Racing: Right on, triton – maybe next time

Dave Humphries on his Triton at Darley Moor, near Ashbourne, in the 1970s

After deciding to take up racing, Telegraph motoring correspondent Dave Humphries bought a Triton and took his place on the grid at Cadwell Park. It was not to be his greatest success but it was a start – as Dave, of Oakwood, recounts here.

WHILE the Velocette was being prepared for racing, another friend of mine, who also worked at the Post Office, Chris Smith, was adamant that I would be more competitive if I abandoned my plans to race the Velo and used a twin-cylinder machine instead.

Chris had raced as a sidecar passenger and his mechanical expertise was second to none. He specifically mentioned using a machine with a Triumph engine. I had just sold mine!

By chance, I saw a racing Triton (Triumph engine in a Norton frame) for sale in Alvaston. It was geographically convenient, at a good price and the bike looked the business, so I bought it.

Straightaway, Chris said that I should change two things – the rigid, carburettor mounts for flexible rubber ones and the evocative smelling, but expensive to buy, Castrol R racing oil for a modern, mineral-based oil.

Under Chris’ guidance, with food and drink gratefully supplied by his wife, we worked many late evenings together, stripping the engine down to wash out every vestige of the sticky, vegetable-based oil. I decided, however, to stick with the alloy carb mounts, little realising the effect that it would have on the bike’s performance.

Mallory Park was to be the venue of my first practice session in March 1973 and I soon found out why I needed to rubber-mount the carbs as the engine, annoyingly, misfired at certain revs.

Too late now, though, with the season about to start. I just savoured the moment – finally getting on to a race track and at Mallory, too, virtually my second home. All the lads had taken time out to come along and help me, as well, which was nice.

My first race was to be at Cadwell Park where, unusually for a club meeting, the daunting, full GP circuit, was being used.

Undeterred, I took my place on the grid. I was finally here, doing it. The start was, undoubtedly, the worrying bit. I now had to put everything I knew about racing into practice. The flag dropped and I heaved the bike forward, my little legs paddling for all they were worth.

Deciding I had enough forward momentum, I leapt up on to the seat side-saddle while simultaneously letting go of the clutch. Nothing!

As anyone who has raced will tell you – certainly in those days of bump-starting and very loud exhausts – you don’t actually hear your own bike engine starting above the noise of all the others, so you keep an eye on the rev-counter needle. Mine flickered, all to briefly.

As the other riders streamed away, I began the bump-starting process again, only this time, the bike was really moving forward, Chris was pushing as well!

He had the great foresight to see what might happen to me as a novice and asked a marshal if he could stand trackside. Once more, I was indebted to the man.

The bike fired and I stormed off. I now had a real race on my hands, trying to catch the others! The red mist was down and I was completely overawed by the occasion.

There is a section of the full circuit called “the mountain” where bikes mono-wheel up a steep hill and then tackle the quick Hall Bends, which I repeatedly shortened somewhat by just going straight on! It was quite a hair-raising spectacle, my brother said later.

Although I could legitimately blame the bike for not performing as it should, I did find that first race a bit of an eye-opener. But the thrill of competitive racing on a proper racing circuit was everything I had hoped it would be. I loved it.

My next race would be on home tarmac at Darley Moor, near Ashbourne,  a track I knew very well. The misfire was still there, of course, and I remember riding reasonably well, while having a great deal of unusual warmth around my right leg. As the race finished, I pulled up against my car in the paddock to find my leg and rear tyre splattered with oil. The oil tank had split.

It was a wonder I hadn’t crashed. I was very dejected at the time, realising that more money had to be spent.

This highlighted another problem that, until I went racing, I had never fully appreciated, especially where vertical twins like my Triumph were concerned. Under racing conditions, the bike was literally shaking itself to bits. Every time I returned from a race, something would be loose or would have fractured.

There was, accordingly, always a certain amount of maintenance or alterations to be done before the next meeting and a test ride was the best way to check it was all in working order before travelling any distance. Usually, I did it in Crosby Street!

What our neighbours must have thought, heaven only knows. Wheeling the bike out onto the street was bad enough – a full-blown racing machine with fairing and race numbers attached attracting sufficient attention on its own. I did try to make the test rides less conspicuous by leaving the fairing off. But it was when I bump-started the bike that really drew everyone’s attention.

I would ride down Crosby Street, left into Milton Street, Camden Street and back along Bedford Street to the Dog and Partridge pub, which our house adjoined.

The Triton had a Gold Star gearbox with very high gearing which meant only first gear could be used. The ensuing noise, reverberating off the terraced houses, probably did little to endear me to some wonderfully tolerant neighbours, many of whom I had known since childhood. I was fortunate not to be reported, due, probably, to very few having a phone in those days.

I did try to subdue the noise a little by hammering two used baked bean cans, with holes inserted, into the megaphone exhausts. It worked for a while until, one day, they were spat out just like bullets from a gun.

Occasionally, I would carry on along Bedford Street to really get the bike revving.

I then did a U-turn, because Dean Street was on a very busy bus route with lots of people using the shops in that area and Amy Street had, for many years, been the location of a police “Tardis” box. It may well have been dismantled by 1973 but I wasn’t taking any chances!

My newly married mate, Wicksy, kindly loaned me his TriBSA for the TT of that year. Even with a racing campaign to fund, I just couldn’t keep away from the Isle of Man.

The Velocette had been sold and, despite owning a car, I often begged and borrowed motorcycles during my two years of racing.

I used my brother, Paul’s Greeves Essex twin, on one occasion, which was quite enough. It was a terrible machine. He did later have a very nice Triumph Tiger Cub that had been “chopped” in Easy Rider style, complete with banana seat and a very loud, straight-through exhaust pipe that exited right by the pillion passenger’s ear.

I went to the Forest ground on it to watch Derby play, which did little for the hearing of my mate, Mick Arnott. Mick was recently awarded the MBE for his charity work, which was nice.

I finished that season early in order to get the Triton fully sorted for 1974, though the main reason was lack of money. I tried to be totally dedicated to the cause of racing, but once the lads came calling on a Friday and Saturday night, that was it.

However, by Christmas, signs that our biking lives were coming to an end were pretty clear. Robbie was preparing to go back home to Scotland, Pete Grieves had disappeared from the scene and John Parkes had got rid of his trademark Mungo Jerry sideburns and acquired a girlfriend, whom he later married.

It looked like I could now concentrate fully on racing. How wrong could I be!

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