Motorcycling: Mallory master in race of century

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In 1971, Telegraph motorcycling correspondent Dave Humphries witnessed the race of the century at Mallory Park when John Cooper beat the favourite Giacomo Agostini. Here, he continues his tales from the tracks...

Motorcycle ace Barry Sheene

It's only a short ride to Mallory Park from Derby. And on September 19, 1971, Chellaston Road was already filling up with bikers as we headed off to see John Cooper on a BSA-3, challenge the mighty MV Agusta-3 of Giacomo Agostini.

I don’t think anybody in their wildest dreams expected to see a race that is now generally acknowledged as one of the finest spectacles ever seen on a British race track. It was the race of the year. It turned out to be the race of the century!

We were all watching from a raised platform near to Dunlop bridge, which gave a good view of both the Esses and Devil’s Elbow.

The expectant atmosphere was already electric in anticipation of a great duel between the Italian World Champion and TT winner with film-star looks, mounted on the most exotic and fastest Grand Prix motorcycle in the world and Derby’s unassuming Mallory master, who only had a race-converted BSA road bike to ride.

What unfolded was an absolute epic, characterised by a massive slide Cooper had at the Esses, which raised a huge gasp from the equally massive crowd who all thought it was the end of John’s race. But, somehow, he managed to avoid crashing and eventually caught and overtook Agostini to win the coveted race. The crowd was ecstatic.

Celebrations were definitely in order and I don’t think the staff at the Crewe and Harpur, in Swarkestone, knew what had hit them when we arrived. I recall standing on a table and asked everyone to raise a glass to the great John Cooper!

In 1972, something new happening in racing. The Yanks were in town – or, to be more specific, at Brands Hatch, Mallory Park and Oulton Park, where they were contesting the new Transatlantic series of races held over Easter.

We decided to go to each meeting.

The Brands race was on Good Friday and was a notable trip for two things. The Thruxton’s clutch started to drag a little and no amount of adjustment seemed to have any affect. I had to ride back home, around the North Circular, going through several red traffic lights, as coming to a halt was very impracticable. And then, the finicky dynamo lighting packed up on the M1 and I had to be shielded, front, back and side by my mates.

After curing the clutch problem, we went off to watch Sunday’s Mallory round. It soon became apparent that the Americans had what it takes to beat the Brits. Cal Rayborn, one of the first of the all-conquering Americans to tackle European racing, was coming home in first or second place every time – on a Harley Davidson, too.

At Oulton Park on the Bank Holiday Monday, one of our group had to phone up work and report sick for the afternoon shift! We found a telephone kiosk inside the circuit and laughed aloud as he tried to convince the Post Office inspector at the other end of the phone that he was ill – with screeching Yamaha two-strokes in the background!

June was TT time and, once again, we made the delightful trip across the Irish Sea. Except, it wasn’t quite so pleasant this time. In fact, it was rather rough and we all decided to adjourn to the bar, the theory being that alcohol would make us immune to the violent pitching and rolling of the ferry. We even ate a hearty breakfast afterwards.

More beer was consumed when we were “forced” to stay in a Laxey pub, all day, after bad weather cancelled the racing. Drinking and riding? I did it and acknowledge it was totally wrong.

Back on the mainland, it was time once again to make the annual pilgrimage to the Post TT and Race of the Year events at Mallory where there was a new kid on the block, who, good as he was, I didn’t particularly support. His name? Barry Sheene.

My mate Wicksy certainly liked him, as did his future wife, Sandra. Barry Sheene was a very charismatic character who certainly did a lot for motorcycle racing. But, for some reason, I much preferred to watch another dynamic newcomer, Finnish star Jarno Saarinen.

Sheene didn’t like the TT, but neither did Saarinen, or John Cooper, for that matter. When Sheene started to race a classic Manx Norton in his latter years, I was there watching him. I took several pictures of him in his younger days too. Perhaps, I was just envious?

Nice as it was to watch all the racing and football, while also tripping the light fantastic on a Friday and Saturday night, I was beginning to question exactly where I was going with regard to biking and, in particular, my non-participation in road-racing, something I had always yearned to do.

Twenty-five might seem late to have a go at racing but, by the end of 1972, I had decided that it was now or never. This was largely precipitated by an incident while I was riding my Velocette from Thulston to Borrowash.

I was leading the lads on bikes and trying to catch up with some other friends in a car, when I came hurtling around one of the bends to see them parked up, looking up at a hot-air balloon.

Unable to decide whether to stop or turn into the next rapidly approaching corner, I did neither and ploughed straight into a hedge.

I didn’t come off the bike, just landed heavily on the tank which put a large dent in the rear, while at the same time, denting my pride a little.

Further investigation revealed that the forks could possibly be bent, so the timing was perfect. The bike was stripped down, a racing seat bought and an engine overhaul booked at a well-respected Velocette tuner in London.

There was, at the time, a shop on Burton Road, Littleover, that sold bike-racing clothing and I tried on a set of racing leathers. They were far too big and, being yellow, just like John Cooper’s, made me look like a squashed banana. But they did have the helmet I wanted, an expensive American Bell, full-face job that was a top model at the time.

I eventually got my leathers, boots and gloves by mail order and, not for the first time in my life, picked up the package addressed to me while sorting parcels at the Midland Road depot. A successful trip to the doctor for a medical got me my ACU licence and I was ready for the 1973 season with a vengeance.

I was finally going racing!

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This article is from the Derby Evening Telegraph and is reproduced online here.