The planing for our annual trip to Toruń began earlier in the year with feverish anticipation and a multitude of excitable phone calls with the trip nearly falling through at the first hurdle! “WE CAN’T GET ANY HOTEL ROOMS, WHAT THE F**K ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
My wife nervously telephoned a few hotels in Torun, only to be told “we’re fully booked that weekend”! After what seemed like forever, we finally found an hotel stupid enough to take the six of us! £20 per person, per night, “it’ll be just like The Dorchester in London” I told everyone! I’d be sharing a room with my elder brother who’d do his best to better me at impersonating a very loud motorbike whilst closing his eyes all night, and he’d be successful! Haydn & Alan would share one of the other rooms and compare stories of bowel movements and impose flatulence in each other’s airspace whilst the last room would be taken by John and Richard with John possibly requiring tucking in each evening and having a story read. It was that kind of trip!
In the weeks leading up to the trip I consulted with myself as to what to wear on the trip, standards mustn’t be allowed to drop just because you’re going on a speedway trip I told myself, “you’re representing commonwealth and empire” as one former teacher would bark out at us scruffy urchins as we traipsed home from school each day! Now for those that don’t know, your average speedway fan isn’t the most fashion conscious person, not by a long way, Wolfsport jackets, Gola tracksuit bottoms, black imitation leather shoes and sweat stained Monster Energy caps are the order of the day for your average speedway fan! After much consideration, I plumped for all Nigel Cabourn on the jacket front, tops would have a strong Margaret Howell and John Smedley influence while the bottom half would be covered by Oni 14oz Japanese selvedge and some fine Tellesen American selvedge with a good stout pair of Grenson boots to walk the undoubted miles of cobbled streets on the Saturday. Job done!
The plan was to fly from Stansted, not ideal but with the six of us coming from all four corners of nowhere, it didn’t really matter (or so I thought)! Four of us headed south from Haydn’s home in Derby on the Thursday afternoon straight into the traffic jam from Hell!
“CANCEL THE GRAND PRIX, WE’RE STUCK ON THE M1”
We whiled away the hours discussing who we thought would win the SGP and where our hard earned money should be invested and subsequently squandered! Jason Doyle would be the rider with which we would pin our hopes of new found wealth upon, he’s the man on form, he’ll do the business we all agreed! At last we were back on the move and Haydn made light work of the drive south. We checked into our overnight accommodation, dropped off our bags and headed out for a well earned pint of what would probably be the last decent drop of ale all weekend before being subjected to that rubbish they serve in Poland, fizzy disco piss!!!
We found a cracking little boozer just down the road and heartily refuelled on good home cooked food and one or three fine ales!
Early to bed and early to rise, 04:30 to be precise. Stansted Airport was already packed to the proverbial rafters and this is where (PROBLEM NUMBER ONE) happened! A vibrating mobile phone was answered and this was the call that alerted us to the fact that we were a man down. London based John or ‘Miffy’ to his many friends had been up all night driving ‘the big white porcelain bus’! Pre match nerves had hit him at precisely the wrong time and six were now five! We eased through all the usual checks with the minimum of fuss and sought some breakfast.
As we gathered at the departure gate for our no frills flight to Bydgoszcz courtesy of Ryan Air it was evident that 90% of the people on this flight were bound for Toruń and the seasons final SGP! How do I know that, you might ask? Well, the vast majority of speedway fans are a different breed, as I previously mentioned, fashion and style has bypassed most of them and for some, soap, shampoo, washing powder and washing machines have also failed to come into contact with them! The air was alive with body odour and my eyes survived a sea of Wolfsport jackets, cheap team hoodies, tracksuit bottoms, various ghastly Superdry garments, imitation leather shoes and garish trainers and of course the compulsory sweat stained baseball cap! We hoped for strong stomachs and boarded the plane, Next stop Bydgoszcz!!!
