Racing Days
Back in OBM428, we brought you the early motorcycling exploits of David McBain (which included demolishing a bus shelter on his B31 and doing himself a lot of damage on his Post Office Bantam). So what happened next? Well, Dave went racing!
On Saturday, June 27, 1964, I entered my first race at Beveridge Park, Kirkcaldy, kitted out in a pair of ancient leather jeans and a well-worn leather jerkin.
This was an outfit which displayed a generous amount of skin when assuming the ‘racing crouch’ but I did however have the luxury of a brand-new pair of leather boots specially chosen on the ‘never-never’ from my mother’s
Littlewoods catalogue.
The machine was a 350cc BSA Gold Star which I had purchased from Alexanders in Glasgow for the knockdown price of £32, and, although my mechanical knowledge was of the ‘trial and error’ variety, the Goldie engine had resisted all my spanner-wielding machinations and was ready to go.
Standing on the grid at Beveridge Park with my heart thumping, I followed the accepted procedure for a push start. As the flag dropped for heat number 4, I sprang into action and the bike moved forward by a full six inches as the rest of the field vanished towards the railway dip. The shiny leather soles on my brand-new boots would have been great on an ice rink but had absolutely no purchase on the tarmac and, by the time I got going, all the other riders had vanished from sight.
The following day I travelled to an old aerodrome circuit at Gask in Perthshire for the second race in my ‘career,’ having had no chance to remedy the boot situation. However, in the interim my ‘mechanic’ arrived with an instant solution – or, to be more accurate, a rubber solution. He had managed to get hold of a bicycle puncture repair outfit and stuck numerous patches all over the soles of my boots. This was a great success in that it improved my previous starting technique by 150% and I advanced a full 18 inches before the patches ripped themselves to shreds so that the tail-enders were just visible in the far distance as I got under way.
A couple of weeks later I travelled to Charterhall in the Scottish borders where I competed with the offending boots replete with Philips rubber Stick-A-Soles which solved the problem. Some kind photographer was on hand to record my debut at the circuit and the photograph looks impressive – if you don’t realise that the leaders had already passed by before the photographer pushed down the shutter, albeit the majority of the field was still in my wake. A few weeks later, again at Charterhall, the photographer snapped me in this sandwich between the Scottish champion Geordie Buchan and George Logan. Note the obvious gap between my jerkin and jeans. Fortunately, I never came off wearing this outfit, as skidding along the ground on my back dressed like that doesn’t bear thinking about! The following season I managed to acquire a second-hand set of leathers for the princely sum of £5. A couple of sizes too large, but what the hell.
Over the next couple of years, I raced at circuits all over Scotland and the north of England, with moderate success. The Goldie did seem to be quicker than most of the other 350cc BSAs – that is until one calamitous day at Silloth. Screaming down the main straight on peak revs in second gear I changed up into what I intended to be third … only it wasn’t! Confusing it with my road bike I had knocked the gear lever into first and the bike almost stood on end. The big end was locked solid and, being well beyond my technical abilities, I had no alternative but to hand in the bottom end to a local dealer for replacement.
This major strip-down uncovered another anomaly which I had never previously noticed. Although the piston was marked +20 it was fitted with standard piston rings. Despite this apparent oversight it had always run perfectly and had never even oiled a plug! When I rebuilt the engine with its new big end, I replaced the standard rings with +20s but the engine seemed to have lost its zip, and at the end of the season we parted company.
My first 350 Manx Norton
The Goldie was replaced by my first 350 Manx Norton which I acquired for a knockdown price from a chap somewhere in the south of England. I soon discovered the reason for the knockdown price. It was barely faster than my Gold Star, and at the first engine strip-down I was informed by one of my more knowledgeable friends that the cylinder head had no squish band! Squish band? Brass band? Elastic band? I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about! However, he advised me to either acquire another cylinder head or sell the bike. I sold the bike.
Fortunately, towards the end of that season, I received an unexpected financial windfall which enabled me to buy a decent Manx, albeit fitted with an Oldani front brake, of which more later. The windfall came via my mother, from an uncle who had passed on. She knew full well where the money would go but, although she dreaded me racing and never relaxed until I had returned home safely, she gave me the money. Why? Because she was my mother; what else can I say.
