Newcastle CSC Riders relate their CS Life Stories. (some of my videos here)

And YES! I have asked everyone else in the club over the years to contribute but ZILCH! Most of this dross is taken from Northumbria CSC's defunct web site, closed down on 22nd March 2022 due to lack of funds. A great day to shut things down, my ghastly, happily, mercifully failed first wedding date in 1976 :)

I thought I'd take this opportunity to drone on for a while about my life as a Cycle Speedway (I now prefer Short Track) Racer, so click away now to save any yawns and groans as this page travels a really l - o - n - g way down. Although this is mainly about me (and my bikes, but not just CS) it's also a sort-of Timeline for my beloved Newcastle Cycle Speedway Club.

Genesis - 1967

There was only one lad in my class at Heaton Grammar School, Newcastle who knew what Speedway was apart from me in our Football/Rugby/Cricket fixated school environment where the teachers wore mortar boards and Harry Potter cloaks and the prefects were proper "Tom Brown's School Days" bullies. He was called Rob, a nice, quiet lad always up for a laugh. We went to Brough Park Speedway together in the 1966/67 seasons and both had huge "cowhorn" handlebars on our day-to-day transport which caused havoc at the school bike sheds because we took up six spaces for our two bikes. My local pals and I used to race each other through local woods on Coach Lane, Benton and jump over anything that stuck up. Mine were actually Speedway Bike handlebars from old 1960s Newcastle Diamonds Captain, Don Wilkinson. I used to get the odd trinket as Daddy was Track Manager at the stadium and was well "in" with the riders, and had his own long stroke J.A.P. engined bike for second-halfing (he was crap, and so was the bike). He got me an ex-Brian Brett breastplate and later ones from Peter Kelly and Allan Butterfield, unfortunately long since given away. But I digress, now where was I...?

It was Rob that came with me around Easter time 1967 to have a mosey at the action at Monkchester Recreation Park (the "Rec") in Walker, only a few hundred yards from the Speedway after my old man had persuaded me to go and take a look. He knew the riders as they were all Speedway supporters too. I lived on Fairways Estate at Benton in the East End and rode over to Rob's just off Westbourne Avenue in Walker about 3 miles away before we continued over to Monkchester. I was 16.5 at the time.

It was years later when I realised I was born just 100 metres from my Cycle Speedway birthplace, at 54 Norbury Grove!

We parked ourselves in the little cut that was one of three entries to Burnham Park (the Rec's posh name), hidden by the bushes and the Community Hall directly in front of the path. We could see there were a dozen or more lads riding around what looked like grass to us. Our attention was drawn to one of them as you couldn't miss him really - he was covered in white from head to foot! He also had a white scarf, neckerchief or bandanna around his neck that was floating in the breeze as he went up and down each straight. And he had cowhorns! (But he was the only one who did).

We were there for about 20 minutes, being careful not to be spotted by anyone. Eventually we looked at each other and both agreed that if we couldn't compete with these lads, especially the one in white, we were cissies! Finally, we plucked up the courage and drifted over to the track, which we could now see was nothing more than a bare earth oval simply worn down by the bike tyres and surrounded and centred by tatty, unkempt and uncut grass. It sloped slightly up to the top, west end of the field that we had entered from, the Monkchester Road end, so was running east-west. We didn't know what to expect, or what a Cycle Speedway track should look like, so it seemed awesome to us both. We had no idea what the size was compared to other tracks, or even that there were any others, so weren't aware that this one was a titch (about 65 yards, or 60metres). I suppose that would stand in my favour whilst getting used to the Sport. Or possibly not?

We were soon approached by one of the lads, then another, and the rest, and got chatting. They let us have a scoot around and after a quite enjoyable half hour the White Man came over and asked me if I fancied racing the very next month (originally, I thought it was the next weekend but old photos have since put me right) against a team from Halifax. "Er, what, er, yes, I suppose so" I spluttered in disbelief. "But I don't have a proper bike" I chimed in. "Don't worry about that", said White Man pointing at what he'd been riding - a sad looking heap with huge cowhorns. We arranged a time to turn up and that was that. I couldn't wait to tell the Old Man, so I did, but also mentioned about my lack of racing machinery. The one I was currently using was a 16-inch frame with 24-inch wheels and Roadie gearing (46-18). "Divint worry, nee problem" he replied, "Aa'll get that sorted kidda, just ye torn up". [that's English for "no problem, just get there"]

