Greetings... and farewell to Paul Smart
It is with oily fingernails, a cat on my lap and a heavy heart that we say hello and welcome to you all this month. Clocks may have turned back, even in Norfolk, but we’re still catching sunset rides where we can. Maria and I enjoyed meeting folk at the National Motorcycle Museum open weekend, as well as madam finding she fits a TZ perfectly! Then Butch, Maria’s dad, joined us to try the classic range of Triumphs and see the difference of the models – a great autumnal day’s riding. Oli is in mourning as the Langport Bike Night has finished for the year, while Neville acquired a true barn find Suzuki 250 which our great friend, Superwelder Steve, has always loved, so a barter was had. Two goats, a Fordson Major gearbox and some Custard creams is a fair price, I’d say.
My ratty BMW R100RT is all the better now it’s had a service. I’m ashamed to say that it took the fuel economy of a presidential Boeing, the absence of any idle and the handling of a parliamentary enquiry to ‘make time’ for a service. The gearbox oil looked like dessert dressing, the plugs had been fashioned from coal and the forks needed oil, but it was a therapeutic day. I managed a few niggles, like getting the horns to work (why are BMW horns so loud?) and sorted the bodywork. It runs sweetly now – and even idles after some tinkering!
In our world, folks passing is sadly not an unusual occurrence. Age and illness are formidable, but to hear Paul Smart being gathered to God was one that hit. Working in this world, I have been lucky enough to meet this man and his lovely lady, Maggie, several times. He must have met hundreds of journos or photographers, all aching to ‘have a piece’ of his fame to better their cause; yet he always – always – wore a cheery smile, asked how you were, had a joke, and took the mickey. I once chased him at Silverstone at some Ducati kneesup trackday – he was on a Diavel, not a track bike yet, with the body position and determination of a young racer... I didn’t know it was him! By the end, the bike looked like he’d attacked it with a grinder. I went over to have a laugh, and Paul took his helmet off and was still smiling. I met him again at the Prescott Bike Festival; my daughter Izzy and I had come down in a wonderful Triking three-wheeler to take passengers up for an experience. He asked Izzy if her dad could take him up “and scare me”. And at the Sachsenring Classic, he saw me while being monologued by another Brit and said in jest: “Come and rescue me!”
I didn’t know Paul well at all, but somehow he made me feel I did, made me feel accepted, his friend, as he did with so many. He will be remembered as the man who helped Ducati, who married Barry Sheene’s sister, but I will remember him as someone who loved biking as much as I do, and someone who was always smiling. Thank you, Paul. Enjoy,