I love animals. I love
all animals, and wish absolutely no harm to befall any of them at the
hands of humans unless they're to be humanely slaughtered for food.
This has been my mantra ever since I was a kid, but I recently had to
amend it with a specific addenda: I wish to exclude one or more mice.
That particular mouse/mice that ate my 1981 British Leyland
Motorsport rally jacket, which I won when I was about 8. My hero at
the time was Tony Pond, the rally driver, and my Dad had taken me
along to a big BL Motorsport evening seminar at a big BL dealership
in Birmingham – it may have been Bristol Street Motors, possibly
even Patrick Motors, I can't remember that bit. I do remember seeing
TR7 V8s, Dolomite Sprints and SD1s, Minis, all in race or rally trim.
I won a prize for answering some question correctly, but they didn't
have a kid's-size jacket at the time so they had it made specially
and posted it to me. It was that lovely late Seventies, early
Eighties satin-finish Nylon, really classy, and I thought I looked
like Charlie Big Potatoes in it. I recently found it, tucked away in
a box in the back of the unit, and bloody mice had eaten bits of it!
Mice, you fluffy little bell-ends, WTF? The unit is on a farm! Are
you really telling me you can't find anything nicer to eat than nylon
jackets, PVC wiring sheathing and foam seat padding? “Mmmm, never
mind those huge mounds of grain, fresh vegetables and berries, here's
a stash of inedible, man-made, synthetic shite! Tuck in, lads!”
Remember Fingermouse on the TV? Well if I ever catch you, I'm going
to make an indy sequel called Bootmouse. Then I shall jam a foot of
dowel up your chuff and use you to scrub the inside of my exhaust
pipes.
All of which leads me
neatly and seamlessly on to rounds two and three of the NSCC season
at York Raceway over Mayday bank holiday weekend. After Easter's meet was
as wet and windy as Jacuzzi full of vegetarians, I wasn't holding out
much hope for this event given that the forecast was not brilliant.
It was compounded by rain, hail and high winds before I'd even set
off from home, and the fact that I had to have the wipers on
double-speed on the way up the M18. Never a good sign. However, upon
arriving at the track at 5.50pm and joining a lengthy queue waiting
to get in, it was T-shirt weather with most early arrivals already
well into their stash of tins.
Waiting in the queue
was Dave Billadeau with his new '67 Plymouth wagon – beige,
four-door, full interior... and a ProCharged big-block sporting well
in excess of 700bhp and similar torque figures. Bob on. Next to him
was Emma in her '57 Chevy gasser, not long back out, and apparently
this was its first trip to the strip since its last race at Pomona in
1968! Now that's a story.
First into the NSCC
pits with me was Jamie Hughes with the Land Rover, soon followed by
Rick, Mark and Scott. 'Red Nose' Dave Mears was with them; he'd taken
the long way round from Wolverhampton to join them at the
Knaresborough cruise. He was followed by Pete and Vicky in their Gin
Palace. The place was filling up quite nicely, but it was bloody
cold. I wandered around, stopping for a burger with the Thoburns, a
spicy sausage with the Knaresborough crew and some pizza with the
Smiths – it was lovely, and meant I didn't have to open my Pot
Noodle. The bar remained open even after they'd stopped serving,
which was cool, but when I returned to my tent I found it covered in
ice, and my sleeping bag had frozen to the inside of the tent. Nice.
I had to empty a two-litre bottle of water to act as the en-suite,
and I'm bloody glad I did – I didn't fancy getting out of that tent
for any reason. It was so cold, I barely got any sleep, being kept
awake by crows at 4am, skylarks at 5am, and James Murray blowing
Reveille on the bowel bugle at 5.15, just 10 feet away, with such
gusty gutsy gusto that I'm sure my tent went up in the air, spun
around a few times and landed on a witch.
Sunday dawned... well,
I say dawned, I didn't get to sleep until the sun came up and took
the frost off, so I was still in bed at 10am. I did, however, manage
to shamble into some clothes, brew up, get scrutineered (the most
peremptory scrutineering I've ever witnessed) and signed on in time
for NSCC first qualifier. It was very cool, with a mighty crosswind,
but many people were running quick times. Russ Pursley led the ladder
with a 10.4 @ 138mph, with Ian Walley not far behind on 10.8 @ 131.
