The Ron Schuller tribute reminds me of another story, this time in Sydney.
Greg Sweikert was also one of those blokes who didn't shake the cage. He just went about his vintage racing in his own quiet way, always approachable but never in your face. He wasn't one of the fast guys and his job as a fireman often prevented him from turning up to every meeting but when he did you could bet his bikes were in pristine condition and he'd have a smile on his face. Greg was one of those blokes who truly loved the vintage scene and wasn't a one make bigot. He'd race his immaculate B50 BSA and Greeves one meeting, his Maicos or Elsinores at another and when it came to dirt track he had an Astro or Hagon Jap or Hagon Bully to pick from, thoroughly enjoying his time on board them all.
Greg had been missing for a while so one day I gave him a ring to find out why he hadn't been showing up. It was then that he told me that the chemo therapy was knocking him around a bit making it a bit hard to race. Apparently he had advanced prostate cancer but hadn't wanted to bother anyone with his problems. He even apologised for not turning up and volunteering to wave a flag.
One Saturday arvo not long after Greg turned up at my house for the first time ever and over a couple of beers in the shed he told me that the prognosis was pretty crook and that his doctors had given him 12 months to live. He looked a million bucks, told me he still felt great and had decided to take his family on the last big trip together, a cross America Route 66 style road trip. Every now and then I'd get a post card or a phonecall from him in some obscure place and he'd even managed to fit in a bunch of AHRMA races. He and the family were really packing it in. He kept telling me they were having a ball and the excitement in his voice and brightness of his postcards told me that he truly meant it. I got the feeling that the cancer had been sidetracked for the time being and he was living whatever time he had left to the hilt.
Upon his return he once again dropped in at my home with a t shirt he'd bought me at the AHRMA National at Hard Rock Raceway in Georgia and a flag for my antique USPS mailbox. He'd noticed that my flag had been broken off by vandals and took it upon himself to buy me a new one without even discussing it with me. He was that kind of bloke. The trip had obviously taken a lot out of him though as he looked 20 years older and a lot thinner than when we'd previously met. He was fading.
At that time Ray Ryan was organising the first Classic Dirt for Kyneton and Greg and I made plans to meet up there in a month or so but in my heart I didn't think he'd have the power left in him to go. What would I know! Upon arrival at Kyneyon the very first to greet us was Greg and his 7 year old son Nathan. He'd made it and along with his young bloke he'd bought his beloved B50 and Maico 250 as well as Nathans pitbike. Greg and the kid had a ball, laughed with us as we formed Klub Kevlar and rode all weekend. On Sunday night over even more beers Greg told us that he only had a matter of weeks to live and that he'd wanted to share one last bonding experience with his son before the inevitable. There were some hard men around that BBQ that evening yet there wasn't a dry eye seen. It was a special evening for all of us.
Sadly, Greg died a fortnight later with the usual lack of fuss. He simply went to sleep and didn't wake up. In the short few years I knew him I never heard one single whinge about what life had dealt him. He just got on with using what he had to the fullest, right to the end. I'm a better person for knowing Greg Sweikert and our sport is a lesser place without him.
Greg in action on his beloved B50 at Clarence 
