Two-Wheeler Experts

On a griddle-flat stretch of Florida coast just south of Daytona Beach one day last week, the air was split by the thunder of 111 motorcycles revving up at once. A white flag waved, and four ranks of cyclists in crash helmets and goggles blasted off along the rock-hard sand. Ahead lay 48 laps of speed work on a 4.2-mile course--and a chance at the National Motorcycle Championship.

Some 13,000 paying customers ranged along the course were soon getting their money's worth. Roaring up the beach straightaway on the first lap, the pack hit close to 115 m.p.h., slowed to 60 for the first turn. Some cyclists failed to hit their brakes hard enough, approaching the curves, and skidded against the railings. As they jockeyed back into the path of their onrushing rivals, officials frantically waved red warning flags, and the crowd squealed.

Into the Brush. The 111 riders thus risking their necks were the cream of the American Motorcycle Association's 2,000 clubs and 100,000 members. From all over the U.S. they came--lean, leather-skinned young men, none of them professional riders, most of them temporary escapees from workaday jobs as mechanics, farmers or motorcycle dealers.

In such races as the 200-mile National riders rely on themselves for only a rough third of their success, count for the rest on their cycles and their luck. Some of this year's hotshots were out of the running early. The No. 1 favorite, wispy Bobby Hill of Columbus, Ohio, winner of five top races last year, went out on Lap 10 with a dead magneto. Five laps later the defending champion, 23-year-old Dick Klamfoth of Groveport, Ohio, plowed into another cycle. He was hurtled into the trackside brush and walked away with nothing worse than bruises, but his English-made Norton was wrecked.

Refueling in 22 Seconds. Some of the wise money was bet on cyclists using the hardy Nortons and other British makes (Triumphs, BSAs); Nortons have won in four of the last six Nationals. But no machine was better than its rider or his breaks. There were three deaths, a cracked skull, one broken leg. The race's worst accident came when a spectator stepped out unwarily into the path of Clifford Farwell; both the spectator and Cyclist Farwell were killed.

Just before the halfway mark, 28-year-old Paul Goldsmith, a gas-station owner from Royal Oak, Mich., riding in second place, pulled up at the pits to refuel. In just 22 seconds he took on four gallons of gas, two quarts of oil, a cup of black coffee, and sped on again. On his medium-sized (350 lbs.) new American model a Harley-Davidson KRTT, which had such standard equipment as four-gear transmission and some unique features of its own (a foot shift, a hand clutch), Goldsmith finally lapped most of the field.

Opening up, he showed the way home for the thinned-out field (only 39 of the 111 finished) in the record average time of 94.42 m.p.h. Grimy but grinning, Goldsmith accepted his first big prize ($2 500) in seven years of racing.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.