It’s inevitable that being something of a cycling fan, your country-bound correspondent’s interest has been piqued by the label on local maps that denotes the ‘former Hibernian Bicycle Racing Track’ just down other end of Duncan Street. It’s on someone’s land now, so I haven’t been able to have a sticky-beak, but what a tantalising prospect!
So I’ve been fossicking around for some time, trying to unearth more information about this very interesting relic of a former age. And there’s very little. The excellent Braidwood heritage walk mentions it as being “visible as a depression in the paddock” and that “it was used for high-speed racing well into the early 20th Century.”
The pedant might point that racing is usually by definition “high speed”, but then again, track cycling does have those really odd races where no-one wants to be in front, so they spend 99% of the time virtually standing still, before making a frantic break for the finish line.
But finding more details about what went on at this track, and who perpetrated the goings-on, are very thin on the ground. When it was built, and when it closed for business, still remain to be discovered.
My fantasy that it was a wood-planked velodrome like the Olympic versions of today were dispelled by none other than Tim the Yowie Man, who had a look at another abandoned track not far away at Corunna Point on the coast. This was a clay track, created with horse and cart, and Mr Yowie Man mentions that Braidwood’s was also clay.
The lack of tangible information fosters all manner of speculations: imagine all these small tracks scattered across the country, with fiercely-contested races taking place in front of a cheering local crowd – with all the associated drama. Bodies existed to organise and promote the sport: the NSW Cyclist Union represented amateurs, with the NSW League of Wheelmen, formed in 1900, looking after the pros. The name alone conjures up images of stoutly-moustachioed gentlemen in tweed cycling gear, posing on robust cast-iron bicycles with wooden spokes.
It was clearly a time when the new-fangled velocipede was seizing the imagination of sporting fellows around the world. The first recorded bike race happened in Paris in 1868, and Australia, being keen on muscular outdoor pursuits, staged their first a mere 19 years later in 1887. The Austral Wheel Race was held over three miles (4.8k) at the Melbourne Cricket Ground – and the first prize was a grand piano. Presumably the winner wasn’t expected to take it home on his bike.
The Austral was subsequently held at not less than 12 velodromes in Victoria alone and continues to this day. By 1898 the race was attracting crowds of 30,000 strong, but a women’s version was only added in 2000.
If the Austral is anything to go by, bike racing in those days was a hotbed of betting, race-fixing and (for all we know), doping. The Tour de France, admittedly a different beast, being contested over weeks on the road, was founded in 1903 and those guys used to take strychnine to boost their performance, not to mention tucking into a nice steak and a few glasses of vino during the race as their sports nutrition.
Sure, we know that in later years it was all amphetamines, steroids, growth hormone and blood doping, but in a simpler time, a little rat poison to jolt the system into a higher sphere of performance was all the rage. Makes you wonder if the blokes hammering the clay of Braidwood on a Friday night were making the running with a nip or two of Ratto or just hydrating with schooners of Tooheys.
And there’s a fascinating tale regarding the importation of ringers: in 1903, a new race called the Sydney Thousand, a 1,000m handicap race, was introduced with much fanfare. The prize-money was an eye-watering £750, which led to all manner of skulduggery, including the importation of world track champion Marshall ‘Major’ Taylor to spice up the betting.
Major Taylor’s story is phenomenal – his trip to Australia is just a footnote, really, to an moving tale. A black man, son of a Civil War veteran, Taylor gravitated to racing from working in bike shops, and ended up not only the first African American to win a world cycling title, but the second to win any world championship. His world records spanned a wide range of different distances and disciplines – but he was destined to die destitute, no doubt having enriched promoters, speculators and profiteers through his tremendous achievements over the years.
All the dirty dealing and underhand practices associated with professional cycling – and other sports – during these times shouldn’t detract from the incredible athleticism and tactical nous the sport demands. These days, track cyclists can hit 80km/h on their flimsy carbon-fibre steeds; even on Braidwood’s clay, no doubt the racing was fast and furious.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Taylor raced in Braidwood during his time down under? It may not be likely, but it’s a thought to ponder on – and if he did, maybe we’d have a reason to revive the track from its quiet decay in its paddock. And although Taylor has received recognition for his feats – way too late of course – Australia’s vaunted culture of giving everyone a fair go, and the respect it affords to gritty battlers, mean he’d receive a welcome here.