Comrade daredevil – Clem Beckett part two
The second and concluding part of the story of Clem Beckett – blacksmith, speedway star, Wall of Death rider and Spanish civil war soldier.
NEW sport for motorcyclists’ splashed the Daily Mirror on Monday, June 13, 1928. The headline was referring to the then-novel dirt track racing, which was starting to grip the nation. Dirt tracks were popping up across the country and along with them, a whole host of two-wheeled heroes. Among them was the intrepid Clem Beckett – born and bred Oldham lad and part-time blacksmith. Those of you who read last month’s instalment will know about him already, for those who didn’t, be prepared to meet a true daredevil.
But back to the context: it’s 1928 and Britain is brimming with dirt tracks thanks to huge demand for the high-risk stakes taken by its riders. Britain was barely 10 years from the atrocities of the First World War and yet its public were eager to watch men skid, fly and fling themselves across the hundreds of dirt-and-chip tracks peppered across the country. The proliferation of tracks is staggering when one thinks of how few there are today. Within an hour’s drive from Clem’s terraced street in Oldham there were around 15 tracks, including ones in Manchester, Audenshaw, Droylsden, Rochdale, Blackpool and Sheffield. The popularity of this sport really can’t be overstated.
And like all sports, dirt racing needed its heroes. Clem visited his first dirt track meeting at Audenshaw in
March 1928 and by May he was taking part in his first competition – also at Audenshaw – with a makeshift machine. We left Clem in the last feature just as his career started to take off, at a meteoric rate, and today we’re picking up from that point on, as Clem takes the country – and the world – by storm.
Part of the allure of dirt track racing was its risk. Few meetings went without injury and some even resulted in fatalities. Clem witnessed four injuries at his first Audenshaw meeting, but still went on to become a competitor.
Rob Hargreaves, in his forthcoming book on Clem Beckett, writes: “The inherent risks of dirt track racing were myriad. On poorly constructed or maintained tracks, often potholed, with cinders packed too tightly or too loosely, riders were at greater risk of being thrown to the ground at speed. Any falling rider might be hit by his own machine, gashed by handlebars, lacerated by the revolving chain, or stabbed by a foot-rest. Worse impact injuries were inflicted in frequent collisions, particularly on bends. Riders might part company with their machines by a side-swipe or by being projected over the handlebars. Carelessly positioned fencing and fence posts were especially dangerous. Nor was risk of injury confined to the track. About 400 spectators intent on achieving a better view at Audenshaw climbed onto the roof of the stand, and were only persuaded to come down by officials and police when people underneath noticed sagging beams.”
One of the biggest dirt track circuits in the country at that time – conveniently for Clem – was White City in Manchester. Unlike Audenshaw, however, White
City held meetings during the week. For a jobbing blacksmith at Bowmans, this presented all manner of obstacles, as Rob explains:
"Unlike meetings at Audenshaw, which were always held on either a Saturday or Sunday, White City put on a number of mid-week meetings starting in the afternoons. Clem, like many riders, was obliged to use subterfuge such as sudden illness in order to appear. It was no use inventing a family bereavement, he later admitted, because most of the Beckett family were known to his boss at Bowmans. Cuts and bruises which often marked Clem’s face on his return to work the day following a race meeting, were an obvious giveaway. Weighing up the lure of fame and fortune on the dirt track against the prospects of employment at Bowmans, Clem did not hesitate when push came to shove. He later wrote: ‘I forget now who spoke first, the boss saying, “You’re sacked”, or me saying, “I’m finished.”’ Otherwise Clem seems not to have said a word against Bowman, and the tale suggests that his boss had turned a blind eye to Clem taking liberties.”
Dubious excuses and work absences aside, it was at White City where Clem acquired a near god-like status. Soon, he was riding at multiple events at multiple venues across the country in one day. His status as a sportsman was such that he was now flying from one event to another, as Rob writes.
“Speedway riders, including Clem, were among the first sportsmen to use air travel. Fellow speedway racer and TT rider Arthur Franklyn got into trouble for flying his plane without a licence, and it was probably Franklyn who taught Clem to fly. Not that Clem ever made much of it, because the likelihood is that he too never bothered to become a qualified pilot. In addition, he was usually air-sick, as on the occasion he flew from Manchester’s aerodrome at Barton to Coventry for a meeting beginning at 2pm. He was, however, able to recover sufficiently to win a match race against star rider Syd Jackson, and to set a new track record. Then, back on the plane to Manchester for a White City race due to start at 4pm. It was delayed because of his late arrival.
