The Mustang-bodied NASCAR is a bit of a cop-out - it's pretty much the same jelly-mould-plastic-body-over-spaceframe-chassis as any other NASCAR, but this one has Mustang-headlamp-shaped stickers on the front. The Euro NASCARs are still running naturally-aspirated pushrod V8s, though. The other Mustang was Marcus Bicknell's '71 Mach I with a 347-cube stroker 302, four-speed manual and... well, that's about it.
When he asked if I'd like a passenger ride around Brands Hatch, I jumped at the chance. The first thing I did was open the passenger door... straight into the wall of the pit garage. Ooooh, bugger, hope nobody notices. I then tried to get into the bit of bent aluminium with a chunk of foam as a cushion that purported to be a passenger seat. Unfortunately, it was built for someone half my width, and I still had a very bulky coat on, and then tried to fasten the five-point belts despite the fact that my shoulder blades were at 90 degrees to each other. I managed the top two and the side two, but couldn't find the crotch strap... and the driver's practice window had just opened. No time to lose, he ran over, said "Brace yourself," and plunged his hand under the foam cushion in a manoeuvre I haven't seen since James Herriot was on the telly and extracted the belt buckle. Blimey, we are good friends, now, aren't we? While I was still uncrossing my eyes, Bernie himself came over and Marcus was telling him how he had a brake judder, despite having replaced the Ford Thunderbird discs, pads, callipers, wheel bearings, the lot, and would Bernie fancy a couple of laps to offer his opinion? So, hold on, I am now strapped into a car that not only uses shonky 40-odd-year-old Thunderbird anchors, but they don't work, and I'm about to go around a race track in it?!
Bernie set off at the gallop, and Marcus was dead right - at the end of the start/finish straight, Bernie'd stamp on the anchors and the whole car would shake, the dash top hammering up and down like a wacker plate while my teeth rattled together and my retinas detached, without actually slowing the car down much. I later went out alongside Marcus, and he drives like he's on his way to Tesco. We'd just charged down the hill from Druids and onto the short Cooper straight and I caught him looking at his watch. Sorry, mate, are you due elsewhere? Watch the bloody track! Would I have rather been anywhere else or done anything else that day? Nope, can't think of anything.
At the end of that week was the annual NSCC AGM in Blackpool. James, Womble and I headed up early on Saturday morning (early for James and I being anything before noon), and arrived after a bracing walk along 200 yards of promenade. Bracing, in this instance, means having your face scoured by freezing salty rain being driven by a 200mph gale. Welcome to Blackpool. Also, did you know that 'promenade' is the French word for a grim-arsed covered concrete pathway incorporating a dog-shit-based assault course? Anyway, the afternoon rule book discussion went a lot more smoothly than usual. Too smoothly, in fact; we were finished early, with minimal rule changes. After a rather early dinner, we got on with the Tat Auction with everything from car spares to a DVD of all the ladies who got their tits out at the Nationals 10 or so years ago going under the hammer. It was tremendous, and raised well in excess of £200 for the NSCC kitty.
Late in February was the Race Retro show at Stoneleigh, a bit like Autosport for the historic racing crowd. It's always worth a trip out, though I usually go on the Friday and find that there's not enough to fill the whole day. On the Saturday and Sunday there are outdoor rally stages and, in this instance, a few burnout demonstrations to fill in the middle of the day. There's plenty else to see, though...
Classic Formula cars, cool.
Look at that, a huge old race car, massive engine, steel RSJ chassis, and on tyres narrower than Front Runners.
This 105E-based spaceframe circuit races in CSCC Special Saloons.
Now that's where it's at for me - an old SD1 done up for circuit racing, with a Rover V8 huffing through quad sidedraught Webers on a cross-ram manifold.
Apparently, real men don't drive Volvos...
Oh yeah, the Metro 6R4... wonderful thing, took me right back.
As did this - Russell Brookes's old Chevette HSR, sponsored by Busby! I remember this first time around!
This is still the most stunning rally car ever, in my opinion - the Lancia Stratos. Mid-engined, short wheelbase, and twitchier than a crackhead pissing on an electric fence, brilliant.