Doug 'Uncle Ben' Hague in the Beast From The Far East was next, 11.9
@ 117, then hot on his heels was Jamie, who had managed to shag 12.0
@ 114 out of the old oil-burning Land Rover. Derek was still taking
it relatively easy on his fresh motor and very fresh diff, no gas at
12.1, then James Murray in with a 12.3. A small jump then to Pete
Smith with the blown Mustang on 13.5, followed by Lee Openshaw's
sprightly little Punto on 13.9, Andrew Errington breaking NPBs all
over the show with a 14.3 on a sniff of gas with Andy Frear's 'Smog
Monster' Bronco a whisker behind on 14.4. Dave Mears had 14.9 out of
the Firebird to stay ahead of Shaun Cockcroft's 15.0 from the MkII
Escort, then came Ryan Chatburn in the Lexus Soarer, a car bought as
a donor car but which turned out to be far too nice to break. Rick
Swaine's Mustang was next at 16.0, clearly suffering after multiple
attempts to fit a radio in the pits the previous evening, then Dave
in the other Lexus at 16.1, then Scott in the Pop at 17.1 to make a
nice, neat, 16-car ladder.
With rain forecast for
the afternoon, we went straight into eliminations with a minimum of
organisation and a maximum of dicking around. James opened
proceedings with a 13.6 victory over Red Nose Dave's 14.7, followed
by Russ handing Scott's arse to him 10.7 to 18.0. Ryan redlit away
any chance he may have had against Jamie, though Jamie's 12.1 would
suggest that that was a fairly slim chance, before Ian had Dave's
trousers down 10.8 to 16.4. Shaun's 14.8 fell victim to Derek's 12.2,
while a close race between Pete's 14.1 and Andy's 14.2 was actually
won by Pete's slightly less dozy reaction time. Rick copped a
drubbing from Uncle Ben, 11.8 to 16.0, then Andrew's 14.00 was enough
to beat Lee's 13.9, again due to sprightlier reactions.
Round two was the
quarter finals, and the account was opened with a race as tight as a
fat lass's jeggings – Uncle Ben ran 12.0 to James's 12.2, but
James's 0.1-second advantage on reactions means they must have been a
gnat's knacker apart at the line. Jamie then fell victim to Derek,
12.4 to 12.1, Russ's 10.6 shut down Andrew's 14.1, then Ian's 11.0
was enough to end Pete's day.
The semis were another
treat. Derek was still showing commendable restraint, leaving the gas
out of the equation, which meant his 12.1 couldn't touch Russ's 10.6,
but then Uncle Ben found the other knacker on that gnat in his race
against Ian, the Nissan getting a three-tenth drop on the Cortina at
the startline, but Ian managing a five-tenth quicker run. There was
no time for listening to the gnats singing soprano, though, as we'd
been promised rain – the adjective used was 'biblical' – so it
was time for a swift turnaround. As both Yellow Perils headed for the
line it was anybody's race, and both left cleanly on unspectacular
reaction times. In the end it was Russ who triggered the win light,
his 10.20 at a mighty 142mph just pipping Ian's all-Ford machine's
11.7 at 130mph.
Trophies, adulation
and champagne all round, and we still had an hour before it was time
to set off to the Barnes for the post-race nosebag. The 'biblical'
rain never really showed up, but I was praying for a thunderbolt when
Vix and Pete told me that their motorhome was so warm the previous
night that she'd had to kick the duvet off... Bless. The run out to the pub
was a gentle affair... mostly. The food was excellent as ever, but
after a day getting wind-battered, a big meal with a cold beer in a
warm pub left a lot of us looking even dozier than usual. The bar was
bouncing again, but I blame dry rot in the floors for that, and by
11pm most people had already sacked off to bed, so I did similarly. I
was extremely glad of the en-suite pop bottle in the early hours, but
the just-woken-up waz was a bit of a gamble – it was very close to
the neck of the bottle; in fact, I was “touching froth”, my new
favourite phrase from the weekend.
It was grey again on
Monday morning, and the wind had shifted again, but instead of being
a following wind from the right, it was a following wind from the
left. Rain was due at lunchtime so we tried our best to get all the
qualifying done early-ish. We'd lost Doug 'Uncle Ben' Hague and
Andrew Errington, who'd got something better to do elsewhere, and
Jamie had bust his starter motor. It hadn't just 'stopped working'
like everyone else's starter; no, this one was bust. In two.