“Alas, a broken chain resulted in Clem being spectacularly catapulted over the handlebars. Yet he was still able to compete in an evening meeting at Rochdale. At all three venues, Clem broke records. No wonder the Rochdale track owners presented him with a motorcar to enable him to reach their stadium without worrying about train connections."
By this stage, Clem was making a very good living from his riding exploits, as Rob explains: “[He] was making big money – as much as £100 a night, and £10,000 over a few months. Years later he admitted: ‘I spent it almost as fast as I got it. Easy come, easy go.’ Rewards on this scale enabled Clem to indulge his passion for speed and adventure in a way that would have been unthinkable only a year before.”
Clem, alongside dirt track racer and friend Skid Skinner, was ticking just about every item on the typical playboy’s bucket list. “He rubbed shoulders with the ‘Cheshire set’,” says Rob “…taking flying lessons and enjoying speedboat racing on the Cheshire lakes, known as meres. They raced their boats as recklessly as they rode their bikes, swimming ashore when they crashed, and laughing it off. With their natural daring and love of adventure, Clem and Skid cemented an enduring friendship. Each in his own way possessed a stubborn streak and a natural irreverence towards authority. Clem’s own unique style of broadsiding was matched by pint-size Skinner’s crab-like posture in the saddle, leaning forward over the petrol tank, broadsiding foot trailing behind him. He also shared Clem’s gut feeling that the sport of speedway was not just about winning; it was also about doing things in style for the spectators.”
This daredevil persona was swiftly adopted and exploited by Clem and dirt track organisers as part of his PR strategy and nowhere was this more powerful than at White City. On one occasion Clem crashed and injured himself but the crowd refused to leave until they saw Clem back on his feet. Rob writes: “With the crowd clamouring for a glimpse of their hero, Clem stood in the shadows of the magnificent porticoed columns of White City receiving the plaudits of the multitude like a god at the altar of the Parthenon, while, as one commentator put it, cheering ‘filled the welkin’. Shy and taciturn, Clem reassured his adoring fans that his injured ankle was nothing to worry about. It was an oration brief and to the point, perhaps because Clem
was already beginning to sense that what part of the crowd really wanted was another sacrifice to the gods.”
The mythological experience afforded by dirt track stars was likewise observed by psychologists at the time. “One of them opined that a typical dirt track spectator, identifying himself with the winning rider, ‘enjoys, at second-hand, a sense of relief and triumph.’ Uniquely, a high-powered motorcycle was ‘almost part of the rider, a physical extension of his own body,’ and those who could tame and direct its ferocious power might rise to the heights of a ‘Grecian demi-god,’” Rob reports in his book.
By the end of 1928, Clem was an international star and among the first British riders to establish the dirt track craze in Denmark and Sweden. In fact, Clem regularly visited Scandinavia for the rest of his life.
Soon, his adventures stretched to the South of France, according to Rob. “On January 15, 1929, Clem Beckett and a small group of English dirt track riders set sail for Europe, taking their machines and a considerable quantity of spares. The aim was to put on a road show, consisting of exhibition matches, wherever they could find paying spectators. It must have been something of a whistle-stop tour relying on machines being transported by train. Performing in Turkey, Romania, and Bulgaria, these speedway adventurers ill-fitted the period image of Englishmen venturing eastwards. Accordingly, the travels of these motorbike-mad working-class lads never made it into the realms of romantic fiction readily devoured by middle-class readers. Clem and his playboy pals were a couple of years ahead of Agatha Christie’s 1931 journey on the Orient Express, but their exploits became legendary, and Clem was said to have left a trail of broken hearts all over the Continent.
“As travelling troubadours of the dirt track, the boys had no inclination to become involved in the tumults of eastern European countries, recently bequeathed by the Treaty of Versailles. Hardly surprising, therefore, that when, a few years later, Clem was writing articles for Communist publications, he had virtually nothing to say about them. It is always possible, of course, that the tour was highly profitable for riders and promoters alike, and that there was little to be gained from recounting their travels, other than stirring up unwanted interest from
His Majesty’s tax inspectors.”
