The Motorbike Archives

The noise disturbs them on Sunday, their only day off, which they guard with a passion. Unlike USA cows, they still have a 48-hour work week.

So when the Moto Club de Normandie moved them off the field to make way for the season finale, these cud-chewing vaches retaliated by leaving behind hundreds of booby traps for the unwary public to step in.

The otherwise scenic hillside track overlooks the historic and friendly city of Rouen (it's historic because the natives, in a momentary lapse of friendliness some years back, burned Joan of Arc at the stake).

In spite of what the cows left, along with the mush from two days of intermittent rain, 4,000 faithfuls (they call this a small crowd in France!) turned out to see France's top nationals do battle for the Normandy Cup and the cream of the country's international experts scramble for those last championship points—a 500 cc mudslinging fiesta.

The ambiance at a French meet, even in the drizzle, is a warm and happy thing, contrasting greatly with the weinersnitzel, tea and crumpet atmosphere at events in neighboring countries.

The competitors practice Sunday morning, many of them, their wives and kiddies having camped trackside the preceding night.

With practice completed at noon, everyone breaks for a two-hour lunch.

There is none of that quickly gulped hot dog, zit food and soda pop stuff. The byword is a grand meal—poulet roti, saucisson, frites, sandwiches de jambon, salade, patisserie—all washed down with tasty rivers of "yin rouge".

If the F.I.M. ever banned wine at race day lunches, the French, civilized gourmets to the end, would withdraw from the union. And, after all, zere is notheeng like zee "gros rouge" for putting another 5 mph on zee old lap time.

Spectators came from as far away as Paris, a three-hour drive. Most arrived an hour early to allow time for threading their way midst puddle and cowpie to their favorite spots on the mile-long course.

By the way of underscoring the high level of organization of the sport in France, it is significant to note that no matter where fans went on the course, they were within earshot of a well-functioning loudspeaker. Somewhat paradoxical it is, then, that the sanitary facilities were a little hard to find; the Gallic people have never been noted for their plumbing.

The Rouen circuit is a mixture of tight turning ups and downs, two terrifying 70 mph straights (side by side, going opposite way, with no barrier in between) and a gigantic up-down-up affair which locals have appropriately named "Le Gouffre" or, The Chasm.

In normal times — dry weather —Rouen is rough on the tail bone, to say the least. In the wet, finishing one lap upright is a major accomplishment.

The national class was nearly halved by the time their third 20-minute race went on deck for the start, some of them missing in the puddle just before the timing stand and the rest somewhat detained by a spectacular four-bike smashup in the mouth of "Le Gouffre".

It was at this chasm that spectators would go "Oh, ah, oh" in unison every time a bike charged over the edge, rear wheel up, and plunge downward 150 feet, then blast its wobbly way up the nearly vertical exit, barely making the lip before the engine conked out.

Worst position to be in at this point was behind another chappie on his way uphill, where the tailender ran the risk of getting a careening boulder in his teeth.

The internationals showed their class in this section, but many of them were to feel "Le Gouffre's" bite. Guy Bertrand, repeat inter-expert French 500cc. champion this year, took a tumble and dropped eight places during one of his two 45-minute heats. Paul Vidal, another of France's top five, conked out just at the rim, and found he couldn't pull the bike up the last two feet. By the time he got sorted out, he had dropped to 15th place.

Worst injury of the day was to this writer, however, who took a pratfall while trying to climb the damn thing by foot and tore his finger open.

You may wonder why you don't hear much from France, internationally speaking. Its riders put on courageous and skilful displays in the dirt.

Basic reason is that the country has virtually no motorcycle industry, and certainly not enough to support the French equivalents of Jeff Smith, Joel Robert, or Victor Arbekov.

There are signs that this may soon change for the better and that French factories may begin to tool up for the growing sport riding market.

Meanwhile, it is tough for the privateer to foot the travel bill for the international circus, so he stays as close to home as possible, lending substance to the old proverb: "Frenchmen, like good wines, do not travel well."■