Well, what an offer, he hadn't even given me a birthday present in the previous ten years so how could I refuse? Came the great day, Rob decided it wasn't for him after all, so instead I took Keith Robson, one of my old pushbike scrambler buddies (now known of course as Moto Cross) who lived at the bottom of my street in Benton. We made our own way down there on our bikes, very nervously entering the Rec and seeing a huge mass of people right around the track. I was ready to back off, being a famously shy kid, but the Father Figure had spotted me. "Get here!". I got there. "This is Jimmy and that's Gordon, and they've got you a bike". Sure enough, there it was - and I have to say it looked mighty impressive. An 18-inch metallic red touring frame with immaculate, original paintwork and 26-inch wheels shod with brand new Avon Skidway Gripster tyres, together with the standard, as I thought, cowhorns - though not huge things. I couldn't believe it. Looks like I was in!

I straddled the bike very tentatively and paddled it around the field for a few minutes to get the feel of it, but before I knew it I was being hailed into the "pits" with the other riders. The top of the field was the pits. And yes, it was the pits!  "Jimmy" turned out to be avid Speedway supporter Jim Hewitson and little did anyone know but he was about to etch his place in Cycle Speedway history a few weeks later ( Sunday 25th June 1967 ) by attacking a Halifax rider with a brick, henceforth ensuring his place was enshrined in our past as "Jim the Brick". Looking at the original match programme now, that would have been either Heat Four and the Halifax rider avoiding being turned into part of a house would be a Mr Kirkroyal, Boothtown Rapiers' Number 7 reserve, or else Heat Ten with their D Woodward excluded and Jimmy and I picking up a 3-3:

I'm on a borrowed bike here loaned to me by George Taylor, proper Canadian Bends after that initial fall from the monstar! It must have been this race where Jimmy lost his cool - so I'd assume that this was the first staging of it and the lad at the back must have ploughed into him. Note the Fireman's Hose (the real thing, from a real Fire Station half a mile away) marking the track edges, which was extremely heavy, and carted up to the track by George Grant, my best mate Colin's big brother every week, together with the two mighty oak trees that constituted the starting gates.

I also discovered that my bike had been assembled by Jimmy and his good mate, the one-and-only Ivan Mauger's mechanic Gordon Stobbs as a favour to my dad. Probably ensured most of the lads their free entry to Brough Park for the next 7 years! I bet there aren't many who can claim the builder of this:

also built this: (just kidding Gordon, mate!).

****NOTE! Gordon was at our Cramlington track today, Saturday 20th September 2014 to watch our Euro-Vets meeting and swears he can't remember building my bike!
Here's the match programme (with my Old Man riding in match 2 and outscoring me, oh, the shame) and yes, I fell off in my first big race, a feat I was to emulate er, several more times right up to present day!

It wasn't long before George Grant, the Club Secretary, had me signing a licence; something he placed great importance on and valued highly and it wouldn't be too long before I discovered why it was so coveted.

Anyway, just over a month after joining the Club, my big-time début against Halifax arrived - Newcastle "Stars" versus Boothtown "Rapiers" and Newcastle "Vikings" v West Vale "Wolves" at Monkchester. As was now the norm, Keith and I rode down to Walker but now, with somewhat less trepidation than our first attendances, just merged with the throng of riders and supporters around the Rec. I took my jacket off to reveal my George Taylor lookalike hooped shirt and the NCSC Vikings badge my Grandma had rapidly stitched on the arm after I'd insisted I had to look right on this auspicious occasion.

However I wasn't exactly on fire that day in my first ever real meeting, and only scored when nobody ran in behind me after a first heat fall shook my confidence. My mate Keith had similar luck at reserve. However, on a track that measured at most 65 yards (no, not metres, YARDS - the somewhat anorexic Imperial version of a long footstep) with extremely tight bends, and riding a bike assembled by, shall we say, not the best or most clued-up riders in the Newcastle Club (Slick Jim & Stobbsy had built it OK but stuck on an extremely lethargic gearing - it was 40-20 on the donkey with junior cranks, 6 inchers!) then I reckon my début on Sunday, 25th June 1967 wasn't a total disaster. I doubt if I ever got more than three pedal revs on the straights while we now get six at Cramlington! The Monkchester tiddler did create great bike handlers though.
The President of Brazil died on this day, but participating in my new found hobby, which was to be life-changing, was a much more significant event though not reported worldwide!

