The real truth about how Rail Racing Started.
by  Jeff Davies


 Eric heard them before he saw them. A crackling thunder, gathering a
scrabbling, screeching accompaniment as it grew nearer. The tension and
apprehension increasing unbearably in his mind, he took a step closer to the
grass verge on the blind side of the curve. Then they appeared over the
crest, like two baited sharks, their flashing silver tails thrashing wildly
from side to side. Out of control. Eric was standing directly in their path
as the monsters slid obliquely across the track, the tall, narrow tyres
spinning and smoking with no apparent effect on the grey tarmac beneath
them. The first driver sat forward in his fighter-plane cockpit, his arms
tensed on the huge steering wheel, and a rictus of concentrated effort on
his face. Eric could see his eyes staring widely behind his aviator’s
goggles, and for a split second thought that it might be the last thing he
ever saw. Then the driver gave a correcting heave on the wheel, and at the
same time the choking bark of the bank of stubby exhaust pipes changed in
pitch, and the car slewed away from Eric and across the apex of the turn,
the slipstream and the flashing silver bodywork combining with the effect of
a broadside slap across his face, chest and stomach. His whole being
vibrated, from the shaking ground beneath his feet to the saturated noise in
his eardrums, and the tingling in his scalp that felt as if his brain was
exposed to the rushing air. A split second later, it happened all over
again, as the second Auto Union screamed past him.

 The scene replayed itself in Eric W Fisher's mind as he struck a match
beneath the streetlamp. Fourteen years ago he had been at Donington.
Fourteen years filled with the drama of adolescence, war, love and jealousy,
but the scene that came back to him most of all was that of racing drivers
heroically manhandling their monstrous grand prix cars round and round that
narrow midlands race track. De-mobbed, lonely and virtually penniless, Eric
made his way from the cold boarding house room he presently occupied and
along the canal road towards the comparative warmth of the pub, shielding
the faint glow in the bowl of his pipe from the bitter wind. He staggered
involuntarily as he again imagined the tornado of tyres, driver, spitting
exhausts and flashing bodywork again, as vividly as life. But tearing
through the cobbled streets of this damp, wintry grey Welsh pit-village?
Eric’s inner life had totally overwhelmed the depressing facts of his real
existence. He had nothing. A poor job as an electrical engineer - a desk job
at the local colliery. No family, no girl friend, just the itchy suit he’d
been given when he left the army. He lived entirely in a dream, a dream of
racing, of drama, of limitless engineering and design, of courageous drivers
and loyal mechanics- noise, concentration and commitment. He entered the low
porch of the pub, ducked his head beneath the low beams and leaned on the
bar. ‘A pint of Doningtons, please, Dai’.

 ‘Haven’t got time for your leg-pulls, my lad. What’s it to be? I.P.A.,
stout, porter? Or milk for your soft English digestion? Donington’s? What’s
that then, some fancy London brew?’

‘Sorry, Dai. My mind was elsewhere. The usual. Pint, if I may.’

‘You’d better have the money this time too. No more on the slate, boy.
Doningtons! I ask you. Brenda! Eric’s rambling again. Have we got any
Donington’s he wants to know? Have a look under the sink for me Brenda,
there’s a good girl!’

‘Aye, Dai. Mebbe it’s something that these la-di-da Englishmen boil their
stuffed shirts in!’

The few patrons of the pub looked up from their dark tankards, stirred by
the chance of some brief entertainment at Eric’s expense. The surly pit-men
flashed pink gums and beady white eyes through their coal black faces,
looking from each to another in hopes of more witty repartee to stir the
dank evening. ‘Bloody Englishman’, said one, to a rowdy chorus of cheers and
stamping boots. But no more jokes were forthcoming, and the noise subsided
again into the usual quiet hostility. Eric thought he might be able to slink
away quietly with his pint, but then he saw a man get up from a solitary
table in the far corner and advance towards him. One hand held a slopping
glass, the other was fumbling in the pocket of his donkey jacket. Eric
gripped the bar and braced himself for further abuse, possibly physical this
time. The man stood directly in front of him now, face to face. There was
nowhere for Eric to go. The man blocked all light from the tiny windows and
the guttering fireplace, but Eric could see him draw something from his
pocket. Something metallic looking, truncheon shaped. Eric pulled his head
as far away as he could, but the stranger lifted his hand high, close to his
face. And in the flickering light from the gas lantern in the snug bar, Eric
finally saw what it was. A perfect replica of Nuvolari’s D-type Auto–Union
V12. He felt giddy- giddy with simultaneous relief and joy- the closest he’d
got to the feeling he’d had at Donington all that time ago.

