I’ve always gone pretty well at Brands, and I do like the place, but I hadn’t really planned on being there for this meeting. £300 of diesel on top of the other costs makes it a really very costly event.
But Cadwell went well, and we felt somewhat obligated to be there, to wave the Jaguar flag again. We have handling issues to address, and we really do want some tyre data. So instead of not going, we committed to doing everything.
Jaguars never drop oil. This is, erm, nectar, left by a passing bee.
In now-familiar company, the order once again shuffled.
Diverse grid once again. A disturbing number of Capris, I think they're breeding.
And away we go. The bloke in the Transit is going to struggle, I reckon.
The early laps were a bit tight. To be honest I never paid any attention to the Capri or Dolomite, it was a 3-way fight.
Trying to sneak down the outside on sheer power didn't work.
Lap 2, and back up to 2nd again, hoping the Fords trip each other up and let me at that big bertha ahead.
Howard removed his own passenger mirror before the race, for that last teenth of drag. No, really.
Same tyres I hated at Cadwell, but much faster once the wheels were painted.
Bloody hell, he got me back. We did this a couple of times....
...and then this happened. The wheel vanished somewhat abruptly. Our hero is still on the brakes.
80 laps of testing, the bloody thing could have had the decency to let go yesterday!
Well, that seems somewhat fundamental. Modified versions were on order even before this!
Fixed and back in action again. Somebody else's dustcloud suggests fun was being had.
A proper obsessive will spot the transition from low to correct tyre pressure, just in time for the finale!
The nightlife at this tarmac resort was a bit muted, but it's strangely pretty.
Glaring enviously at the bastard who's parked a Dolomite in my spot.
'scuse me mate, I think we're in the wrong order, I retired first so I start in front. Suits me, I want the outside at Paddock anyway. Oh, well, er...
If I go and torment them now, maybe they'll fall off for no good reason.
At least being last you get a better go at warming the rubber, everyone expects you to be a cretin back here.
And so I watched the race from Clearways. In fact it was only doing so that made me realise how much the cars do move around through there. I thought Helen was pretty much bolted down, but every other car seems to have some drift on, and logic suggests that in similar equipment at the same speed, I must have too. I shouldn’t have to see things like this, I’m happier not knowing.
Race over, Howard did indeed stroke it home for the win. He had the grace to correct the commentator and explain the XJS had broken a drive shaft and not merely lost a wheel. The marshalls leap into action, Helen’s swiftly aboard a flatbed and we’re away. The CTCRC are not familiar with cars that smash hubs, so the MSA chaps stop us for photos of the broken wheel, satisfied that in fact there had been a mechanical failure. I cheerfully informed them that it’s a known fault, which caused the clerk of the course to spit his coffee over several screens.
Morning dawned with what might be the last of the year’s sunshine. Now, I’ve bravely told Mr David and my father that I’m getting on the podium today. Starting 19th, I will accept that there was some basis to their scepticism, but I was in the mood for it. Sometimes you just are, and this was going to be one of those days, I’d decided so it must be true.
Base camp packed away, there was a concern that the return of the Nessie was going to put the kibosh on my plans because I had now determined she is cursed. I also understood we’d be seeing a Lezzer show up today, and to be fair I’ve not seen Stewie since last October’s Birkett. But, as it transpired, he got lost. He only works at Brands all the time, so that’s understandable.
Lights out, and into the fray. The goal here is measured aggression. I want to go forward, but I don’t need to do it all on lap one, I have all race long. Doesn’t mean you don’t pinch three or four places into Paddock, or nab a couple more into Druids, but the traffic is dense and slow, pick your moment, consolidate, then go again. Big Al’s Camaro, as ever, appears to have the handling and grip of a drunk puppy on a laminate floor, and is dispatched in moments. The slow pace back here makes my low tyre pressures irrelevant, can’t feel it.
Ahead, SD1 and a Firenza thing. I think it was a Firenza. SD1s are, in this series, either amazingly fast, or surprisingly mediocre, it just depends which you find on what day. I don’t know which this is, but it’s not at the front, so….
Ahead, a whole train of Capris. 3 of them, and a Dolomite, and tantalisingly ahead of them, our two leaders. Hello. End of lap 1, half the grid dispatched, leaders in sight. It takes a lap to close down the gap to the next car because I made a bollocks of Paddock, but then we’re past on straight power. I’m having a look at the next one, the shiny green and white Capri that claims 300bhp, into Druids, there is a gap and you could sling it up there, but I know how much that car cost, I know how much I hate doing paintwork, and there’s plenty more race if we’re only on lap 3.
