Pneumatic tyres and graders don't mix!

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Punch and I pitched up early for work on Saturday morning. There had been no rain since last Thursday and the track looked in great shape. We had spent a long time preparing and repairing the track on Thursday and that hard work looked to have paid dividends.

Our first job was to clean as much shale off the kickboards and then away from the boards as possible. It is impossible to get the baldes right up to the kickboards without running the danger of ripping the boards out. This means that shale builds up alongside the boards and needs to be removed manually.

There is moisture in the surface of the track so we decide to regrade and then pack it firmly once we have finished top dressing areas of the track where damage has been done.

We distribute new shale at the entrance to turn 1, through turns 1 and 2, on the entrance to turn 3 and by the start gate. It's warm work on a fresh spring morning.

If we can pack this new material down thoroughly it will stand a chance of binding with the base if there is moisture in the air between now and the next meeting against the Lakeside Hammers this Thursday.

The major packing work will be done with the big water tanker. Avid readers will know that I was taught how to drive the tanker last week. They will also appreciate how amzed I was that Punch should trust me for a second week behind the wheel of the leviathon.

Even half empty, the tanker is extremely heavy and, as Punch gradesand smooths the surface I begin to work from the outside of the track inwards to the white line. The harder we can pack, the more water will run off the surface in the event of rain and the better the chance of the new material binding. We circulate for the best part of an hour, by which time Adam Laws has turned up.

We turn our attention to the ugly scars across the centre green left by the excavations of the archaeologists. Punch grades and I pack and then he grades and I pack and soon the surface looks to be flat enough for the scattering of some grass seed in the next couple of weeks. The burial site behind the pits is now almost entirely surrounded by boarding, presumably to keep prying eyes away when the bodies are uncovered. It might also be used to keep Sky Presenters out when they search for yet more ancient anecdotes for the Monday live fixture.

And then disaster strikes. Deflated ... I should say so. Whilst trying to manoeuvre the tanker into a tight parking space behind the pits I knick the front driver's tyre on the corner of an errant grader. It deflates with an awful hissing sound. I am distraught - Gerald will murder me.

Punch appreciates my concern and relates a story about when he punctured the rear tyre of a lorry he was driving. Determined to discover the cause of the puncture he stopped the lorry and reveresed back, puncturing another tyre in the process!

Thursday 29th March - Race Day
The weather forecast looked to be against us with showers coming in on a regular basis from the west and there had been some overnight rain in the area. However, the track looked in fine condition when I arrived at 8.45 on Thursday. Roy Hicks was already there although there was no sign of Gerald or Punch. I’ve taken to bringing a lap top to the track with DVDs of recent Sky meetings to keep us entertained. Once that has been set up in our rest room Roy and set off in search of the terrible twins!

The air fences are already partly inflated in readiness for Mick Richards and his pressure cleaning unit. When we find them Gerald and Punch are both in good humour.

“Morning Graham! Feeling deflated or depressed this morning? Or are you tyred? We don’t want to puncture your dreams. Have we taken the wind out of your sails, or tyres?” The barrage of cruel puns continues, referring to my faux pas when I punctured a tyre on the water tanker at the weekend. Brian Cox, John Nobbs and Shirl enjoy the banter. Apparently John managed to run over a rake within minutes of the tanker being delivered. The result was the same! There is a really good feel to the team, and that is important; there are times when everything gets tense and the elements turn against you so a team spirit is valuable.

I help Brian Cox to carry the advertising A boards out on the centre green. Last year we had two small vans from one of our sponsors; they were perfect for carrying air pumps, advertising A frames etc. around. This year we have lost them so my Peugeot is used to carry air pumps and other heavy items around. Brian and I now have to carry the frames out. They’re not heavy but in a sharp wind they do tend to take on the aspect of a sail. One of these days we’ll take off and will be last seen disappearing over the horizon. While Roy hangs the green catch netting on turns 3 and 4 I set to hanging the netting on turns 1 and 2.

By half nine all of the air fence and catch fencing is in place. Punch and I put the safety fence inserts into place. We have three areas of safety fence that are removable so that the greyhound starting gates can be moved in and out during dog meetings. Mick has arrived and, with Roy, is setting up the pressure cleaner. The air fence has to be washed with warm water mixed with detergent and then rinsed with cold water. It’s important that the minimum of water is used – too much and we get a boggy area near the fence that’s virtually impossible to drain.

Punch, Gerald and I turn our attention to the problem of pressure washing the white line and the boards. We’ve been given a pressure washer, a large industrial one that runs off mains electricity and heats water via a diesel powered heater. There is no chance of running a cable out to the unit when we’re out on the centre green so a new generator has been provided for us. We suspect that the gleaming little generator is a little to small to power the jet washer but we are forever hopeful.