‘Donington, you said? I was there,’ said the stranger. ‘With my uncle
Daffyd. Fourteen years since, it’s haunted me. Four years as an apprentice
joiner. Five years in the merchant navy dodging U-boats in the North Sea,
and the last five years sawing pit-props here. The only thing that’s kept me
going is carving these. I’ve done every car that was there that day; Merc
154s, Maserati 8CTF, E.R.A.s, Delahayes, even the Riley, Alta and MG. But I
saved up the best to last, and now it’s nearly done. Those louvres have
taken me six months so far. Idris is the name.’

Eric staggered slightly and jumped when Dai slammed his pint down on the
bar. He collected himself, took a huge gulp from the beer to clear his head,
and said reverently ‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Let me
get you another pint, Idris.’

The two men sat at the corner table, watched suspiciously by the other
drinkers until the novelty wore off, and talked long and hard, pouring out
their mutual reminiscences of that great day in 1938, and how it had
overshadowed their entire lives ever since. ‘I’ve been trying to put those
memories into reality all this time myself,’ said Eric. ‘But I can’t afford
a car, even without the petrol rationing- I can’t afford to travel to races-
I’ve dreamed of trying to recreate those cars, those feelings. Teach me how
you make them, please.’ ‘Yes, well, it’s easy enough. But it’s still not
enough for me. They’re static. They sit there on my shelf, silent, immobile.
I put all my feelings into the making, but when they’re done, they leave me
still cold. I want them to move, to race, to run hot’. ‘But that can’t be
hard to fix’, said Eric. ‘Clockwork… rubber bands… there’s all sorts of
possibilities. Why, a trip to an army surplus store and you could come away
with any number of cheap electric motors’. ‘Aye, sure. I’ve thought about
that. But these boys need to race. Not pootle along like a toy train. They
need a circuit, they need speed, competition- car against car, power
balanced against traction, skill and daring! You can’t just let them roll
along the floor, aimless like.’ ‘What about model railway tracks, you know,
run cars on the tracks instead of trains?’ ‘No, no, no. That’s no good at
all. You can’t have these things going round on rails. It’s not right. They’
ve got to be alive- snaking round in power slides, balanced on the throttle
like the real thing. Having them go round on rail tracks would be an insult
to Nuvolari and Neubauer.’ Eric stood up and negotiated another couple of
pints out of Dai, and set them down again on the table, next to the shining
miniature Auto Union. Eric and Idris sat the rest of the night, swapping
reminiscences of the British Grand Prix, discussing the Mercedes, the Auto
Unions, the sad and outclassed British machinery, but mostly the
soul-shuddering effect of seeing the silver arrows in full flight. And how
they might best recapture that magic for themselves.

Eric passed many of his subsequent working days idly sketching ideas out
on his drawing board. He should have been refining the safety systems of the
pit machinery, but now his mind was focussed on how to make Idris’ models
race. The power had to be electrical. That way the speed could be regulated
by resistors. And cars could race each other. But how to control them? How
to guide them realistically around a scale circuit, in four-wheel drifts and
tyre-smoking slides?

‘Stop your day-dreaming now Eric, bach. The inspector’s on his way round.
He wants to see the drawings for the pit railway. We have to indent for
materials by Monday look you.’ Iuan’s baritone voice shook Eric out of his
reverie, and he quickly pulled the relevant plans from his drawer. The pit
railway. A narrow gauge railway that took the men from the pithead shafts
through the many underground galleries to the coal face underground. Eric
was in charge of a project to automate the points and crossings, using
powerful switching solenoids instead of the old manual levers. There were
two hundred and fifty twelve-volt five-pole motors arriving at the stores
tomorrow, and the wiring had to be ready. He sat staring at the drawings for
a few moments, ostensibly checking for mistakes, but suddenly realised he
had unconsciously drawn the shape of an Auto-Union over the chassis of the
electric tractor on the plans. ‘Blimey’ he thought. ‘Pull yourself together
Eric’. He looked again at the diagram of the section where an underground
slippage had ripped away one half the track, which now needed relaying. ‘I’d
like to see Ivor the Driver negotiating that turn into number fourteen
gallery on only one rail. I wonder if he could hold that loco on two wheels
and power round on the throttle… Wait a minute! That’s it! Miniature Grand
Prix racing on a single track! We make one rail to guide the car and supply
current. Then there’s room for the tail to slide and the attitude through
the corners can be controlled. And the speed through the straight and in the
approach to the corner too! The return polarity can be through a tape, flush
on the track so as not to catch the tyres. Tiny Mercs and Auto Unions power
sliding round a model race track- real racing! Idris and I could rig this up
so easily! One of those electric motors inside the cars, worm gear to the
back axle, and a dial resistor for each driver to control the speed! Our
very own Donnington! Good grief! Four cars running against each other-
speed, control, overtaking; don’t hit the corner too fast or you’ll spill!
Keep the drift in check or you’ll hit the rail and spin off. Oversteer
through the turn right and you’ll be on the power for the straight…..’