My father was caught sneakily cleaning her when he thought no-one was watching.
Lap 1 was a bit of a jam. Stick to the inside when in doubt. I did fancy the outside, just couldn't get there.
Sunrise may look a bit feeble, but it's going to be a very different day.
Post-Cadwell we had decided the gearbox was dying, but as we came to swap it we discovered the diff was in trouble. So we addressed that instead, and left the gearbag in. Spares for the meeting would therefore include a gearbox, and spare diff. The easiest way to swap a diff is to take a complete subframe, so we did that. Nice to have one handy, you might say. Well, yes, that’s why we’re always busy, you have to get in front to stand still.
Rolling up at Brands at 1am meant the customary snooze outside the hotel. The less said about the journey there, the less therapy I shall need. When you’ve sat on a steep hill in the fog in a lorry which has ground to a halt because the driver can’t find second gear, and keeps finding reverse instead of first, you know what fear is. There was, by this point, a feeling that somebody somewhere didn’t want me to be here.
A 6am alarm call was unwelcome. When you’re on site already, and went to bed at 1am, the rumble of the lorry engine after 5 hours is not what you want to hear, but the old fella was up and that means everyone has to be. By 7 we’re unloaded. We’re not on track til 9, but the baleful glare from bleary eyes had no effect on the recipient.
Signed on, noise tested, ready to roll. The strange thing about Brands is how familiar it is. It’s not at all an easy circuit, you don’t get much time to rest, and every corner presents its own unique challenge. Paddock has its high speed falling off the world negative camber thing going on, Druids is how late you dare brake and how much front end you’ve got, whilst trying not to run wide and spin into the barriers, Graham Hill sucks you in and tries to fire you off onto the infield, then there’s the ballsy charge into McLaren, the deep entry to Clearways for the briefest apex of one of the longest corners as you wall of death it round the outside to pick up all that grip and fire yourself back at Paddock. Yet, despite how easy it is to cock it up, you can launch straight into it on lap 2, Helen puts a 57 in straight away, and I’m not sure I was even in the car at that point.
She only gets faster from there, the stopwatch has the times fall into the 56s and grind down ever further. A Mustang heading for Goodwood next weekend is blasting fluid all over the circuit, and we’ve got a couple of issues, an oil leak quite quickly appears, so it’s back to base for a clean up and repair. Cam cover again. You can only have them on and off so many times. We’d put a new gasket on for this meeting, but we’ve just not got the threads left in the head, so it’s a bit of a pain.
Tyres are putting pressure on fast, we’re bleeding them down after every ten laps. Part of my complaint at Cadwell was how fast I felt the tyres went away on brand new rubber. Whilst we’re in agreement some of that was in my head, the pressure gauge is telling an undeniable tale.
Helen’s trend towards understeer is still here. With the lightest front end she’s ever had, the only conclusion to draw is that we’ve simply got a rear end that’s too good. And it is, to get the rear to let go now you’ve really got to be trying now that we’ve sorted the brakes. You can hang onto the brakes too long into a corner and get the rear loose, and if you do that it seems to take a while for the brakes to release. You can upset the rear with too much power as you leap the kerbs at McLaren, but no rear end can grip tarmac when it’s off the floor.
Other than that the rear sticks, well. Very well. Clearways is all about her front end, her speed there is governed not by oversteer but by how certain I am the front is going to make it. I can feel my head canted over in the cockpit, willing the front end to come away from the white line on the left and rotate the car onto the straight. More front end bite here would gain laptime. Simple as that. I tried treading on the power harder, but it just gives more speed for the nose to overcome, it doesn’t oversteer the back to help.
Druids is the same, it pushed the front, doesn’t skip the rear. Which does, however, make Graham Hill incredibly safe, not once all weekend was I at risk of losing the rear. Usually it is easy to power oversteer the back here, but get the nose in here and lay into the throttle, and she was only just thinking about it. Whatever the current balance is, however I feel the understeer is hurting the time, it is at least a very stable car, she won’t bite and kill you.
Second session saw the times falling again. Consistent low 56s, every lap, and it’s the consistency we’re looking for, not outright time. Time gains were under braking into Paddock, and holding 3rdgear all the way from Druids to the exit of Clearways. 3.54 diff and more rpm made this a 3rd and 4th gear circuit. Maybe a 3.77 would have helped, but would that slight additional pull make up for the extra gearchanges?
