Legendary AMCN editor Ken Wootton’s jibes could cut to the bone. But behind the insults was a mentor who opened doors, built careers and left a permanent mark on Australian motorcycling
As we meander through life, every now and then someone enters your orbit who, unbeknownst to you at the time, will have a massive influence on where you end up. They come completely out of the back paddock. Even though they were right in front you, the implications are, at the time invisible. And unknown.
It wasn’t until I was asked to write some words about Ken that it really hit me: without him, and all his bizarre ways, I wouldn’t have had the life journey that has made up the past 30-odd years and given me the experiences that money can never buy.
At the time, though, none of that was obvious. Even when you think you’re making your own opportunities, advancement is a hell of a lot harder if you don’t have people backing you. Little did I know how much Ken was actually on my side. The piss-takes. The little pushes. The prods. The severe criticism. It was all part of his ‘cruel to be kind’ attitude. To this day there probably isn’t a week that goes by where his name isn’t mentioned somewhere, or I don’t think about the ugly, gangly unit his fellow racers used to call ‘The Wobbler’.
Don’t get me wrong, there were times I wanted to throttle him to within an inch of his life. Sometimes I probably would’ve had to join a queue. He could be brutal with his words. His jibes and criticism – in and out of the office – could cut to the bone quicker than a Melbourne machete. He drove his staff hard, especially on an 18-hour day at 1am on a Tuesday morning on deadline.
One vivid memory remains crystal clear. It was one of those late nights in the Oakleigh office in Melbourne. We’d been reading and re-reading the magazine on screen for typos and grammar, everyone tired and irritable. I finally snapped at his attitude and endless jibes. As I stormed off, I yelled, “The next accident you have, I hope it’s a f***ing big one!”
The office went deathly quiet. I can’t remember exactly what Ken said back, but within minutes we were back at it, arguing over copy and carrying on like nothing had happened.
A couple of years later at the World Superbikes, Ken was racing in the Masters support races on his T-Rex Honda. On Saturday morning he crashed big-time over Lukey Heights. When he stood up and walked away, a bit of banter was aired on the PA – as he would’ve done to me! Then, after being cleared by medical, he hobbled into the commentary box, hand wrapped in bandages that later required microsurgery. He looked straight at me, half-smiling. “Are ya f***en happy now, Slapper?”
In a perverse sort of way, I was. He’d knocked himself around badly, but that didn’t stop the banter that continued all weekend – and beyond.
For all his in-office brutality, the out-of-office shenanigans more than balanced things out. Many of his ‘students’ went on to bigger and better things in publishing and media. When I returned to Australia at the end of 1992 after four years based in the UK travelling the GP trail, I started pestering Ken for freelance work. I covered club and state race meetings around Sydney, filing race reports and industry news for a few extra bucks and the chance to become more involved in the sport I loved. Then when Sydney editor Darryl Flack moved on, suddenly Ken handed me the role. From there, I became further ingratiated with ‘The Horror’.
Ken relished any opportunity to make me look like a goose. I still recall my first bike test for the magazine: a Stay Upright course at Amaroo Park aboard the very underrated Suzuki RF900 ended with me not staying upright at all. Straight into ‘The Woose Crash Files’. Nobody wanted an entry in that book, but nothing ever escaped recording.
After that debacle, despite my weekly pleading, it was over two years before I was offered another test ride. What an offer it was. I’ll never forget the phone call: “Hey, Slapper. Pick up a GSX-R750 from Suzuki. I’ll meet you at Mick Cole’s workshop at Bega at lunchtime and we’ll go up Brown Mountain and ride through the Snowys.”
“We’re what? It’s the middle of f***ing winter!”
“Well, Slap, you said you wanted to do bike tests…”
As usual with Ken’s flashes of inspiration, ‘Dumb and Dumber’ was a brilliant concept. He aimed to prove that you could ride sportsbikes through Australia’s rooftop at the most challenging time of the year and he chose me as the guinea pig to accompany him. After a near-death experience on that first trip, I wanted to throw him under a truck – especially as he had that stupid grin. But the satisfaction of what we’d achieved as we had dinner in the Corryong pub was something that still stirs me.