`Sounds good, Eric bach. But what about the pit-railway?’ ‘Sorry, was I
speaking aloud? I didn’t mean…’ ‘Yes you were, Eric man. But you’ve got the
whole office hanging on your every word!’ Eric looked up, and saw all his
workmates staring back at him, and smiles on every face. `When do we start
then?’ asked Ralph. ‘There’s a big empty shed behind the wash-house. Seems
like the place to do it!’

As soon as the siren sounded the end of the shift, all the maintenance
shop men headed out for the back of the wash-house, with Eric in tow. ‘Here
we are. What do you think, Eric’ said Iuan. ‘Think you can do it?’ ‘Blimey,
old chap. It’s perfect! But there’s someone I have to talk to.’ Eric rushed
out, desperately looking for Idris amongst the hordes of miners making their
way to the gates. ‘Hey! Hey! Idris! Come with me a minute. I think we’ve got
it!’

The two men spent the whole evening on hands and knees sketching out
Donnington’s track on the floor of the shed. Lumps of chalk traced the line
of Starkey’s straight, the Melbourne loop, Redgate, Hollywood, McLean’s and
Coppice, snaking back towards Starkey’s Hill again. The whole thing formed
itself straight from Eric’s memory. Few words were spoken, but Eric and
Idris took a natural command over the gang of willing helpers. Materials
appeared out of no-where. All the men were well experienced with the pit, it
’s workings and it’s supplies. ‘We’re going to need about forty feet of
quarter inch ply here’, muttered Eric, shortly before it arrived. ‘Hmmm. At
least two hundred yards of brazing rod for the rails.’ Barely had he spoken
the words when four burly miners from the engineering section elbowed their
way through the doors with the rod, bound up in bundles labelled Llamenmad
Pit Depot. At two o’clock in the morning, a dozen lads from the electrical
department were wiring up resistors, transformers and the like.



