Volume 5, Issue 2: Fall 2009
Another One Bites the Dust
David Lancaster
Charles Hornby, my maternal grandfather, came into this world
on February 4th, 1905. Before he left it, he earned his living as a pig
breeder, Wall of Death rider, boxing promoter and builders’ merchant. But most
successfully of all, he was a professional Speedway rider during the sport’s
golden age of the 1920s and ’30s.
He raced for Manchester’s Belle Vue team in the UK, and for himself overseas. But London was the epicentre of
Speedway and major battles would take him to tracks such as White City,
Hackney, Stamford Bridge—and, most famously,
Wimbledon’s Plough Lane.
And
in 2005, 77 years after it was built, Wimbledon’s Plough Lane stadium hosted
London’s last ever Speedway race. A sport that entertained millions, inspired
the London-based classic Dirk Bogarde film, Once A Jolly Swagman, and staged
international tests to rival cricket’s The Ashes (called The Ashes also) has
departed the capital for good. Attendances had dwindled to 1000 die-hard fans,
sometimes less. In 1938, the World Championship final at Wembley drew 93,000.
Late last year, after limping on using others’ tracks, the Wimbledon team
itself disbanded.
It’s
easy to see how Speedway captivated the public imagination before and after the
War. At its best, it is an unrivalled cocktail of thrills, spills and
speed—and one that was available every week in one of Britain’s major cities, for a modest
outlay. The top-flight Speedway rider was a potentially lucrative mix of racer
and circus act, whose pay far outstripped other sportsman of the time. As Frank Varey, one time captain of Belle Vue,
put it: “We were the ones going round in flash cars, not the footballers.”
Jacket badge,
celebrating “50 Years of Speedway” at Wimbledon Stadium, illustrated by old
school broadsliding style, and bike.
Charlie Hornby’s car was, indeed, rather flash: a
six-cylinder Hundson Terraplace would transport him and his co-rider to meetings, bikes strapped to the running
boards. A good week’s racing work could net around £60, an amazing amount for
the time.
On
the night of my visit in 2005, the fall from grace of Speedway was all too
palpable. Plough Lane felt like a film set, into a quarter of which a crowd of
extras had been herded for the shots, the rest left empty. The programme
outlined over 20 races to come—each sponsored by a loyal local business.
Wimbledon Sewing Machines were helping Heat 17.
The racing started, in earnest. Four riders lined
up, their front wheels probing the start gate, or more accurately, ribbon.
Then, an explosion of speed, noise and energy as the single geared, un-braked
lightweight bikes shot off, “broadsliding” the rear
wheel in the turns to scrub off speed, shoulder to shoulder on the straights at
up to 90 mph. It’s a stunning, gladiatorial spectacle, a marriage of machine
and rider, both geared (yes, literally, and mentally) for one simple task: to
complete a few short laps, in the shortest time.
A
Speedway bike is a singular vehicle. Capable of reaching 60 mph in under three seconds, petrol tanks are tiny, holding just
enough methanol for four laps. Bars are classic “cow-horns,” more uptilted at the bar ends than a US flat-track look, or
Continental motocross patterns. It is a look which, I realise now, inspired
myself and my school friends to fit them to the most unsuitable of pushbikes at
the time, much to my father’s evident despair.
A
mask, soft cover for the crash hat and leathers in a team’s colours, completes
the speedway rider’s look, offering a blizzard of silk- a palate as reminiscent
of a horseracing jockey as any traditional motorcycle racer. Between races a
Speedway bike stands, languidly, leaning on its right hand footrest, the left
side kept clear for ground-clearance.
Late meeting pits
scene at Wimbeldon. Without the crowds of years ago,
the bikes, and riders, seem dwarfed by the stadium.
Its
relationship with conventional motorcycling, either racing or for pleasure, has
always been one of a far, rather distant, even dissolute cousin. Racers tend to
ride Speedway, and nothing else, even at the lower levels. Since its departure
from the major urban areas, of which London is the final one, the east of
England has become its retrenched heartland; and riders regularly swap teams
for higher wages in its major supporting nations such as Denmark, Finland and
Poland, but rarely with other motorcycle sports. The bikes, the riders, the
rules and its once-proud regionalism are unique in British competitive
motorcycle racing.
So the most of the major British
manufacturers—Norton, BSA and Triumph—saw little to be gained from
developing bikes, or even engines, for Speedway during the boom years. The
sport was run through its own Track Licensing Committee and the Speedway
Control Board, rather than the Auto Cycle Union, responsible for other
motorcycle sports.
But the small, always innovative Vincent concern
never ran with the pack, and sensed a much needed further revenue stream might
open up for the manufacture of an engine in 1946. As Phil Irving records in his
autobiography, the sport saw a “remarkable recovery after the war, partly
because the methonal fuel used in the high
compression engines was not rationed” (361) Contact was made with the major
East London team, West Ham--the name, still, of a football club in the area.