Upon arrival in Poland, Haydn insisted that we could trim the costs by all squeezing into one taxi from the airport into the centre of town, (AND THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER TWO OCCURRED) you see, this is Poland, everything is relatively inexpensive in Poland, you can’t spend your money at the best of times thus the need to be so thrifty isn’t necessary! Upon command from our team leader we all shoehorned ourselves into the worlds smallest six seater car and with little in the way of suspension we proceeded to bounce and bump our way into the centre of Bydgoszcz. Whilst pealing ourselves out of the worlds smallest six seater car the inevitable happened, my old back problem reoccurred and my prolapsed disc was back! The pain was incredible, how could this be happening, now of all the times you don’t want it to rear it’s ugly head, here it was!!! Through gritted teeth I soldiered on, this was going to be a very long weekend! We had planned to have a few beers and a spot of lunch in Bydgoszcz but Alan’s nerves and his desire to check into an hotel 50 km away got the better of him and to crass remarks of “there’s nothing in this shithole” we sadly departed for Toruń by train.
“DO WIDZENIA BYDGOSZCZ”!
CZEŚĆ TORUŃ
The fifty kilometre journey by train to Toruń was a nice bit uneventful one costing the five of us just £8 between us! (Northern Rail, please take notice)! I was in agony on the journey as spasm after spasm shot through my lower back, I wasn’t enjoying this!
As the train pulled into Toruń station we felt that we’d arrived home, home to good speedway, home to good bars, home to good, well cooked Polish fare, HOME TO GOOD WEEKENDS!!! We checked into our hotel, much to Alan’s relief (he could relax a little now or maybe not) a quick freshen up and we were all walking into the square on the hunt for food and looking like something out of a poor Reservoir Dogs sequel! (NOW THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER THREE OCCOURS)! Toruń isn’t the biggest of towns and some of my travelling companions aren’t the most adventurous of explorers so inevitably we headed for the tried and tested bars we’d been to on previous visits, this is all a little too familiar I thought! With batteries recharged and a back held together with with nothing more than hope and an ice cold shower we readied ourselves for a Friday night on the town! A Friday night in Toruń is a night to behold for any speedway fan as the exciting chatter of all things Grand Prix related reaches fever pitch! Looking resplendent in my Nigel Cabourn Mallory jacket, crisp shirt and dashing paisley cravat we headed for our usual night time watering hole, The Kuranty. When we first ventured into Toruń all those years ago, you’d never have known what was behind the ‘big brown door’ but curiosity got the better of us and we nervously slipped inside.
“BEHOLD, FOR WE HAVE FOUND UTOPIA”
Stood before us was the inside of a traditional Polish pub that had been largely untouched since the communist era!
Over the years many a curious speedway fan has discovered what is behind that ‘big brown door’ and now it’s plainly obvious due to it’s inviting windows and large Guinness signage outside! For many a year we had the run of this fine establishment to ourselves but alas, we now sadly have to share it with the masses! This year we find a completely new, Americanised menu serving food (if you dare call it that) catering largely for the burger and fries brigade rather than the discerning gentleman on the lookout for some fine Polish fare! (and the portions have shrunk too)! I’d arranged to meet a mate, Kevin, in The Kuranty and he soon appeared along with his trusty Yorkshire sidekick John Waite (NO NOT THAT JOHN WAITE) although it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if he’d have broken into ‘Missing You’ at any point in the evening, he had the knack of holding an audience, that was without question! It was a pleasure to meet up with Kevin, a lifelong Crayford Kestrels fan who travels the length and breadth of the continent to get his speedway fix! The night was now picking up a pace as another of my mates Jamie ‘The Bradford Ace’ was bending the ear of SGP race director Phil Morris. The main topic of conversation was Belle Vue’s chances of hosting a second British SGP along with Cardiff, the overwhelming response (and it came as little surprise) was never in a month of Sunday’s! With drinks now in full flow and our conversations with messers Kevin, John and Mr P Morris also in full flow and my back pain easing off with each consumed pint, in stepped the cavalry, former Sheffield Speedway legends Doug Wyer & Craig Pendlebury (the latter flying all the way from his home in Australia). The night was about to go into overdrive!!! Bounding straight over to our table, a round of greetings and backslapping was quickly followed by another round of drinks! Doug, as ever, regaled us with his tales of yesteryear and we hung on his every word like a group of impressionable school boys listening to what some crime fighting superhero had been up to! Craig on the other hand was his usual well mannered, measured self standing back and letting Doug take centre stage whilst chipping in every now and then with well chosen words of wisdom! Jamie could never forgive Craig for the part he played in Kenny Carter’s broken leg, I on the other hand could never thank him enough, we’re at opposite ends of the seesaw on this one Jamie! Beer and tales were in full flow but before we knew it, it was 02:00 and we reluctantly had to bid farewell to everyone and head our separate ways. The five of us headed back to our hotel (That bore little resemblance to The Dorchester) for some much needed shut eye and a round of who can snore the loudest, I can confirm that this was once again won hands down by my elder brother!!!