There are other cars out. Bellamy’s M3 on slicks is not making us look totally daft, and we’re popping a good few cars out here. A flat 56 marked the point at which the brakes cried enough. Pedal stopped doing as much, then went long and spongy, which suggested we have heat issues, and glazed pads.
They’ve taken, all told, about 40 minutes of abuse, so I can forgive that, they’ll do a race between glaze busts, though I've not yet locked a tyre, anywhere, so are they good enough or am I still a big girl? A 56 is not a great time, I’d expect another second off that. But as at Cadwell, the only way to work out how we’re doing is to compare ourselves to other cars. Complaints about track conditions were rife, so it’s not just me.
Wheels off, pads out, sandpaper time. Refitted, and swap to the Kumhos ready for the afternoon. What we discovered, most importantly, is that the lunchtime staff in the Kentagon actually have a sense of humour, it’s only the evening crew who are po-faced.
The afternoon shift on the Kumhos was educational. Understeer was less pronounced. Initial grip was very reassuring from cold, and the feel of the tyre was notably different, you can physically feel the different construction through the steering wheel. And that was before they had planed to Helen’s camber settings.
We lost the brakes again on the Kumhos. This is pretty bad, we’re managing race distance plus a bit, and cooking the pads. Back to base, pads out, sandpaper, swap to the Yokohamas. These are an old set, not at all at their prime. Took longer to turn them on, they were much more slippery to begin with, but predictably so. Once switched on, they didn’t go off. Times were interesting, and consistent. I couldn’t get them to do any better than the best 888 time of the day, but I did match it, and this is old rubber. I matched that time more than once, which is the important thing.
What we discovered from this test, and bear in mind the price of the Yokohamas and the Kumhos was bugger all because they were old and pre-used tyres, was that the 888 was the worst of the three. Better than the 48 for first lap bite, but worse than both for longevity and consistency. Over a race distance, I think the 888 shod car would lose out by several seconds.
Sitting in the pits, debating with David what to now do we had our data, we agreed that now I’d burned the old surface off the Yokohama I should go and give it a banzai, see what the outright speed was on them. Which is when the brake pedal went to the floor again as heat soaked into the system. Screw this, that’s me done for today.
Back to base, pads out, sandpaper, 888s back on. Now that they’ve cooled off, the starting pressure can be ascertained. We all soiled ourselves in surprise. We know Helen can work the tyres, and we know a low starting pressure can generate excess pressure, but we didn’t do that here. We started high and kept bleeding them down, hot, not building them up from cold.
What we determined then, was that to make the tyre last for a race distance, we have to start much lower than we thought. That’s going to make the green flag lap important, and the early laps of the race more difficult, but we should be better armed later on. Strategy will be interesting, I may have to actually think.
Plainly we need to sort the brakes. This track is hard on brakes, 4 braking points in under a minute, three of them scrubbing 50mph off. With the more open spaces of Brands in place of Cadwell’s pressure cooker, I’m experimenting with late braking. Always been a big coward on the brakes, but now that they’re working I’m trying them a bit. The rear brakes are cooking faster than one of Gordon Ramsay’s protégés on speed, that’s where the huge heat is coming from. The fronts are coping better, but they need better airflow.
The increased effort, and the fact that I can now stop this late without locking tyres, has exposed a weakness in the car generally. Wheel to caliper clearance is tight, the rear brakes are unvented. Brake lines were installed when she was to be a roadgoing class car and run close to exhausts that didn’t exist then, master cylinders and fluid reservoirs are unshielded from the heat and the bonnet has lost the louvres that allowed airflow across them. It is all adding up to a heat management situation that requires a fundamental rethink. And that will make it faster again. Then we need to look to the pads, the EBC yellows cannot stand this, they are starting to break up.
None of this, however, can be addressed this weekend, we’re now racing with what we have. As an interim measure we rummage in a bin for some hose to lift the rear of the bonnet slightly. Unusually our fibreglass bonnet fits neatly, and flush, and isn’t lifting. We can prop it up a smidge to compensate from the missing louvres. It doesn’t stand proud, but it does cause a panel gap, we’re unsealing the hole. Might help.
The smurf suit is hung, the barbie’s lit, the fake beer is flowing. None of us here drink. I know, think about that for a moment, but it’s a race weekend so I’m off the sauce, the other two don’t, so we’re a dry encampment. It’s a bit odd, but you don’t miss it if they don’t.