The new Manx was at least as competitive as most of the other 350s around at the time and, as my main asset – if it can be called that – was the ability to out-brake a lot of the field, I always got through the heats and managed to pick up the odd place or two in the finals. However, the Oldani front brake, although it was a good stopper, had the unnerving habit of suddenly locking the front wheel solid without warning; just about manageable when it was dry, but extremely exciting when it was raining!
As well as the dodgy front brake, the rain introduced another exciting addition to my racing days. I had worn glasses since my late school days and acquired a pair of Billy Bunter-type spectacles to fit under my racing goggles. When it rained, they inevitably steamed up and I ended up, on numerous occasions, ripping them off before I was halfway round the circuit and flinging them towards an unsuspecting marshal, and hopefully retrieving them after the race. (PS. If anyone visiting the IoM from 1967 onwards found a pair of Billy Buntertype glasses lying in the foliage between Quarter and Bradden Bridge – they belong to me!)
Although it has nothing to do with either rain or
Billy Bunter spectacles, one exciting incident at Crimond aerodrome circuit in Aberdeenshire sticks in my mind. The photograph shows a picture of myself leading
Bob Steele at Crimond which includes the legend “crashed into straw bales on the last lap” which is correct, but only half of the story. Leading on the last lap with Bob
Steele breathing down my exhaust, I slid away on the penultimate right-hander and Bob followed on his
AJS 7R. I reckon there must have been a spot of oil or something similar to bring us both down. As we got to our feet, I removed my helmet to find the tyre imprint from Bob’s front wheel right over the crown. Having escaped a potential calamity, I laughed at the discovery, but Bob paled visibly and even years after found it impossible to laugh it off. A few inches lower and I wouldn’t be telling this story!
Ousten was another circuit which brings back exciting memories. As I remember it, there was a fast right-hander which gave all the bikes a bit of a front-end wobble that, after a couple of circuits in practice, you came to accept. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm again took over when, on the opening lap of the race, my slight wobble turned into a real tank slapper, leaving me with no option but to straighten up and head for the grass. I figured out if I kept going across the grass I would be able to rejoin the circuit about 100 yards further on. What I didn’t realise was that there was a deep drainage ditch at right angles to my progress and I am told that I did a wonderful double somersault as my front wheel disappeared into the ditch and I was propelled skywards. Although I suffered only severe bruising the bike wasn’t so lucky, the front end severely damaging my bank balance.
The Isle of Man for the first time
In September 1965, I paid my first visit to the Isle of Man to ride in the Manx Grand Prix. The MGP entry form at that time included a strange question which I could never quite understand. The maximum age for entry to the MGP in the 1960s was 40. The signed doctor’s report which had to be submitted included the enigmatic statement, ‘What is his apparent age?.’ This was something my own doctor puzzled over although I was only in my early 20s. Did it mean that if you were, say, 45 but ‘apparently’ looked only 39, you wouldn’t be allowed to enter?
The Isle of Man really was by far the best experience of my life – but don’t tell my wife that. I just loved the early morning practice sessions. Travelling on closed roads in the early morning sunshine with the bike running like a dream and in a world of your own is the most enjoyable, rewarding and, paradoxically, most relaxing experience I have ever had or ever will have.
However, it wasn’t always sunshine – far from it. The 1967 event was run in torrential rain and gale-force winds which helped me to achieve one ambition which had hitherto eluded me. One of the lesser-known bends in the Isle of Man is the 32nd milestone, a combination of three left-hand bends which I was assured that, given the correct line, you could navigate on full throttle on a 350 Manx Norton. I had never quite managed to get it correct, always having to back off; that is until that wet and windy race day in 1967. I was fast approaching the 32nd and was just about to start easing the throttle, when I suddenly realised that I wasn’t approaching it, I was already into it going full chat in top gear! One thing you don’t do when you are keeled over to the maximum on a wet and windy mountain road is start braking violently. One, two, three bends in one sweep on full throttle in torrential rain and safely down the following straight. Someone up there must have liked me!
On the other hand, someone up there must have changed his mind for, on the fourth lap, the infamous Oldani front brake locked solid as I braked for Ramsey Hairpin and brought me crashing down. As luck would have it, the clutch lever was snapped clean off, which meant the end of my race. It was doubly disappointing as I was lying in seventh place, just off the leaderboard. Ah well, c’est la vie!