Saturday morning began at 06:15 with the ringing of the bells summoning one and all to early morning mass. I decided that they would have to start prayers without me as, much to my annoyance (PROBLEM NUMBER FOUR HAD REARED ITS UGLY HEAD) you see, soft beds and prolapsed discs do not make good bed fellows and the pain was worse than ever! I’m stuck ridged to the bed and movement is laboured. A long shower helps but dressing is an arduous task. After much sweating and swearing the job is done and I’m ready to perform my duties of aimlessly ambling along cobbled street after cobbled street that we’ve trodden countless times before! (AND THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER FIVE TAKES HOLD)! The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu had gripped me and the thought of aimlessly ambling along Toruń’s back streets just procrastinating wasn’t what I both wanted or really needed, even as beautiful as they are!
The afternoon wore on slowly only punctuated by the need for lunch and liquid salvation. We reviewed our investments at the turf accountants over what was becoming a rather leisurely lunch where beer had become the main course but doing little to numb the pain of a shattered glass back. Spirits were lifted however as we met Reg Wilson and began to ‘chew the fat’ about Sheffield’s forgettable season and discuss the nights drinking arrangements! On bidding farewell we immediately bumped into Garry Stead and his friends. Now (and I’m not ashamed to admit it) I took a moment to compose myself before entering into conversation with Mr True Grit himself. I let the pain and self pity of my own back problems go scurrying off into the furthest recesses of my mind as we spoke about the weekend, the destination of the title and the upcoming WSRA dinner dance in Leicester before once again all wishing each other well and going our separate ways!
Late afternoon we first retired and then returned as new men ready for the Grand Prix. We pushed and jostled our way aboard tram number five and headed up to the stunning Moto Arena.
Upon arrival at the track, too late for beer, we soon realised that the gate number on our tickets didn’t exist!!! One look at the Brobdingnagian crowd before us, all trying to enter the stadium via four tiny turnstiles had us fearing an impending doom of having to join the swelling mass! We weren’t wrong as an overweight security guard motioned for us to join the party! We were certain to miss the start of the meeting as anxious looks at ever speeding wristwatches sent us into a blind panic. Up ahead, someone opened a gate and people poured into the gladiatorial arena and disappeared down concourses. We wasted no time in following their lead and after showing our tickets to the bemused, riot clad security guards and police at the gate, WE WERE IN and in our seats just in time to see the tapes rise for heat one and what a heat it was, riders passed and re-passed each other on every turn and national hero and champion in waiting, Bartosz Zmarzlik rode a stormer, going from last to first and snatching race victory on the line!!!
“THIS IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER TORUŃ CLASSIC” WE TOLD OURSELVES!
We were to be disappointed, the rest of the meeting, other than Bartosz Zmarzlik’s races were, at times, strung out, processional affairs that did little to raise the heart rate or take my mind off my ever worsening back condition! During intervals I was having to walk gingerly around the back of the stands aka Peter Collins style in 1977!