By three o’clock, the night shift had joined in. A little later, a gaggle
of high pitched voices at the doors heralded the arrival of wives, daughters
and mothers, all in shawls and headscarves, carrying ewers of ale, and
bundles of bread and cakes. They’d been waiting for their husbands at home,
then at the pub, but were happy to find them safe and occupied. Eric stopped
his work, looked around and slowly took in what was going on. ‘What- who-
why?’ Was all he managed to say as he tore hungrily into a leek and potato
pie. A shy voice whispered in his ear. ‘We heard something was going on at
the pit. That someone had had an idea. Ideas are few and far between in this
neck of the woods. When someone comes up with an idea, something other than
drinking, working and singing, there’s usually a lot of support in the
village. Now I don’t know a lot about racing cars and these foreign drivers
who we’ve all been fighting against those last six years, but the men told
us you had a good idea. A good idea and a different idea that sounded like
it might make a change from chapel. And we all want to help you Eric. Me
more than most. My elder brother Barry- he couldn’t face following the rest
of the family down the pit. He had pictures; magazines- he followed those
Grand Prix races on his home-made wireless. I used to follow them too. More
exciting than choir and laundry it was. Then Barry ran away to Birmingham to
work in a garage. He couldn’t face life down the pit. I miss him, Eric bach.
I’ve been that lonely since he went away. I want to help you instead’. Eric
looked up from the track into the eyes of a flame-haired girl whose green
eyes flashed in the light of the Davey lamps hung around the track. Her pale
skin shadowed the deep dimples either side of her moist and smiling lips.
She offered him her jugs of dark brown ale. Eric wiped the pie crumbs from
his chin with his sleeve and drank deeply without shifting his gaze from
those flashing eyes. He handed back the jug, and put a hand out tentatively
onto the old woollen shawl wrapped around the girl’s shoulders. ‘You’re most
kind, miss…’ ‘Gwladys, I am. And you’re Eric. I know you. All the village is
talking about you. So masterful, so clever, so… Let me wipe your brow. You’
ve been working hard.’ She reached up to touch Eric’s head with a beer
towel, and Eric spontaneously grabbed her wrist. ‘Oh Mr. Eric, don’t beat
me, not like all the others…’ ‘Beat you Gwladys? But that was the last thing
on my mind… you’re… you’re beautiful!’ ‘That’s what all the lads say, Mr.
Eric. Then they beat me. The backside of the hand for not having the pickle
on the table at tea-time. The thick end of the belt for dallying too long in
the valley. The fry-pan to wake me up from my day-dreams…’ ‘And what do you
dream of, Gwladys dear?’ ‘Oh, Mr Eric. You wouldn’t want to hear.’ ‘But I
do, I do.’ ‘Well, I dream of leaving this place. I dream of travelling
somewhere. Travelling with a man with imagination, a man with plans and
ingenuity. Finding our Barry and helping him build up a successful garage,
maybe a racing team. Building cars- beautiful, sleek, powerful, exciting
racing cars. Thrills that are frowned on in Llamenmad, like this…’ Gwladys
fumbled beneath her apron, a distant and blissful smile on her plump,
coal-dust smeared face. Eric grew hot, felt his face hot and red with…what?
Passion? Or just the close atmosphere in the shed, the intensity of his work
over the last few hours? Gwladys’ face dropped, as her arm slowly withdrew
from her petticoats. Eric thought he might faint. Was anyone watching? Could
anyone see? At last Gwladys looked up again, holding a slim object in her
hand. ‘I made it myself. I whittled it out of an old chair leg. I keep it
close by me to remind me of my dear brother.’ ‘Great heavens, Gwladys! A
Delahaye! It’s wonderful! And look….’ Eric seized the model racing car from
Gwladys’ hot hand, and tossed it over in his own, surprised at the warmth
still in the wooden shell. ‘Look, Gwladys. One of our five-pole motors would
fit perfectly in there! Take it over to Idris- he’ll put a little shoe and
wiper on the underside to take the current. Your Delahaye shall lead the
opening lap on our own little Donington Grand Prix!’ ‘Oh, Eric! You’re
wonderful!’ Before Eric could back away, Gwladys had risen onto the tips of
her leather boots and planted a gritty kiss on his pulsating cheek. Her hand
was on his breast, and when she spun away and ran toward Idris, working in
the far corner at a bench piled high with model racing cars, Eric looked
down to see the perfect imprint of her delicate, female hand marked on his
shirt in soot. ‘I’ll never wash this again’ he said to himself.

The work went on in the shed for many evenings after that, and so did the
furtive meetings between Eric and Gwladys. As soon as the last shift
finished, all the men came over and bent to work again on the track, the
cars, and the plan for the inaugural race meeting. The track grew upward
from the floor, the vast sheets of ply lifted on pit props, a gradient
formed in the long back straight, and a backdrop of sky and outbuildings
draped around the shed walls. Shifts of men worked at drilling the evenly
spaced holes to take the screws that supported the snaking brass rails
around the whole track in four parallel lanes. Idris worked tirelessly on
the cars, adding the mechanisms to his own collection of Grand Prix models,
and helping out others who had never whittled a piece of balsa before, or
wielded a miniature paint brush. The rising and falling whizz of electric
motors charged the atmosphere like a beehive in high summer. The electrical
department was busy working out motor revs and torque, amps, ohms and volts,
gear ratios, car weights and wheel sizes. As each section of track was
finished, Idris hooked one of his cars over the rail and let it buzz along
under it’s own power. Work would stop immediately, and dozens of tired faces
craned over the track to watch, delighted. Often times the rails needed
refastening or a tiny obstruction would halt progress, and the car would
thrash about with wheels spinning, pinned to a projecting nail head or
splinter. But there was always someone happy to fix the problem.

