With the news that MotoAmerica is headed to Daytona International Speedway in March of 2022 for the Daytona 200, we decided the perfect way to build excitement for the event would be to start digging through the history books and memory banks. Since Paul Carruthers is literally as old as the Speedway itself and covered almost 30 Daytona 200s as a journalist while working at Cycle News, it was a no-brainer that it would be him who would take on the task of trying to recall the good and the bad. And since we are the home of the AMA Superbike Series, we figured we’d have him start his look back with the 1985 Daytona 200 – the first of the 200s to feature Superbikes – and go from there. This week, we focus on the 1991, 1992 and 1993 Daytona 200s.
1991
Winner: Miguel Duhamel, Honda RC30
Miguel Duhamel didn’t even have plans to compete in the Daytona 200 in 1991 much less winning it. Drafted in as replacement for the injured Randy Renfrow, Duhamel made the most of the opportunity given to him by Commonwealth Honda team owner Martin Adams as he put the Camel-backed Honda out front for 32 of the 57 laps and stormed to a 10.290-second victory.
The Turning Point: Fast By Ferracci’s Doug Polen was the fastest of the fast all week at Daytona International Speedway, but the polesitter was out of the race on the opening lap of the 200 when his Ducati threw a chain. Polen earned pole position with his 1:53.638/112.779 mph lap on Wednesday of Bike Week and it was the first for Ducati at Daytona and the first pole position for a non-Japanese motorcycle since England’s Paul Smart put his Triumph on pole in 1971.
Newsworthy: Duhamel beat the Vance & Hines Yamahas of Jamie James and Thomas Stevens. Duhamel’s teammate Rich Arnaiz was fourth, despite riding with a broken finger and a badly battered left hand, with Muzzy Kawasaki’s Scott Russell finishing fifth.
Six riders took a turn at leading the 200, helping make the 50th running of the race one of the most exciting in recent memory. In addition to Duhamel, James, Tom Kipp, Steven and Arnaiz all led at some point in the race.
Duhamel’s winning average speed was only 93.471 mph as some 13 laps were run behind a pace car and under caution flags.
Duhamel not only won the Daytona 200, but he also came out of the 600cc Supersport race with a victory. “It feels great to win Daytona,” the 23-year-old French Canadian said. “The names that come to your head are Freddie Spencer and Kevin (Schwantz) and those guys. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I won this race. This is the greatest feeling you can have.”
1992
Winner: Scott Russell, Kawasaki ZX-7R
The man who would go on to be known simply as “Mr. Daytona” won his first Daytona 200 in 1992, the Georgian winning a near photo finish over Fast By Ferracci’s World Superbike Champion Doug Polen. Russell won the race with a record average speed of 110.669 mph to best Polen by just .182 of a second.
The Turning Point: As has been the case in a zillion races at Daytona International Speedway, the race came down to the final lap with Russell following Polen through the chicane and setting himself up for a slingshot pass just before the finish line.
Newsworthy: As the 110.669 mph average speed shows, the pace car was never needed in the 1992 edition of the Daytona 200.
The crowd for the 51st running of the Daytona 200 was estimated to be 40,000.
With Polen finishing a close second to Russell, third place went to another Georgian – Mike Smith – in what was his debut race on the Camel-backed Commonwealth Honda RC30.
“I knew coming into this race that I could win if everything went well,” Russell said. “I’m glad we put on a show for the fans and for the finish to be that close. It was pretty exciting.”
Doug Polen smashed the track record at Daytona during Wednesday’s qualifying with the Texan lapping at 1:50.388 on the 3.56-mile road course. His lap was three seconds faster than his pole setting lap from the year before. His qualifying session was cut short when he crashed the Fast By Ferracci Ducati in turn one, escaping without injury.
An 18-year-old Texan by the name of Colin Edwards won the International Lightweight (250cc) race in his Bike Week debut at Daytona. Third place went to another 18-year-old making his AMA professional debut – Kenny Roberts Jr. on the Wayne Rainey Racing Otsuka Electronics Yamaha.
Miguel Duhamel, the winner of the 1991 Daytona 200, was contesting the 500cc World Championship and didn’t compete at Daytona in 1992. Although Miguel Duhamel wasn’t racing at Daytona, his father Yvon certainly was. The elder Duhamel won the BMW-sponsored Battle of the Legends race, which was held in conjunction with the AHRMA Classics Day.
