The Journal of the Classic Enthusiasts Motor Cycle Club Inc.
FROM ‘CLASSIC CLATTER’
September 2002
This (edited) letter is from Greg Burt of Woodhill NSW, to the Editor of the above publication. (At that time Greg owned a garage in Berry, NSW. Greg gave a copy of it to my Dad, Tom Guthrie.)
To; The Editor
Journal of the Classic and Enthusiasts Motor Cycle Club
1 Dorothy Street,
Rydalmere, NSW 2116.
Dear Jack,
After riding my vintage HRD Vincent Black Shadow motorbike into my garage forecourt in Berry on the morning of the Toy Run last year, I noticed I had caught the attention of an elderly couple. The gentleman called out to me, “If that bike goes missing, you’ll find it in Princess Street, Berry.” We had a chat, and looking wistfully at the bike he commented, “I haven’t seen one of those in fifty years.”
He told me that he had worked on an HRD Black Lightning in South Africa in 1948, the particular machine that went on to win the South African land speed record. I said to him, “That would have to be Vic Proctor’s bike.” To which he said in surprise, "It was!" We introduced each other, and he told me his name, Tom Guthrie.
In February this year I went to the classic bike races in Pukekohe, New Zealand, with Bob Campton and Lester and Paul Hamilton. While there, I was keeping my eyes open for any old model Vincents, and noticed a Black Lightning. It turned out to be the same bike Vic Proctor had owned and ridden; engine number FIOAB/IC/2284. The same machine Tom Guthrie had worked on. I made contact with the elderly Tom when I arrived home. He was thrilled to hear that the bike was still in existence, and is fully restored to concourse condition. It is owned by Peter Morelli, an ex South African and vintage bike enthusiast in New Zealand. It still bears the unmistakeable engine number FIOAB/IC/2284.
It turns out Tom Guthrie is a cousin of the great Jimmie Guthrie, the bike racer who won 19 European Grand Prix races and 6 Isle of Man TT races in the 1930s. This is Tom's story.
Regards
Greg Burt
The (edited) letter which follows is from my Dad, Tom Guthrie, also to the Editor of this publication.
T.J. Guthrie
2 Princess St, Berry, NSW 2535
Telephone 4464-1247
Email: oxbu@tpg.com.au
In WW2 I served with the Ox and Bucks in France and Germany, I was a trained mechanic working with the Engineers on machinery for bridge and road building. On the day I was demobbed in 1948, it seemed to me that England was a gloomy place with dim prospects, but I met up with a soldier from a battalion that had served in the Far East. He told me that during his return journey to the UK, his ship came around the Cape, and they spent a couple of days in Cape Town. He gave me such glowing reports of Cape Town that before I got home, with all my new civvy gear on, I had decided to emigrate there. My wife fell in with the idea, and within a couple of months, I had bought myself a one way ticket to Cape Town.
At the time we were not very flush regarding cash, so I was to go alone as ‘The Van’, as we said in the army. I was to get the lay of the land, get a job somewhere, and find 'decent' accommodation for my wife and baby daughter. Our expectations were not too high at that time.
I sailed on the old Carnarvon Castle, a Union Castle Ship of 20,122 tons, which had served as an Armed Merchant Cruiser in WW2, surviving a long battle with the Kriegsmarine Auxiliary Cruiser Thor. We had a rough crossing through the Bay of Biscay during which a passenger was killed in a fall and a young child also died. The Captain claimed it was his worst ever crossing of the Bay. The old Ship looked a bit battered on arrival in Cape Town, with a lot of its rail stoved in. It all made me wonder if I was doing the right thing in leaving the Old Country.
Well, despite all this, I arrived safe and sound. We all went through customs and immigration on the ship, and I soon found myself ashore with a number of shipboard friends. One of these bods was a Capetonian who was going to show us a bit of the town before we all parted. In his doubtful wisdom he thought it would be a great idea to take us to one of his favourite haunts, The Delmonico.
On this same man’s advice, we all left our gear at some luggage deposit, on the way to this swank watering hole. We were just as free as birds, sipping our first drink in weeks, which happened to be cheap Cape Brandy, bought for us all by our generous Cape Town friend. The drinks seemed to be appearing in front of me in rapid succession, and not being much of a drinker, I just went from happy to merry, and without warning, to non compos mentis.
It was many hours before I came to, with a headache that would have killed a dog. I was being violently shaken by someone who happened to be a ships steward. He got me to a sitting position and presented me with a huge egg and bacon sandwich and an outsized mug of coffee. He then told me that the time was 8 am, and that I was on the Carnarvon Castle. He also advised me that the ship was sailing to Port Elizabeth within the hour, and if I did not move myself quickly, I would wind up in the brig, duly incarcerated as a stowaway.
I got moving and by 8.30 am I was standing on the dockside, with nothing but the clothes that I had worn when I left the ship the previous day. The same clothes I had slept in. I was very shaky but retained sufficient decorum to wave to the old ship as she moved away, to the musical sounds of Hearts of Oak. It was not an apt tune for my disheartened state, though my head did feel appropriately wooden.
