Running Away

Did I tell you about the time I ran away?
Well, I did, you know.

Not from home.
From The Home.
The Children’s Home… which defined my childhood for 7 years.

All Saints Convent.
Near the village of London Colney.

An isolated institution set in hundreds of acres of fields and winding country roads. Beautiful, gently rolling, Hertfordshire meadows, rivers and woods.

There was no M25 around London
In fact there was no ‘M’ anything heading South.

And, in our world, no bypasses, no housing developments…

Just a Roman Road… connecting small villages.

And three psychiatric hospitals within a 2-mile radius.
Food for scary stories there.

Don’t get me wrong.

Unlike many of the stories you might have picked up during your
lifetime…

being raised by a Convent of nuns was not an unpleasant experience.
Not for us, anyway.

These were highly intelligent, strong, capable, talented – deeply caring – women.

They provided us with a rhythm of constancy – amid chaos…
Created a culture of security – amid shattered lives…
Placed us in an environment of beauty – free from abuse.

So, here’s the question.

Why would two young boys – aged 10 and 11 – cycle from those 70 acres of English country heaven…
those long, protective drives and manicured lawns…
those sheltered lanes…
those ancient villages…

towards the dangerous trunk roads…
and the frenetic clamour – and perilous possibilities – of London?

Simple.
We were desperate.

Not just to run away from.
But to run towards.

We were The Convent Kids.

Feared at Primary school, yes.
But lacking.

Lacking Mums, Dads, family in our daily mix.
Lacking a future we could imagine.
Lacking the language to express what we felt.

Whilst there – in that London – was my Mum and Clifford’s Auntie.

We’d be free from rigorous routine.
We’d be free from essential disciplines.
We’d be free from receiving love shared by 25 others.

We’d be where our heart always was.
Home.
Where we could bathe in the undistracted love of one person.
Wanted.

So, we cycled.
Terrified.
Breathlessly excited.
And breathless.

From the Convent’s 70 acres.
Past Shenley’s “asylum”.
Through Borehamwood (past my new Grammar School).
Past those famous Elstree studios.

In that first couple of miles… there was a moment which sounds hopelessly comic, looking back

A Green Line coach thundered past us.
The very coach we had hoped to follow all the way into London.

Within seconds it had disappeared.
Swallowed by distance.
Leaving only the smell of diesel and a haze of blue-grey smoke hanging in the air.

I remember Clifford looking at me.
His eyes suddenly wet.
Fear replacing excitement.

For the first time that day, I think we both realised how far away London really was.

In our duffle bags were our teddy bears. Our Marmite sandwiches. Our jam tarts. And five whole shillings between us.

As we cycled each mile – too dehydrated to pee, even – the world grew more threatening.

But still we cycled.
Me on a girl’s bike, just a little too large.
Clifford on a boy’s bike… yes, just a little too small.

Often tooted at by drivers.
Obviously, they were cheering us on.

We knew how to get to that A1. That Roman Road that Sister Helen told us about.

And we knew that – at the end of that – was Golders Green bus terminus.

London!

And then the route to Sarf London, over the river Thames…
Well, there our collective memories were a bit hazy.

But we knew we could get there.
Eventually.

And then… to Wandsworth and Battersea.
Full of slums and broken houses.

But full of the two women who meant the most to us.

What happened when we got there? To Golders Green?

Well, I’ll tell you that too…
In my next book!

But as I look back now…
something else strikes me.

Most of us assume we eventually stop running away.
We don’t.
We simply become more sophisticated.

At 11 we run away on bicycles.

At 35 we run away through busyness.
At 45 we run away through achievement.
At 55 we run away through certainty.

The bicycle disappears.
The running remains.

The only thing that changes is the disguise.
And nowhere do I see this more clearly than in financial planning firms.

As a frightened 11-year-old boy, running away made perfect sense.

As a leader…
it might be costing us everything.

Because I’ve come to suspect that most of us aren’t running away from leadership at all.
We’re running towards something else.

Certainty.
Belonging.
Achievement.
Recognition.
Control.

And whilst we’re running…
leadership waits.

Which leaves me pondering a different question these days.

“What am I running towards… that is causing me to neglect what matters most?”

And you?