But the sun-drenched adventure was cut short by the notorious mistral winds, writes Rob.
“If the riders had relied on the benign climate of the Cote d’Azur to favour their enterprise they were disappointed. They had not taken into account the Mistral wind, a seasonal discomfort well-known to the Marseillois. Just as the track was about to open amid hopes of warm spring days bringing in the crowds, the Mistral struck, triggering the coldest spell of weather inflicted on the city for years. Water pipes burst. The harbour froze. Dangerous icicles 60 feet long hung from the sides of buildings and had to be shot down by the police. All the daredevil broadsiding and cinder-shifting in the world could not induce the locals to turn out for a speedway meeting in a blizzard. The team’s hapless manager fled back to England, allowing a short time for Clem to have a look around… In the meantime, to relieve the boredom of the enforced lay-off, Skid Skinner organised shooting matches for the riders, with tin cans and pigeons as targets.”
Clem returned to the UK and continued with his rounds of the dirt track scene. But bubbling away in the background was a knowledge – and disapproval of – the fact he was merely a sacrificial cog in a huge money-making machine. “Although Clem could not have known it at the time, the role played by International Speedways (ISL) and its parent company, Speedways Trust Ltd, was already beginning to match the Communist Party’s notion of exploitative ‘monopoly’ capitalism.”
The company had a share capital of £80,000 and the Speedway Trust was expanding its portfolio of venues at an exponential rate. “The value of shares in International Speedways had already more than quadrupled,” writes Rob, “…on a prospectus which promised a phenomenal 60 per cent return on capital, and which was boosted by American investors.”
Added to this, venue owners were capping riders’ prize money: “A prize-money maximum (£80 per
“Beckett was ticking just about every item on the typical playboy’s bucket list.”
meeting) was imposed, inclusive of other payments. In their determination to impose a master-servant relationship on riders, speedway rulers were little different from administrators in other sports, typically Association Football, where amateur values were giving way to professionalism. As early as September the
ACU had issued a specimen contract dealing with the terms of ‘transfers’ and ‘temporary transfers’ between promoters and riders, providing notice periods, and in some cases limiting a rider to tracks owned by his ‘employer’. By imposing one-sided contract terms, such as the maximum wage, the Football League left no doubt in the minds of players who was boss, and it was a precedent that speedway was quick to follow. Drawing a parallel with professional soccer, The Motor Cycle commented: ‘Everywhere contracts and agreements are being fluttered in riders’ faces’.”
But fate would soon intervene. Barely 18-months after the arrival of speedway in the UK, the Wall Street Crash had thrust the nation – and the world – into a deep depression. Mass unemployment, economic uncertainty and the closures of factories across all industries had a huge impact on spectator numbers. “Men struggling to feed a family on meagre public assistance could not afford to pay entrance fees,” said Rob. “Almost as rapidly as it had expanded, dirt track racing went into decline, and the inevitable consequence was that riders were less in demand. Moreover, unemployed men, desperate for cash, chancing a venture into professional sport such as speedway, were willing to undercut each other. Even established riders like Clem were soon to feel the harsh realities of the ‘slump’ in the face of spiralling unemployment and distress.”
The Depression provided marketable support for the Communist Party and by the late 1920s and early 1930s some of Clem’s comrades had secure jobs within the Party. Clem, meanwhile, feeling the need for a vocational plan ‘B’, turned not to the Communist Party (not yet, anyway) but to the Wall of Death.
This new, bizarre spectacle of motorcyclists hurling around the insides of what was essentially a huge wooden-built barrel was – even during the Depression era – drawing huge crowds. Clem would, for a brief period, tinker with a Wall of Death show with Skid Skinner but it was a short-lived venture.
As so often in Clem’s action-packed life, another opportunity emerged…
Rob explains: “Germany and Scandinavia were a tad behind England in rolling out speedway, but as they caught on, the shortage of able practitioners began to attract foreign riders. Clem had already ridden in Scandinavia, and word spread on the riders’ grapevine about more opportunities in northern Europe. Enter Percy Platt, Oldham businessman and speedway boss at Rochdale, who now began to further diversify his business interests by becoming riders’ agent and European tour manager. Both Clem and Skid Skinner put their trust in him.”