And that means the morning comes with only two painful shoulders to contend with. Over 80 laps of Brands in that car, without power steering, and actual grip, is starting to catch up with me. There are chafed areas of skin because the seat isn’t up to the job, my cheap Sparco Sprint was adequate when we had Toyo T1R road tyres, and even R1Rs, but it offers little lateral support and I’m leaning on a very small section of ribcage through the bends. Part of the shoulder strain is coming from hanging onto the wheel to brace myself. Not ideal. Another bill to be paid then, new seat required. And my belts run out this year. Cheap this game.
Enough of the whining. Signed on and scrutineered, the big blue Jag draws attention as she noses about the paddock. Qualifying is the usual trick, get there first. Made friends with the two somewhat filthy-minded marshalls present, both of whom seemed up for a film I offered to make entitled “Moist Marshall Madness.” I cannot really explain how these things come about, save that anyone who works at a track seems to have a certain sense of humour, and it’s never a clean one. I find if you just keep saying yes to things you can get into peculiar situations in record time.
In rolls the grid, and out we go. Fearing these low pressure tyres on a cold morning might take a while, I played myself in slowly, but piling in a 57 almost immediately without any effort at all. Happy the car was now ready I’m winding up for a charge when I note with some dismay that we have smoke in the cockpit. I can see a marshall having a good long, low look as I come round Clearways, and that tells me that it’s as I feared, it’s me, and I’ve got a problem. Shit and damnation. Into the pits, Officer David has a look under the rear, because it could be that diff we were worried about. Not that. A look under the front. That’ll do it, engine oil dripping, that’s game over. A David confirms I’m currently p2, but it’s back to camp whether I’m 2ndor 22nd.
When you’ve got the bonnet off and you can see your competitors circulating, it’s a bit annoying, because everyone tends to improve later in the session, and I’m in the paddock watching a train of Capris snort round. The oil leak is a continuation of yesterday’s issues, cam cover has simply had enough and is firing the oil past the bolt seals, which have all seen better days.
Much bodging occurs, there is silicone and tape, but that engine is now sealed up tighter than a frog’s arse, and the good news is we still secured third place. I’ll take third, it’s actually my best ever result here. It is, admittedly, the first time I’ve ever qualified here in anything other than a roadgoing-class car, and I always used to qualify 4th in that. ’08, ’09, and ’10, 4th on the grid, every time. 3rdwill be a nice change, and the inside line at Paddock with the Escort on the outside gives me a good chance of p2 by Druids.
Howard’s powerful leviathan took pole, with a time I know I should have beaten. But if wishes were horses we’d have more burgers. A plan of attack forms swiftly, attack in the early laps, but if that fails, and it likely will, ease off, let the tyres do their thing knowing they’ll hang on, go for a late-race assault in the hope the other fella’s have gone off. All it means is overtaking two very fast cars, how hard can it be?
To compound the problem, the arrival of the human we call Nessie. Last time she showed up to a race, Vanessa got written off. As omens go…
In assembly, and Primett warns me that the Crapri driver in p4 is known to try and play mind games with his competitors. Sounds like fun, my mind doesn’t work like some. No sooner am I so advised when over wanders said driver, and starts worrying that one of my boot pins might be slightly loose. He frets that at 120mph it will fly off and kill him, so sets about tightening things for me. In case the 40kg bootlid firmly bolted to the hinges flies off for want of a pin I don’t use. The whole affair is rather comical, and I’m not exactly falling for this, we watch with bemusement. What am I going to do, drive slowly because my car’s broken because he thinks a pin I don’t need might be loose? Good luck with that.
Out we roll, green flag lap, grid up, familiar tingle of “what the hell am I doing here?” and lights out. As planned I followed Howard on the inside, held the Escort out wide, into p2. As expected the Escort wall of deaths it round the outside, loses in the drag race to Druids, where Howard seems a touch slow and the Escort goes round the outside to steal his place back. My immediate thought was that Howard’s a canny racer, and would rather have the Escort in p2 than the Jag.
My reasoning is simple. I have more power than the Escort, but he outbrakes and out-corners me. Howard has more power than me, but I can outbrake and outcorner him, because I’m lighter. But Howard has much more power than the Escort, and if you plan to defend every apex you’d rather have the car you’re a lot faster than in a straight line.
