The End of Grand Prix Racing . . . Almost

Michelle Ann Duff

It was known as the Continental Circus, becoming prominent in the early fifties, blossoming during the infamous sixties, before fading from existence in the seventies. The Circus was not a collection of high-wire acts, clowns and performing animals, but composed of a rag-tag group of 30 to 40 vagabond motorcycle racers from all corners of the world who travelled to various international race meetings throughout most of Continental Europe. It was rarely the same group each year. Many riders joined the Circus for a few years, finding fame or misfortune, then returned home to explore other avenues. Some achieved greatness, some gave the ultimate sacrifice, but the passion for all was the same--to race motorcycles.

The Circus began in early April each year, and ended mid-October; its members traversed the Continent numerous times during the course of a season. Most competed in 35 to 40 race meetings, logging 30,000 to 35,000 road miles in the process.

Of these races, only 12 to 14 were granted Grand Prix status, and they counted towards the world championship. It was to these race meetings that the world’s major manufacturers came with their specially built factory racing machines and the world’s top riders, to pit their skills and courage, not only against each other, but against the many natural hazards on the race courses. The stakes were high; accidents were not frequent, but they did happen, sometimes with deadly consequences. Today, grand prix race courses are properly built racing complexes with strict safety features, like catch fences, gravel traps, and safe run-off before a wall. For all Continental Circus competitors, race courses were mostly public roads, closed for racing, with all nature road hazards in place. Straw bales were often placed in front of obvious dangers, but most often it was left to a rider’s skills and courage to avoid serious obstacles. 

Canada is not a country noted for producing competitive motorcycle racers, certainly not on the world stage. And so it was a bit of a novelty when I arrived in England in April of 1960, with one aging 500 Manx Norton, to begin a professional racing career that spanned eight years. In 1961, I bought a new 350 7R AJS and a 500 G50 Matchless, two production racing models of choice for many private riders. Both bikes were built by the same manufacturer, both were single cylinder four-stroke machines developing a respectable 42 hp for the 350, and 50 for the 500.

As a Canadian, I was often granted a start in various race meetings on the strength of my nationality rather than any talent I may have possessed. Negotiations over money were an ongoing problem between every race organizer and every rider, starting or appearance money being the prime source of income for most riders. The amount of start money paid was proportionate to one’s ability to draw spectators to the race meeting--the more famous riders, the greater the starting or appearance money paid. Some were better than others at negotiations. For but a select few, most riders took what was offered. If not, their entry would not be accepted. In most cases, it was enough to survive, barring serious injury, damage to race machinery, or a major malfunction to the race transporter.

Prize money for most private riders was rarely relied upon. At the best of times good prize money rarely went down below 6th place, and even 6th place at some major international race meetings was little more than lunch money, and did not justify the maintenance required to keep bikes competitive.

Towards the end of the 1961 season I ventured north to Scandinavia to compete in a series of races in Finland, and on my way back to England, I rode at the Swedish GP. The trip was more a test to see if I was up to the rigours of Continental travel, dealing with different cultures, money, foods and language. I showed promise for greater things on the race track, but more importantly, I was able to adapt to the differences of other countries. I quickly learned that other ways of doing things are not necessarily better or worse, just different.

In 1962 I became a regular participant in the Continental Circus, and had my entries accepted in a series of race meetings that would take me up to the Isle of Man TT in June. In the meantime, correspondence was in the mail for the later half of the racing season, and negotiations were under way.

Racing successes came slowly, but within a few years I was able to ride with the best of the privateer riders. In 1964, I was asked to join the Japanese Yamaha Racing Team to ride as second rider to Phil Read on the 250 Yamaha RD56 racing bikes in the Isle of Man TT, the Dutch GP, and the Belgian GP. This was extended to the West German GP, the Italian GP and the Japanese GP.