‘What about the workers then?’ asked Idris out of the blue one evening.
‘What do you mean? We’re all here,’ responded Eric. ‘No they’re not boyo.
All you desk jockeys are, all you designers, electricians, draftsmen- but
what about the coal face? All the lads that are sweating their guts out half
a mile below ground with me.’ ‘They’re all at the pub, aren’t they? When
they’re not working I mean. Or at Choir, or Chapel? Anyway, they’re your
pals, aren’t they?’ ‘Not me chum. I keep my own counsel when I’m down there.
Nobody minds old Idris, carving his toy cars, and I don’t mind them. But don
’t you think they’re going to smell a rat when the Llamenmad Colliery opens
its miniature Grand Prix circuit, and they weren’t invited?’ ‘I suppose you’
re right, Idris. We’d better go down to the old Goat and Gooseberry and
spread the word. They might want to form a team!’

Idris and Eric sloped off down the hill towards the murky light of the
cramped Inn. ‘Ahh! His Royal Highness after another pint of "Donington’s" is
it?’ snorted Dai the landlord. ‘No no, well yes. But I was after telling the
lads about the new club we’ve got going up at the pit…wondered if you might
like to all come along.’ ‘What? Trying to steal my customers now are you,
Lord La-di-dah?’ Dai looked up from washing the pintpots to get some
affirmation from the few exhausted miners who were cast around the damp
bar-room like tar barrels on a beach. ‘Hmmp. What you saying, Dai?’ muttered
one of them. ‘What I’m sayin’ is, is Lord Doningtons here is after starting
up a gentlemen’s club at the pit, and is any of you lot kindly wanting to
join him for a glass of Pimm’s?’ ‘No, no, please don’t misunderstand, I….’
But all Eric could see in the gloom were scowling faces. ‘Bloody Englishman’
grunted a vaguely familiar voice, as he and Idris bent their heads and left.

Only a couple of nights later, Eric and Idris together soldered on the
final length of brass rail, while the rest of the men toasted them with
raised tankards. Gwladys slipped her arm under Eric’s, and gave him a
squeeze. ‘Mind the soldering iron love!’ ‘Oh, I’ll keep it warm for you, don
’t worry…’ A few moments later, Eric’s W154, Idris’ Auto Union and Gwladys’
Delahaye were poised on the start line for the first ceremonial parade lap
of Llamenmad’s own miniature Grand prix circuit. Tentatively they rolled off
the line together. Through Hollywood, Idris began to get the feel of the
track and turned the dial of his resistor slowly up, watching the car pull
smoothly up the incline towards McLeans. On the next lane, Eric hung back,
wanting to keep station with Gwladys, but came to a fizzing stop at the
hairpin. Once past the beached Mercedes, Gwladys too began to speed up, and
through Coppice, the Delahaye and the Auto Union were racing for position.
‘Hold on, this is supposed to be a parade lap!’ Eric shouted, but there was
too much cheering going on. ‘Keep going you two!’ ‘Come on Nuvolari!’
‘Faster!’ Ralph had lifted Eric’s Merc off the rail, and was filling down
the joint. Eric felt his pulse rising, his scalp tingling. ‘Get it back on,
Ralph. I’ll show those two!’ On the next lap all pretence had gone. This was
a serious challenge. Then something began to short intermittently on Idris’
car, and it jerked fitfully from section to section. Gwladys cruised her
blue car past, but her enthusiasm had the best of her; into Coppice for the
second time, the inside rear wheel bit at the raised contact rail and rode
up it. The car somersaulted off the track, to be caught by one of the lads
‘Owzat!’ he called. ‘Do I get to keep it? You can have it back for a kiss
though, Gwladys’. Eric frowned briefly, but looking around at the smiling
faces around the track, and at Gwladys’ green eyes, he knew he had nothing
to worry about. One of the other Auto Unions had joined them on the track,
and was buzzing round at a startling speed. ‘That’s one of the new motors
that just arrived at the stores,’ said Idris. Eric’s Merc was back on track
too, and for the first time, Llamenmad race track was full of thrashing,
wheel spinning racing cars, dicing for position. The smell of rubber and hot
electric motors, and the buzz and whine of gears and tyres filled the old
shed, as the colliery men and their girls watched intently, whooping
encouragement. ‘I’ll have a bob on the blue one’ yelled Iuan. ‘You’re on- I’
ll take the Merc’ replied Evan. Soon a tote board had been chalked up on the
wall, and still the cars were buzzing round, the four drivers unwilling to
stop. ‘Who’s counting the laps?’ muttered Idris. ‘No idea’ said Eric, ‘but
this is the best fun I’ve had since…’ ‘Since what, Eric?’ Gwladys was
leaning on his arm, still working the resistor dial and spinning her
Delahaye round the track. ‘Oh that would be telling, my duckie’.

