I'd always fancied going, but it was Martin Drake's kind offer of a free ticket that really swung the deal. In the pits, Simon's Bootlegger Camaro was certainly the favourite of the camera-phone crew, but sadly not the tech inspectors. With the local council paying a worrying amount of attention to goings-on at Mallory, plus a surprise visit from the clipboards, Mallory Park had dropped the noise limit to just 98 decibels, and even with his four-box duals on, Simon still fell foul. Bugger.
Silver lining, though - Simon let me have his track slot! What a gentleman. The NSCC was out in force in group G, and having unloaded all the junk and shite from the Mustang I passed my own noise test and headed out on track. Jeeez, I wish I'd checked my tyre pressures ... erm, this month. Still, driving a car is most fun when you're on the limit. A full-weight Mustang on budget radials with an automatic gearbox that changes up and down on its own schedule finds the limit a lot quicker than some lightweight, race-bred special! I got blown away by a Morgan, a white Fiesta Popular Plus (yeah, right) and plenty of other stuff, but had a great time in the process.
I also got dusted off by a real sleeper, a Rover 110 with proper patina, full leather and wood interior and stock tyres. Under the bonnet was a Corvette small-block and T56 six-speed manual, and even with stock single-circuit non-servo brakes, he still blew me away. He said he was struggling halfway down the straights, as the stock SU fuel pump couldn't quite keep up...!
Just as I'd loaded all my junk back into the boot, Simon asked me if I wanted his second track slot! I did, so I unloaded everything again and went back out after lunch. This time I had a clue about what I was doing, and my mission was to try to shadow John. I now had a passenger - Sarah B - who had been out with John in the first session, and was kindly taking some photos for me. I tried my damnedest, and managed to keep John in my sights. Sarah said that riding shotgun with John was a pleasant and relaxing experience, whereas with me it was a tyre-sqealing, oversteering thrill ride, which is a nice way of saying that John knew what he was doing and I was going at it like a dog at the postman's leg. She also had to upbraid me for waving to Womble on the spectator banking at Shaw's hairpin.
We got dusted down by the same Fiesta again, but I didn't care. I'd had the most fun I've had all year. Derek had a spin in his TVR but lived to tell the tale, while Neil L'Alouette managed to lightly kiss the barrier in his big-block Chevy pick-up, a bent bumper and cracked fibreglass wing bearing the brunt o the damage. After the clipboards had gone home, the organisers did let Simon out on track for a few laps, bless 'em, but I was already queueing to get out by then.
That evening, I went up to join the other half at a bike rally near Garstang. It was around 9pm by the time Womble, Sarah and I got there, and the evening's festivities were just getting going. I've been to a few club bike rallies now, and they always slightly puzzle me. People turn up on a Friday, pitch a tent, get pissed, then some go for a ride out on the Saturday but most just start getting pissed again before the main evening's drinking session, then on Sunday morning they pack up and go home. Aside from the mode of transport upon which they arrived, there doesn't seem to be much "bike" about a bike rally - it's just people getting pissed in a field. That, to me, seems like a weekend wasted - at least at the strip there's a day's drag racing in between the getting pissed.
However, the evening's clubhouse bash was a treat. Two bands and a DJ, and rock tunes all the way. The bar sold bottles of Spitfire, Speckled Hen, Bishop's Finger etc for £2 a pop - cheaper than my local Co-op - and it went on into the early hours.
Overall it was a top day at the track, and a top night at the bar. It was just a shame they had to be about 150 miles apart.
Eugene
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