1993
Winner: Eddie Lawson, Yamaha FZR750RR OW-01
Four-time 500cc World Champion Eddie Lawson came out of his brief retirement to win the 52nd running of the Daytona 200, the Californian besting 1992 Daytona 200 winner Scott Russell on the run to the flag by just .051 of a second on his Vance & Hines Yamaha FZR750RR OW-01.
The Turning Point: For the first time in Daytona 200 history, the leaders actually stopped for new tires on three occasions. As it turns out, the first four finishers all needed three sets of rear tires to go the distance at the pace they were running. When Lawson pitted for a third rear tire, it looked like the race would go to Russell as he led by 36 seconds on the 49th of 57 laps. But just when it appeared Lawson’s hopes were dashed, Russell was also forced to get a third rear tire.
Newsworthy: With Lawson barely beating Russell for the victory, third place went to Miguel Duhamel on the second Muzzy Kawasaki. Duhamel’s third place meant that all three of the riders in Victory Lane were former winners of the Daytona 200. Lawson previously won in 1986, Duhamel won in 1991 and Russell had tasted victory in 1992.
Lawson pleaded ignorance when asked what Dunlop rear tire had been fitted on their bikes in their final stops. “I don’t know,” Lawson deadpanned. “It had yellow letters on it, and it was black.”
The race was marred by the death of AMA road racing fixture Jimmy Adamo, who suffered his fatal crash on the sixth lap of the 200. The 36-year-old’s death was just the fourth motorcycle-racing-related fatality in Daytona International Speedway history.
Following his second-place finish in 200, Russell was slated to head to Europe to contest the 1993 World Superbike Championship.
Russell smashed Doug Polen’s one-year-old lap record at Daytona when he ripped off a 1:50.194 lap in Thursday’s qualifying session. Polen ended up qualifying second for the race while Lawson’s Yamaha blew an engine during qualifying, forcing him to start on the back row for his Twin 50 qualifier.
We don’t get seasons, we get ‘mood swings’.
Our climate is a test of sartorial resilience.
Our weather forecasters are the nation’s most accomplished comedians, delivering their material with the grim gravitas of a state funeral director. They must invent new, soothing euphemisms for “rain” to keep us from rioting. Listen closely: “Outbreaks of rain” suggests it’s a contagious disease. “Spits and spots” makes it sound like a troublesome adolescent. “Drizzle” implies something quaint and gentle, not the pervasive, soul-soaking damp that finds its way into your socks by osmosis. My favourite is “heavy cloud,” as if the clouds have been weight-training. They speak of isobars and fronts from the Atlantic with a solemnity normally reserved for wartime dispatches, all to explain why you’ll need a light jacket again tomorrow. It’s performance art, and we are the captive, slightly damp audience. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘weather warning’ is for one inch of snow.
The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Our humidity is a free, full-body cling film.
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Summer: a collective hallucination we agree upon.
A ‘sunny day’ is a mass communal delusion.
The sun is a distant, unreliable relative.
Spring? That’s when the rain gets warmer.
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A ‘nice day’ is purely relative here.
A forecast ‘sunny interval’ is roughly 90 seconds.
A ‘breeze’ is wind that’s read an etiquette book.
We don’t get hurricanes, just ‘huffty breezes’.
A ‘weather event’ is a slightly interesting cloud.
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The ‘feels like’ temperature is always ‘damp’.
A ‘clear night’ means you can see the moon’s blur.
The drizzle has a gentle, soul-soaking quality.
Our climate is ideal for ducks and pessimists.
A ‘weather front’ is just more grey advancing.
Summer sunshine feels like a personal gift.
The mist makes everything look Instagram-filtered.
The weather app just shows a shrugging emoji.
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I’ve never fully dried out since 2012.
Puddles are our most consistent landscape feature.
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We consider a patch of blue sky ‘holiday’.
A ‘storm’ is just wind with ambition.
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Our weather forecast: a guess in a mac.
A ‘chilly breeze’ finds every gap in your clothing.
A ‘drought’ is two days without drizzle.
Carrying an umbrella is our national handshake.
