t
happy days but as said and its the first thing you see is the signs
motor sport is dangerous
rip all those that die following their dreams
weve all been reckless occasionally
That's a good point about following your dreams. Sometimes it's purely down to luck, good or bad. In the mid '70s I went to Oulton Park to watch a round of the Transatlantic Trophy. Before, between and after the main races there were a number of 125, 250 and 350 races, some at National Championship level with others simply being Clubman events. Oulton Park, although having held Grands Prix in the 1950s was an old fashioned circuit with very little run off areas on some bends, mainly the last few on the way back to Lodge Corner. During one of the Clubman's races a rider slid off and just missed the Armco which was covered with straw bales to reduce impact on the rider. Sadly, just after the Armco and straw bales there was a short length of track whereby the earth bank was only lined with old railway sleepers. Because of the year, although ACU approved helmets were mandatory, there was no requirement for them to be of the "full face" style which is now worn by all open wheel car drivers and motorcyclists.
As bike and rider struck the sleepers he was thrown back up into the air..... and so was his helmet. The race was stopped as the doctor and arrived. At the time the ambulance was elsewhere on the track. After two or three minutes the medical staff just picked up the rider and unceremoneously dumped him onto a stretcher on the embankment and carried him up to the Bailey Bridge and into an ambulance that had now arrived.
The mess was cleared up and after about 15 minutes a brief announcement was made over the tannoy and the next race began. I've no idea who the unfortunate chap was; whether he was young, middle aged, or old. I never found out if he was married with kids or single. He would have been an enthusiast. He quite probably had a run-of-the-mill job with his Transit parked in the Paddock and someone waiting at home for him to come back for his tea and then down the pub for a few hours. Except that he didn't go home.
I'm guessing that this was possibly the most important race meeting he'd taken part in, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Barry Sheene, Percy Tait, Mick Grant, Kenny Roberts and all the other factory riders with their motor homes and articulated trucks with mechanics and PR girls.
The important part of this ramble is that he was following his dream. And he died for that dream.
Edit: After all that, I thought that perhaps the poor chap deserved an identity, but, via Google the closest I can get is Derek Best and the year would have been 1976. If anybody knows differently then please correct me.