The Vincent
factory’s briefly successful blend of pre- and post-War engine parts, harnessed
in conventional Speedway running gear. Vincent head honchos Vincent and Irving were
offended by one Speedway team claiming the design as their own. (Click to enlarge.)
Chief
designer Phil Irving had come across the sport in his native Australia, and
with his trademark inventiveness—on the back of West Ham’s run of engine
failures using the standard JAP units—he and Vincent engineer Matt Wright
developed a high compression single unit, using the cylinder head from the new
1000cc V-twin Rapide, in conjunction with the bottom half from the pre-war
Comet, some of which, “happened to be in stock” (361).
The
new “Vampire” engine could develop 40 bhp using a 14
to 1 compression, and the balance factor was cleverly adjustable by holes
tapped into the flywheels, into which brass weights could be inserted and added
or removed to achieve the correct balance during testing. Some crankcases were
ordered in magnesium, for lighter weight.
But
the sport’s naked commercialism was to become something of a poisoned chalice,
here, too—responsible for its boom years, for keeping the races short,
the crowds large and the inter-team rivalry stoked, but leaving little room for
any other tradition to underpin it, such as junior or amateur events, or the
involvement of major motorcycling names.
Thus,
after positive testing, and wins against JAP-engined opponents, when Vincent’s Phillip Vincent and Phil Irving went to watch the
Speedway engine they had designed and built for West Ham, their gentlemanly
sensibilities were rather offended with the announcement of the engine being
“designed by West Ham’s head mechanic” (369), and sweeping all before it. The pair left the event “disgusted,”
and soon fell out with West Ham over who should distribute the impressive new
engines worldwide, with the highly educated, colonial schooled Englishman and
the Australian perhaps muttering that such behaviour “just wasn’t cricket.”
No,
it was Speedway, and prisoners weren’t taken in the high-octane competition for
kudos, pride and customers through the gates. Success did come the engine’s
way, however, in numerous short circuit wins for factory rider George Brown, on
what became known as the “Speedway Special.” This model, although little known, can be seen in many ways
as the prelude of the well-known post war Vincent single model, the Comet. The
post war Comet’s short-lived, budget priced, detuned contemporary, the Meteor’s
engine numbers became F5AB/2 because it was preceded by the rare Speedway motor
F5AB/1, according to author J P Bickerstaff (70). It was a genuine factory
cocktail of pre and post War parts: the conventional tubed frame, and bottom end, a carry-over of Series A practice, the top end post War
design. George Brown recalls it, in Roy Harper’s The Vincent HRD Story, as “a fabulous thing , very light, weighing only 54lb complete with magneto and caburetter and churned out close on 40 b.h.p.” (131).
More
swiftly than I imagined, the first race of London’s final Speedway meeting was
over. Four laps. Next race. Riders
are given two minutes to take their places. No show—then no race. The
sport has always spared its fans long, drawn out races; promoters knew only too
well that boredom was the enemy of an evening out for the largely working class
audience. Indeed, in 1932, Speedway was praised for “getting on with things in
a prompt, simpler and businesslike manner,” by specialist journalist, A. J. Webbe, in Speedway
Express, a sport, he opined, based on “one of the most fascinating and
democratic inventions of the age--the motorcycle” (qtd.
in Williams). Heat
One was won in fine style by Barry Evans. A few minutes later, and Heat
Two’s riders catapulted afresh, into bend one—but Lee Strudwick,
on the inside, ran into trouble. And then into the barrier. Three broken ribs were later diagnosed.
Later
years, but sunny days still at Wimbledon Stadium.
Yet
for all its thrill and noise, Speedway remains today a polite, family-oriented
sport. Drug and betting scandals have been remarkably rare. In the stands,
long-term supporter John Warner, born in nearby Tooting, asked me, with pride:
“Have you heard any swearing here tonight?” I hadn’t, all evening. “There—you
see. Speedway is great for a family, unlike football,” he said. “I won’t take
my grandchildren to a match now, because of the language.”
Riders’ entry card for
the Brooklyn Sports Stadium, Coney Island, event, June 3, 1933. It shows the
author’s grandfather’s handwritten marks likely noting prize money, placings and earnings for the night. Speedway was, and
still is, a blend of business and sport. (Click to enlarge.)
There
was anger in his voice, at what he saw as the yobbishness of football having won a battle for working-class hearts, minds, talent and
wallets, started seventy years ago. John recalled the first night’s racing at
Wimbledon after the Second World War, against local rivals New Cross: “30,000
spectators in the stadium, and 10,000 outside turned away,” he said. “And we
had bomb damage on the stands. But what a night.”