As heat eleven approached we eagerly anticipated the clash of the titans, England’s Tai Woffinden and Poland’s wonder boy Bartosz Zmarzlik, one and two in the standings with little more than an hour left in what has been a long SGP season! This very race could decide the destination of the 2018 World Championship! The atmosphere reached fever pitched proportions and it was edge of the seat action as firstly Zmarzlik hit the front and then Woffinden hit the deck!!! Was this the moment that the proverbial pendulum swung in the Polish boys favour? With a collective sigh of relief, the thousands of English fans packed in the crowd breathed out as one when Tai Woffinden got back on his feet and walked away, seemingly unarmed. He’d live to fight another day but the points gap was closing! A solitary point in his next ride saw the gap close up even more and Polish optimism grew stronger! With Woffinden needing two or more points from his final race to secure at semifinal spot and me needing to stretch the muscles in my back, I headed back out onto the concourse and noticed I wasn’t the only one stretching my legs, a plethora of well dressed, beautiful young ladies were congregated in the concourses, (the man who runs around hitting people with the ugly stick wasn’t having much luck here)! The view here was as good if not better than what was on offer on the other side of the stands, I’m a sucker for a well dressed, good looking woman!!! The roar of both bike and crowd broke my concentration and had me hobbling back to my seat and that all important heat twenty. With what seemed like consummate ease, Tai Woffinden flew from the gate, into the semifinals and to within one point of becoming a three time World Champion! I ventured back onto the concourse in search of something a little more pleasant on the eye and in order to stop myself from seizing up. I was rewarded with both but with the semifinals looming and Tai Woffinden and his new nemesis Bartosz Zmarzlik paired in the second semi I broke away from my surveying duties and headed back once more to my seat! Weighing up the situation, all the young British boy needs is a third place or for Zmarzlik to drop a point and he’s World Champion. In the end we needn’t have worried, he jets away from the tapes and all Bartosz Zmarzlik can do is throw the bike at him (literally) but the soon to be three time champion is long gone. In the stands the celebrations have begun as thousands of English fans along with a large number of Poles, Danes and Swedes alike dance with delirium and punch the air with delight, they’re soon to be joined by the champion himself as he does his own Pat Cash moment and climbs into the crowd in search of his most cherished! I try to join in the euphoric celebrations but pain shoots up my back and down my leg, I decide to just clap in admiration and soak up the atmosphere, nights like this are few and far between! My thoughts are lost for a moment and I can’t help but think that somewhere high above us someone is looking down on the celebratory scenes with a broad smile saying “THATS MY BOY”!
Amid all the celebrations, we still had a meeting to complete and incredibly there were no Poles in the final but there was a lone Brit, Tai Woffinden! Somehow he had made it all the way to the final, who’d have thought that after heat eleven? That final race should have been something of an anticlimax to a man that had just become World Champion but Tai Woffinden being Tai Woffinden, he wasn’t done yet, he shot away from the gate and by the third bend it was all over, World Champion for a third time and Grand Prix winner on the night, you can’t argue with that!
The fireworks had barely finished as we rattled along tram line number five and onto the bright lights of Toruń. We reached The Kuranty Bar, it was full of the young and enthusiastic, eagerly sizing up another Saturday night out, something that the onset of communism had denied their forefathers of, just as Tai Woffinden in all probability will deny their fellow countrymen of that coveted world title in the forthcoming years! He really is that good! We drank into the small hours, some in celebration of a new World Champion and some to numb the pain that only a slipped disc can bring!
Sunday started just as Saturday did with the ringing of the bells at 06:15 calling Poland’s catholics to cleanse their souls and confess their sins. It had been a while since I last attended mass and I promised myself that I’d attend soon if it would go some way to help ease my pain!
We began our journey back to dear old Blighty with the sound of the bells still ringing in the distance. A one hour taxi ride to Bydgoszcz followed by a two hour flight to Stansted had my back in complete agony and I actually cried out in pain as the pilot touched down on terra firma, this was not how it should have been! Once through customs we said our farewell to Richard, I hoped he’d enjoyed his first visit to Toruń and I looked forward to catching him at Foxhall next season, a nicer man you could never wish to meet! During the long drive north I came to realise that I’d had my fill of SGP life, I’d strode the same path for too many years. The overall quality of racing this year had been very poor, next years predicted lineup wasn’t doing much to excite me and as stated previously, the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu was starting to take hold. When you mix all that with the thought of a reoccurring back problem raising it’s ugly head while you’re a thousand miles from home, it doesn’t give you much to look forward to! So with a heavy heart I decided to call time on my SGP jaunts, they’re not quite as enjoyable as they once were. Familiarity breeds contempt as they say! They are not wrong! Maybe I’ll come out of retirement for the odd one, who knows!
I returned home to smiling faces relieved that their intrepid warrior had once more returned in one piece (just) and bearing gifts aplenty! A welcoming hot shower was followed by a multitude of ice packs and lashings of Deep Freeze, that should help ease the pain!
POLSKA, TO BYŁO EMOCJONALNE!
Thanks for reading,
Mark.
THIS SPORTING LIFE 