Eventually when I started mingling with some of the other lads I crept very slightly out of my shell over time, and rapidly realised I needed to fettle the infernal machine as a first step to greatness. Taking advice from South Shields top man Mick Dobson and my first CS hero George Taylor, who I think both spotted some immediate potential in me, I made it my business to get the handlebars and gearing changed very quickly, in fact for the next race day. That got me on a level footing with the better riders mechanically, and it was only weeks before I had the beating of all of the local established "second strings". A few practice gating sessions with George and time spent studying him, Ges Atkinson and Jimmy Graham who were easily the best gaters there (apart from the amazing Ray Turner who I didn't rate a great gater as he had the mechanical advantage of always using "4 under" (40-24) everywhere thus accelerating virtually twice as fast as the rest of us - we always joked he must have been lacking any male undercarriage to allow him to spin the pedals so quickly!) had me well up to speed inside a few months. No way could I get a decent start off my right foot though, no matter how loud the advisory voices yelled at me. But I was definitely in now.

Traitor!

By the time the 1967 summer season ended with Sunday and midweek evening Local league racing the mainstay, and a few more decent Challenge matches under my belt, I was already an established Heat Leader although 6 or 7 of us were at that level and all had the beating of the others on our day. Being the new boy there was stuff going on in the background that I had no inkling of, but I knew I wanted to race at a higher level now. So it was relatively easy for Mike Dobson and Manager Leslie Gustafson to persuade me to join them at South Shields and desert my Home Town club. I recall this didn't go down too well at all (and why Licences were so valued and taken extremely seriously) and I think my new best buddy George and I may have fallen out over it as he was happy to stick with the Toon. We were now both seafaring folk: George a Newecastle "Viking" and I had become a Trow Lea "Mariner". Of course I wasn't the first, or the last to do this. I think Ray was first, then Frank Auffret. Jim Graham followed me after a while and then his pal Eddie Murray and another ex-scrambler mate of mine from Benton Mickey Noutch also followed suit. (the scrap of cardboard below was my own creation, not an official SS item, but it made me feel wanted! - Eric Abbott {RIP} would have been proud of my creation or my "efford" as he always spelled it!).

If you look at the dates on both licences you'll notice quite a small gap between them, just less than three months. That's how long it took me to realise where my bread was buttered! However, I don't think I saw out the full term of the Shields licence either before hauling my arse back to the Toon and I've a feeling that this was partially due to Mickey Dobson heading down to London for work - may have been Les Gustafson aswell around the same time. The Newcastle management team of George Grant, Jackie Hiscock, Bill Saddler and the rest were extremely displeased at our desertion and threatened all sorts of things should we ever try to ride at Newcastle again! It took a good while for the fuss to die down. I remember on my return Jackie began calling me "Ted" rather than Terry, and I'm sure this was his way of maintaining his less than discreet angst against me for deserting to Shields.

Initially before I got my first car, our little Newcastle-based squad used to cycle over to ride on the racy new Shields track at Temple Park on the other side of the Tyne. To me it was both terrible and awesome at the same time! The thing was sat half inside a natural bowl so one bend was nicely banked up. The other end, however, was nicely banked DOWN, off-camber and tricky to negotiate. And one straight was distinctly and visibly lower than t'other so you climbed a hill into the fourth bend and flew down one into the second. And that bl@@dy starting gate! The dozy effers who built it used tarmac, which would have been fine, but they were the last of the Council workers on site after the beautiful (haha) red shale surface had been laid (well, it was red ash, a wee bit lumpier than your average finest Warwickshire "Arbury" Red and perhaps not so "beautiful" but more "stoney"!).
Writing and editing this much later I think I've finally realised how I can now, well into my 70s, still manage beastie tracks like Wednesfield and East Park (Wolverhampton) as this thing at Temple Park measured about 92 metres! (although it was some time after leaving SS that I got to ride another biggie but an elephant never forgets).

