In the days before corporate bullshit had suffocated motorcycle grand prix racing, the paddock was full of real people. The golden age was full of mavericks and chancers running from the nine to five, guys like Gardner's gofer, Mick Roberts, who convinced half the paddock that he was the HRC team boss. These people were the heart, soul and sinew of motorcycle racing before the sport grew the flab of PR flunkies and marketing wankers. And, of course, there was a lot of drinking.
Back then, Sundays nights weren't about worrying where the next race or test were. It was where riders were all gonna meet, have some beers, tell stories, lie about the race and whatever else. It was definitely a golden age. Sunday nights were always huge. You never knew where or when it'd end.
The racing of this era was like a high-speed bar-room brawl. The kins of the golden age all had one thing in common – they learned to fight like dogs on doggy dirt-track ovals in the States and Australia. Dirt track is like a bar-room brawl with engines and handebars thrown in,so it was no wonder they kept it rough when the hit Europe. Of them all, Rainey and Schwantz were the worst.