The Grand Opening Night came around quickly after that. Teams had been
formed, heats and finals had been drafted on sheets of squared paper. Twenty
five cars were entered, somewhat more than had been at the 1938 Grand Prix,
as Eric pedantically pointed out. A well-organised book was running, with
bets flooding in from all over the village and beyond. The surprise
favourite was Gwladys and her Delahaye. The men had been keeping an eye on
her during practice for various reasons, and had noted that not only was her
car the best prepared- there was no shortage of help offered in overcoming
running-in faults, but her temperament was well-suited to driving a steady
race. Whenever a male driver came near, he was inclined to show-off a
little, and usually spun off into the wall very soon after.

It seemed like not only the whole village, but a few outlying parishes
were present in the shed when the chaplain flagged off the first heat. It
was not an easy one, and the drivers that had been drawn first were under a
great weight of expectation. Soon cars were sliding into the scenery,
colliding, rolling slowly to a halt, and generally fizzing, seizing up and
billowing wispy smoke. It seemed as if the heat would never finish, but
eventually an E.R.A. and a Maserati completed the requisite number of laps,
and the meeting was under way. The bookies away to the side were kept busy
with the fluctuating preferences of the hard-core gamblers. Gwladys, Idris
and Eric all came through their heats to win with healthy margins, but some
of the lads working their way up through the ranks and the consolation runs
were beginning to get the hang of things. The newest cars were running
lighter chassis made from circuit board, and some rather highly rated motors
that should have been operating the points on the pit railway. The boys in
the office had been busy developing their models while Eric had been
trouble-shooting his Merc on the road. But Eric, Gwladys and Idris had the
advantage of more track experience; they knew where it was safe to put on
the power and lean on the rails, where you needed to feather the throttle
and drift through the turns, and most importantly where the bad sections of
track were. But their cars were already in danger of being out-classed.

The quarter finals were due. The tote boards had been wiped clean and
rewritten so many times that the bookies were scrabbling about on the floor
for stubs of chalk, and shredded betting slips were everywhere. The bookies
were panicking, and one was seen to wind up the charger on the telephone
box, and speak busily on an outside line. But then the shed doors slammed
open, and a gang of colliers shouldered their way in. ‘What’s happening
here?’ demanded the biggest, Godwyn ‘Huge’ Hughes. ‘What are you lot up to?
We’ve seen Idris whittlin’ away. We’ve heard the women folk talkin’ about
the race. While we’re underground working our fingers to the bone, you pasty
faced lummocks are up here playin’ with toy cars!’ Eric felt the blood drain
from his face, but walked up to Huge nevertheless. ‘Look here my man. I came
to the pub and tried to invite you all, but all I got was muttering and
abuse. I’m sorry if this has all been a misundersta…’ ‘Misunderstanding my
arse,’ said Huge. ‘Whip ‘em out lads!’ At that, fourteen sturdy pit men
shrugged off their jackets and advanced towards the track, each with a
gleaming Mercedes in their hand. ‘Our shift didn’t finish ‘till ten minutes
ago. We got here as soon as we could. Any chance you could run a few more
heats for us?’

Every chance, of course. The new entrants had the bookies tearing their
hair and scrubbing the betting clean again, but the extra round of heats was
enjoyed by all. It gave Eric, Gwladys and Idris a breather, time to take
stock and watch the progress of the other racers. Useful information about
tyre wear and momentum, gear ratios and adhesion seeped into their
consciousness as if by osmosis. A giant battle between Huge Hugh and another
face-worker whose enormous hands enveloped the dial resistors completely had
the whole room breathless. Their two cars pulled easily away from the other
two in the heat, but ran close, swapping the lead as one lane ran inside the
other, then lost out because of the superior speed of the outer car in the
broader radius. Twice Huge’s car tipped over the rail and was rescued by a
spectator, but three times his rival had to lift his car from the track and
adjust the contact strips. The cars swept round corner after corner, lap
after lap, tails swinging out in parallel, sparks flying from the rapidly
wearing contacts, clicking rhythmically over the joints and sweeping past
the slower cars on the outer rails. In the end, Huge nosed over the line a
bare inch ahead, his blood red Maserati coasting another half lap to echoing
cheers. And in the end, of course, it was Huge, Eric, Gwladys and Idris
lined up for the final. A Maserati with a miniature Villoresi at the wheel,
Eric’s Merecedes piloted by Herman Lang, Dreyfus in Gwladys’ Delahaye, and
the great Nuvolari poised inside Idris’ original D type Auto-Union. The man
from the Llamenmad Clarion took several views of the start line for Thursday
’s edition, and Ralph stood poised over the starter switch. ‘May the best
man or woman win’ he announced as the second interruption burst through the
doors. It was the Government Pit Inspector. The man from the National Coal
Board. A small man with a small moustache and a heavy briefcase. ‘Ahem. I
have reason to believe that certain articles of Coal Board property are
being hereby misused, filched, and abused. To whit; forty feet of Coal Board
plywood, several hundred yards of brazing rod, twenty low voltage electric
motors, and numerous other items of electrical equipment. I therefore demand
that proceedings here cease forthwith, all structures within this building
be demolished, and the night shift return immediately to their positions at
the coal face.’