Consequently, the Friday Afternooners (whatever day it was, these Durham County Council workmen were definitely Friday folk!) decided against the laborious task of digging out a trough for the black stuff and just dumped it on top of the shale! I kid you not, it was like hitting a kerb at 25 miles an hour, such was the severity of the sloping (haha, really?) front of the tarmac. So ideally, you'd have to haul up on your handlebars on the approach and lift the bike over the step! If you were engaged in hot pursuit or manic defence at the time and forgot about the "ramp", it would throw you off-course nicely and present your challenger with a great passing opportunity into the first bend.

I can only remember there being two big matches on it against tough opposition. Of course I exclude the visit of Newcastle who ran us very close! One was Scottish Rangers (Edinburgh) and the other Stradbroke Arrows (Sheffield) for whom the Fordham Brothers, Eddie 19 and Gary 13 (!) were building a reputation to rival Mike Cockroft and Mark Dangerfield (Halifax), Derek Garnett and Vic Hinchcliffe (Manchester) and Roger Ellis and Ivor Walsh (Birmingham) as a pairing to be feared. Both matches resulted in heavy defeats for us but I may have missed out on a victory over the Rangers at a later date when I'd jumped ship. That track disappeared under the new Temple Park Leisure Centre fields about ten years after we stopped using it, that likely being when the Boss Les moved south and Ray and Mike both disappeared from the scene, we assumed through working away.

Rozzers!

We'd return home to England after the Shields matches via the Tyne Pedestrian Tunnel or the Shields Ferry which dropped us off nicely at the bottom of the steep bank up to the Hot & Cold Drinks Shop in North Shields. This fabulous little corner shop could serve you any-flavour-you-like drink or iced cream, and I mean ANY! That sugar (or alky in some cases, though never for me as a confirmed teetotaller from birth) kick gave us the energy needed to skedaddle back to our various abodes throughout Newcastle and escape the pursuing Constabulary who had nowt better to do than stop us for having no brakes. Actually, most of us finally cottoned on and used to hang a front brake on temporarily, as that was all the Officeurs of ze Lur demanded.

Here's my racing shirt shown while I was hovering in the pits at the 1968 Newcastle Rider's Final: 

Speaking of which, my great friend Frankie (Google Frank Auffret for comments on that particular meeting ?) is adamant I stopped him winning this one when I fell down the hole at the first bend and brought him down with me!

From bottom left, clockwise: GB flag (fiercely patriotic), NACSA (National Amateur Cycle Speedway Association), Eastfield Eagles (even more fiercely proud), Newcastle Speedway Supporters Club, East of Scotland CSA. As you can see, or rather CAN'T see as the cameras weren't great, my proudest possession of all - my Newcastle Vikings badge - isn't there. And that's because I'd deserted for South Shields at this time and taken it off my shirt, shame on me! However, it wasn't too long before I, and in fact all of us, were back in the Vikings fold again. Here's the same shirt, same season, same track but now resplendent with Viking’s identity on left shoulder! And yes, that white-clad gent was just behind me here.

Cheap 127 format cameras weren't too clever back then. This was mine: (photo copyright owner - lower right)

I'll never forget that painful run-off for the '68 NRC with defending Champion Frank Auffret and Jim Graham. At least I put my shirt on the podium for the first time but the second step should have been the top one after I'd blitzed the pair of them, possibly the undisputed top two at the time, for over three laps before I caved in and allowed Jimmy past me with the finish line in sight. Bu@@er! But I was still the New Boy and I'd have my time. Actually, Eddie Murray was the real new boy now but there were just the two of us during this phase of NCSC operations who made elite "Heat Leader" status (really we were all at that level). I only discovered later (early 2019) after Frankie's remarkable return to the Sport that according to him I had, in fact, cost him the title by falling off in front of him ("down a big hole" as Frank puts it) and taking him down. I counter that argument with the fact that IF I hadn't fallen in that race, I would have had the title won outright without need of a run-off!

