Supersport Racing in Britain, 1993-94

A spur of the moment, almost afterthought, move to Calgary from Toronto in 1992 was one more indicator that I had not yet settled down or found my stride in life.  Sure enough, 18 months later I not only found myself accepting a position in London, but also contemplating the bucket-list-esque plans I had for myself before reaching the monumental milestone of 30 years of age.  What could I not live without having tried, if (when?) time, age or circumstance became an obstacle?  Racing a motorcycle was the immediate and easy answer!

I attained a street license at 17 (thanks for the CB350 loan, Rob!), following 8 years apprenticeship in the dirt.  Then, with the exception of one summer's lessons on a KZ650, did not regularly own a street motorcycle until almost 26.  Bored of the long straight roads in Ontario, there were relatively few tracks/opportunities in Canada to get out and find out what I really knew - or rather, didn't - of precision riding at speed.  A one-day race school at Shannonville aboard a Seca 650 with what were virtually kiln-dried tires provided meager insight, but still left me needing and wanting more.  The move to Alberta proved far better than Ontario for street riding, but only once you hit that steep sedimentary wall to the west of Calgary.  So I bought a used '92 Honda CBR600 (dubbed the 'Hurricane') to join my '85 750 Sabre.   It had been raced one season; was pre-drilled for safety wire and still presented quite suitably.  The street plastic was pristine since it had essentially sat in a box up to that point.  I even had several months to ride it on the street before it joined my other "household" goods to be shipped by my company to England.

Having arrived uneventfully in the UK, I then had to wait a month while my vehicle cleared customs.  Now finally ready to join a club and start racing, I actually no idea where to start!  Fortune and dumb luck took pity, and the manager of a small local motorcycle shop soon bestowed upon me all the secret words and hand-shakes I'd need to pass as a motorcycle racer.  You can't race without joining a racing club; and since clubs tend to be focused around certain tracks, more club memberships provided access to more tracks.  I joined New Era and BMRC that I can recall. 

I also needed a rig to transport my racing effort - some small effort connected me with a Leyland Daf van for about £2K.  Seemed a great deal, although maybe I got taken as they even agreed to weld up a couple tie-down rails for free!  That diesel brute had no top end and took hours to reach motorway speed, but it faithfully made it around southern England and Wales for 18 months alright.  And doubled as my workshop while home or away.

My first UK track day (and second ever) was at the Wigan Alps (aka Three Sisters track).  A very short, narrow, tight track where you really couldn't get past 2nd gear.  It proved useful, however, in soon getting a sense of lean angles, braking markers, entry speeds and apex points.  Since almost all the guys were doing it, I agreed to a fast lap with Performance Bikes editor Mark Forsyth riding.  And I will NEVER do that again!  Scared me absolutely catatonic on the back of his two-up race bike.  OK, handlebars back under my control now, please!  In truth, it dramatically demonstrated to me how utterly far I had yet to progress in my track riding skills.

A follow-up track day at Cadwell Park elevated the game significantly.  What an eye-opener that was, given everything from the circus of moto-anything vendors to a real clubhouse and the radical elevation changes around the track.  The last section wasn't called The Mountain for nothing!  And these guys were SERIOUS.  A little bar-banging and paint-swapping never hurt anyone (ok, well, it sometimes can).

Author cresting the 'mountain' section of Cadwell Park circuit in Lincolnshire, UK

Weekend after weekend, track after track, my racecraft began to improve.  Never before could I have imagined downshifting, throttle-blipping and braking simultaneously while my rear tire swayed inches above the surface of the track.  Lean angles hitherto undreamed of were now not only possible but easily repeatable and comfortable.  Even in the midst of a deluge on a rain-drenched Welsh track, with enough heat in your tires and smooth technique, touching a knee puck to a wet track was routine.  It helps when you can see through the fog behind your helmet shield, though.

Most race weekends started with buckets of butterflies in anticipation of confronting the long speculated realities of real racing.  These feelings soon eased somewhat but they never go away.  I always got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I approached the starting grid. Once the starter's flag waived and the red mist of race-ace descended, however, vision and focus were directed tunnel-like onto the asphalt ribbon ahead.  I was fortunate to have few mishaps; a crazy 'tank slapper' once, as well as a gear shifter falling off another time leaving me stuck in 3rd gear.

A life-long stingy bastard, I raced on a strict budget: no such thing as too old or too worn out.  I'd keep a set of tires for practically a whole season while the real-deal boys were changing tires each day of a race weekend!  Swap the shock or forks for better feedback and compliance?  Nope - stock items.  What about changing the exhaust for more horsepower and reduced weight?  Uh-uh, I like the challenge.  My sponsorship came from one of two sources on any given weekend - the money in my pocket or the card in my wallet.  A rattle-can and tape "graphics package" emblazoned my after-market bodywork, inexpertly pinstriped in the lot behind my flat.  For many races before finally gluing a foam rubber pad to the tail section, I would return from each track session with a silver paint butt imprint on my red leathers.

author posing with father, Kevin Tompkins, at Lydden

at Lydden, last turn before front straight at back of the pack (or am I that far ahead?)

I started in 23 races at five different tracks over two seasons.  My last race came at Lydden.  As a legendary hotshot in my own mind coming off the prior race weekend with a 4th and a 5th (good enough for a mention in the paper!), I felt ready to finally break through the pack and win.  But, I came at the day too hot and eager, ultimately departing the echelons of motorsport as anonymously as I'd arrived.  Cold tires combined with the early descent of red mist led me to misjudge the double-apex right.  I was soon bouncing across the grass and ended in a stacked wall of tires when I ran out of room to turn. The ignoble truck lift back to the paddock has a distinct way of knocking one down a peg or three.

So I was done racing after two seasons.  I slapped the still-new-looking plastic back on my 600cc beast and sold it for over $1000 more than I'd paid for it.  My Leyland Daf was let go for somewhere a little less than I paid, so when all was said and done my brief racing career almost kinda paid for itself....!  But perhaps I shouldn't have left the country with a stack of worn tires and used oil containers still in the lot behind my flat (insert guilt here).