Anglesey Circuit, akaTrac Mon, was built on the site of a now defunct RAF missile testing base right off the coast on the southern edge of the little island of Anglesey next to Wales.
Carol - my wife, best friend, Race Team Manager, mechanic and business partner - sometimes gets rather tense with me. One of the strongest sources of hackles rising and teeth being bared is when I complain about a lack of time. Being of a religious persuasion, she explains that God served up a perfectly serviceable length of day at 24 hours - and it’s me that misuses the time.
My problem is that I enjoy being alive and that means filling every second of every day with something interesting. I suppose that one day I will grow up and become an adult but at the moment I am having too much fun to be mature and sensible.
The weather this autumn has been stunning in England - warm, soft and dry. Normally, I would not bother to race in the cold, damp mists of an English October but this year has been different. There was a big, two-day race at the Anglesey Race Circuit last week and I really had the hot and heavies to ride. The problem was that we had to work on the Saturday of the weekend because this is one of the busiest times of the year with our
Thundersprint event.
You can never spend too much time racing the Matchless G.50.
The Thundersprint is probably the only thing in my life that I do take 101% seriously because it pays for everything else. The mortgage on our house; the food in the fridge; the diesel in the car and, of course, playing about on the G.50, all come from the Thundersprint - so it takes priority over everything else.
So, Carol and I work like crazy all day Saturday, finish at 10 p.m. and then load the G.50, tools and fuel into the trailer ready for a quick getaway in the morning. What seems like 30 seconds later, the alarm goes off and it’s a quick shower, a gobbled round of toast and we’re heading for Anglesey which is only 95 miles away and, except for the last few miles, is excellent roads all the way.
It’s almost certain that you won’t have heard of Trac Mon, as it is called in Welsh, because the circuit does not host big, international motorcycle races. This is a great shame because it is one of the world’s best tracks. Located right next to the sea, on the southern edge of the little island of Anglesey next to Wales, it looks out towards the mountains of the Snowdonia National Park and Llyn Peninsula: real tourist brochure beautiful.
The circuit was built on the site of a now defunct RAF missile testing base and in many ways that is its great joy. Instead of being laid out on bare earth by a computer, the track wends its way round the old base and has a series of quirky, unpredictable corners, cambers and climbs running to just over two miles. It is also very wide at nearly 40 feet and has an excellent surface. In short, Anglesey is one of my favorite tracks in the world.
My biggest worry was whether I was going to get killed as some young blood lapped me at 10 million miles an hour.
The other good thing about Anglesey is that everyone is really pleasant. From the gate staff checking admission passes to the chaps in Technical Control, the whole team specializes in smiling. The meeting we were entered in was the “Anglesey Grand” which is one of the biggest club races in Britain, with over $1500 for winning the main race of the day and a lot of good amateur riders in the lower classes. There is also a class for classics tacked on to the back of what is essentially a race for modern bikes and riders.
We arrive just as Tech Control is closing, jog across to Race Control for a practice pass and two minutes later Carol is warming up the G.50 whilst I am pulling on my leathers and searching for my ear plugs. Everyone else has practiced, and qualified, the day before but there is a 10-minute emergency practice before racing starts for the day. This is open to all riders - the modern bikes and classics - and is used for the few Muppets like me, who didn’t turn up for qualifying on Saturday, and the serious riders doing final carburetion and suspension tuning.
At this point in the story, I need to stress a key factor. I am not much of a rider in terms of ability and, at my age, there is a strong argument that I should be watching daytime TV from my rocking chair, strumming a guitar and eating Nacho chips. The fact that I am no Kenny Roberts, Giacomo Agostini or Mike Hailwood needs stressing.
The G.50 does fly around a track but it can't possibly keep up with these modern superbikes and their advanced braking technology, right?
What also needs emphasizing is that the Matchless is a big, old fashioned and thoroughly unmodernized classic race machine. The bike was largely designed in 1943, albeit as a 350, so we are talking about 66-year-old technology. The G.50 engine produces 50.1 hp on the dyno and is stopped by two 8-inch drum brakes. On paper, it would appear to be not much better than a well-sorted golf buggy.
Lined up alongside me in the collecting box were a whole host of modern
Superbikes - including some really trick machines - and in truth, my biggest worry was whether I was going to get killed as some young blood lapped me at 10 million miles an hour.
So off we go and my stomach is churning at the thought of getting in the way and ending up in the gravel trap or maybe even as a road kill item. On the first lap everyone is getting some heat in their tires so that’s no problem. I ride round sat up, looking at the scenery and just enjoy feeling the snarl of the G.50’s engine between my legs. By the end of the lap, things are nicely warmed up and we can start to go briskly - but clearly not at race speeds. At this point, matters start to get interesting.
The first thing is that I am catching riders under braking. Now this is patently and obviously stupid because the G.50 simply doesn’t stop even when compared with a disc braked classic. How then, can a modern bike with three enormous discs, not stop in a fraction of the time of a big, old fashioned, drum braked dinosaur?
Another odd thing becomes apparent on corners. On the long, compound right-hander of the coastal straight the rider in front looks like
Rossi with his knee scraping along the deck, elbow out and all the body language of the
MotoGP rider. Yet, I am catching him. This too is very, very odd.
These vintage motorcycles may not put out as much power as some of these newer sportbikes but they sure can catch up in the corners.
It’s even more odd - and then some - because, being a fat, old, lazy lump I ride the bike like a sack of potatoes and barely move around. Clearly, there is zero chance of me getting my knee down - unless it’s when I’m kneeling to light the barbecue in the paddock.
Where I do lose out is on acceleration and top speed. Once the modern riders get their missiles upright and pointing in a straight line they simply disappear in a Star Trek blur. There is no way that a 50-hp bike, weighing nearly 300 lbs, can keep up with a motorcycle of the same weight but producing four times the power.
So here is a question for you. Everyone riding at Anglesey had a race license and was, by definition, extremely competent at riding a motorcycle - especially when compared with the average road rider. If these excellent riders can’t use the power - engine and braking - of their bikes, where does that put the ordinary Joe taking his Superbike out for a Sunday run up the canyon roads?
Also, if 50 hp and drum brakes are enough to go fast and have a lot of fun, what does this mean for 180 hp and brakes which will lock the wheels at 100 mph? Your observations please.
