"Darlington Detour"


    by Big Sid

    Early fall it was and the summer's heat had lost its sweaty grip as Mac and I left to spend a few days visiting our old chum Ed Leksa in Sumpter, South Carolina. Just the two of us, I on my heavily breathed upon '51 Red Rapide and Mac on his faultless 600 BMW R67, a '53 model I believe, and now well along into 1958.

    We mostly held a consistent 70 over the distance of several hundred miles, during which I usually let Mac lead, content to lay across my broad tank listening to her slow steady beat as the miles spun up. Quiet often, bored, I'd blast past the Beemer, headed for a peek at the ton or beyond, both I and the Vincent enjoying the change of pace, after which I'd get back in line, astern, for maybe 50 more miles of near closed throttle rolling at Mac's steady pace.

    All gas stops were written down in log form, and would you believe that the dead steady cruise had yielded an average of 52.5mpg for the 600cc flat twin and 53.5 mpg for the Vincent, nearly twice the capacity and ridden as described! This performance was a benefit of the taller top gear pulled so easily with nearly shut throttle.

    But back to my story: We had seen signs touting the big speedway as we neared Darlington and decided to give a look-see even though it was closed for repairs. Turning on to an approach road, we rode up to the gates, and as these were open but unmanned, we naturally motored on in to have a look around.

    While trundling about, as if we owned the place, we spotted workmen up in the stands busy replacing some seats. Nearby, a specially rigged truck used for sweeping the track sat parked at the mouth of a tunnel running beneath the bleachers. We rolled up alongside the truck to discover a fellow sitting behind the wheel, eating a moonpie and nursing an RC bottle. He cleaned the track of rubber deposits that accumulated from race events and explained the procedure to us. Friendly, he asked about the bikes and then let on as to how we could ride once round the track. We had been asking, of course, but only in jest, and so were rather surprised while we listened to him instruct us to be careful lest the banking "trick us up," as its steep angle required a good turn of speed to negotiate under secure control.

    Leaving the bikes behind, Mac took off waking across the race surface towards the banking approach, and I jogged out to catch up. The angle rapidly steepened until it required all our effort to climb to the top rail, but climb we did, even to employing our hands. It was bloody damn steep! After surveying the track from the top rail of the banking, we stepped sideways slowly and managed to get down without a fall. After a few minutes rest, we started our machines and proceeded to do a lap, holding our speeds and our revs well up in third gear out of caution. The Vincent's third gear range allowed it to motor around easily, but I could hear Mac's Beemer sound a wickedly-shrill exhaust note as he wicked it up.

    In a few brief moments, the lap was done, and we were back out on the open road again. For the remainder of that ride down to Lex's, I wondered how quickly the Vincent would have turned Darlington had she been suitably prepped and geared for the job.