Russ got the pole spot
again with a 10.2, Ian second on 11.1, and Derek still staying on the
wagon gas-wise with a stout 12.0. James took fourth with a 12.4,
while Pete got excruciatingly close to the 12s with a 13.01. Lee
managed 13.5, and we'd been joined overnight by Stephen Gilmour in
the minty-fresh MkI Cortina who posted a 14-flat for seventh. Andy's
Bronco was the top of the bottom half on 14.5, then Shaun and Dave
Mears in quick succession with 14.7 and 14.8 respectively. Then came
another tight grouping (stop sniggering at the back) of Rick on 15.8,
Ryan on 15.9 and Dave on 16.0, then Scott picking up a few MPH on a
17.2.
It was looking
decidedly black over Bill's mother's as lunchtime approached, and
with just Sportsman and Pro ET left to run their second qualifiers, a
motorcyclist hopped off at the top end, just as he'd gone through the
traps at 100mph. I remember seeing him on the startline, with about
six feet of wheelie bar with the wheels set half an inch off the
deck. Poor bugger, he was eventually taken away by the air ambulance,
but aside from a few broken bones he's in good shape. By that time
the rain had started, though, and after a light shower to lull us
into a false sense of security, it came down with a vengeance –
Sodom, Gomorrah, York Raceway. As soon as it stopped, there were
dozens out with the brushes to get things dry again, and before long
the sun came out and the afternoon turned into a beauty.
That said, it was
getting late and the track was still pretty damp before we ran the
first round, but it was Rick taking first exit, 16.7 to James's 13.7.
Gilly's clean machine beat Andy's smog monster 14.3 to 14.8, then Ian
comprehensively shut down Dave's Lexus11.9 to 16.5. Ryan suffered a
similar fate at the hands of Derek, 12.3 to 16.4, Ryan's Lexus
running slower on each run throughout the day. Pete finished Dave
Mears's day 13.6 to 15.2, then Russ took it easy, relatively
speaking, his 12.4 having Scott's 17.3 covered. Lee's alternator had
packed up on the Punto and Shaun had packed up and gone home by this
point, so that was round one done with.
Those absences gave
Derek a solo in the quarter finals, though he still ran a 12.3, then
James pulled a 12.5 out of the hat to cover Pete's 13.4. Gilly had it
all to do in the all-Cortina pairing with Ian, but tried a little too
hard and cherried, although Ian was off to an 11.6 anyway. Russ had a
bye but ripped off a 10.6, because he can.
By now the sun was
out, the sky was blue and one southerner was seen considering taking
one of his jackets off. Into the semis, and Derek's resolve was
tested to its limit but he resisted (or possibly he'd left the gas at
home), but his 12.1 and sharper reaction time wasn't quite enough to
cover Ian's 11.5. It was the same story on the other side of the
ladder, James's much sharper reaction and 12.6 being no match for
Russ's “Oh, are we off, then? Reyt tha'art!” reaction and 10.7.
It was definitely
getting on a bit when the finals rolled around, with most of the
RWYBers having gone home. In fact, most of everyone had gone home –
they were still running finals at 7pm! The Yellow Perils of Russ and
Ian lined up and faced off, and the race would turn out to be tighter
than the clasp on a Yorkshireman's wallet, in a duck's arse, up a
mermaid's chuff. Ian's reaction was hardly lightning fast at 0.9
seconds, but Russ's “Ey-up, 'appens we're off again” 1.3
reaction meant that Ian had a 0.34 second head start. Ian ran 11.37
at 134mph, and Russ ran 11.02 at 124 … or 0.35 seconds quicker than
Ian. That's one of the hairs off the aforementioned gnat's knackers.
It had been a decent
two days of racing, and although the three guys who bothered sticking
around for round one at Easter still have a commanding lead at the
top of the table, it's all getting tighter further down (unlike...
no, never mind). The next meet, rounds four and five, happen just
four weeks down the line from this lot, so it's still all to play for
and some folk seem to be taking it a little bit seriously... Let's
find out. Ta-ta.
Eugene