The room fell silent. A single bookie waved a fistful of betting slips in
the air, and smiling broadly (which was in the event a severe
miscalculation) yelled ‘All bets are forfeit! Meeting cancelled. I’m off.’
‘Oh no you’re not’ said Huge, standing immovably between the bookie and the
door. ‘Do something! You can’t let this happen. Show me you’re my man now.
Take care of me properly’ said Gwladys urgently to Eric. He seized her hand
firmly and raised his face to the roof for inspiration. ‘So I’m hers now am
I?’ he thought. ‘Is she mine, then? But does anybody own anyone or anything?
’ Then he spoke.

‘Forgive me sir. You represent the National Coal Board, if I am not
mistaken. The Board which has since 1947 taken over all the individual coal
mines, taking them out of the hands of profit-mad businessmen, exploiters
and entrepreneurs and returning them to the hands of the workers, am I not
right? Llamenmad Colliery belongs now to the National Coal Board, and may
God preserve it. And the National Coal Board belongs to the nation. The
people who work the mines, pay the taxes and vote now share in the profits
of their labour. And enjoy joint and shared ownership of this pit and all it
’s workings! This track, and all it’s appurtenances was made by us and
therefore belongs to us. You, sir, are a public servant. And we-’, here Eric
paused and looked around at his audience for dramatic effect, ‘are the
public. Your service is required marshalling at Coppice bend over in the far
corner. The race is about to start, and you can leave your briefcase by the
door.’

In the face of a very united force, the man from the Coal Board could only
concede Eric’s very eloquently stated case. He withdrew to Coppice bend, and
soon was as absorbed in the racing as the rest of the folk. The tension was
at cracking point

Gwladys turned and hugged Eric, ruffled his hair, and kissed him, hard, in
full view of the whole assembled village. ‘That was a wonderful speech,
boyo. But I’m going to beat you now.’ Eric felt his knees go, but kept his
hand firmly on the resistor. Idris shuffled a few steps to his side, ‘No
more kissin, if you don’t mind. I’m a family man. Or hope to be one day.’
Huge Hughes laughed, scratched his armpit, and gave Ralph the signal to
start the final. Gwladys meant what she said, and tore off the start line
and into a three foot lead before Red Gate. But at the hairpin she
uncharacteristically spun, and by the time the car was back on the rail,
Idris, Eric and Huge had stormed past. Huge’s car had great straight line
speed and acceleration, and down Starkey’s hill he drew up to the others and
passed them, but he had to lose speed quicker than the others as well, and
Eric and Idris slewed past him in the Melbourne loop. On lap four, Idris had
to bring his car in to attend to the contacts, and re-entered in fourth
place. But he was going like a bullet, until he came up to pass Gwladys’ car
as it was tail out round Mcleans. They tangled. The Delahaye pulled clear,
relatively unaffected, but the Auto Union was limping. And at the end of
heat one, Huge was clear of Eric, then Gwladys and last, Idris, his front
wheels slightly out of line. The bookie tried to shout something about
betting being on again, but he was effectively stifled by a large miner with
a spade. Heat two ran a little like the first, with Gwladys making a fast
start, but this time she was on an inner rail, and crept carefully round Red
Gate, while the others poured on the power through Hollywood. This time Huge
’s Maserati had the advantage of the lane, and steamed off into the
distance, leaning effectively against the rails to scrub off speed in the
corners and lining up quickly onto the straights. Behind him, Eric and Idris
swapped positions at virtually every turn. Idris had managed to straighten
his front end before the start, and the two cars