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The wind on Hampstead Heath or Greenwich Park isn’t a breeze; it’s a full-throated roar from the Atlantic that hasn’t encountered a decent hill for hundreds of miles. It arrives with a vendetta, determined to steal hats, unravel scarves, and turn a peaceful walk into a Le Mans-style battle against physics. It speaks in the wires and groans in the branches, a constant, loud companion that makes conversation impossible. You return from such excursions not refreshed, but wind-whipped and slightly deaf, with hair sculpted into strange, aerodynamic shapes. It’s nature’s blow-dryer, set to “arctic gale” and “maximum tangling.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The ‘feels like’ is always ‘damp and mildly disappointed’.
A ‘sun shower’ is the sky’s mixed signals.
A ‘bright period’ is a fleeting moment of hope.
A ‘cloud break’ is a mythical event.
The wind will politely steal your hat.
A ‘weather system’ is just organised gloom.
The ‘precipitation probability’ is a firm ‘absolutely’.
The ‘air quality’ is ‘freshly laundered wet dog’.
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The wind chill is winter’s sarcastic commentary.
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My coat is a permanent part of me.
The weather app just shows a shrugging emoji.
Our wind is just air in a bad mood.
Spring in the rest of the world is a riot of blossoms and gentle warmth. In London, it’s a tense negotiation. The daffodils bravely push through, a bright yellow “V for Vendetta” against the grey. The trees get a faint, green haze. And then, without fail, we are hit by “The Ides of March Gusts,” a series of gales that seem personally offended by this show of life. It’s a battle between optimism and entrenched dampness. A truly warm April day is viewed as a meteorological error, soon to be corrected by a “return to seasonal norms,” which is code for “put the heating back on.” London spring is less a season and more a propaganda campaign by the gardening industry. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
London fog used to be a thick, pea-souper full of mystery and Jack the Ripper. Modern London fog is more of a “misty inconvenience.” It’s not thick enough to be dramatic, just enough to make everything look slightly out of focus and to give your hair that “just-stepped-out-of-a-shower” look without the benefits of cleanliness. It hangs in the air with a vague purposelessness, diffusing the streetlights into fuzzy haloes and making the number plates of buses unreadable until they are upon you. It’s the atmosphere’s version of a soft-focus lens, presumably to make the relentless grey more aesthetically pleasing on Instagram, where it’s tagged #atmospheric #moody. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘thermal low’ is our collective sigh.
The sun tried once; it got discouraged.
A ‘meteorological event’ is a light gust.
The climate is ideal for growing mildew.
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Summer sunshine feels like a personal gift.
The drizzle is a gentle, endless nagging.
The social etiquette of the shared umbrella is a delicate dance. Do you offer to share with a stranger caught in a downpour? If you do, do you height-match first? Who holds it? The awkward, close-quarters walk with a damp stranger, trying to keep pace and not spear each other with the spokes, is a uniquely London intimacy. It’s a moment of forced, damp charity that either bonds you for life in silent solidarity or becomes a story of mild social trauma. The decision to “make a run for it” versus “wait it out under an awning” reveals fundamental aspects of one’s character. Are you an optimist, a pessimist, or just someone with suede shoes? See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Londoners have a relationship with the sun that is best described as “traumatically co-dependent.” When it appears, we don’t trust it. We squint at it suspiciously, as if it’s a con artist about to sell us a timeshare. But we are also powerless to resist its allure. Within minutes of a “sunny spell,” every patch of grass in the city becomes a refugee camp for pale limbs, as office workers shed their layers and bake themselves during their lunch hour, knowing full well it’s a fleeting mercy. The resulting, mild pinkness is not a tan; it’s a sunburn of desperation. We know the sun is an unreliable, feckless entity, but we cannot help but offer it our bare skin at the slightest opportunity, like weather-masochists. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘sunny break’ is the sky’s coffee break.
A ‘weather warning’ is for one inch of snow.
Our atmosphere is 10 air, 90 resignation.
Global warming, in London, seems to manifest not as desertification, but as “More of the Same, But Slightly More Intense.” Winters are milder but wetter. Summers are prone to sudden, violent downpours that flood Underground stations, rather than lasting heat. The “extreme weather events” we’re promised are not tornadoes, but “Supercell Drizzle” or “Megagusts.” It’s as if the climate crisis has looked at our weather and said, “I can work with this template,” and just turned all the dials up by 10. Our apocalyptic future looks less like Mad Max and more like a very, very damp Tuesday that never ends, with occasional, frighteningly warm February days that confuse the daffodils. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘rainbow’ is the sky showing off.