However, in about 30 seconds there is a straight, and we’re still tightly bunched, so Helen soars past the Escort back into second, and we have a couple of nibbles at Howard over the next couple of laps. He again, to me, seems to be reversing me into the three astern to have me consumed by the pack, because we felt slow in some of the bends. He’d later deny that was the plan, and who am I to disagree, but it sure as hell felt like it at the time. My mirrors spoke of racing astern, and you have to tune that out.
.
As I’m now defending, Howard’s pulling ahead, and this was not the plan. Lap 4 and the Eskimo slides ahead into Maclaren, I didn’t get the drive out of Graham Hill to be able to slam the door. As soon as I worked out I couldn’t just grab the place back, it’s time to implement the plan. Let him go, stop fighting, let’s both work together to chase that pesky XJ12. There are backmarkers sure to play a role, so let’s stop the fight and play it smart. Worst case is come home third, which is still far better than I expected before the season began. And I’m sure I can get Primett back for second.
My tyres have come up, the slightly slippery feel to the first three laps has gone, it’s game on again. Couple of laps laying off, and both of us did actually start to claw a bit of ground back on Howard. I know Dave regretted not extending his lead when he was here with the Jags last time out, but is he managing the gap or is this it? Primett ceases to close on him quickly, so if we want to move up, now might be time to push a bit harder because I’ll need some time to work out my move. The strange thing about pressing on harder is you can’t really explain how you do it. Nothing looks much different, but the gap shrinks.
Into Maclaren, we’ve closed that Escort down a good bit, I’m mentally planning the overtake down the pit straight next lap round, I’ve actually thought about this, which is new. But there’s a bang from the rear and Helen lurches into huge oversteer, a full 180 and backwards into the gravel so fast I never even got my foot off the brake. Out of the windscreen I see the rear wheel fall over onto the tarmac.
Now, I don’t know much about cars, but I do know that a wheel that should be on the car being on the floor, after a loud bang, means I’m not going to try getting out of this gravel. I also know that I’m sitting in a car in a gravel trap in an 80mph corner, and frankly fuck this for a game of soldiers. As soon as I saw a clear track I was out of that car and across the grit, up and over the tyre wall like a gazelle. If the gazelle had let itself go a bit from too much easy living.
They also pulled the scrutineering ticket, you get it back if you fix the car, not until. In theory, that is the correct practice. Never thought about it before, as nobody’s ever done it before, but it is.
Back to base, and naturally I immediately blamed Nessie for the whole problem, which I think was fair. With spares on hand, and a determined David, Helen was back at scrutineering before the next race ended, somewhat reinforcing the claim that we’ve done this before.
A phone call from a distant Dermott berated me for not prophylactically swapping the hub after testing. My objection that nobody has ever swapped a hub that wasn’t broken provoked a gentle explanation about grip, and speed, and energy. I’m prepared to go with the ancient Anglo-Saxon concept that “shit happens.”
Night falls, the barbies flare, the beers are drunk. We discover a transsexual Capri called Hector, a woman with a fake name and an obsession with pretzels, and a man who’d named and spoke to his telephone. This was before 8pm, and everyone involved was sober. The Kentagon, in stark contrast to every other meeting I’ve ever attended here, is rammed with people. There is conversation, and fun being had. People wanted to speak to each other, drivers from different championships were socialising, the organiser was doing Jaegerbombs with the WAGs. Even the sour-faced barmaid looked less like she planned suicide. Very, very different to any other time I’ve been here in the previous years. It might be because more people stay on site, or that the club lays on a free bbq, but it was notably different.
Race o’clock. The Crapri that tried to psych me yesterday is starting 20th. I hadn’t realised he’d retired, but we’re both planning to cut through. He tries to negotiate my grid slot, quite serious in his assertion that he retired first so he starts higher up the grid. When I explained he was welcome to it, I wanted the outside line, his viewpoint then changed. I must say, in all these years, I’ve never encountered this tactic before. I must also say that I still didn’t care, it made no difference to me either way, he’s not getting on the podium today, I am.
Bit different to yesterday, looking across assembly from dead last at the guy sitting first. Howard asks what lap he should expect the mirrors to turn blue, but even I’m not that confident.
Out we roll, and grid up where they put me, but they then change their mind. The marshalls ask if I wouldn’t mind starting a row further back for the actual start, leaving a entire empty row ahead. I don’t know why. I still don’t care, it makes no odds at all. This is simply going to happen, and it doesn’t matter what else occurs or what obstacles present, this is predetermined.