I asked a policeman on the dockside how far it was to town, and he said, “Not far. Where is your car?” I gaped back at him, since I wasn’t working on any car at that moment, but he smiled and told me that the city was about a mile and a half away. So off I walked, feeling like the wrath of God, and got busy searching my pockets for something which might give me a clue about my misadventures of the previous night. All I found was my passport and a handkerchief, which wasn’t mine. I had the presence of mind to repocket my passport, but the handkerchief stank of booze, and feeling sick I promptly threw it away.
I found myself walking down Kingsway which led into the main thoroughfare of Cape Town, which was Adderley Street. I started looking in shop windows, although I wasn’t quite sure why, since I didn't have a penny in my pocket. I came to a café called the Kit Kat in which there were a number of window advertisements selling goods and suchlike, and I noticed one ad tucked away offering B and B accommodation for a ‘Clean Respectable Male’. I asked the lady behind the counter how far it was, and told her I didn’t have a car. “Oh” she said, “It’s a good step, but it’s a straight road. Go left at the next turn and you are on your way.” She was telling me about a bus I could catch, but I was already going out the door.
It took me an hour and a half to get to Newry Street, Newlands. The lady of the house was a Mrs. Arnet, and she was in the front garden when I arrived. After wishing her a good day, I informed her who I was and what I wanted. She was a very pleasant lady but noticing that I had no luggage with me, and no form of transport, she appeared a bit suspicious.
“You’re English, aren’t you?”, she observed somewhat unimpressed. "Did you get off the Carnarvon Castle yesterday?” I confirmed this was the case, and then she asked, “Why haven’t you shaved today?” I improvised a bit lamely and said I was starting to grow a beard. She asked where my luggage was, and I lied once more and said that I had left it in my friend’s house until I could find some permanent accommodation. Then she said something half encouraging, “You come back with a suitcase and I’ll show you a bed you can sleep on.” Again I lied and said my friends had gone away and I needed somewhere to sleep that night. “Right” she said, “Give me your passport, and I’ll put it in my son’s safe.”
So, I had a bed for the night, but no passport. I was shown into a bedroom but was offered nothing to eat, though she did say that I could have a bath later and borrow her son’s razor. Evidently she didn't think that a beard would suit me. She seated me in a common room where there were books to read and a newspaper. Presently her son arrived home, we had a brief introduction, and she gave him my passport for safe keeping. I seized the opportunity to take a bath and a shave and retired to my room with a book, wishing it was a sandwich. Hungry or not, I was so tired I fell asleep the minute I climbed into bed.
I didn’t wait to be awakened, and I was up and out by 6 am, leaving Mrs. Arnet a note saying I had gone to get my gear. I walked back to town down the road which I later learnt was the Salt River Road, feeling tired and despondent. Two miles down this road led me into the suburb of Salt River.
I saw a garage and a big square shouldered fellow was just opening up for business. When I got close enough, I could see there was a sign on the window saying ‘Mechanic Wanted – Apply Inside’. This man had red hair and something of a military bearing. He turned around and in a booming voice said in an unknown language, “Gooie Mora, Meneer!” (I was to learn later that the meaning of this Afrikaans phrase was ‘Good Morning Sir’).
I promptly replied that I was an Englishman, and he then said, “What can I do for you?” I said that I was a mechanic and I was looking for a job. He said, “Can you start now?” I had to reply in the negative, explaining that I had no tools, and wasn’t even sure where they were. On a kind mechanics instinct I proceeded to tell him the whole true story, chapter and verse, as best I could remember anyway. In the meantime, a couple of bods had come into the shop, he greeted them and said to me, “Come with me”.
We walked together a little way down the road to his car, which was a beautiful Buick, a drop dead Coupe. He told me to climb in and he did the same. He faced me squarely, then asked me my name. After reciting my name rank and serial number, he nodded and replied, “Mine is Proctor, Vic Proctor, and I hope you are not wasting my time.” And then without further ado, he drove to Cape Town Railway Station where we parked and walked straight to the Left Luggage Office.
“Luggage!" he demanded, "Left here yesterday by Mr. Tom Guthrie.” The attendant scurried off and presently came back looking through a register. Shaking his head he said he couldn’t find anything under that name. Vic then gave me a sideways look and then said, “Come with me” and we walked around the counter and a few paces into the storage area, casting around for what might be my bags. The attendant was most alarmed by this invasion of his domain and began enthusiastically protesting. Vic faced him to calm him down which allowed me a few moments clear to inspect some rows of bags which were not visible from the counter. Suddenly I spied both my tool box and my case, “Here they are” I cried out in relief. They had been left there along with my various shipmates’ gear when we checked in a couple of days back, and one had a name on it.
Vic could scarcely believe that I had no money, no passport, or any other means of identification whatsoever, to redeem my tools and case. But he wanted no more nonsense out of the unhappy Luggage Attendant and said to him, “Just tell me how much it is and don’t waste my time”. Still muttering about proper procedures, the Luggage Attendant nevertheless produced a bill which Vic immediately exchanged for a ten shilling note. Pocketing change and paperwork Vic picked up my case, I picked up my heavy toolbox and we walked back to his car.