A beautifully prepared bike, the RD56 was a twin cylinder 250 cc two-stroke with rotary valves, seven speeds, and handling characteristics that did little to endear confidence. It required a state of schizophrenia to ride properly. Power came in at 9,000 revs and was red lined at 11. The only time during a race the engine would be below 9,000 revs was at the start (we used push starts back then with a dead engine.) If the revs ever dropped below 9 Gs during the race, it was 90% sure a spark plug would foul. Its one redeeming feature was its totally indestructible clutch. Its frame was a miniature copy of the famous Norton Featherbed frame. The front brake, although lacking longevity, was state of the art for the time--a twin, twin-leading shoe drum brake. Oh, did I mention its performance? Rated at about 54 horse power, it tached along at just over 152 mph, an unheard of speed for a 250 back in 1964. By comparison to the 300 and a bit pounds weight of the 7R or G50, the RD56 Yamaha was a tiny motorcycle that topped the scales at less than 260 lbs.*1

Apart from European Grand Prix racing, American Class “C” racing, with its peculiar rules that seemed to favour the American built Harley Davidson motorcycles, was of major interest to the Japanese manufacturers. The most prestigious event on the American scene was the Daytona Beach 200 Miler staged in early March. Machinery used had to be basically standard street legal motorcycles modified for racing.

The American market for new bikes was huge. Yamaha was a strong supporter of American racing. In 1967, apart for the usual collection of 250 TD1C production racer entries, sponsored by Yamaha International from California, Yamaha, Japan, entered two specially developed 350 YR1 twin cylinder machines in the Daytona 200. I was invited to be one of the two riders on these highly experimental bikes.

The engines of these two 350s were housed in the highly successful Yamaha RD56 frame that had won world titles in 1964 and 1965. RD56 brakes, too, were employed to improve stopping ability. Many informed personnel laughed at the suggestion that a little 350 two-stroke, with conventional porting, could be anywhere near competitive against the dominant 750 side valve Harley Davidson twins or the popular overhead valve 500 Triumph Tiger twins.

The YR1 350 Yamaha normally sported 5 speeds in the gearbox, but because the Harley Davidson, Triumph and BSA entries only had four gears, one of the rules stipulated that four gears were the maximum number any entries could have for the 200 Miler. Yamaha had to block off first gear.

During qualifying, I had my little “uncompetitive” 350 Yamaha on pole position until near the end of the session one of the 750 Harleys bumped me into second place on the grid.

The results of that year’s 200 Miler are now history. Neither of the two 350 Yamaha machines went the distance without problems, but they both finished. To those who wished to read the signs, the appearance of American Class “C” racing was about to change forever.

At the end of the 1967 GP season, Honda announced its withdrawal from official support of Grand Prix racing. The same year, Suzuki also withdrew its support. When word came down during the 1968 racing season that Yamaha also planned to withdraw its support from Grand Prix racing, it created an air of gloom throughout the racing world. What was to become of GP racing? Without these exotic machines to attract spectators, the future of GP racing was in jeopardy. 

The sport could not look to the Italians for support. Other than the Italian MV Agusta 350 and 500 cc bikes, no Italian factories officially supported international racing at that time. A few bikes from the Iron Curtain manufacturers, MZ and CZ/Jawa, and the occasional Russian Vostock, participated in some races, but these factories were greatly hampered by travel restrictions outside the Communist Block, and could not be counted on to fill the void left by the exodus of the Japanese.

The vast majority of riders filling the starting grid would now be private riders on outdated and tired 350/500 Manx Norton machines, and 350 7R AJS and G50 Matchless motorcycles, in the bigger classes, and Bultaco, Greeves, and Villiers in the smaller classes. None of these bikes had seen any quantity of new models produced for some years. Replacement parts were getting scarce, and what spare parts were available, were expensive.

Spectator attendances at most GP race meetings had reached an all-time high by the mid sixties. In 1965, 450,000 spectators paid to watch the Czechoslovakian GP at Brno. This attendance was a world record for paid admission to any one-day sporting event, ever. The Dutch TT in the mid sixties often saw attendances exceeding 200,000 fans. In 1966, the organizers of the East German Grand Prix, at Sachsenring, worried, because only 150,000 spectators showed up for Saturday’s racing, but sighed in financial relief on Sunday when attendance topped 300,000.

Major International British short circuits, venues like Brands Hatch and Mallory Park, regularly record over 60,000 enthusiasts passing through their admission gates. Motorcycle racing ranked second in the world for spectator attendances, second only to European football.