The following year we did it on a Ducati ST2 and Honda VFR800 but by the third year it had grown to five participants and continued for more than a decade. I did six. That was enough!
In the fourth year, I swapped from a Royal Enfield 500 onto an Aprilia RS250 during one of Ken’s famous bike rotations and promptly launched myself into a ditch after hitting gravel mid-corner. Broken collarbone. Destroyed bike. Another unwanted entry in the Crash Files. Six months later Ken handed me a burnt piece of Aprilia bodywork he’d recovered from the crash site after a grass fire. Then the following year he really stitched me up with a banana-coloured Yamaha 500cc scooter as my assigned bike.
Then there was the commentary box. One weekend at Eastern Creek I was asked to call a BEARS meeting as the regular commentator couldn’t make it. That led to more club meetings and state rounds while I was also freelancing in radio news. Ken was already an established commentator, and eventually he dragged me into the AMCN Moto Spectaculars and later the ASBK championship commentary box.
It was during this time Ken also talked me into jumping into the Fred Gassit outfit. I took to it as if I was born for the job. But what you could get away with in that dog suit back then was… well, you wouldn’t even contemplate it these days. But Ken asked me to write a column as Fred and explain my time at the track the way Gassit ‘spoke’ in Simon O’Leary’s famous comic strip. The wheels were continuing to turn. Or maybe wobbling as the Wobbler was steering.
Soon after, I got a call from Phillip Island boss Fergus Cameron offering me a role at the World Superbike round. It wasn’t obvious at the time, but I’ve got no doubt Ken’s fingerprints were all over that opportunity too. This year was my 25th year of calling that event.
Looking back, Ken might’ve done the ‘nudge nudge, wink wink’ to the AGPC as well, because not long after I was on the ground at the OZGP as pit lane reporter, bouncing between practice sessions and calling the main races up in the box with Woose and others. I continued a long time after his passing and racked up 18 years at the GPs.
Those years at the Island opened the door for me to be invited to join the MotoGP world championships. When I got the gig, Ken was so over-the-moon happy, he had tears in his eyes. That spoke a lot.
I tear up thinking about those times as I type. I’m sure that if I hadn’t performed and got on with Ken in the box, I wouldn’t have lasted long. At times we were in hysterics but then we also had the tragic duty of calling races in which friends like Kirk McCarthy and Reece Bancell lost their lives.
Then there was the infamous Buell incident. March 2003. Sea World Nara Resort on the Gold Coast. One last ride before lunch and I launched myself over the ‘bars in spectacular fashion, trapped underneath the bike with the rear wheel spinning inches from my helmet. As I lay there in agony, I heard Ken yell: “Wait! Don’t move the bike – I need to get a pic of Slapper!”
Only Ken Wootton could turn one of your worst moments into a running joke while simultaneously building your profile.
It’s poignant that AMCN’s 75th anniversary coincides with 15 years since we lost the man. The tributes from so many people absolutely define his ongoing impact and respect in the motorcycle industry and what a massive effect he had on the years he spent with AMCN, the impact he made and the influence he had on so many people he took under his wing and guided.
A walking, breathing figure of being cruel to be kind, he wasn’t big on compliments; it was more of a backhanded jibe with a hidden meaning. But this, combined with his attributes of being a mentor, teacher and mate, as well as being very handy on a motorbike, and his passion for all things two wheels, helped me and many others achieve heights we never imagined.
For all our clashes, there were also countless late dinners at pubs and steakhouses, Ken with his Jim Beam and Coke beside a schnitty or steak, me with a beer, both of us laughing ourselves stupid after another ridiculous day.
We learnt a hell of a lot about each other. And we ended up bloody good mates. When I received word that he had passed away in Brno, it shook me to the core. I still miss that streak of pelican poo immensely. You’ll never find another like The Wobbler.
Thanks, Ken.
