Red Marley by Tim Britton

There are many forms of motorcycle sport. One of the more unusual ways is to race up a hill in a knockout competition. Rural Worcestershire is the British epicentre of such madness, with the annual freak hill climb on Easter Monday. Tim Britton was there.

Rural Worcestershire mightn't seem the place to head for a major sporting event, but for over 50 years the freak hill climb at Red Marley - on the out skirts of Great Witley village - attracted crowds of motorcycle sporting enthusiasts every Easter Monday. The event fizzled out in the early Seventies until it was revived, in 2000, by the West Midlands section of the AJS & Matchless Owners Club, as a one off, on the back of the Millennium Celebrations and restricted to pre 1970 motorcycles.

The event was a big success and ideas were put forward for a regular 'do'. The last hill used had only been available on the understanding that it would be a one off, which slowed plans down somewhat, until local landowners Geoff and Judy Goodman came up with the offer of a superb hill on their farm, just across the valley - incidentally the fourth venue for the freak hill climb. All was looking well until the scourge of foot and mouth disease devastated the countryside in 2001 however things looked good for 2002 and it was a cracking event. As far as I'm aware this is a unique event in the UK at least - if it isn't then I'd like to know and I'll ride there too - and the 'freak' in the title refers to the fact that it's off-road.

I was explaining this to a friend in Aberdeen when he rang to see what plans we had for Easter. "You really should come down Mike," says I, "there's a trial on as well and it's a great weekend." The trial is just an added attraction to the climb and it provided an opportunity for me to try out the newly acquired B40 in the cut and thrust of competition before heading up to Scotland with it. The club had put together a testing enough three lap course, without being stupid, and the combination of tight turns, steep climbs and drops on loose surfaces caused me to drop 25 marks in the clubman class. My biggest bugbear was section 13 which took the maximum five marks each lap, the tight turn on tree roots proved too much for the highish gearing on the B40. Even putting a foot down on purpose and trying to haul the bike around didn't help - so that'll be the gearing to lower before the Scottish. As competitors made their way around the trials course they had to contend with Steve Berry, from Granada Television's Men and Motors, doing the preliminaries for his TV programme on the hill climb to be aired during the first week in August.

Steve told me that he's also riding in it on a bike loaned by Stourport dealer Alec Dorrell, possibly the same BSA B50 that I rode last year. Oho, a needle match, eh? Well, I can't be beaten by Steve Berry can I? Anyway after the trial a get together by the club in the Hundred House Hotel - a fine building in sight of the actual hill - gave a chance to socialise before the main attraction. It also provided a chance for the organisers to remind everyone that all monies raised by the event are spent in the local community. Now then, it has been said that I'm a sound sleeper but surely I would have heard the thunder, lightning and torrential rain that occurred during the night if it had been as bad as they say it was.

Apparently not, as the weather was horrendous as verified by those sleeping in tents and the backs of vans in the paddock. Nor did it improve during the early hours either and, when the CBG ensemble arrived ready to do its bit, the hill could hardly be seen with visibility down to 20 yards. This in itself wouldn't have been a problem for competing as riders would always have a 20 yard 'window.' But for safety, the marshalls have to be able to see each other so that the hill can be declared clear during each run. Still, the club were busy recruiting volunteers left right and centre in order top get practice underway. Not that this meant riders were to stand idle as CBG regular, Uncle Jim Reynolds, from his exalted position as event commentator reminded riders that their motorcycles had to go through scrutineering - a simple safety check to make sure that you weren't going to be a danger to yourself and other competitors by having bits drop off your bike.

Naturally for such a delicate task you need people who know what they are doing so handling this part of the proceedings were Alec Dorrell and Leominster restorer Robin James. Both of who cast a critical eye over the 500cc ESO engined BSA I was hoping to ride should the weather pick up. With the bike declared legal, I could go and fire it up and make a few last minute adjustments. I should also mention that the nasty rumour that Ye Olde Jimme has commentated at every Red Marley Hill Climb ever, isn't entirely true... With scrutineering out of the way, I could further explain things to Mike about the way the event would run. The competition is divided up into a series of classes which are pre 1950, pre 1970 upto 350cc, pre 1970 over 350cc and an all comers class all run on a simple knockout system with the first rider over the finish line going through to the next round. In practice, riders line up in threes but for the actual heats it is in pairs.

Basically each rider gets a minimum of four runs up the hill - two practice runs followed by at least the first run in each heat. With the weather showing little signs of improving, Clerk of the Course Dave Thomas called a riders meeting to explain what was going on, however almost as soon as he did things started to improve and very soon practice was able to get under way. Now, the course itself starts off almost level before dropping slightly to where the farm access track cuts across, from there it takes in a gentle climb, over a hundred yards or so, up a small jump then it really begins to climb to what is describe as The Pimple, Dugout or Bombhole depending on who you're listening to and is almost vertical. Local man Tom Cook gave me a bit of advice on how to tackle the climb for the best results "All you do, Tim, is keep it flat out and hang on."

Ah, I see, as simple as that, eh? I wanted to see my friend's reaction to the start so as the first three riders lined up for their shot at the hill, Mike and I were positioned by the ropes. With race faces firmly set, all eyes were on the starter until, when the tapes shot up and Mike's jaw dropped, as with a crescendo of noise all three rocket from the line. "They're crazy, you're crazy for going up that!" he managed to exclaim as the next trio came to the line. Leaving Mike to watch I went off for my first practice run and decided that I'd take this one gently as I hadn't ridden the ESO before. Electing to start in second gear the tapes lifted and the other two riders were away in front as I hit the access track and rode it rather than leaped it, on up the hill I managed third and even got airborne at the Bombhole. Much more confident now I reckoned I could, against all my natural inclination, possibly leap the track like the regular scramblers. For my second practice, I was much quicker and the three of us arrived at the finish in a bunch. I felt that things were going well and there was a distinct possibility of me actually progressing to the second round.

I even had time to watch that Berry fella loop his bike twice! With practice over, the cut and thrust of the main competition could begin and I made my way to the holding pens for each heat. For some reason I got a 'by' into the second round and my confidence went up a notch - to be cruelly dashed when I eventually came to the start line along side grass and long track ace Gerald Short. Gerald isn't such a big bloke and his bike, a grass tracker, probably weighs less than half what the ESO does. Still, there's 660 yards to go and he might break down or fall off. The tapes went down and held her in second gear, an eye on the starter.

Suddenly the tapes shot up and, more by reaction than conscious effort I dumped the clutch and cracked the throttle open, I managed third before the access track and launched myself over it, accelerating all the way. Over the first jump and into the steep bit I hurtled skywards like some sort of space shuttle, seeming to be in the air for ever.