The Worm-Wood Report
THE WORM-WOOD REPORT
CLIVE TWEEDLEY
WHAT HO! adoring readers. It’s Tweedley here again, dashing in with the particulars of the just-run. Wormwood T.T. It was a fortnight ago last Tuesday, that I tooled up to Yardstock-on-the-Fens for the 57th annual running of the world’s oldest and perhaps best known motorcycle race. A bit of a crowd had gathered outside the gate and was milling about in the fog early in the morning of this much anticipated event. I presented my press credentials to the mustachioed ruffian at the wicket and along with a fiver, they gained my entrance to the grounds. I made straightaway for the pit area, hoping to encounter some of my old racing chums. And sure enough, who should I first catch sight of, but good old Desmond Dromic. “Des” and I shared many a dice in the old days when he piloted our 532cc Whipple sidecar rig.
I’ll never forget that last race we ran at the Nurburgring, when we were shunted into a thicket at 1 30 knots by a wildeyed Italian team on a 125cc Buzzi. Somehow, that experience took the edge off my appetite for racing and it was then that I started the writing game; but I digress. Having caught up on Des’ latest activities over a pint of dark, I toddled off to visit some of the other competitors. Strolling into the Italian pits, I observed Luigi Lasagna, numero uno of the Scuderia Provalone, warming up the new prototype of the Cavaliera Rusticano. This scarlet screamer is completely silent at full chat, but from zero to 22,499 RPM, where peak torque comes in, it’s enough to shake the monocle from one’s eye.
"Si, Clove.”
“Clive,” I said.
“Si, Clive” he said, grinning an evil grin and fingering an evil looking stiletto,
“I hava not much of the English, but I’ma gonna winna today, or else.”
“I say old chap, you can’t use that dagger on the other competitors; it wouldn’t be cricket, you know.”
“Whassamatter you, Cleve?”
“Clive,” I suggested.
“O.K. Clive, Erna no usa on da udder riders, I’ma use to cutta da salami. I’ma race better ona full stomach. Pass the Chianti. Arivaderci, Cluve,” he smiled as I staggered away, wiping a speck of garlic from my sleeve.
Remembering the old days with Monty, “Bon Giormo Luigi, old bean” I said, “Do you have any predictions for the outcome of this afternoon’s race?” at El-Alamain, I decided to pop over to the German pits. At least I knew where I stood with those blokes.
“Halt!” snapped a burly mechanic in jock boots, with a poorly concealed schmiesser in his tool box.
“Honde Hoch und ober by dot wall, you fink.”
“I say, Siegfried,” I said, trying to retain my dignity with my hands on my head, standing against the wall, “I’m a member of the fourth estate.”
“Iss dot anyting like der Third Reich?” he said, relaxing his scowl slightly.
“No, no, Fritz, I’m a reporter, a correspondent, I write for the magazines.”
“Ach so!” he said, relaxing, “I thought you was a spy from that fershluginer French team. They’re always picking on us, just like 1939.” I thought it not prudent to argue the point and feeling a bit faint anyway, I proceeded with my interview.
“Could you tell me the capacity of your new engine?”
“Restricted information,” he snapped.
“How many cylinders?”
“Secret!”
“How is power transmitted to the rear wheel?”
“How did you find oudt we were using a rear wheel?” he shouted, cuffing me severely about the head and shoulders. Beating a hasty retreat, I went off to seek some nerve tonic at the hot buttered rum stand.
Having partaken of a soothing libation, I followed a trail of empty Coca-Cola bottles to the pits of the only American machine entered. It was to be ridden by that famous Yank expert, Rickey Racewell, who was making his first start on the continent. Laying about me furiously with my umbrella, I cleared a path through a throng of admiring females and took refuge in the lee of a bulky, tarpaulincovered shape in the center of the pits. Screwing up my courage to the breaking point, I cautiously lifted one corner of the tarp and was momentarily blinded by the glitter of chrome and the multi-colored brilliance of numerous decals. Every unchromed square inch of the machine was covered with advertisements proclaiming the advantages of using Wynn’s frictionproofing, Bardahl, Champion Sparking Plugs, Moon equipment, the U.S. Mail and Knott’s Berry Farm. Turning away in confusion, I chanced to brush against a charming creature, stunningly attired in a leather bikini and motorcycle boots.
“Pardon me, my dear,” I apologized. “Could you possibly direct me to Mr. Racewell? I’m Clive Tweedley, the famous writer, and Fd like to get a few particulars about your racing chassis.” “Well,” she said, “I'm the chief mechanic and my chassis is 36-24-36.”
“No, no, my dear,” I said, popping my monocle back into place, “I meant the chassis on your racing machine.”
“Oh, you Englishmen are all alike,” she breathed softly, “All work and no play makes Clive a dull boy.” With this she began slowly toying with the buttons on my trench coat. Pleading a previous engagement, I retreated to the far side of the pit and finally found the object of my search; he was reclining* on a stack of racing “slicks” and reading a popular American racing magazine called Playboy. “Good day sir, my name is —”
“I know what your name is,” he interrupted rudely, “What the hell do you mean in your lousy magazine, that European racing is tougher than our American style?” Seizing a large crescent wrench, which seems to be the only tool these Yanks use, he sprang to his feet and advanced on me in a very threatening manner.
“Dear me, sir,” I protested desperately, “it’s obviously a case of mistaken identity. You have me confused with Clyde Freedley; he’s really the type of blackguard who would write just such drivel.” Somehow, I felt he wasn’t convinced by my protestations of innocence, so I beat a hasty retreat, pursued by a volley of curses and crescent wrenches.
Unerringly my steps turned again towards the refreshment stand and after a few more calming draughts I was ready to face whatever other harrowing events might be in store with comparative equanimity.
As I selected my vantage point on the short straight between the Frothingshlosh esses and the Fitz-Whortly chicane, a sudden chill in the weather sent an icy blast whistling about my ears. Surmising that a further intake of frost fortifier might be advantageous at this point, I unpocketed my emergency pint of Napolean and partook of a short pull, followed by several long ones. As the start of the race was a few minutes off, I picked a soft spot among the rocks and reclined, to await further developments. I was peering down toward the start-finish line, when suddenly a sort of misty veil seemed to descend before my eyes. I thought that perhaps if I relaxed and closed my eyes for just a moment, the illusion would disappear.
When I awoke the track was deserted and it was quite dark. I shall never understand what could have caused me to doze off at such a crucial time; perhaps I’ve just been working too hard lately.
Well, dear readers, that is what took place this year at Wormwood. There may have been a race, but I can’t really swear that there was and since I was the only representative of the press present, I assume that 1963 will go down in history as the year when no one won the Wormwood T.T. •