With Honda’s and Suzuki’s withdrawal from the Grand Prix scene, spectator attendances dropped dramatically. Race organizers, fearing the worst, closely examined ways to cut expenses. Two measures were agreed upon:  to offer riders less starting money, and to reduce the already paltry prize money. Needless to say, these changes were met with concern and disapproval by most riders. But, what could they do? Unions had been tried and always failed. Riders would not stick together, one or two grabbing the opportunity to ride when others would not, and would reap the rewards of a win, or a high placed finish to earn greater prize money and/or notoriety. For a union to work it would have to be approved by the governing body for international motorcycle sport, the Federation Internationale Motorcyclist (FIM). However, the chance of that happening was next to impossible. The FIM is made up of Federation Motorcycliste National, or FMN, or national governing bodies of member countries. It was these national governing bodies who were the organizers of their respective country’s Grand Prix. To ask the FIM to approve a union that would cost the organizers more money was like asking the organizers themselves to approve it.

There were big differences between riders and organizers, and the organizers not only knew it, but counted on it--organizers were in it for the politics and to make money; riders were there to ride because they loved to ride, and would do just about anything to do so.

To the unknowing spectator, racing a motorcycle, for a living, has to be the coolest job ever. Imagine doing something you passionately love to do, and getting paid to do it. No more trudging off to work at a 9-to-5 doing something repetitious that you’d rather not be doing in the first place. Imagine having a job you couldn’t wait to get up in the morning to do. Imagine working 18 and 20 hour days and loving it.  Imagine all the exotic countries to visit, all the glamorous motorcycles and racing circuits to ride, the adoration of screaming fans.

Rider’s travel expenses seemed always to be on the increase--a fact of life--but these could be estimated at the beginning of a season. Machine maintenance was always an unknown factor and depended on the frequency of crashes and other unaccountable mishaps. Engine blow ups were not frequent, but they could, and sometimes did, happen. The never ending struggle to balance the books came to a head in late 1967 when private riders could not afford to risk the wear and tear to their bikes for the meagre funds offered, and began doing what were called “start money specials.” Riders would start a race, but pull off soon after the start with some mysterious engine problems, in order to save undo wear to precious machinery. Race organizers retaliated with demands for proof of an alleged engine failure, and if unable to do so, a rider was threatened with non payment of agreed starting money.

And the story got worse. Major racing budgets for accessory manufactures were being cut. With less spectator interest, there was less importance to the buying public if such and such a rider won such and such a race using such and such a product. Many of these accessory manufactures did not stop offering their services, but no longer were chains, tires, spark plugs and brake linings available, free.

With higher expenses, riders needed more money, not less, while organizers were offering less, not more. Riders tried cutting expenses by sharing one race transporter, but this always created problems between the riders, especially if one rider had an entry in Spain, while the other was entered to ride in Austria. The future of both the Continental Circus, and of Grand Prix racing, looked grim. Many well qualified observers predicted their imminent demise.

In 1968, based on the bikes I rode at Daytona the previous year, Yamaha produced, for limited sale to the North American markets, a batch of 350 and 250 cc production racers, the 350 TR2, and the 250 TD2, again housed in the RD56 frame. These bikes would prove to be highly competitive in American Class “C” racing. Some of these models found their way to Europe, but the following year quantities were also available on the European market. Their availability injected new life into Grand Prix racing, at an affordable price. These bikes were so competitive that anyone, with the talent, had the potential to win a “World Championship”. Had it not been for these highly competitive racing bikes, grand prix racing would almost certainly have died a natural death.

In August of 2004 I had the honour to share a delicious meal in a restaurant in Spa, Belgium with a number of Japanese Yamaha officials. During the dinner, I had been asked to retell some of my experiences with Yamaha Racing Team and the 250 RD56. During the discussion, I recounted the above tale of woe concerning Grand Prix racing in the late sixties, and offered my thanks to Yamaha. My comments were met with bemusement from all the Yamaha crew. None of them were aware of the part, the huge part, their company played in saving Grand Prix racing in the late 60s.

Thanks, Yamaha.

Endnote
*1Interesting footnote: As an example of the mental state required to ride the RD56, I once calculated the number of gear changes during the course of a six-lap, 225-mile race in the Isle of Man 250 TT.  On an average, I changed gears once every 3 seconds for two hours and fifteen minutes. Needless to say, the gearbox was a sweetheart--swift and precise, requiring little more than a slight tap on the foot pedal to engage the next gear.

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