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Background to a Televised Scramble 

Saturday afternoon, and in homes all over the country the little screens glow brightly. "Grandstand," the B.B.C.'s sports programme, is on the air. The horse-racing scene fades, to give way to a shot of David Coleman in a London studio—but already, on the monitor screen above his shoulder, we can see motor cycles bucketing over hummocky going.

David is the link man, transporting us, with a smoothness born of long practice, from gambling to gambolling. So now the picture on the monitor swells, fills our own screens, and Murray Walker takes up the story from the scrambles circuit.

BUT wait! Ever wanted to do an Alice-through-the-looking-glass act, to find out what is going on behind that television screen? Well, O.K.; come on—and watch out for flying glass as you dive through the picture.

Now we really are at Hawk-stone Park. And what a lot of vans the B.B.C. has brought along, just to put on one little part of one afternoon's programme.

Packed together in a roped-off paddock alongside the starting area, they look well capable of transporting the whole of Bertram Mills' Circus. But what are they all for? Brian Johnson, the outside-broadcast producer in charge of this section of Grandstand, explains.

"For a start, there is no power line at a scrambles venue, so we need a generator van. Then there is the control van with its banks of monitor screens —the nerve centre of the whole operation.

"Other vans bring the cables and the cameras to the circuit. Still another provides the sound link, for the commentary goes over a specially-laid G.P.O. cable direct to the London studio.'

"On this occasion, in addition to four conventional cameras, we are using a radio camera—the equivalent of a walkie-talkie—from which pictures are transmitted direct to yet another van, which receives them on its own aerial and feeds them into the main control van.

"That van with the saucer-shape aerial on the roof is sending out the final picture by radio, but that is by no means the end of it.

"Between Hawkstone and the Sutton Coldfield transmitter (from where the picture is sent to London by land line) lies the Wrekin. Radio waves cannot penetrate that massive hill, so we have yet another van up on the Wrekin, to pick up our pictures and re-transmit them to Sutton Coldfield."

Complicated, isn't it! Planning for a winter season of scrambles broadcasts can begin as early as Easter, with the B.B.C. working closely with A.C.U. liaison officer Harold Taylor. Say there are ten dotes to fill. Obviously, the A.C.U. must arrange for permits to be issued, but detail organization is left to the clubs.

Perhaps six weeks before the date of a broadcast, Brian Johnson and Harold Taylor will survey the selected circuit. Very probably some alterations will be needed, for a good course from a spectator's angle may not be so good when seen through the TV camera.

As he walks around, Brian is thinking of possible camera locations—and, indeed, of how many cameras will be required to cover the circuit adequately. The organizing club will have been asked to make available a rider or two, so that some idea of the possibilities can be gained.

Says Johnson: "I must seek out a feature which will make for spectacle—a hill, or a jump. But though some riders claim that we make them ride through a boggy patch deliberately, that isn't so.

"Our aim is to give the viewers close racing. Another criticism, this time from viewers, is that we tend to focus on the leaders to the exclusion of the remainder of the field.

"Well, a chap standing by the crowd ropes can watch the leaders go by —and until they come round again he has ample time to concentrate on the mid-field scrapping. But the viewer at home is travelling with the race; that's the fundamental difference. He is, as it were, in five places at once.

'Another thing. Sequence is important. In the control van, I switch from Camera 1 to Camera 2, then to Camera 3.

To pick up a midfield shot I would have to switch back to another camera, and that could well throw the commentator out of his stride."

But now it is race-day, and though there are still a couple of hours before transmission time, the camera men, in their grey anoraks, are all at their posts.

Johnson makes good use of the practice period, and from his desk in the control van he issues a stream of instructions.

"Now let's have a look at Two. How close can you give me on the rider's face? Good; yes, that's Burton. Come in tight, now. Lovely shot, just what we want.

"Now One... Bit late on that one, let him go. Four, can you look right down the straight? Try your longer lens. Fine, hold that shot…"

Commentator

Meanwhile Murray Walker, who is to give the commentary, is wandering round the riders' paddock. Chatting, making notes of men and machinery. His job? Here he is: "Few people realize that the commentator is seeing exactly the same picture as the viewer. He must talk about only what can be seen on the monitor and ignore everything else.

"He wears headphones and is linked in to the circuit over which the producer is issuing instructions to the various camera operators. So while he talks, he listens with half his mind, trying to pick out the messages which concern him alone.

"In those circumstances it is terribly easy to get foozled, yet he must stay cool, calm and collected and try to build up to a climax on the last lap.

"The real problem is one of administration, since the producer, cooped up in the caravan, can tell what is going on only from the commentary. He can speak to me—but my only way of speaking to him is through the audience. I must lead the producer when necessary, and be led by him at other times.

"Here's an example. Jeff Smith, say, had built up a good lead, but a little way back there is a good scrap for second place. So I say something like: 'But some ten seconds behind Jeff, numbers 27 and 34 are fighting it out...

"Brian will take the tip and, over my headphones, I will hear him say: 'O.K., Murray; coming up ...  now,' just in time for me to continue smoothly with: 'as you can see...' It certainly isn't easy."

That it isn't. Inside the darkened control van it is hot—and crowded. There are men adjusting the picture quality on the little screens; others attend to the sound side.

Amid the apparent confusion, Brian Johnson listens intently for the cue from London, one eye on the large clock. "All cameras, please. One minute to go... Half a minute. Ten seconds. Cue in, Murray." We're off!

Inside the van, the tension can be cut with a knife. Brian's eyes dart from screen to screen, his mind one shot ahead of the picture going out. "Hold that, Two; .lovely. Murray, coming to Three next. With you, Three." The orders rattle out like machine-gun fire.

As he clicks over each switch, he snaps his fingers—"Now"; he can't help himself. "Four, stay with it. Don't pan... no, don't pan! All right, up to you, One ; get 11 and 89. O.K., Murray, got you; Horsfield and Burton coming up... now! Again those snapping fingers.

Out on the circuit, Jeff Smith is riding a tremendous race.

Nowhere in the picture on the opening lap, he is fighting for the lead with half a lap remaining.

But producer Johnson, you feel, is not just watching Jeff. Momentarily he is Jeff, sharing his anxieties, feeling each jar and jolt as the B.S.A. charges across the rutted ground. Then the chequered flag—for Jeff and Brian both.

"O.K., everybody. Wrap it up. Well done!" There is elation in his voice, a grin of sheer relief on his face, beads of perspiration on his forehead. He turns away from the monitors at last.

"That race," he says, "was so good, we'll be accused of fixing it!"

Down from their high perches come the cameras. Aerials retract, cables are stowed away, and the circus train is made ready to roll again, on into next week's "Grandstand." Another day, another programme—but by that time we'll be back through the screen, back from Looking-glass Land.