British Grand Prix 1955

Stirling Moss wins in a Mercedes-Benz.

Before the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen described it as the most boring race on the calendar. He was right, although there is fierce competition from other race tracks in the Formula One multi-million-pound climate change generator. As a small boy, I had been obsessed with racing cars when Grand Prix racing was rooted in mechanical inventiveness and fearless men with moustaches. Dinky Toys provided my generation of children with models of mechanic-built cars from the 1950s, including Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Maseratis, Coopers, Talbots, and Vanwalls. I had them all, mainly as birthday gifts or as recompense from my parents following hospital visits for childhood accidents when I was stitched up after jumping out of trees or bike crashes. 

As a treat, my father took me to the 1955 British Grand Prix at Aintree in Liverpool. It was the first time that Aintree had hosted the event. He worked on Saturday mornings, so we cycled 8 miles to his work at the Lostock Hall gasworks. I was on my new bicycle received a few months earlier on my seventh birthday. I had fitted a cyclometer and was cycling up to 200 miles a week, mainly around the housing estate but occasionally taking longer rides that were supposedly out of bounds. Dad arranged a lift with Alf Brierly, a burly lorry driver, who was delivering coke from the gas works to Ormskirk, where he dropped us at the station. 

My dad arranged with the Ormskirk station master to leave our bikes in the station waiting room. They had been transported to the station on top of the coke in Alf's lorry. A steam locomotive pulled us to the Aintree Station. The Grand Prix circuit was at the same location as the Grand National horse racing circuit owned by the formidable Mirabel Topping, who wanted to capitalise on the large crowd capacity at Aintree to generate more income. Entry was cheap to sit on the grass banks, and we found a spot on a sunny afternoon within 20 metres of the race track. We were in time to watch the warm-up laps when the cars seemed to cough and splutter around the 3-mile circuit. The mechanics were fiddling under the bonnets of the cars to tune the carburetters and pouring in petrol from large jerry cans whilst the driver's were having a last fag before the race started. Safety was a concept yet to be acknowledged in motor racing.

Fangio, the five-time world champion, and Stirling Moss were driving the works Mercedes-Benz cars and taking on the Maseratis and Ferraris that had dominated events in recent years. The silver Mercedes looked sleeker and bigger; it was German technology versus Italian flair, as the remarkable video Aintree British Grand Prix that I discovered on YouTube shows. 

For the first time that a British driver, Stirling Moss, won a British Grand Prix, although Fangio was within a couple of cars' length for the whole race. It was alleged that he allowed Moss to win; they were on good terms, unlike many of today's pairs of drivers. The next two cars were also Mercedes. Mercedes was virtually unbeatable but withdrew from Grand Prix racing at the end of the season following fatal crashes at the 24-hour Le Mans race. 

Given the number of breakdowns and pit stops for repairs of the other cars, there was plenty to watch. Dad had brought a water canteen and an aluminium sandwich box with some meat paste sandwiches in his ex-army haversack. The whole day out must have cost less than 10/-(50p) for both of us, and that included the entrance, the train fare from Ormskirk and back and the meat paste sandwiches. The ordinary public had arrived by public transport in their thousands, and we were able to walk over and see the cars and rub shoulders with the drivers at the finish of the event. It was an egalitarian event, a far cry from the cheapest tickets in Monaco that cost €2350 on the Monaco Ticket website and that would not get you within shouting distance of the grandstand, let alone the cars and drivers.

The stationmaster had kept our bikes in the waiting room, so just a 21-mile cycle home on main roads. It was more excitement for a 7-year-old, the chance to be passed on the main roads by speeding vehicles. The next day, my dinky toys were lapping around the perimeter of the rose-patterned carpet before breakfast. I didn't have a Mercedes; Dinky die-casts had not yet been made. I let the Aston Martin (22) sports car win, beating the Maserati and the Ferrari. The Grand Prix had been a grand day out, but the ride in the lorry, the steam train and the long cycle home were a part of that. And I got nearer the cars and drivers than anyone paying for the cheapest ticket in Monaco would manage. Egalite!

Stirling Moss in Mercedes-Benz

My Maserati Dinky Toy

199 and Out

It was another gorgeous morning, cool but still, blue skies patterned by nature's artistry of the cirrostratus clouds, creating patterns that blow your mind. It was a significant day; I had finally come to terms with my age and condition. I have always been an optimist, believing that I should be able to continue to do things I had always done.  Running all the way up my regular hill, Lime Craig, was proving tricky. I last did it in 2020. After the lockdown, it was difficult to build up the fitness to run up the steeper sections of the 300-metre hill. I continued to go up three or four times a week once they removed the tapes that prevented people from going up hills. Unlike golf, sailing and other high-end outdoor sports that had convinced Boris Johnson to allow them the freedom to roam with impunity, hillwalkers and runners were still deemed to be a danger to social isolation.