This caught my eye - a Vauxhall Firenza dressed up like an old Jimmy MacRae tarmac rally car. Beautiful in its own right, but on the grille was a Chevrolet badge and a 302 badge. Could it be a Can-Am Firenza? I never heard it start or saw it move, but that would be the best thing ever if it was...
Yeah, a Chevette HSR. I could just go one of them.
It was then a long wait until the four-day Easter weekend. It began well, with Wheels Day on the Friday being very sunny and pleasant, and a really good turnout marked a significant change from last year's half-empty drenched field, and the previous year's Dunsfold traffic nightmare. It was a shades-on day all day. Setting off for York on the Saturday afternoon couldn't have been more different, with high winds and rain that varied between persistent drizzle and overtaking Noah on the M18. It was dry in the bar, though (which, over the past few years, hasn't exactly been a given. Many of us remember those old Portacabins. If you can make penicillin out of mouldy bread, then God alone knows what you could make out of what was growing on the inside windowsills), and the recent revamp had encouraged a few more bodies in. It was all going so well until Fadster trashed the place.
A quick head-count on the Sunday morning showed that nobody had actually blown away, against all odds, and despite a brisk, cold crosswind, conditions were actually pretty decent. Plenty of folks had completed winter rebuilds and were busting to test them out, but most were being sensible. Andy Hadfield wasn't getting much grip from the cold track and was mired in the 10s. Simon Boot's Camaro was fresh off the rolling road and just shaking down, but with some stonking burnouts. James, whose winter rebuild comprised of changing a leaking sump gasket, went out and ran a 12.4 and was more than happy. Derek Beck's fresh motor was being run in gently - he'd deliberately left the nitrous at home to prevent 'over-exuberance' but was running strong anyway. Russ made a few passes but then trailered the Dutton with a little top end rattle that later turned out to be a broken rocker arm. Andy Errington was a superstar - he made a couple of NPB passes at 14.5, but on his first run, he missed the first turn-off for the return road so he decided to take the second. It was only after driving over a rutted road, a muddy field, through a builder's yard, out onto the road and back in through the main gate (where they tried to charge him to get in) that he realised that there isn't a second turn-off for the return road. Although, as he quite rightly stated, he's always been told he should never turn around and come back down the track at the strip. Fair enough.
It was a good day, better than we could have hoped for given Saturday's conditions, and we were about to get a revisit. Despite booking the correct number of seats at the Barnes, we still managed to turn up with more arses than chairs, but a good nosebag was welcome after the cold wind. While we were eating, we were treated to thunder, lightning and a hailstorm - it was better than the telly.
It didn't get much better. The bar was rammed, and a damn good craic, but by 10.30pm it was drunk dry and everyone was peremptorily hoofed out. With nowhere big enough to gather, the evening just farted into nothing and everyone went to bed by 11pm. Overnight, the rain started, and didn't give up. It belted down. Although the forecast was for it to stop raining around lunchtime, many people who had suffered a night of being soaked, frozen and wind-battered (I blame the Barnes' vegetables) couldn't face sitting around for four or five hours on the offchance that it might stop raining, and before noon the pits were mostly empty. The track's organisers hadn't called the event off, though, so a handful hung on just in case, and, as predicted, by 1pm the rain had stopped, by 2pm there were RWYBers on track, and by 3pm, the classes were being called. Not that there were many - 19 RWYBers, one car in American Super Stock, one in Hot Rod Challenge, one in Pro ET, and a handful in JDM and Sportsman. Many people appeared on more than one of those lists... There were four NSCCers left on site, although one, Andy Frear, was staying on the bench due to teething issues with turbo pipework. So three cars qualified, Derek topping the tree with a 12.6 at 113mph, James second with a 13.3 at 107, and Dave 'Red Nose' Mears in the Firebird on a 16.0.
James and Dave met in the first round (which was also the semis), James coming out on top 14.0 to 15.7 while Derek just staged and broke the beams to go through to the finals.
In the finals, Derek stole 0.2 from James on the tree then went on to run 12.7 at 112 to James' 13.5 at 102mph. A first round full points haul for Derek, and well deserved, but hopefully he'll have some stiffer competition at the next round and we'll be plus a full field of racers and minus Storm Katie. A damp start, but things can only get better!