Starting up the Buick he said, “There’s a pair of overalls in the garage which will fit you. Now what else do you want?” I gratefully responded with an unconvincing, “Nothing really”. Giving me an appraising look he gruffly asked, “When did you last eat?” Somewhat weakly I replied, “Breakfast on the Carnarvon Castle yesterday.”
So off we drove to the Kit Kat Café, where yesterday I had learnt about my accommodation. He sat bemusedly watching me devour eggs, bacon, sausages and fried bread until it was coming out of my ears. He paid for it and said, "Right, let’s get to work."
Within the hour I was in a vehicle pit, in overalls and with tools in hand working at my trade. At the end of the working day Vic gave me an advance sufficient to appease the suspicious Mrs Arnet and redeem my passport from her sons safe, and get through to my first payday without starving.
Vic was a gentleman of the first water, and a pleasure to work for. He initially set me to work on cars, but when he found out I had experience working with motorbikes, and loved riding them, he quickly had me tinkering with a few two wheelers. Vic was racing bikes at that time, but mostly for fun. He liked to break records, and had broken the private car record from Cape Town to Johannesburg in the Buick Coupe. I worked with him ‘souping up’ the Buick and various street legal bikes.
I was also privileged to work on his beloved Vincent HRD Black Lightning, and when I did so he stayed close enough to observe exactly what I was doing. I stripped down the engine of the Vincent, and did the valves and rings. It became clear that Vic was a fanatic about close tolerances for tappets, valve guides and piston rings. In fact he demanded precision work for all machine parts – he was a perfectionist.
As a mechanic I was allowed and expected to test drive all the vehicles I worked on. The only exceptions to this were his Buick, his pride and joy, and of course the Vincent, his true love. However, I am proud to say that I did have a ride on the Vincent. He gave me a pillion ride one day, which was a privilege none the less.
Vic was paying me eight Pounds weekly, (some would say very weakly), but I understood that in his business he could not afford to pay me more. He had already told me he knew I would have to get a better paying position, since I was arranging to rent a flat in anticipation of my wife and baby daughter coming out to Cape Town. I stayed with him for over six months until my wife and daughter arrived. He gave me a good reference and thanked me for spending the time I had with him. In true style he wished me the best of luck, and said that he hoped he would see me around.
Vic and the Vincent were to set the South African land speed records for all the flying mile and standing start categories. In addition he established lap records for practically every circuit in the country. Vic hoped to take the bike to the USA for an attempt at the world record on the Great Salt Lake track at Bonneville speedway, an ambitious hope given the expense involved in getting machine, rider and support team half way across the world.
Although at one point Vic held practically every South African record on the Vincent, he would not really be content until he had the big one, the World Motor Cycle Speed Record. The main problem was finding a track that could match the long smooth stretches of Bonneville speedway, and do justice to the Vincent’s capabilities. He did a lot of research, and settled on a track at Kaaipan, a salt lake in the Northern Cape.
So in 1952 he made his attempt at breaking the big one at Kaaipan. The rules required two runs, in which the highest speeds would be averaged. On the first run his speed was clocked at 174.6 mph, which slightly better than the existing record. But on the required second run he hit a tiny hidden ripple in the track, and after some spectacular bounces spilled and skidded on to the salt pan. Fortunately, neither man nor bike were seriously injured, though he was hospitalised for a short spell.
I bumped into him in just a couple of weeks after he had gotten out of hospital. He wasn’t very talkative about what had happened, but he was quietly determined to give it ‘another go’ when he and the Vincent had fully recuperated. This was a Saturday, and he invited me to have a drink with him, and he took me to no other place but The Delmonico. As we walked through the entrance, he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, we won’t be drinking cheap Cape Brandy.”
(Sandra Groom, his daughter, comments. “Oh, the irony of this!”)
Vic with a customised racing helmet, posing on the HRD Vincent Black Lightning, in its racing livery. Note the bike had been encased in aluminium faring to reduce drag.
A Black Lightning Clean
All of the above was brought back to me recently, outside a garage here in this little village of Berry, where my wife and I now live. We were out buying some groceries when I noticed a number of men standing admiringly around an old HRD motorcycle, which I realised was a Vincent Black Shadow, the street legal version of the Lightning. The owner of the garage, a man called Greg Burt, had read a book by Vic and he showed a great deal of interest when I told him about the HRD Vincent Lightning I had worked on in South Africa. The bike on which Vic had attempted to break the world record.
Greg Burt contacted me later and told me that he had just got back from New Zealand where he had attended a motorbike show, and had come across a beautiful Vincent Lightning on display. He had met the owner of the bike, an ex South African man by the name of Peter Morelli. Peter confirmed to an astonished Greg that the bike was once owned by Vic Proctor, had once held a string of South African records, and had once almost taken the world motor cycle speed record. It was the beautiful Vincent I had worked on, now safe and sound in New Zealand.
Found in my Dad’s papers. He was born on 12th May 1921 in West Hartlepool, England, and died in Nowra NSW Australia on 6th April 2009, and remained a car and bike enthusiast for all of his life. Thank you, Greg Burt for bringing these memories alive once more of my darling Dad and one of his many passions.
SANDRA GROOM
0437-571-371