the two cars were locked together, rear wheels swishing from side to side
but never touching each other, On the left turns Eric had the advantage, on
the right turns Idris crept ahead. At the end of the heat Idris had the lead
over Eric, with Huge ahead and Gwladys behind. The start of the third heat
bode well for Huge, with a clear lead accumulated already, but his car was
beginning to give off a strange acrid smell. His outright speed was
dropping, but it kept him safe in the turns, and he was able to cruise round
at a good but unspectacular average. All around him though, the race was
frantic. Gwladys had calmed down, and was in good control, her rhythm coming
naturally, and somewhat distractingly to some of the track marshals. Eric
was beginning to find his pace too, but Idris was loosing traction. His car
was beginning to bounce in left hand turns, and when he tried to apply the
pressure to Eric, leapt of the track at Coppice, into the hands of the Coal
Board man, who got a round of applause for his smart marshalling. But Idris
brought the car round slowly, and removed the split tyre from the back axle.
The heat ended with Eric in the lead, Gwladys second, Huge third, and Idris
unable to finish.

Drinks were brought before the final heat. Gwladys and Eric downed theirs
with arms entwined, but the fierce look on Gwladys’ face was intact. She
still meant business. With a second and two thirds she was low on the leader
board, but not out of it yet. Idris sank his pint with his eyes firmly
closed, working out what he needed to do to win. A first and two last places
did not look good, but he was on the best rail for the final run. And he’d
skimmed on a pair of brand new rear tyres. Huge laughed mightily and poured
the beer over his head. He needed cooling down from the outside rather than
the inside, he reckoned, and wanted a clear head for the final. A win and
two third places put him in a strong position, but his motor was overheating
badly. A few catcalls and cheers brought the finalists to the line for the
dramatic finish of the first Llamenmad Grand Prix. ‘I’ll let you win if you’
ll marry me’ Eric whispered to

Gwladys. ‘I’ll not marry you if you don’t put up a fight,’ she said in
reply. Ralph threw the switch, and the four cars careered off for the last
time. High pitched voices called out for Gwladys. A low roar of support came
for Huge. Idris and Eric pressed on regardless. The pace was tremendous, and
Gwladys swayed imperiously, her skirts swishing as she followed her Delahaye
in its loping motion round the track. She never missed a beat. Caressed it
round the turns, eased it along the straights, never put her delicate
leather-booted foot wrong. Somehow she kept clear of the struggle between
the men, who were managing to slide into each other at every bend. All three
had to be picked up off the floor at some stage in the race, and the two
silver cars and the lone red Maserati began to show the wood more clearly
beneath the paint. But by mid-way, Huge’s car was smoking. There was a
definite grey haze following it round the track, and his speed crept slowly
down. These new motors ran fast, but hot and short. Idris and Eric were
pulling clear, fighting their own duel between Mercedes and Auto Union. Then
at Melbourne loop on the penultimate lap, Eric attempted to pass inside
Idris. Their wheels touched. The back of the Mercedes ran up and over the
Auto Union and flipped high. It bounced back on the track upside down, and
cracked in two. Huge’s smoking Maserati approached at slow speed, and nudged
the wreckage to one side. But Gwladys had taken the flag already. Idris sped
through into second, and Huge’s car crossed the line in third and
immediately burst into flame. The balsa wood body and thick enamel paint
went up like a torch, but someone threw a pail of beer on it. Huge was
laughing like a drain anyway, and slapped Eric and Idris simultaneously on
the back, strongly enough to send them both halfway across the track.

The result, as any true romantic will already know, was a dead heat, with
all four finalists finishing on forty two points. Idris and Huge were down
at the coal face again the next day, Idris whittling more cars for the
coming season, and Huge prising out more coal from the seam than he’d ever
managed before. ‘So this is our pit (crash), our colliery (crunch) and our
coal (thud). Well I’m blowed (crash)’. Eric married Gwladys, of course, in
the chapel and beneath a bower of Auto Unions hand carved by Idris. He
became a union representative, and was promptly sent to work in an office in
Southport. Where he and Gwladys met several like-minded people and lived
happily ever after. The rest is History, But rail racing was never mentioned
in Wales again
until.......................................................................