In the end, we are defined by it. The folded brolly in the bag, the “just in case” jacket, the knowing sigh when a tourist complains about the rain. It’s our shared burden and our unifying language. We mock it constantly, but there’s a perverse pride in our resilience. This damp, mild, utterly indecisive climate forged the Blitz spirit, the queue, the cup of tea as solution to all ills. It keeps the grass green and the pubs cosy. It’s terrible, and it’s ours. And if, by some miracle, you get a perfect, still, sunny day in London—with the sky a vast, cloudless blue and the city sparkling—there is no more beautiful place on earth, precisely because you know it cannot last. For a more detailed forecast of our collective resignation, you could always visit London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘storm cloud’ is just a darker grey.
‘Brolly weather’ is, to be fair, always.
The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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The Thames is not just a river; it’s the city’s mood ring, and it’s almost always a murky, brownish-grey, indicating “generalised damp ambivalence.” On the rare, sparkling blue-sky day, it performs a miraculous trick, reflecting the sun and almost convincing you you’re somewhere glamorous, like the Mediterranean, if you squint and ignore the floating traffic cone. But mostly, it is a vast, tidal basin of chill, contributing to the city’s unique microclimate: the “Riverside Raw.” This is a special brand of cold that seems to emanate from the water itself, bypassing your coat and conducting the chill directly into your bones. A walk along the South Bank in January isn’t a stroll; it’s a cryogenic experience. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘weather event’ is a slightly interesting cloud.
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Spring? That’s when the rain gets warmer.
Our autumn is just damp summer in disguise.
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The ‘air quality’ is ‘freshly laundered wet dog’.
The air smells of wet pavement and nostalgia.
‘Mild’ is the weather’s favourite personality trait.
Our weather is narrated by someone whispering ‘damp’.
A ‘rainbow’ is the sky showing off.
Sun forecast? That’s a hilarious practical joke.
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Weather warnings for ‘pleasant conditions’ are pending.
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The forecast is a work of optimistic fiction.
Our hail is like being sprinkled with dippin’ dots.
The light in London has a unique quality, praised by artists for centuries. It’s not the clear, sharp light of the Mediterranean; it’s a diffused, liquid light, filtered through countless water droplets in the air. It softens edges, blends colours, and gives everything a pearly, luminous glow. This is all very romantic until you realize the cause: perpetual, hovering moisture. The famous “London light” is essentially the visual effect of living inside a cloud. It makes the city photogenic in a melancholic way, but it also means that achieving a sharp shadow is a rare and noteworthy event. We are constantly viewed through nature’s soft-focus filter. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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The weather isn’t changeable; it’s indecisively rude.
Our weather builds character, mainly water-resistant character.
A ‘weather bomb’ is a slightly aggressive breeze.
The wind is a persistent, invisible nuisance.
London weather has a narrative quality. It provides pathetic fallacy on tap. A romantic disappointment feels right in the drizzle. A moment of joy is heightened by a sudden sunbeam. Filmmakers use it as shorthand: grey for gritty realism, rain for tragedy, golden hour for love. We live inside a constantly shifting mood board. A Monday feels grey because it is, literally, grey. A Saturday adventure feels more adventurous if it involves battling a gusty wind on Waterloo Bridge. Our internal stories are constantly being scored and set-dressed by the atmosphere, making our lives feel vaguely cinematic, even if the genre is often “tragicomedy.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
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Forecast: grey, followed by slightly darker grey.
Spring? That’s when the rain gets warmer.
I moisturize by stepping outside.
Our winters are long, damp evenings.
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A ‘sunny break’ is the sky’s coffee break.
The rain radar is just a green blob.
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We define ‘arctic blast’ as 5 degrees.
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The rain has a specific, London-y taste.
Our rain is the sky’s light grey tears.
We don’t tan; we just develop rust.
Our winters are just long, dark damp.
London’s weather has a profound effect on the national psyche. It breeds a stoic, pessimistic optimism. We expect the worst (grey, drizzle), but secretly hope for the best (a sunny interval), and are never truly surprised by either outcome. This creates a resilient, if slightly sarcastic, populace. We are experts in the “stiff upper lip,” which is less about bravery and more about preventing rainwater from dripping into our mouths. Our literature, our humour, our very character is infused with a damp, grey melancholy, punctuated by brief, ecstatic bursts of joy when the sun appears. We are a people moulded by mild pressure systems. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.