Snack left us with egg on our faces

HOW difficult is it to embarrass yourself? In my case, not difficult at all! In 1959, my brother and I were marshals at a motorcycle race in south Africa. A huge spectator crowd turned up at the roy Hesketh circuit in Pietermaritzburg over the whole easter weekend as the event was for both racing bikes and racing cars. Our duty was to ensure the track marshals were at their respective positions on the corners before each race. I owned a beautiful black motorcycle, my brother rode pillion, and we felt very important. All went well until the lunch break. We were returning to my bike to check the track when my brother decided to buy a fried egg sandwich at the last minute. As he did not have time to eat it, he got onto the pillion, grabbed me around my waist with his left hand for support and held his sandwich aloft in his right hand. We were running a little late, so I pulled off quickly and headed down the main straight. Halfway down the straight, the track turned slightly right at a bend called ‘Henry’s Knee’. Unfortunately, there was a slight dip at this point and my bike bucked as we sped through. The bump was enough for my brother to lose control of his sandwich, which shot into the air and landed splat in the middle of the track. I heard him yelling ‘sTOP!, sTOP!’ and slammed on the brakes. As the scattered fried egg sandwich was right in the middle of the track, it was extremely dangerous and had to be removed before the race — which was about to start. I turned the bike around and rode up the track the wrong way — something that is neVer done on any track in the world! The racers were on the starting line ready to go when my brother jumped off the bike to gather up the mess. Well, the chief marshal was shouting a torrent of abuse at us over the public address system, as you can imagine. The crowd was in fits of laughter as my brother, using the slice of bread in his right hand, scooped the splattered egg onto the bread in his left hand. Then, he ran to the side and threw it over the fence. My brother jumped back on the pillion, and we roared off down the track, with the chief marshal still shouting abuse at us. As there were loudspeakers all around the track, everyone knew what was going on and we received much applause and laughter from the crowd. Highly embarrassed, we rode to an area where spectators were not allowed and parked behind some bushes. There we stayed until late afternoon, leaving the track only after all the spectators had gone home! strange as it might seem, we never marshalled again!

Neil Duckworth, Christchurch, Dorset.