Bridgeport Children’s Downhill Derby

Scavenging - Early Spring
As soon as the frost loosens its hold on Bridgeport’s cobbles, the children fan out like starlings, combing the dockyards, abandoned wagons, and scrap heaps that line the Rest. They trade back-breaking chores for every straight plank, barter half-earned coppers for a sound iron hinge, and slip the watchmen crusts of bread to look the other way. By sundown their alleys are clogged with treasure: worm-scarred beams, brass door-handles, broken spokes, and the odd cannon wheel too rusted for the arsenal but perfect for dreams that run downhill.   Workshop Evenings
Once the day’s scavenging is done, lamplight flickers behind every shed door. Carpenters’ apprentices slide prized off-cuts across trestle tables, each piece branded with the smell of fresh pine. Smiths at the forges of Iron Gate hammer discarded cart-bolts into slender axles, quenching them with a hiss that echoes along the stone. Meanwhile, the glass-blowers of Pigtown bolt their shutters; no child has forgotten the “Flying Bottle” disaster five summers ago, and the artisans refuse to risk another pane taking flight.   The Tilt Yard Trials
Spiriteve - the 9th day of the Bridgeport week - turns the slope between Tenth Gate and Iron Gate into a roaring gauntlet. One by one, half-finished racers are shoved over the crest, rattling toward the Tenth Gate. Three clean runs earn a cart its place in the coming derby. Those that split an axle, shed a wheel, or shatter outright face a different fate: at dusk, the survivors gather round a bonfire, feeding the broken husks to the flames while vowing to build stronger, faster, and wiser.   Betting & Bookies
Wagers are placed; odds are chalked on the Cornmarket boards at dawn. Royal Mint gamblers favor past champions, while dockhands flood the book with reckless long-shots. Side-bets this year include “first cart to lose a wheel,” “whose banner touches the ground,” and a grisly pot on “quickest crash in Cornmarket hairpin.”   Blessing of the Gears
On the eve of the race, the children haul their prized contraptions to the cloister of Saint Gilda. Father Oswin, robes tucked to his knees, walks the line with a battered aspergillum, dousing wooden chassis and ironworks in fragrant holy water. He mumbles ancient prayers for straight paths and unbroken bones. The bells toll six, the incense fades, and the carts roll homeward - shining, sanctified, and ready for tomorrow’s plunge.

First Bell - Dawn over Bulwark Lane

As the eastern sky blushes, Saint Gilda’s bells ring a single slow peel that rattles window shutters all the way to Littlegate Street. Vendors unlatch their carts, igniting braziers for spiced walnuts and sausage twists. Steam from the Rest drifts across the city, mingling with woodsmoke and the metallic tang of freshly-oiled axles. Children - eyes fever-bright, knuckles whitening on tow-ropes - tow their gleaming racers uphill while wardens of the Black Guard clear a corridor through the swelling crowd.  

Inspection & Wager Call

At the crest, the Guild of Candlemakers sets up two trestle tables side-by-side: one for official weigh-ins, the other for last-minute bets. A clerk records each cart’s weight in a parchment ledger already smudged with wax; another strokes a goose-quill across chalkboards, adjusting odds as silver tokens clink into canvas pouches. Guild carpenters tap wheels with wooden mallets, pronouncing a cart “sound” or “firewood”; smiths peer at axle pins; Father Oswin offers a final curt blessing - barely loud enough to drown out jeers from rival teams.  

Procession to the Blocks

Trumpeters stationed at Bulwark Street blast a three-note fanfare. One by one, the racers are carried to their starting cradles: rough-hewn oak frames that keep wheels clear of the cobbles. The children climb aboard, banners fluttering from broomstick masts. Milly “Sparrow” Thornfoot kisses a chalked sparrow on her prow; Garrick Flint’son settles an iron helm over his soot-streaked brow. The Herald of the City strides down the line, unfurling a scarlet ribbon - last year’s laurel, re-dyed - and announces the order of launch.  

Second Bell - The Drop

On the stroke of mid-morning, Windspire Tower's bell chimes three times and a pair of stokers yank free the holding pins. Six carts lurch forward in a single terrifying surge. Wheels clatter like musket fire against the stones of Cornmarket while balconies erupt in cheers, rain of petals, and the occasional overripe tomato.  

Cornmarket Hairpin

At the reeking curve close to the Run for Cover book store, apprentices “hose down” the cobbles - officially to keep dust low, unofficially to encourage spills. Spectators clutch rails, waiting for the first screech of iron. When Twin Thom & Tal fishtail through the bend on two wheels, a thousand throats release a single gasp that turns into wild applause when they right themselves by slamming an elbow against the kerb.  

Pigtown Straight

Lighter carts leap ahead here; heavier rigs bide their time, gathering momentum for the coming plunge.  

Flintlock Rush

Now the grade steepens, the alley narrows, and sunlight flickers between rooflines like warning signal fires. Sparks shoot from steel-banded rims; riders crouch low, faces streaked with wind-tears. Somewhere above, housewives slam shutters lest stray pebbles shatter leaded panes - a lingering superstition from the Flying Bottle incident.  

The Finish at Littlegate Crossing

A painted rope, stretched taut between two stanchions, quivers as the front-runner barrels closer. Timekeepers jot down the time counter result for each cart; a drummer beats a roll to drown out squeals of protesting axles. With a crack like split oak, the rope snaps - Barley Bolt shoots across first (with a time of 42 heartbeats), followed by Iron Sledge hardly half a wheel behind. Children and adults surge onto the road, hoisting drivers from their seats and parading them beneath a shower of laurel leaves.  

Laurels, Ledgers, and Lamentations

The clerk of the Council of Ten awards the victor a carved ash crown and, more prized, a whole list of other things, which the winner usually shares with the other final round contestants. Bookies settle debts in hurried scratches of quill. Father Oswin offers a quick thanks-be sermon - then pointedly reminds the crowd that Saint Gilda’s roof still leaks and donations remain welcome.  

Evening Bonfire & Revel

As dusk purples the sky, the shattered, splintered, and outright disgraced carts are dragged to the field beyond Iron Gate for the traditional Kindling Pyre. Musicians strike up reels; dancers link arms around the crackling heap; sparks spin heavenward like tiny wheeled comets. Children exchange parts - already plotting modifications - while older townsfolk nurse tankards of “sparkling ale” and retell, for the thousandth time, how glass once grew wings.   By midnight, only the embers of the bonfire and a few bent wheel-rims remain. Yet somewhere in a shadowed workshop, a lantern flares to life: tomorrow, the first plank of next year’s champion cart will be planed smooth, and Bridgeport’s heartbeat will begin its long countdown to another Little Thunder Run.