Wimbledon’s
supporters feel badly treated by the track’s owners, the Greyhound Racing
Association (GRA). Team chairman, Ian Perkins, was still hopeful that a new
venue for the sport could be found that night. John Warner’s wife, Pauline,
collected signatures. All, like me, had heard rumours that the ultimate owners
of the Track, Capital Risk Capital Partners (they bought the GRA in 2004 for
£50 million) were planning to sell the land to Tesco’s, a major supermarket
chain.
This
has yet to come to pass. But Perkins was certain that the end of Speedway,
“will herald the end of Wimbledon as a sporting stadium. A new contract would
have taken us to October next year,” he points out. “All their other
commitments take them only to June. That’s why we’re leaving.”
Had John and Pauline heard of my grandfather? “Oh
yes,” said John. “Belle Vue, pre war. … A good rider,
but no star.” I reflected that, although perhaps no star, my grandfather had
taken an admirably commercial attitude to the whole thing. He did what the
economics of the time—a time of massive economic
uncertainty—dictated and raced for the money.
Liverpool’s Charlie Hornby exists the turn, broad-sliding. Deserted stands
suggest a practice run before the evening’s event. Bike is likely a Rudge, shipped out for competition by the rider. (Click to enlarge.)
This
led him to race at New York’s Madison Square Gardens and Yankee Stadium, in
South Africa (where he replaced his first name with “Speed” or simply
Chris—“Charlie” then, denoting a black servant) and to win medals in
Paris. In New York, he came up against the Mafia. A big name racing
contemporary of his, John “Jack” Ormston, attempted to set up a
league in the early 1930s. His obituary in the Daily Telegraph of June 2007 records a similar experience of
withstanding “the harassments of Tammany Hall and
the Mafia (everyone wanted a share of the action).” Charlie came
within a whisker of being shot in New York, not by the Mob, but by the NYPD.
Stopped by rifle-ready cops, in the open car he was using, only the quick
thinking of his New York born passenger saved the day, instructing the
Englishman not to put his hands up anywhere near the flip down windscreen visor—that was where the Mob would keep
their weapons, and the cops knew it.
A “cablegram” to Charlie Hornby, January 1931, from dealer Reggie Pink, of the
Bronx, offering to buy one of his bikes left in New York--or “jobs” as they
were called back then. The letter outlines how “cinders racing” was in decline by this point,
and the aim was to “build up a light job to sling my 750cc engine into for
certain use of the speed hills.” It is likely this would be a Douglas powered
unit. Reggie Pink, still in business, have a period
hill climb bike restoration on their web site. (Click to enlarge.)
It
was an elite group of riders who bestrode an international circus, shipping
bikes around, or pre-ordering them locally, doing deals with local promoters,
and sharing in the local PR hype the promoters would drum up.
On
his “retirement” at the birth of my mother, Speedway continued to prove useful,
during the Depression years. Charlie wasn’t above slipping out on a Friday
night, prizing his trusty Douglas from a mate’s shed and competing in local,
un-licensed races under an assumed name. Home that night, armed with money enough to keep any self-respecting housewife happy for weeks
ahead, my grandmother never knew.
Line up at Warrington Speedway,
1930, with Charlie Hornby on far right on a Rudge, with his brother/mechanic behind him. Crisp white
overalls, shirts and ties for the mechanics; heavy
gauge leathers and team colours for the riders. (Click to enlarge.)
To
its critics Speedway is a noisy, decadent use of the earth’s depleting
resources; and one that has the cheek to want to stay on in the big city long
after its natural supporters have been priced out. The melancholy fact is that
its urban tracks, its noise, its smell and ever-present danger mean that the
politics, as well as the economics, no longer add up.
Tempted
though I was by the bar open ’til one, “in recognition of the occasion,” I
walked out into the night, headed towards my parked—unlocked,
unmolested—R69S, with a bittersweet sensation. The Don’s star rider, Mark
“Buzz” Burrows, had swept all before him to win the WJ Cearns Trophy, London’s last race. I’d witnessed the end of my grandfather’s sport,
and profession, in the capital, proud that he’d played a small part in its
golden age—but conscious that he, too, had taken the money and moved on.
Acknowledgments
This paper would not have been possible without the recollections and patient input from Charlie Hornby’s daughter, Audrey Lancaster, his son, the former TT rider Colin Hornby and his daughter Jacqui Falconer.
Works
Cited
Bickerstaff,
J. P. Original Vincent Motorcycle, The
Restorer’s Guide to post war singles and twins, Bideford, Devon: Bay View
Books, 1997
Harper, Roy. The Vincent HRD Story.
Spalding, Lincolnshire: Vincent Publishing Company, 1975.
Irving, P.E. Phil Irving: An Autobiography. New South Wales: Turton & Armstrong Ltd, 1992.
Obituary of Jack Ormstead. The Daily Telegraph, June 26, 2007.
Williams,
Jack. A Wild Orgy of Speed: Responses to Speedway in Britain before the
Second World War. Liverpool:
John Moores University, 1999.
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