During these formative years in my CS "career" I absolutely drooled over the prospect of racing at exotic places like Glasgow, Edinburgh, Manchester and the rest. It wasn't long before I could do that, actually 3 weeks after my 17th birthday when I passed my driving test, and for my birthday was given my first car by my Step-Dad, a 1952 Triumph Mayflower, FT 7560, hand-painted Garden Gate Green. That released me into the Wild and from that day the poor overworked little motor had bikes strapped onto every corner of its body and a vast menagerie of almost human beings wedged inside as we trekked over the Border and over the Pennines with what seemed like exciting regularity, riding for both South Shields and Newcastle. It was great! I'd spend all of my wages, after paying my board money at home to my Grandma, on petrol at about thirty pence a gallon (about 5 litres) in today's money. So two pounds fifty got the tank filled and off we went looking for tracks. Well, not quite - not `at about 22 miles to the gallon - I still had to live!

One of the most memorable trips of the Sixties was the one we made to take on Kingstanding Monarchs at their Perry Bar, Birmingham track. This would have been instigated either by Middlesbrough's Frank Auffret or the South Shields /Les Gustafson/Mike Dobson duo. Although we got murdered by the one and only Roger Ellis and his cronies (cor, they weren't taking any chances by picking a weak side to take on the unknown Geordies, were they?), and even though our Transit minivan with Ernie Kirkup driving broke down on the old A1 at The Angel Cafe, Doncaster on the way home, and even though none of us got any sleep that night, and didn't get back to Newcastle until the wee hours of Monday morning, and even though we didn't see our beloved bikes for a few days after that, it was a fantastic experience.

***footnote -It is now Saturday 5th September 2015 and I'm in the pits at Edinburgh (Redbraes Park) talking about the early days with my new-era Euro-Vets cronies from the Midlands, and lo and behold my great pal Mick Aris, now famously of Wednesfield Aces, actually rode in this one against us for his first club, Kingstanding Monarchs, and claims he got his first maximum against the Geordies!

But the weirdest thing of all is that you can probably find a VERY similar tale on any of the current Short Track (OK, Cycle Speedway) Club history sites, especially the Scottish ones. Seems like we all pursued the same line of gratification; we all suffered a similar fate at one time or another. I suppose the farther we had to travel, the greater the risk of calamity or great adventures along the way. In the autumn of 1968, we started building the original little track at Eastfield Road, Walker, small but perfectly proportioned at around 70 metres, we humped the black ash from the nearby park keeper's garden and had the thing constructed in a month, about six regular hands and a few occasional helpers. Eastfield was to remain our Ancestral Home with a couple of track rebuilds along the way and a spell back at Fawdon until the whole thing died, permanently (or so we thought) in 1992.

As if I haven't had enough bikes to tell you about, Dear Reader, there's one other I'd like to add, for no other reason than to prove my crazy biking heritage. So here's a pic of my Daddy around the late 60's hauling his ugly but beloved JAP 500 around Brough Park where he did a few seasons of second halfing:

When it got to my turn to try the engine-driven variety I spent my very early (from 4:30 am!) winter Sunday mornings raking the thing around Druridge Bay for a few years (short-stroke JAP motor), long-time practice haunt of the old Diamonds riders where I was taken by the old man around 1961-62 ish to mingle with the likes of Don Wilkinson, Gil Goldfinch et al. The worst damage you could suffer there was drowning but as I feared water more than Death itself I stayed well away from the waves. I could get a full "broadside" on around the wide-open spaces with the throttle twisted back hard, but my one and only excursion onto a real track, some years later at Berwick's Shielfield Park proved a non-event without a steel shoe, and also proved how much of a chicken I was. My right pinkie was missing that solid fence by the width of a fag paper lap after lap because I couldn't get out of a dirty great rut.

From the start none of us could have dreamed we'd have some of the World's top teams and riders competing against us, either at their grounds or here in Newcastle & District on our own. And how many 15/16/17-year-old kids ever get the chance to represent their cities at their chosen sport? We have indeed been blessed, but I think it's only now in our later years that we've come to realise and appreciate it fully. Other very memorable and enjoyable meetings we took part in were the 1969 Manchester 21st Anniversary Weekend at Carrswood and Offerton, the same sort of gig in Glasgow later that same year and several great weekends in Sheffield following the friendships George Taylor had struck up with two of the Parkwood riders. Keith Knapton and Alan Hogart. Here's a program from 1969. Although Jim Graham is missing, how about this for solid scoring? No wonder we could all beat each other on our day. The great Dick Barrie and Colin Caffrey were superb for the homesters.

