
In the heyday of sport bike magazines in the UK during the late 1990’s I was road test editor at Superbike magazine and I had Bill as my right hand man. Good for assorted ideas, half-reliable at picking up bikes for tests, fully reliable drug dispenser, keen drinking partner and an unmatched ability to get consistently fast numbers for our performance stats which the big bosses had (rightly) decided should be done for each and every bike we put in the magazine.
Sounds a breeze in theory, but was in fact a total pain in the arse on anything that wasn’t a balmy summer’s day (and there were only ever 2 or 3 days like that in the UK, pre-global warming). The problem was that our offices were in Croydon, south London, and the airfield where we did all the speed testing was in the Midlands, and by the time you’d had at least one fuel stop you were looking at 3 hours each way, or basically a full day’s work.
When we eventually persuaded the powers-that-be to invest in a van we could then lob four bikes at a time in that and blast up the motorway. Mostly though, because there were other more senior members of the magazine who liked to hijack the van for their own selfish (racing) needs we invariably ended up riding there.
It was a crap ride, across London was never nice and anywhere near rush hour was tantamount to a war crime, after which you had a boring slog on a very crowded M1 (highways are A LOT more closely policed in the UK so speeding excessively was always risky) until you took a turn up just past Northampton and had 10 minutes of mildly amusing back roads before you arrived at Bruntingthorpe airfield.
Airfields sound quite glamorous, but by their very nature they mostly aren’t – flat and boring, usually, and this one was largely unused save for a few older planes and a mass of new, unsold cars. However it did have a rather lovely runway that was, if memory serves (it probably doesn’t) knocking on 3km long. It had an access road, or more accurately a taxi-way for aircraft at one end that meant if you had the bottle you could barrel onto the main runway with it pinned in third gear. Getting top speeds was never a problem.
Our regular freelance timing guys were booked in advance and they set up all the lights and equipment (they were moonlighting from official drag racing duties) and we would rock up, try and get a bacon butty at the greasy spoon that served the small businesses on site and then head out to the runway.
Given the fact that we invariably had the place to ourselves, the bikes and tyres (and clutches) weren’t ours and the fuel was paid for by the magazine we would practise a few wheelies, take a couple of ‘sighting’ runs down the runway and then gather by the timing lights, full of bravado.
Much talking of bollocks ensued, bets were made about who would get fastest times on which bike and what speeds those bikes would run. Bill then turned from an entertaining, jovial mate into an annoying tit who got waaaay too competitive and serious – something he would never do with me whenever we were at a circuit, which I learned to take as a sign of grudging respect.
Given his many national trophies and occasional world records on assorted homebuilt bikes down the 1/4 mile there was never any question about who would win the bets, and consequently it was always me picking up the tab at the pub that evening. That wasn’t so much of a hardship when I eventually realised that ‘entertaining’ staff members could be put through my expenses (I invariably had up to 2000 quid of expenses each month, and once topped 4000 – not bad when my post-tax wage packet barely scraped past 1000!).
Given the number of bikes that we tested here I’m afraid many of them have simply faded from memory. Those moments that have survived the passage of time are generally notable because of some extreme emotion, whether that be laughter, tears or maybe even fear.
I remember one winter’s day when we had trudged up there in a van, the two of us joined by Cobby – another legend of the magazine who had raced everything, including BSB. We had four superbikes of some sort, their exact designations escape me, but the situation doesn’t.
The wind was properly howling, gusting violently enough to rock a loaded van and threatening to rip a door off if you even thought about opening it. There was rain, too, and plenty of it. And there was the temperature, which was low, probably around the 4 or 5 degree mark, at the most.
Factor in the wind chill factor and the inevitability of getting soaking wet and hypothermia seemed the likely result, assuming you hadn’t binned a bike during one of the gusts or because the thing had aquaplaned off the runway.
Thankfully I was the senior magazine guy there, it was my test and I delegated the job to my co-workers. Cobby took one look at me, questioned my parentage and turned up the radio. He was a stroppy bastard at the best of times, like a Gilet Jaunes protester with a bad hangover, so I advised him to fornicate with himself and did my best impression of a caring co-worker and looked at Bill with what I imagined were pleading, sympathetic eyes.
Bill, to be fair, was always desperate to get out on the runway and strut his stuff, but even he looked bleak on this occasion.
He stood outside the van which was slowly steaming up its windows but his words never reached us, carried away on the hurricane-like winds.
We nodded encouragement and gestured in the direction of the timing equipment, and I rolled another fat one as he disappeared off on a superbike that had freezing tyres and a small screen that hadn’t been designed to deal with crosswinds straight off the plains of Siberia.
We turned the heating up in the van, ripped open a couple of chocolate bars because munchies, and settled in for the entertainment.
We actually missed the first run because we couldn’t hear him coming and he was hidden in a haze of water spray in the middle of a downpour and it was virtually dark even though it was actually the middle of the day. The first we knew about the run was when he tapped on the window and we both crapped ourselves because paranoia. And munchies.
Apparently he’d nearly wiped out hooking top gear through a particularly large puddle and before I could suggest we save the testing for another day Cobby questioned the size of his genitalia and told him to stop moaning and go faster.
We turned the heating up a bit more, tried to stop giggling and edged the van a bit closer and added in some full beam headlights to make sure we caught the action this time. If he was going to have a big accident we might as well be able see it.
It was terrifying. You could hear the engine note rising and falling as the bike fought for grip on the waterlogged runway and then as he crested the small rise before the timing lights it would emerge, with more lean angle against the crosswind than many road riders can manage on their favourite corner on a Sunday morning.
Stupidity takes many forms, but this is undoubtedly one of the most ridiculously idiotic things I had ever seen. Still, we got the numbers for the magazine (published with a little asterisk denoting “wet”, which hardly told the story) and Bill went home elated, I was relieved while Cobby was mightily disappointed not to have seen at least some smashed plastics if not a few splintered bones.
If you ever see him at the pub and fancy being bored for half an hour then ask Bill about his little tricks to make sure he always won the top speed wars. Or maybe I’ll share them in a future chat when I might also spill the beans about more on-the-job stupidity masquerading as dedicated professionalism.
Mat Durrans
All the details in this story are obviously the fictional fever dreams of a failed bike journalist and are subject to an artistic super-license. Amen.
