Memories from the Ekka
Brisbane Exhibition Grounds Speedway
I wasn’t even school-age when dad would hoist me on his shoulders and off we’d go for a night of thrills and sensations that would dazzle a small boy and forever stamp its imprint into his DNA. I quite literally grew up with the howl of the JAP and Offenhauser in my ears and the intoxicating scent of Castrol R and methanol in my nostrils, so that even now, that sound and that smell transports me straight back to Saturday night at the Ekka Speedway. Considering the proximity of the Ekka to the Royal Brisbane Hospital, it was remarkable that something as ear-shattering as Speedway was even permitted, but I suppose that was an age when we were far less prone to the dubious art of complaint and litigation. The oval track was surfaced in decomposed granite which the broadsiding bikes and cars sprayed and flung in great clods at spectators who chose to sit up close to the action. Regular watering of the track throughout the programme added a certain glutinous quality to the flung granite and as it happened, this provided the ingredient for a source of illicit souvenirs. In an era before the visors and pull-offs of today, riders and drivers alike wore multiple pairs of light, anti-gas goggles left over as war surplus. As a set of goggles became plastered, they would be peeled off to expose a fresh set beneath. By night’s end there were clagged-up goggles aplenty and I would keep an eagle eye out for any in close proximity to the fence where we were sitting. When the last race ended, and the track closed, disregarding the
If anyone is to blame for a lifelong addiction to the song of race engines at full cry and the tang of racing fuel, I lay it squarely on the shoulders of my father. We lived in the inner-city suburb of Spring Hill, within walking distance of the Brisbane Exhibition Grounds – the ‘Ekka’- the Saturday night venue for Speedway as promoted by the venerable Frank Arthur under the banner of Empire Speedways.
dire warnings over the PA system, I was over that fence in a flash to scoop up a sticky, battered prize. For anyone wanting a panoramic view and not averse to sitting in the open air, there was the tiered, bleacher-style seating of Machinery Hill, while for those of finer sensibilities there were the Ernest Baynes and John Macdonald Stands. Dad and I were usually on Machinery Hill, close to the primitive arrangement under a section that served as The Pits. This was a world of sound, fury and mystery forbidden to the public, but you could get a glimpse through the open but well-guarded gates. As a bonus, when a bike or car needed to have a short low-speed “tuning run” they would use the roadway at the back of the Pits and Machinery Hill and you could get up close to these wondrous machines. The Solos and Speedcars ran in an anti-clockwise direction, while the Sidecars ran clockwise. There was always a full programme to satisfy one and all and in time this was expanded to accommodate what are today known as “Compact Speedcars” and expanded again with the arrival of Stockcars. The first Stockcars were set up for blatant biff and barge, sporting great bull bars and roll cages. To add to the general mayhem and provide some added shrapnel to what was the forerunner of the Demolition Derby, 44-gallon drums were placed around the inner verge of the track. Appearing at the end of the night’s racing, Stockcars were enormously popular. A number of riders and drivers such as Sandy McCrae and Allan Belcher would enter their own Stockcars to cap off the night with some light relief. I of course had my heroes of the two, three and four-wheeled kind and as a regular treat, Dad would buy me a souvenir photo of my choice. Against all the odds of time, divorce and moves, that collection of almost 40 photos survives in my possession, intact and pristine. Amongst them is a shot of prominent Solo rider Keith Cox. It’s clear that I had met the great man in my boyhood, because it’s signed on the back “to my speedway supporter Gary from Keith Cox.” I met Keith again many decades later while attending a vintage Speedcar event on the Ekka track. Keith was in his eighties by then but had ridden some demo laps on a vintage Solo and was still riding a scooter daily. As I chatted to him at the end of his demo run, someone asked him his secret to still being on a bike at his age. His answer? “Son, I never got off.” Sadly, Keith passed “under the chequered flag” a few years back.
The iconic track survives as part of the greater Brisbane Exhibition complex where the annual Show – colloquially known as The Ekka – is staged. The complex has undergone considerable redevelopment and although that magic oval remains intact, it no longer hosts such spirited or resonant action as a pack of Solos, Sidecars or Midgets locked in gladiatorial combat. Speedway action has now moved to the suburbs, with cars of all sorts at Archerfield Speedway, and Solos and Sidecars out at the Mick Doohan Raceway at Banyo. How long these situations can be maintained is questionable. The Doohan track is at least in an industrial precinct beside the Gateway Arterial Road, so perhaps it’s safe for the foreseeable future. Archerfield however may be less secure. Despite it also being in an industrial area and on the boundary of Archerfield Airport, urban creep is sounding alarm bells that such activities may be banished to more remote realms. The texture of Speedway has moved on a bit too, at least in respect to the cars. The struggling privateers of the Fifties, operating on the smell of an oily rag, have been replaced by huge pantechs loaded with spare everything needed to get a mangled Sprintcar back on track for the next heat. It’s perhaps a bit less evolved where the bikes are concerned.
Regardless of changing times, I still attend both venues because it’s too deep in the blood now and even though there’s not perhaps that same raw edge of childhood memory, there’s still a very basic aspect visible in the minimal spectator facilities and rudimentary Pits that conjure up the “paddock” of early racing venues. In my seventies now, I continue to ride and those words of Keith Cox “Son I never got off” have become my personal mantra to keep at it, however many years I may clock up.