After a very short life in 1970 when all our dreams were about to be fulfilled by potentially winning a regional league title for the first time (Northern Ppremier League Division Two), my beloved Sport ceased to exist north of Hull and I was forced to resort to playing with cars as a hobby. I'd kept in touch with Colin Grant and we built and modified a whole crop of old bangers for the next few years including a rally car that never saw an event, until he deserted me for a girl!

Here's the final printout from the ill-fated NPL half way through the 1970 season after Leicester had dropped out and the whole thing collapsed.

At least he had the good sense to marry her. It was truly devastating to have to stop doing what you loved and at 20 just when you felt you were reaching the peak of your performance. Ouch. Bollox. I spent the next five years transporting my two young cousins around the country in their quest for schoolboy scrambling (Motocross) glory. Interestingly (maybe?) that's where I first met Dave Younghusband and Gary Havelock. Dave had his son racing and Gary was also a schoolboy racer. I was Starting Marshall for the Northumbria Youth Scramble Club and before each local meeting also erected the track fencing with my uncle Albert Errington who founded the club.

Knock, knock! The Seventies Pass Quickly...

I was last of my circle of friends to succumb to married life and was busy setting up a new home with Janet in Wallsend on Tyne. She bought our first house with her savings as I was paying out most of my wages to the Ex for my estranged daughter. I was still living at my Grandma’s in Benton until we'd taken the chimney breasts out of our new home and was sat there one boring suburban evening minding my own business while rubbing baby oil into Janet's lissom lower spinal areas - oh sorry, stop that - when there was a knock on the door. When I opened it I had to rub my eyes instead to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Cor, that baby oil sure does sting! Who should be standing on my doorstep with grins a mile wide, completely out of the blue - none other than ex-racers Ashie Patterson and Mick Hoult!

I was gob-smacked, and not really sure I wasn't dreaming. They "invited" me to restart CS with them, so how could I refuse? I didn't expect a second coming for my soul sporting passion in life but jumped at the chance. At 28 I wasn't sure if it would be too late for me, but I think I justified the comeback a few years on. Little did I know that just a quarter mile from my new front door, right on the Newcastle/Wallsend border on my old stamping ground, these two had been mucking around with a squad of lads led by Howdon lad Dave Armstrong. They had all met at or through the Speedway at Brough Park and started using my lovely but sadly long-neglected little old Eastfield track to play speedway on, as well as the rough one they had up on the Old Coast Road known as Tinker's Turn at Benton (below) where Fred Mitchell was kingpin (here ;leading his younger brother Dave, right).

Unfortunately, "playing speedway" was exactly what they were doing. Of course, Ash and Mick were not the least bit impressed but wanted back in on the action, so had other, slightly more mature ideas for the track. Bikes with brakes, mudguards, lights and the faithful old cowhorns weren't included in their strategy. That's why they dragged me out of my enforced retirement (no dragging required - I leapt at the chance) to try and force a transformation.

So it was that we started all over again on our Second Phase of Newcastle CSC participation. That year we mucked about locally and had a few Challenge matches against our faithful old mates from Glasgow, Edinburgh and Hull when we rode as Dave's "Tynesiders", then at the end of season AGM there was a bust-up at Roy Clarke's house and Dave walked out (into a cupboard first which was side-splitting to witness, then back out and out of the house!), defeated by the two Fawdon revivalists, some new found allies in Fred Mitchell's Benton squad and common sense. The Newcastle "Rebels" were born, and appropriately named. Super-keen Dave, however, would rejoin us later and produce some great performances and indeed great management for the Rebels.

Here is lil’ ol’ me at Redbraes Park for the Edinburgh Club’s own rebirth in 1978. I’m mounted on the bike I stole from future wife Janet and welded on a top crossbar with 1" electrical conduit: She wore the bike AND the shirt much better than me!

Thus began our hectic journey out of the Seventies, into the Eighties with two superb council-built tracks, first at Fawdon and then back at Eastfield. Then on to yet another sad demise by the early Nineties, and with it the whole fantastic episode that saw us climb from minnows in the geographically challenged dregs of CS to Regional stardom as a Winning Team, and beyond that with a couple of special individual performances right at the end, but of course this is supposed to be my story, in the absence of yours!