The result is that I have been stuck on 199 runs up Lime Craig since my first ascent in 1988. I had intended to donate a bench for the summit on reaching 200 so that I could have rest there during my dotage. I had even spoken to the Forestry Commission to see if they would allow me to transport it up the narrow private track. As it happened, they decided to provide a bench in 2021 and by serendipity, I was there on the morning they were installing it. At the time, I was going up the hill four or five times a week for my morning exercise. I helped the two forestry workers find the best position so that visitors could enjoy the views westwards along Strathard, Loch Ard and towards Ben Lomond. 

I had started to run up the hill from Aberfoyle in 1988 when we moved there from Glasgow. I was a road runner but training for the Snowdonia (Eyri) Marathon, which involved 3061 feet of ascent in three major climbs. Two laps of Lime Craig gave me 1800 feet of ascent and 13 miles, and became one of my training runs. A year or so later, I started hill running and began to run it on Sunday mornings with Matt Ogston, the secretary of the Scottish Hill Runners, who lived nearby. He would sometimes invite his club friends from Hunter's Bogtrotters or Westerlands to join us. They would return to have tea, toast and showers at our house afterwards. 

The ascent of Lime Craig became quite competitive, and I managed to set the record from the house, a distance of 5.54 kilometres to the summit via Dounans Camp and Braeval. I brought the record down to 23 minutes 42 seconds in 1990 when I was running it 20 times a year. The first section from the house, through the village and Dounans Camp and along the rising trail above the golf course was 3.56 kilometres and a 95-metre climb at a pace of 3 minutes 42 seconds per kilometre. The final steep 2-kilometre section from K corner above Braeval was achieved in 10 minutes 29 seconds at a pace of 5 minutes 15 seconds per kilometre for the 190-metre climb.  

Had Strava existed then, it would have been a crown. My time of the final climb from K corner remains only a few seconds short of the present Strava crown held by Gregor. The descent was a different matter. Matt and some of the hill runners were fearless on the initial steep stony path towards the David Marshall Lodge, and I lagged behind until the long, gentler descent trails when my road running pace pulled them back.

After I gave up racing in 1994, Lime Craig became more of a run for a good day or when I was feeling frisky. The frequency dropped to 5 or 6 runs a year, and the 200 mark became elusive. I ran it occasionally when John visited for the weekend, and my old hill running partner, Keith.  On Tuesday evenings after retirement, I sometimes ran it with Angela Mudge's hill running group, and we even went up on Boxing Day morning with hot mulled wine at the summit. Just as important, Lime Craig was always a place to walk the children, take visitors or go for an evening walk if I was not feeling like a run after work. Over 300 excursions were made during the 30 years living in Aberfoyle.

Post-COVID and after the move to the new house, it became my regular exercise, but from the Braeval car park, a 7-mile journey from home and only  2.5 kilometres to the summit, although it includes the same final section from K corner. I have made another 400 walks/runs up the hill in the last five years to add to the previous ascents. They are timed, and with four or five sections of running, I was breaking 30 minutes until the end of last year and managed a best time of 25 minutes. I usually run down, taking around 15 minutes for an extended route. 

Today was different, I had decided to forget about the time and just enjoy the remarkable Spring scenery. Bluebells, gorse and broom were in flower, the birds provided the chorus, and the skies were a kaleidoscope of images. I took photos of the route as a perpetual memory of the backdrop of my life's journey. Lime Craig was where I went to exercise, to reflect, to write talks, to release my endorphins and where I went to find solace on the day that Aileen died. 

Despite the perfect morning, there was no one else on the hill today. I reached the top in 39 minutes; it was a breeze, and time no longer mattered. This was the day I accepted that 199 was just another number and there was no need to add any more.

The photos below are in order of the ascent and descent.

Start of the steep path from Braeval

K corner

Recent tree felling has opened the views

Craigmore ahead

Keep going, the halfway mark

Broom and Gorse Glade

Pine skyline

Looking south to the Campsie and Whangie

Patterned Skies

Final section

Path to summit

Summit 

Summit Bench

View of Ben Venue

Ben Ledi

Ben Lomond and Craigmore on descent

A Really Useful Idiot

"Give me your tired, your poor and huddled masses, and find a haven, banishing all fear.

