‘A Wild Orgy of Speed’ Responses to Speedway in Britain Before the Second World War

Abstract

Even as a spectacle the horrid motor-bicycle wins. True, it does not jump hurdles, and true, there is not much beauty about the dirt-track; and yet it has a kind of modern, macabre, Stravinskian, Capekian beauty. The vast stadium by night, the track lit brightly at the rim, the sea of shadow in the centre, the mountainous black stands behind packed with a shouting, invisible multitude, the starry sky of London above…

Heavens, the noise! It is like ten million mechanical drills performing in unison. It swells and falls as the riders take the corners; it echoes about the cavernous concrete halls, drowning the feeble acclamations of the crowd; it dies slowly as the riders stop, and the end of a race seems like the end of a battle. It is titanic and terrible and monstrous; and yet in that enormous place, made by those monsters, it seems appropriate and right. And I do believe I rather liked it.¹