old fashioned American can-do spirit. That’s right, you accursed redcoats–this one’s for George Washington.
Or, at least, three-quarters for George Washington. It is entirely possible that Chantelle is prepared to dedicate her victory to General Cornwallis; in the interests of team unity, I think it best not to ask.
But before we can face the footballers, the bankers, or the bakers, we have to win our heat against a team of ordinary citizens. Chantelle and Courtney take up their positions at the first end of the track; Lauren and I station ourselves at the second. And then the race begins, and Chantelle and her opponent are sprinting towards us, pancake in hand.
They’re neck-in-neck off the starting blocks, but at the first pancake flipping point, the enemy pulls into the lead. Chantelle nearly closes the gap, but then, at the second pancake flipping, falls just a tiny bit behind.
Even so, the race is anybody’s game as Chantelle makes the handoff to Lauren. This leg of the relay is as close as the last one, and Lauren hands off the pan to Courtney only moments after her opponent does the same.
Courtney, I should note here, is the most serious runner on our team. She’s competed in numerous marathons, and if there is ever a 26.2 mile long pancake race, my money would be on her. But her speciality is endurance, not short sprints, and she, too, finishes her leg just the tiniest bit behind.
Now it’s all down to me. Pan in hand, I sprint to the first pancake flipping station. I arrive just as the enemy is leaving. I stop, execute a two-handed pancake flip, and sprint off again. I’m not much of a runner, and I can see that the gap is widening. On my short way to the next flip-point, I make a quick tactical decision. If I stop again, I can’t possibly catch up. Instead, I execute a running flip as I speed past the point. The line judge looks skeptical (or, at least, I think he looks skeptical. Since he’s wearing a big clown nose and a rainbow wig, it’s a bit harder than it might otherwise be to read his expression in the split second as I pass.) But I have no time to stop. I press on to the finish line–but it’s too late. We’ve lost the race. General Washington, we have failed you.
(Those who would like a historical tour of great pancake racing moments from the past are directed to this collection of vintage photos and this set of photos photos from last year’s Spitalfields race. Of particular interest is this rare album of sketches from the famed Great Colonial Pancake Tossing Race of Victorian Australia. Additionally, those of you with expensive tastes might be interested in spending �68 on a framed and mounted print of this photo from 1991.)