"

Trumpism started with the Tea Party.

American hegemony had gone too far. They had been the de facto winners of the Second World War. Roosevelt had provided the supplies and equipment, the Doughboys came to the rescue of a fractious Europe and Marshall Aid was supplied for its rebuilding. The USA halted the spread of communism beyond East Germany and in Asia and the Americas, with some notable exceptions. They became the home base of global institutions, including the United Nations, NATO, the World Bank, and the IMF. They consolidated and celebrated their influence with nuclear weapons, movies, advertisements, fins on their automobiles, skyscrapers, junk food and damaging chemicals. They were doused in dollars, oil and bumper crops. The wealthy became wealthier, and ambitious migrants from Europe, Asia and the Americas boosted their talent pool. 

The rest of the world lapped up the fairy story. It allowed the USA to exploit the natural resources of other nations and take over their companies. American products, from planes and weapons to fast food, fizzy drinks and domestic appliances, were foisted on the world along with a glamorous narrative of a nation too good to be true. The United States were not colonialist in pursuit of an empire; that was old hat, they were buying their way into exploiting the resources and the economic growth of what they regarded as their domain, the free world.

They had their comeuppance in Korea, Vietnam, and parts of Central and South America, and this created a scintilla of doubt amongst the radicalised young in the 1960s and 1970s. But the USA was high on self-belief and had charismatic political and business leaders who assumed global leadership, never more so than when Gorbachov ceded the freedom of the Soviet republics and the creation of democracies in new nations that were former republics.

Things turned sticky in the Middle East as oil-rich autocratic nations began to exercise their wealth, and George Bush, father and son, took military action in Iraq and Afghanistan. It didn't end well, and they had harangued other Western countries to reluctantly support the invasions. The patina of American power began to lose its sheen, but the USA still retained its reputation as the alpha country in the free world. Trump 1.0 muddled through with the MAGA base kept in check by the grown-ups in the administration. However, the rehearsal had convinced Trump that he did not need advisers or seasoned politicians; what he needed were amateurs and fellow travellers to parody a government while he played out his fantasies and took corruption to the next level. The fact that 75 million voters had endorsed his second term gave him the power to follow his fundamental instincts.

His second coming started with a momentum that was meant to shock and awe the rest of the world. Previous policies and agreements were shredded, diplomacy was derided, felons were released from jail, and tariffs were hiked to levels that left the rest of the world wincing and pleading for clemency. He acted as if he was all-powerful, and world leaders responded accordingly. But some leaders baulked at the idiocy of Trump's gameplay, which had gone too far. Canada and Mexico challenged him. They were supported by their angry citizens and businesses, who boycotted American goods. This mood was echoed and copied around the world as Trump threatened to take over Greenland and Panama, make Canada the 51st state, rename the Gulf of Mexico, suggest the USA should take over Gaza for real estate development, humiliate President Zelensky, give license to Vice President Vance to insult Europe and the Pope on his death bed, withdraw from the Climate Change agreement and no longer provide refuge for immigrants who now fear being banished to distant lands. The United States has forsaken the Statue of Liberty's Call as "a place of hope, beyond compare."  

The worm had turned. Canada's Prime Ministers Trudeau and then Mark Carney both called him out. China did not flinch and retaliated with equally severe tariffs on American goods. The American Finance sector was faithful to Mammon, and the Bond market collapsed. Harvard University sued Trump over his withdrawal of research funding. Elon Musk, Trump's Tonto, had had enough; his businesses were in freefall, and he had become a derided figure of fun as he closed down government departments and agencies with the deftness of a SpaceX rocket exploding on takeoff. Trump had taken the red pill and was still in Wonderland."All persons more than a mile high to leave the court" seemed a suitable epitaph for Musk's time in government.

The shackles that had bound Western nations to the USA in its pomp were broken. Elections in Canada and Australia returned anti-Trump candidates, who months earlier had been facing defeat. China took a long-term view and began trade negotiations with other countries that had been hammered by Trump's Tariff proposals. The European Union was united in its opposition to Trump, who, never one to admit mistakes, was beginning to row back on his proposals, claiming they were part of his deal-making strategy. 

The disruption that Trump had inflicted on the world had backfired; the umbilical cord to the USA had been severed. We are moving to a New World Order. Trump has been a Really Useful Idiot.

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