Gerald has found the wheeled unit that was used when the wonderwheel was delivered. We decide that, with a few minor modifications, this could be made into a pretty decent wheeled platform that could accommodate washer and generator while being pulled around by a tractor.

Punch cuts up some steel with an angle grinder – he doesn’t immediately get the inadvertent joke – “Have you got your old grinder with you today?” – and is temporarily bemused as Gerald and I fall about with laughter. With steel sections cut and the frame marked up with an indelible marker, Gerald sets to with the arc welder.

Punch and I load the pressure washer and the generator onto an old trailer that Punch has brought along. Mick stands back and giggles. He’s sure the generator wont have the b.lls to power the washer. With every derisory comment Punch and I become more determined that the generator will work – let’s face it, if it doesn’t we’re in deep do do!

Out on the track we connect up the main hosepipe and then start the generator. All is well. We smile smugly. We turn on the pressure washer … and the generator stops, the trip switches having tripped at the same time. We check the water supply, we try again, the generator stops and the trips trip. Mick looks on with a self satisfied smirk on his face. Punch mutters beneath his breath – not a happy bunny.

We decide to try plugging the pressure washer into the mains supply near the start gates. Stan Potter, the start marshal is measuring out his tapes, and offers to help. We plug in … and nothing happens. Stan and I trace the mains cable to a circuit breaker switch up in the referee’s box. Punch stomps off disgustedly. All seems well in the box but no signs of life from the washer. After much cursing and the trying out of several combinations of on and off settings Stan and I reach the conclusion that the power box by the start gate is as dead as the proverbial.

When I reach the pits to tell Gerald and Punch of our failure they have already devised a cunningly plan involving a mop, a bucket of detergent, a cleaning brush and a length of hosepipe. Amidst all the glamour and sophistication brought to Elite league speedway over the last few years, the three of us are left with no alternative but to use a mop and bucket to clean the boards. It is a dull and slightly demeaning task, but one that has to be done properly. The shale sticks to the boards with amazing strength. Gerald mops, I brush and Punch tries to blast off the remaining grime with the hosepipe attached to a water pump. By common consensus, the boards still look very ordinary by the time we finish. Gerald even suggests that we might like to paint over some of the more discoloured ones. Punch and I mutter under our breath and secretly question his sanity.

Despite the frustrations of the morning, lunch is a jolly affair. Punch has brought in his trusty sandwich maker – it’s a case of Better the Breville you know! – and a supply of the thickest cut bread and cheese that I’ve ever seen. We even have a table cloth! I must bring in some silver polish to brighten up the cutlery. Gerald and I feast on hot cheese toasted doorsteps while Punch eats a cold Baked Beans sandwich.

Still no sign of the promised rain. The track is looking very smooth but is drying out rather too quickly for our liking. Unless we can get some water into it soon the base will remain bone dry and the dust will appear after the first round of heats. We also need to get some moisture into the newly laid parts of the surface – the top layer will break up otherwise.

Punch and I work our way round the air fences pinning them to the safety fence. The referee will check on the bindings and fixing of the fence prior to the meeting and will include comments on the safety aspect in his report.

Gerald hitches up the Blunsdon Ripper – no not some psychopathic murderer – the device that rips up the surface to give added grip. He rips the start line (our lads like nice grippy start lines) and the exits of turns 2 and 4 on the inside. Once the surface has been ripped it needs to be tyre packed and watered to stop it from breaking up completely. However, all chances of watering are swiftly curtailed by news that a heavy rain band would be depositing its riches all over the stadium at about 4pm.

I take the chance to go round and check the kickboards and the cable ties that keep them in place. I think that the experiment to replace the old rivets with cable ties has been a success so far. Even though I have to replace about 20 ties, mostly broken by the weight of shale that is deposited upon them during a meeting, this is still much faster than replacing 10 rivets.

While I have been away from the pits the riders and their entourages have started to appear. Other track staff are arriving and a group set about putting out the boards on the greyhound track where the tractors drive. Like the parting of the Red Sea in biblical times, the dark, looming rain clouds pass on either side of the stadium and not a drop is deposited upon the hallowed shale. With two hours to go to the start of the meeting we have to take a calculated risk and water the track. Failure to do so now would be disastrous for good racing later in the evening. Riders appear at the pits gate and then furtively move onto the track, digging into the surface with the toes of their shoes. At this stage they’re not really supposed to be on the track; track staff are still working and Health and Safety demands that riders and track staff should not be working at the same time on the racing surface.

While one rider believes we should flood the track now another thinks it looks fine. Another believes that there is too much dirt on the track, his colleague would like more. You cannot please all of the riders all of the time. Gerald adopts the approach that if Terry (Russell) and he are happy then all is well. Terry is happy because it now looks as if there is no threat to the meeting and Gerald, while a little concerned that the moisture has not reached the base in sufficient quantities, is a satisfied man.