Clem returned to the UK to a climate of intense economic hardship and growing demands from the Communist Party. The latter, however, did not pay but it was starting to appreciate the value of sportsmen in serving its propagandistic agenda. Rob explains: “[Clem’s] potential usefulness as a sportsman, especially a sportsman travelling in Europe, had already occurred to the newly appointed general secretary.”
The context of the situation was thus, as Rob writes in his book: “Since 1924 the Party’s contact with the Russians had been greatly eased by the presence of the Soviet trade delegation in Britain. However, knowing that the British Secret Service was keeping a close eye on Russian delegates, doing its best to intercept communications, the Party had gradually developed a sophisticated network of couriers. The obvious route to and from Russia was by sailings between Newcastle and St Petersburg (Leningrad), but secret messages passed on by couriers and agents operating in Germany and Denmark were much more difficult for the British Secret Service to monitor. As a professional sportsman Clem would have had excellent cover for clandestine meetings with fellow Communists.”
By 1931, Clem’s ties to the Communist Party had strengthened at the expense of those which bound Clem to the dirt track world. In an article for the Daily Worker
– the Russia-funded publication for British Communists – Clem claimed that riders were being exploited by capitalistic and uncaring venue owners. Bridges were burnt but as ever, other opportunities emerged. Before long, Clem and a select group of sportsmen were sent on what was essentially a public relations mission to the Soviet Union.
“Clem and the rest of the 35 strong delegation arrived in Leningrad on June 3, travelling directly to Moscow,” writes Rob, “where a grand welcome had been prepared. While these itinerant ambassadors for British workers’ sport were almost smothered in hospitality wherever they went, Clem was picked out for special attention. Being the only dirt track rider in the party, and in the total absence of dirt tracks in Russia, his role was to present demonstrations of broadsiding on whatever makeshift surfaces could be found.
“Clem’s greatest moment of adulation came at the Moscow Dynamo stadium where, in spite of a makeshift track surface, he earned the rapturous cheers of thousands of Muscovites with a master-class in broadsiding. Afterwards, Clem was surrounded by adoring fans with a worrying enthusiasm for removing parts of the Douglas as ‘souvenirs’. The threat of his machine being completely cannibalised by comrades starved of consumer goods such as motorbikes and spare parts became a constant problem.”
But the delegation to the Soviet Union also proved a mystery. Clem stayed on for four months after his British colleagues had retuned and little is known of that period. He did eventually return to the UK and his political feeling was strong enough so as to travel to Spain and serve in the fight against fascism in the Spanish Civil War as part of the Medical Aid Envoy. He was installed as a mechanic in an isolated village called Madrigueras but resented this post.
Rob writes: “Clem, missing the camaraderie of fellow countrymen, kicked up a fuss, announcing that
attachment to the autopark was not at all what he had in mind when he volunteered. In a letter written in late November, he declared: ‘I came here to fight fascism,’ and demanded transfer to a fighting unit. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, occasion on which Clem Beckett ruffled the feathers of those in authority. However, in the letters he wrote to his mother, Clem maintained the fiction that he was not a member of a fighting unit, but rather part of the ambulance service. As if to reassure her of his eventual safe return, letters to Henrietta usually contained a plea for her to ‘look after the dog.’”
Clem did serve in real battle, eventually, only to be shot down while protecting comrades at the Battle of Jarama on February 12, 1937. Clem was 30 years old.
In just three decades, Clem had packed more into his life than several Hollywood plots combined. Dirt track hero, subtle political advocate and quickwitted entrepreneur. His fascinating life merits a blockbuster movie, not least a two-part feature in TCM. It would be the done thing – even eight decades later – to say ‘rest in peace’ but for a former Wall of Death daredevil, that doesn’t seem appropriate. So here’s to playing havoc, breaking bones and taking risks.
Many thanks to Rob Hargreaves for sharing his knowledge of Clem Beckett. His book, Comrade Daredevil (published by Pen and Sword) is out in 2022 Watch this space….
“Clem Beckett’s fascinating and eventpacked life merits a blockbuster movie, not least a two-part feature in TCM.