personified an era of casual
high-level motorcycle racing
more real and certainly more
personal and accessible than
today's narrow-focus highly pro-
fessional pressure cooker.
Of course, they were as
dedicated to winning as anyone
today, although it wasn't quite
the highly profitable career path
it can be now. And there was
also a random element, to the
men and to the motorcycles.
I first met him in 1971, both of
them, when he came to South
Africa with Sheene and a couple
of others for the annual interna-
tionals. He was newly married to
the elfin Maggie, Barry's older
sister (they had wed in secret
a few days before, and when
the series organizers heard the
news they insisted on flying
Maggie out to join the party). I
was just starting out as a re-
porter covering motorsport. The
casual humor of the touring rac-
ers as they made the most of the
sunshine and hospitality belied
their speed on track. Racing was
a sort of deadly serious joke.
Don't ask me the results. I've
lost that notebook. But they
were exciting times, with some
significance. Paul and Barry
shared the first water-cooled Ya-
maha production-racing twins on
that trip—bikes that would come
to define the 250cc and 350cc
championships.
Smart, along with several Brit-
ish riders, had a cross to bear in
T
his is not an obituary for
Paul Smart, nor a tribute.
As a well-loved man and a
well-respected racer, he earned
both. But I would feel presump-
tuous. They would come better
from somebody closer.
Better call it a personal
memory.
Our worlds had meshed many
times over many years, casually
though regularly, and the shock
with which I heard the news of
his untimely death in a futile road
accident on his Ducati Monster
was unexpectedly profound.
For "Smartie," at least as
much as and in some ways even
more than his contemporary
rival and brother-in-law Barry
Sheene, for me defined and
P112
CN
III IN THE PADDOCK
BY MICHAEL SCOTT
SMART
AND
THE DAYS
OF CASUAL
SPEED
