MIDLANDS SPEEDWAY
By A. V. DAVIS "One. Two. Three. Four. Let us hear the Brandon roar. Bee. Ee. Ee. Ess. . . . Bees!"
ALL the accents of the Midlands can be heard on Saturday nights at Brandon Speedway—the rising lilt of Birmingham, the flat dull tones of Rugby, the telescopic diction of Bedworth, the catch-in-the-throat of Nuneaton. It is a young crowd, pale-faced but hardy, flamboyant yet unkempt. During the week these people work amid the din of turbines and diesels, the hum of lathes in tool-making shops, the clamour of machinery in the coach-building factories. In their leisure hours they demand thrills, noise and still more noise. The sound of racing engines is music to their ears ; the reek of methanyl is perfume in their nostrils. Nearly five thousand of them belong to Speedway Supporters' Clubs, with the right to wear a gilt "Bee " membership badge, the symbol of the Brandon riders.
Dead on the minute of seven-thirty the show begins. As the loudspeakers blare out The Entry of the Gladiators, a sigh of anticipation goes up. From the pits entrance a brisk platoon marches in formation to the front of the five-and-sixpenny grand- stand,- the men who rake the cinders between races clad in spotless white overalls, the stooges who wheel out the motor-cycles in whimsical yellow-striped trousers and coloured berets. Tonight, as protection against the slight drizzle, all are wearing yellow capes. They click to attention for God Save the King. The Union Jack hangs limp on its pole. They part into two companies and file round to their positions. "Give the boys a little encouragement," urges the mellow voice of the announcer, and a yellow jeep carrying the team of riders drives slowly round the track. A small child dressed as a cyclist is standing up, bowing. It is the team's mascot. " Show 'em those programmes," calls the announcer, and thousands of yellow-backed booklets are waved in greeting.
The four riders in each heat are pushed off for a preliminary circuit of the course, their machines having no kick-start ; and they draw up at the starting-line holding the engines on the clutch, throttles wide open. The green light shows. They're off! It is dangerous. At any moment a man may crash to his death before their eyes. At first the cheering is a little thin. The man at the microphone needs all his charm and persuasion to get these Mid- landers going. They are slow to catch the contagious enthusiasm of the sporting crowd, slow to lose their conscious personalities and react as a mass to admiration or anger. He has to work like a demon to establish the desired good-humoured family atmosphere. He recites a birthday rhyme to the manager. He fills in pauses after races with gossip about Lionel, Vic, Bob the Flier and Ralph the Mighty Atom, until they become almost legendary heroes. Nick- names and Christian names, jingles and catch phrases fly out from the clustered horns of the speakers, comprehensible only to regular patrons. As a variation he shouts, "Wanna be a Bee boy? " and the audience snaps back, "Yes, please!"
By the third race the audience has warmed up. The rain has ceased, capes and women's umbrellas are put away and the idol of the moment is riding, the Young 'Un, aged nineteen. Frenzied cheering acclaims his success when the chequered flag goes up and he shoots round to win the fourth lap. "Let him have it, ladies and gentlemen," shouts the announcer. "Give him the Brandon roar." And so they give it to him, plus whistles, hurrays, and twirls on the rattles.
And now the officials march off smartly to drink tea from green cups behind the scenes, and the audience thins out to consume cream buns in the meticulously clean refreshment hangar where the floor is fragrant with sawdust. The loudspeakers send out Arthur Askey's "Bee" song, and hundreds of adolescent shoulders shrug to swing music, as the man changing the gramophone records works through a list of "requests." By the pit rails, the most ardent fans shake hands with inarticulate riders, and beg autographs for postcards which they have bought at the kiosks for ninepence. Girls hover like moths while "Crusty " Pye poses for a photograph against a corrugated iron wall. Boys stare open-mouthed watching mechanics tuning up the machines. Everyone is happy.
And so it continues, with the accustomed repetition and ritual. "The Gladiators" march brings back the officials. The races follow the same pattern ; the roaring get-away, the skidding of back wheels, the snaking of front wheels, the dragging of metal-tipped left boots. The rider who leads in the first lap is, more often than not, the winner, the third man moving up into second place. " When you've seen one, you've seen the lot," says a smart city man in a Paisley tie. " I don't 'know why I come," says his girl. " But I haven't missed yet, this season."
The psychologists who organise the Speedway meetings know how to keep the turnstiles clicking. They recognise the lure of colour and pageantry. They understand the urge of juveniles to band together shouting club slogans and wearing badges and insignia. For the older people who appreciate the finer points of track-riding they provide skilful cycling in favourable conditions. The scene is not without beauty. The purple cinder-track lies in a sweeping oval, with two " straights " and two "bends," the Rugby bend down by the oak trees, near the two-and-threepenny side, the Coventry bend at the opposite end by the cheap enclosure from which most of the cheering issues. White lines emphasise the rims of curves. Tall green standard lamps stretch overhead. The concrete steps on which the spectators stand form a shallow amphitheatre. Outside the cinders runs a grass track intended for dog-racing. Inside the cinders, fresh and vivid, is a broad centre oval of new grass. Darkness falls. The electric lights come on, dropping cones of brilliance. Now the colours change. The inner ring of grass lies dark green in shadow ; the outer ring shines almost yellow by contrast. The myriad specks that make up the audience are blurred into an indigo background, with the white coats of the track regraders showing up in sharp contrast.
When each result is announced, thousands of white programmes flutter in the lights, as they are held up for scores to be pencilled in, three points for a win, two for second place, one for third. Tonight, the " Bees" are not riding as a team. They are out for themselves as individuals, with a silver trophy for the winner. An accident occurs. The mob smells blood. Morbid sightseers get their money's worth as Bob, the Coventry captain, is carried off in the jeep on a stretcher. A doctor is called. Necks crane forward as the ambulance men set to work. For some weeks Bob has been off form and losing popularity, and there is little apparent sympathy. It takes years of hard work coupled with cunning publicity to make a hero, but fame can be lost in a night.
Again, in the twentieth race, there is a crash. It is the last race, a fight to the death. If a certain rider comes in first, he cannot win on points should one particular opponent come in second. Any- thing may happen. The audience begins to shout as soon as the cyclists appear, the men gruff and irritable, the women sick and dry- mouthed with excitement. In a flash the cheers change to cries of dismay. Two riders have collided, bunching in the first few yards —Lionel and the Young 'Un—and the big thrill of the night ends in an anti-climax, only two men completing the course. Bewildered, the crowd is silent ; then supporters begin to voice their chagrin. A man from the Nuneaton potteries remarks sourly that it is a good thing that young George has crashed. He has been getting swelled-headed.
Once again the announcer shows his mettle. He asks the audience to stay behind to see the Mighty Atom and his fiancée presented with a canteen of cutlery, a Wedding gift from the Coventry Club. Loud laughter interrupts the Atom's bashful speech of thanks, the Midlands people finding his Northern accent irresistible. More presents roll in, an electric iron, a fire, a toaster, all from the Brandon " boys." Everyone enjoys the witticisms and race-track marital allusions. The announcer is on the point of inviting the entire assembly to the wedding, but thinks better of it. Now comes the presentation of the trophy to Vic, with more badinage, and the award of the ten-pounder cake inscribed "Up the Bees " to a young woman from Rugby. As a final touch the happy winners ride round on the jeep, holding up their prizes, the cake resting on the windscreen. Everyone goes home contented, warm with goodwill.
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