The Boulevard

The roar hits you first. A deep, guttural thrum that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and up into your chest. It's the sound of a hundred bikes, all with their throttles open, all wanting to be heard. And it is the sound of my childhood. The 1970s, a decade of endless summers and endless possibilities, and for me, it was defined by one place: The Boulevard, home of the Hull Vikings speedway team.

I was just a lad, no older than ten, but the weekly pilgrimage to the stadium felt like a sacred ritual. My Dad, my Grandad, my older Brother and I would pile into the old Vauxhall Cresta, the air thick with the promise of a good race. We'd park up on a side street, the scent of fish and chips mingling with the exhaust fumes, and join the stream of people all heading in the same direction.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric. The floodlights, hazy in the evening air, illuminated the shale track, a swirling, dusty oval that seemed to hold all the excitement in the world. The bikes themselves were magnificent beasts, stripped down to their bare essentials, a single gear and a lack of brakes a testament to the riders' bravery. Their engines, a symphony of pops and bangs, were music to my ears.

The riders of the day were our heroes, names like Barry Briggs, Bobby Beaton, Frank Auffret, Graham Drury, Dennis Sigalos and my hero, the imperious Ivan Mauger and of course, all the other legends who wore the colours. We'd cheer them on from the stands, our voices hoarse, as they slid into the bends, their left leg outstretched, a shower of sparks trailing in their wake. The tension was palpable, every race a blur of speed and noise, and when our Vikings crossed the line in first place, the cheer from the crowd was a wave of pure, unadulterated joy.

But it wasn't just about the racing. It was the sense of community. The shared experience. The camaraderie with the man next to you who you'd never met before, but who was just as invested in the outcome as you were. It was the simple pleasure of a hot dog and a fizzy drink, the sticky residue on your fingers a badge of honour.

Those nights at The Boulevard are etched into my memory. They represent a time of innocence, a time when life was simpler, and the biggest worry was whether our Vikings would beat the Belle Vue Aces. As the years have passed, the sounds have faded, the faces blurred, but the feeling remains. The nostalgic thrum of a speedway bike, and the unshakeable sense of being right where I was supposed to be. Come back Hull Vikings, we miss you!

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