Peter Smith
Peter Smith wrote tests, features, fiction and, most notably, the Mr Smith column for Two Wheels from 1985 until his death in 2009, aged 57. His early columns, from 1985-1988, were published in 2017 in a book, Mr Smith, A Sharp Mind in a Blunt Body, for which Guy “Guido” Allen wrote the following tribute as the Foreword.
The truth is I got to know Smith relatively late, in the mid 1980s, after he had the life-changing bike crash that, to his frustration, defined him physically for the remainder of his existence.
He wasn’t born looking like a pirate with a limp, but his injuries were such that he ended up that way. His self-description of ‘A Sharp Mind in a Blunt Body’ was both his trademark and a symbol of a situation he’d much rather be free of.
Famous through much of his life for his indulgence in the joys of Bacchus, he was forced to back off in the last decade or so, which he did with surprising equanimity. Not always – there were times when he threw caution out with the bathwater. It depended on the day.
We were in the kitchen one night, sharing a bottle of scotch. I poured him a large one (he was misbehaving that day) and had three. As the pasta sauce bubbled away we discussed the Winston Churchill biography I’d been reading. He had an old (and probably valuable) four-volume copy of the Churchill History of the English-Speaking Peoples, which had been written by the great man at his stand-up desk at Blenheim.
Smith knew the content and could talk about Churchill both as a figure in history and as an author. He could also discuss at length the nuances when cross-referenced with Franklin D Roosevelt’s bio. No, he wasn’t a Churchill enthusiast. That was just Smith. Give him a topic and there was a good chance he could hold an informed and intelligent conversation about it.
We’re talking of a polymath with an often astounding memory and a quick ability to process and analyse whatever you threw at him, then toss it back again in a new form.
He also loved machinery. Motorcycles were always his true love (steam engines came second, and aircraft third) and his tastes were eclectic. For years he was famous for hoarding Yamaha SR500s, though he raved about his old Beeza single, went nuts with his V-max at every chance and, really, it didn’t matter. If it ran and got him there, he was up for it.
That attitude made him a famous magazine road tester for a while, because he would tackle anything, particularly if it had a quirky side. His road tests were Smithisms on one level, plus little philosophical discussions while being dead honest and accurate.
Something that informed those tests was his ability with a spanner and a welding torch. He made a part-time living for a while in a welding shop, and helped out as a car brake mechanic in another. His real credentials? Smart and patient. He wasn’t a real mechanic, but understood what was going on. Give him a task on a bike or car and you could see him nut his way through the job and get it done. He was always intellectually curious and had to understand the workings behind the covers.
He applied none of those skills to his own machinery. Say, “Smith, can you give me a hand with this?” and he’d be all over it like a rash. Ask him about any one of the zillion projects in his own shed and it was always a work in progress. Unless it was the bike, ute or truck he wanted that day, then the problem was sorted. Well, at least enough to keep it running. Just.
Notice the contradiction? It applied to much of his life. Often was the time he would declare his dislike of women, children and dogs, though he always befriended cats.
For a self-professed misogynist, he showed a discerning taste for intelligent women. In return, they often (not always, but the odds were good) cherished him. Some hated him. Having seen Smith engage in long and thoughtful discussions with my own partner, and walk away asking me to clear off so he can marry her, I can only report the obvious. She loved him.
He sometimes acted (under mild protest) as our babysitter/minder when he was visiting. Our girls, who knew him from toddlers through to kidults, doted on him, though they had no idea how closely he observed their behavior, the reports on which were often enlightening.
My favourite story of those times was when we lived next to a nosy but well-meaning neighbour. We burdened Smith with the kids for the day and she came rushing over the moment spouse Ms M and I got home. “Who’s that scary man you left your kids with? Why him? Is that wise?” she asked. Okay, that day Smith looked a bit like a pirate with a grudge. And a limp.
“Oh that’s Mr Smith,” we replied breezily, “and who’d take them off him?” She processed the info, accepted the logic, and retreated.
The epilogue to that incident was that the kids were young enough to want to take Smith to ‘show and tell’ at primary school – something along the lines of ‘this is our Mr Smith’. Having one was an object of pride. Smithy was quite chuffed and willing, but I’m not sure the education system was ready for it. So much for him hating kids…
And now we get to his work. I remember the early columns, long before I met Smith, when he was raving on about pub and meal reviews (who puts this stuff in a bike mag for gawd’s sake?) and loved it.
Then his writing grew and he would get away with talking about anything including, or except, motorcycles, so long as he mentioned them once. I learned from that. It was stunning. There were periods, particularly the late columns out of Quirindi, not long before his death, when he wrote what was playing in his head, live. It was faultless writing, but often dark and scary and worrying.
What I want to remember are the good times. Sitting in, and sometimes following, his Yamaha XS1100 sidecar as we looped our way through a tour of the Hunter Valley wineries. Him ensconced in his favourite corner seat in our kitchen as a sauce was bubbling away, and sampling the brew as it developed. Having lunch with him and his lively mother in Sydney, or meals and drinks with brother Bruce (Doorfilla – they were sometimes a double act) and partner Sue.
Smith often predicted his own early demise. In a weird way, that made it all the more shocking when then Two Wheels editor Jeremy Bowdler (another good life that flamed out early) rang with the news. Even now, the memory hurts.
As I write this, there’s a picture dead ahead on the wall above the desk of Smith, Grant Roff and me at the Tintaldra pub, mucking around with a circa 1930 Harlette single-pot motorcycle. I’m in the middle, sitting astride the unsuspecting sickle, getting ready for a gallop. Either side are intelligent and generous men to whom I owe much of my writing and broader education.
If it weren’t for his attachment to motorcycles and the magazines that served the bike community, Smith could and should have been much more widely lauded as an exceptional writer and (often extremely) critical thinker. His ability was too great for the motorcycle magazine pool he preferred to play in, and he missed the broad adoption of social media by a whisker.
That said, he widened the mental landscape for any masthead and reader he engaged with. No small feat. He’s gone, and that’s all there is to it.
I’ve been going through the material for this book (hopefully the first of a few) and it’s a big read. It includes the first four years worth of his Two Wheels columns, from his debut in January 1985 to December 1988, plus a selection of his fiction and touring features from that period.
The writing is clever, laugh-out-loud funny at times, grumpy and emotional. Look for the one about the circus and the coroner. And the one about his first ride. Sometimes sophisticated, sometimes painfully raw. That was Smith.
Only 1000 copies of Mr Smith, A Sharp Mind in a Blunt Body, were printed and they are nearly all gone. If you would like to order a copy, you can do so here. Cost is $29.95 including postage.
