The Ace Cafe in north London is a landmark institution for bikers, spoken of with reverence and respect. It is in a scrofulous corner of what would otherwise be waste ground, not far from the junction of the M40 and the North Circular Road.
The knot of ring roads, bits of motorway and elevated rail lines has sucked a lot of the life out of the area. Where once there were pools of residential tranquillity, now there are vacant lots, transport and other types of depots and bits of waste ground.
The only plant that thrives here is buddleia, the prolific, purple-flowering weed of derelict, abandoned places.
But there is also the Ace, a gleaming white cathedral to bikerdom and to the golden age of rock 'n' roll. The building's ground-to-roof windows and blocky industrial appearance make it look like a tyre-fitting outlet.
The Ace began life as a transport caff in 1938, when it was opened by Hugo Robert Edinborough, aka Vic.
In 1940 it was all but flattened by a German bomb, after which the current building was built. It became a landmark caff for truckers, commercial reps and bikers but that came to an end in the 1980s when it was replaced by a battery- and tyre-fitting outfit.
In 1994 a reunion of bikers at what used to be the Ace drew 12,000, and in 2001 the cafe was reopened.
Elvis soundtrack
Inside, the floor is painted concrete, the tables are rough wood and the chairs plastic. Bikes and biker stuff (stickers, badges, retro posters) are everywhere, together with leaflets and motorcycle fanzines.
The music is Elvis, Billy Fury, the Animals and Dusty Springfield.There’s a display of vintage bikes: a BSA, Triumph, Norton, Royal Enfield and, best of all, a Brough Superior, the machine TE Lawrence was riding when he crashed and was killed.
The polished aluminium serving counter runs about half the length of the room. The meals are of the heart-attack variety. Think bacon, sausage and fries.
If Carl Clancy were going around the world today instead of in 1912-1913, he'd drop into the Ace. No question.
But in 1912, he and his biking partner Walter Storey stopped off at the Royal Automobile Club, newly arrived in its home on Pall Mall, where it continues to thrive. The contrast could not be greater. Pall Mall is the heart of St James's, the nerve centre of London's many gentlemen's clubs.
An imposing building with 106 bedrooms, it is all bevelled glass, gilt picture frames, twinkling chandeliers, polished brass and mahogany. The carpet is so thick it seems you’ll sink up to your ankles.
The place oozes that very particular English love of cars and celebration of motoring.
A central foyer has the delicate beauty of the inside of a Fabergé egg – an oval atrium is topped by a glass ceiling.
The walls of a first floor gallery are covered in murals celebrating British motoring. By the reception, there sits on the carpet a pale green gleaming Bentley Continental GTZ, only nine of which were made in 2011.
Welcome
Clancy and Storey stayed here and wrote about the cordiality of the welcome they were given as members of the Auto-Cycle Union of England and the privileges that came with the consequent associate membership of the RAC.
Yesterday, Geoff Hill, Gary Walker and myself, re-enacting Clancy's around-the-world adventure, were given an equally warm welcome by the RAC's Michael Bedingfield, head of sales, and Michael Quinn of the club's motoring committee. They have a Cambridge academic, Piers Brendan, scouring their archives for anything associated with Clancy's stay in 1912.
It’s funny but the chaps in check shirts and cravats among the RAC’s 15,000 members probably have more in common with the blokes in leather jackets at the Ace than either group would care to admit.
