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Easter Saturday found me indulging in the stunning scenery of the South Island of New Zealand in perfect sunshine for the occasion of Warbirds over Wanaka, probably the most enjoyable air show I’ve ever attended.
With everything from biplanes to F16s (along with a supporting KC135 refueller) in the air, there was action aplenty as well as the static aircraft displays.
But whilst the spectacle of watching icons such as a pair of P51 Mustangs and a superb de Havilland Mosquito, two of the most important planes of World War II, cavort in the clear blue skies, in front of a simply huge sellout crowd, was magnificent, there was more, much more, to the day for me.
And that was because I was having a bit of a feed.
In an unassuming hangar on the Wanaka airfield, a group of ageing luminaries from the motorcycle racing world were on the gas over crayfish butties and plates of local venison. Two hundred people with more ‘war stories’ between them than the average Spitfire squadron. Welcome to The Long Lunch.
Some folks will know that I’m a two-wheel tragic. I once dreamt of being a competitive motorcycle racer but, after five years of being overtaken by everyone and his dog on the tracks of the UK, I thought better of it and added a couple more wheels to my own programme (which, to be honest, wasn’t really that much better!).
Hence I’ve always been full of admiration for those who have actually achieved great heights in motorcycle racing and especially for those who competed in those golden, albeit very dangerous, days of the 1970s and ‘80s. No riders (nor engineers and mechanics) typified the spirit of the times more than those who emanated from the Southern Hemisphere and made the long trek to Europe. The almost gypsy-like existence, as they went from track to track competing in big-money races between actual Grands Prix, in their Mercedes vans stuffed with race bikes, towing caravans, looked to me like the epitome of fun back then, as long as you stayed alive. Many didn’t.
And last Saturday, in a shed in Wanaka, I was lucky enough to eat, drink and talk with a number of the survivors from that era during The Long Lunch.
Guys such as Graeme Crosby, the Kiwi from Blenheim, who finished second in the 1982 500cc World Championship (the forerunner to the present day MotoGP class) and won three Isle of Man TTs; Stu Avant, the perennial privateer from Christchurch who, as much as anyone from those times, typified the spirit of the racer-gypsy lifestyle whilst making a name for himself in GPs on a Suzuki RG500; and South African (now resident in Brisbane) Kork Ballington, a superstar in my book.
Ballington was World 250cc and 350cc Champion in both 1978 and 1979 on the in-line twin Kawasakis. His team-mate was Greg Hansford, the Aussie, who later switched to four wheels with success before passing away tragically at Phillip Island. No mean combination in terms of talent.
They fought some truly epic battles in the heady days of the late 1970s, none greater than in the 250cc race in The Nations Grand Prix at Mugello in 1978 when Kork won by 25mm or so in a photo finish. The third place rider, Franco Uncini, a future 500cc World Champion, finished over 50 seconds behind the Kawasaki pair.
And then there was one Aussie legend, sitting opposite me last Saturday, who should have been in the mix in Europe in the 1980s, but never actually got to Brisbane airport, let alone London Heathrow! He was a prolific race winner at home, more than holding his own against some of those who’d later win big on the world stage. His name seemed familiar… Paul Feeney. Turns out his son can race a car pretty well!
Feen and I had actually travelled over to NZ with a couple of other car dealer mates, plus Dick Smart (a member of the Mick Doohan squad for years), one of an iconic group of mechanics and engineers with a MotoGP past who were at the lunch.
Those other bolties and crew chiefs over there included Jeremy Burgess, Mike Sinclair, and Paul Tracey, all highly successful back in the day. JB made his name with not only with Mick, but also Valentino Rossi of course, whilst Mike and Paul, Kiwis both, worked with Kenny Roberts for years.
Collectively, these motorcycling legends made the day at Warbirds truly memorable. Stories flowed as fast as the beers. But even without The Long Lunch, Warbirds over Wanaka was a superb spectacle, and I can’t recommend it highly enough when it returns in a couple of years’ time.
We also managed to get down to Invercargill to go through both the Bill Richardson Transport World museum and the Classic Motorcycle Mecca emporium. The BRTW is particularly interesting and must rank as one of the best in the world of its type. As you wend your way through the maze of halls there is a never ending array of trucks and vans that provide a fascinating insight into antipodean life through the last century. It’s well worth the trek south from Queenstown.
Of course, it’s impossible to complete this travelogue without mention of the Highlands racetrack in Cromwell. It so happens that I know the owner, a Mr A Quinn of Brisbane, Australia. He employs a first class manager for his Kiwi operations, Josie Spillane, who ensured that our group of five pensioners (well, four plus one worker) enjoyed a morning taking in the Subaru WRX Experience at Highlands. Very well run, it allowed the runts of the litter to outperform their personal capabilities to the extent that they actually thought they’d won the day ahead of the proven talents of Feen and me. A ripper day out.
If I make it all sound like an advertisement for Queenstown, Wanaka, and the South Island, then that’s as it should be. There’s more than skiing over there. A lot more.
Finally, a big shout out to Peter Donaldson for arranging The Long Lunch and making everyone so welcome. If you, dear readers, don’t share my passion for MotoGP and its history, then so be it. All I can say is that you’re missing something very special.
