A 1968 Dodge Monaco is a little large to go sideways round a sprint track designed for little European cars. My weekend went as expected, hanging out in a field drinking beer and looking at crazy machinery. Watching Luc Besson's original Taxi, fun and games coaxing a little Chinese generator into life, sitting on top of the race transporter to view the drift nutters going sideways. The perfect weekend for blokes, grease-fest sausages and all!
I kinda hoped a couple of days of gratuitous mucking-about and excess would occupy my mind and provide a respite from the GD-fest that's characterised the last few weeks, but sadly it didn't work that way. There is a constant noise floor of girl fog that won't go away, and trying to keep the resulting mood dips hidden from my wife for fear of upsetting her didn't make it any easier. This isn't to say that I didn't have a good time, just that the fog was always there waiting to pounce on any moment of inattention.
Driving the race transporter made me think about the differences between C's and my driving styles. It's rather an unwieldy machine based on a large 1980s Peugeot van with about eighty Gallic horses waiting on the command of your right foot. It's by no means slow, but its sheer size and weight mean that in getting there it can sometimes be a little stately in its progress. I've owned a van before and driven thousands of miles in machines like this one so my strategy is to find a speed not too different to that the trucks are doing and sit there in the slow lane letting everything faster wash past. Vans tend to have a comfortable seating position so in my experience I can sit there all day if I have to with minimum stress except when circumstances demand quick action.
C by comparison drives the transporter on the edge. He's always hanging on the mirror and looking for gaps, frustrated that he doesn't have lightening-fast acceleration to seize every opportunity. He was bemoaning the lack of power and wishing for a much bigger engine, as a result becoming burned out after not much time in the driving seat.
I'm not a speed demon. Sure I have the Turbocharged Rollerskate and the bike, but unlike C it's not been so much the speed itself aside from early forays into motorcycling so 0 to 60 times mean little to me. My interest in the weekend's festivities stems from a love of fettling old machinery rather than of moving quickly in it, these days the attraction of the bike for me lies in its ability to deliver bucketloads of fun without risking my licence. I can talk the talk, but can't say I really get into that side of it all. Can I credit a brain from the girl parts bin with this? Can't really say, but compared to most of my petrolhead friends I do seem to be the one without the points on my licence. (Slightly unfair to C, despite taking his fair share of chances his licence is miraculously clean)
I'll be back again next year. With luck I'll be in the Rusty Old Wreck by then. I may not be able to escape the girl completely but at least in that car there's no chance of worrying her with undue velocity. I hope C is free to come along again, but I suspect he may wish to pass on a lift from me. I must bear in mind, when racing the hare the tortoise won, didn't it?