On my return from the IoM a friend, who had access to a massive lathe, skimmed the Oldani brake surface, which he advised me was slightly oval, and that cured the problem. But I never trusted it again.
Although I loved the Isle of Man it always handed me a mixture of good and bad fortune – certainly as far as results were concerned. The following year, 1968, I finished in 24th place, having been a bit too enthusiastic at Windy Corner and mounting the grass on the final lap. I discovered that the Manx was totally unsuited to scrambling and I followed the bike, sliding along ignominiously on my backside. Apart from a few grassy scratches on the fairing the bike wasn’t damaged and, having swiftly picked myself and the bike back upright, I was ready to continue. Unfortunately, a well-meaning marshal held me up for what seemed like ages, inspecting both the bike and myself. That couple of wasted minutes cost us the team prize as
Jock Findlay came in first and Jackie Learmonth, who I had passed earlier, repassed as I was being restrained by the marshal and came in
16th. I recall Jock and Jackie describing my recklessness in language which could not be repeated in mixed company.
As tough as old boots!
Going back to the actual circuit, the 33rd milestone is another left-hand corner – a single sweep which could be taken on full throttle on a 350 Manx Norton. During 1971 practice I thought I would try it on full throttle on a 500 Manx Norton, which one of my pals had loaned me for the fortnight. Three-quarters of the way around the corner
I knew that I wasn’t going to make it, with the prospect of a near-vertical drop over the right-hand edge. However, some kind road designer had placed concrete bollards at intervals along the edge of the corner, no doubt for the benefit of traffic coming up the hill. As I was about to exit this world my right-hand footrest, including my boot, caught one of the bollards and deflected me back down the road. It cost me a couple of broken toes, which I didn’t discover until I arrived back in Scotland. Had I visited the doctor in the Isle of Man it would have been reported to the race authorities and they may not have allowed me to race the following week.
When my toes and foot began to swell up, I just cut a piece out of the side of my boot to allow for the expansion and tied a bandage round the outside. In those days, especially in short circuit racing, your boot would get worn away on the outside edge when you were keeled over. It was common practice in those penny-pinching days to wind a bandage or similar piece of cloth round the damaged part, so nobody gave my modified boot a second thought. I shouldn’t have bothered, as in the actual race the clutch/gearbox trouble and forcing the gears up and down with my damaged foot did neither the gearbox or my foot any favours.
My road racing ‘career’ lasted for only seven years. Living with a widowed mother on a postman’s wage meant that, at best, I was always racing on a pretty frayed shoestring; a shoestring which ultimately parted company at the end of 1971.
In the 1960s anyone who had a motorcycle could enter a road race at little cost. A racing licence could be obtained for a couple of pounds. Entry money was roughly the same and, as long as your machine passed the safety checks by the scrutineers, you were ready to go. My own racing exploits began on an initial outlay of less than £50 which included the bike, the entry money and the riding gear! Transport was not included as I cadged a lift in a mate’s lorry.
How much would it cost to enter road racing today? The Bank of England inflation calculator shows that £50 in 1964 equates to £1036 in 2020. Wow, and I always thought I was skint! However, could you begin racing today on a budget of just over £1000? I very much doubt it although I’m sure other readers will be able to advise me on that.
Any regrets? Only two.
The first is gradually losing touch with all the friends and acquaintances I had made in my seven short years of racing, some of whom are no longer with us.
Jock Findlay, Jackie
Learmonth, Geordie
Buchan, Gerry Borland, John Leishman, James Guthrie, as well as faces to which I can no longer give names and names to which I can no longer put faces. The last-named, James Guthrie, was, of course, sponsored by Francis Beart, from whom I bought spares over the years. I had the privilege of meeting this very kind and helpful gentleman on a few occasions in the IoM, and a gentleman he certainly was.
The second regret? In
1972, when Aermacchi started to dominate the 350 class, nobody wanted Manx Nortons and I sold my last 350 Manx Norton for – I can hardly persuade my fingers to type the figure – £500!
My mother said it would all end in tears. She was right, but a lot of them were tears of laughter.