I remove the greyhound gate and then make sure that the water tankers are all filled to the brim. I also check on each of the air pumps to make sure that they have sufficient fuel for the evening and that a full petrol can and a funnel is placed on each of the corners. Bob, air pump and starting gate supremo, is a great help, especially when one of the air pumps cuts out intermittently. Apparently each pump contains a very small oil reservoir. When the oil level drops below the permitted level the pumps cuts out. We bring out a reserve pump just in case.

The riders have completed their track walk so we venture out to repair the gardening that has taken place at crucial parts of the track and then seek a few minutes rest in the rest room with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. This is the quiet before the storm – there is little we can do but wait for the referee’s comments and the start of the meeting. Mick Hunt, Clerk of the Course, reports that the ref., Tony Steele, has found that one clasp on an air bag is missing. It’s a minor problem and one we can manage easily. Considering how big the Abbey Stadium track is, we are delighted that he has had to work so hard to find a minor problem.

Tractors and track equipment are removed from the track and parked alongside the pits. The parade begins and the pits fall silent. We’re one or two track staff short this evening so arrangements have to be made to ensure the correct numbers of rakers and flag marshals are on each corner.

Punch, Gerald and I find a place to watch the first heat. Adams and Chrzanowski roar to a fine 5 – 1. The racing looks to be good and fast, although the lads from Lakeside are outpaced. As the reserves come out Leigh Adams come across for a chat with Gerald. He’s happy, and so we’re happy.

One of the problems with having so much dirt on a track is the need to pull it back into place at the end of the each race. The lack of moisture in the surface means that a vast amount of dryish shale is shifted out to the fence – fortunately there is no dust! I join the staff on turn 3. The rakes are unnecessarily heavy. They do a job but I’m soon building up a good sweat. The top surface does begin to break up but it does so quite evenly and nobody gets out of shape. Times are uniformly fast and the large crowd are obviously delighted as the Robins hammer (sorry about the pun) out a series of maximum heat wins. It’s particularly pleasing to see that, when the Robins don’t make the gate, they are choosing inside and outside lines on each corner to eat into any Lakeside advantage and the number of overtakes, whilst not vast, are acceptable.

Gerald and Robert Nobbs drive the tractors round, Robert with a small blade which pulls the shale back towards the white line, and Gerald initially with the wonderwheel to fluff up the surface and latterly the mesh to even out the coverage of the shale over the base of the track.

At the end of the main meeting I spend my time trying to dig out the massive amounts of dry material that are lying against the kickboards on the back straight. In this way I hope that we can get as much material regraded as possible. Three junior races prolong our agony – it’s getting rather cold now and we all want to get started putting the track to bed.

When the referee calls an official end to the meeting we start the hard work all over again. Gerald, with the blade and the harrow, drags back as much material from the fence as possible while Punch performs a series of perfectly formed “doughnuts” with the grader. This latter process, straight out of “Come Dancing” is the perfect way of repairing the corners at the end of a meeting. While they continue with their tractor work, other staff have turned off the air pumps and have started to remove the green netting and take out the pins that attach the air fence to the safety fence.

My task is to collect the air pumps and return them, together with the pins and the petrol paraphernalia to the lock up. I use the car to fetch the pumps from the bottom end of the track. When they have been retrieved I hitch the tyre packing wheels to the small tractor. The light that is supposed to illuminate the area behind the pits has failed and trying to hook up the tyre packer in the dark is a test for more temperament as much as for my dexterity. The arrival of the tyre packer is always a cue for laughter and derision – it squeaks appallingly! Having parked it one the centre green, I return to collect the air pumps from turns three and four.

The track is looking very good now. Gerald has pinched my tractor and is tyre packing. At least he now appreciate how cold I get in the open topped tractor and how that squealing sound gets to you after a lap or two.

Punch and I re-attach the greyhound gate. The stadium is empty now, apart from those hardy folk inside the main bars.

10.40pm and we are ready to lock up. Quite how we’ve managed to pack up so quickly is anyone’s business. We have one last cup of coffee before making our respective ways home. Punch is to meet up with Gerald at Lakeside tomorrow night. He leaves to collect his wife from the main stand. Gerald is preparing for another marathon midnight journey down to Thurrock so that he can start on the Arena Essex (Lakeside) track at first light in preparation for the return fixture on Friday night. My journey back to Malmesbury is a mere 18 miles.

We will meet up on Saturday to finish the work on the track. My son, David, assures me he will help out. As a reward I am offering him a burger meal for lunch and then a chance to see the mighty Shrewsbury Town as they come visiting the County Ground in Swindon for a Division 2 promotion contender.

Oh, and the lack of photos? My daughter laid her claim to the camera on Thursday so she could record a trip to a classical concert in London. I could have put up a defence but two major factors accounted for my meek, “Oh, all right” as I handed over the camera – one, she would have hit me and, two, it is her camera!