Through Clearways and Rover and Vauxhall squeeze together, then part, just as the 3.6 comes on song. Gap, power, large blue wedge, sorted, we’ll go down the middle. SD1 squeezes over and sends Helen dancing aside, but the gap opens again and we head down the straight three abreast, the gap squeezing closer until my two companions hit the brakes and Helen pops down the middle like uncorking a bottle. Now, I will admit, it felt pretty close, and there was a moment I thought about backing out of it, but there was also that moment when my brain reminded me that I wasn’t really up for messing about today and ordered foot back onto throttle.
Whilst I’m dithering, the Capri passes me back. Well, how rude. Snuffled back past on the Cooper straight, reset my brain, and passed the other fella into Druids. Again, it felt a bit tight, but once you’ve got a nose up the inside there it’s over. That puts Helen on the back of another one to pass down the pit straight, a moment of indecision about which side to pass him felt braver at the time than it appeared on video, I was going to dummy him to defend high and then dive low, but he sort of sat in the middle and caught me out a bit.
Discovering I was later on the brakes into Paddock than the Dolomite, in the same manoeuver, was helpful, and though I showed him the nose at MacLaren it was only for show, the overtake was always going to be Paddock the next lap, and so it proved. Third place, podium, done.
The lead pair are ten seconds up the road. I ain’t going to catch that. But one might get a penalty. The strange chap in the Capri has used me as a door wedge and followed me through past everyone, but Helen now has clear air, and the gap between us extends faster than the qualifying gap would suggest, mostly on the Jag’s ability to transmit power to tarmac on corner exit. I said the rear grip was good.
I’m not closing the lead pair down by much, the gap is getting very slightly smaller, but there has to be a reality check here. Am I really going to close down Dave Howard and Steve Primett by ten seconds in about 6 laps? No. Am I under any threat? No. We’re on the podium from 19th. I’m thinking, after the weekend we’ve had, this is good enough. Sensible, rather than banzai laps, let’s not test those frighteningly-fragile brakes, and just see the flag.
So it was. Two backmarkers to swat a lap from home, amusingly Rover P6 used me to pass the Camaro and not come last, but home in third place, safe and sound. Waved enthusiastically to the marshalls from yesterday, and it’s back to the pitlane to discover that today they’re only interviewing the leader. Damn.
Reception back at base was obviously more enthusiastic than yesterday. Some tosser has parked an effeminate BMW in my spot, so I blocked the idiot in, teach him to nick paddock space. We proclaim the Nessie curse lifted. Moments later, the BMW owner appears, turns out to be Stewert, who got lost and arrived in the nick of time to just miss the race and be roundly battered by his passenger.
Packed up, getting ready to roll out when a small boy clutching a drill bit pleadingly appears. He needs a 12mm, and only has a 10. On the basis that you should never pass up a chance to save the day, I unpacked the side locker, handed him my £60 box of drills, and never saw him again. That’s what you call a bit of a shitter.
Never mind, they gave me a shiny trophy and we ground the 4 hours home, where I fell into an off licence and took the night off. Not a bad year. Far more competitive than we’d planned, stand-out moments at every round. Putting her 4th on the combined grid in the rain at Silverstone despite not being able to see. That great chase with Primett at Cadwell. Two charges through the pack from the back of the grid. Not one weekend I could call dull. And that engine, boy does that 3.6 go.
I have a shopping list for 2015. It’s long, and costly, but get ready!
Look, Mr Escort, just go away will you? There's work to be done here.
Group of onlookers ponder how to remove a wheel-less battleship from a flatbed.
Lap 2, and making progress.
Got to be the turn-in point for Clearways, I do tend to go in deep. Bow chicka bow wow.
More of those bloody Fords. But they haven't got my rear grip, corner exit is a massacre.
Don't look in your driver's mirror, but it's time to give in to the inevitable.
Just a couple to go and we can then have a little nap.
Excuse me sir, but you seem to be sitting in my third place, so if you wouldn't mind moving aside?
Random woman tried to make off with the pot. Of course if she hadn't broken my hub yesterday there'd have been more to go round.
I have a shopping list for 2015. It’s long, and costly, but get ready! How costly? Well, pedal box, change of tyres, sort the engine oil pump, swap the head, sort the diff, we definitely finished off the gearbox this meeting, seat, belts are now out of date, HANS is mandatory for 2016 and if I'm getting a seat and belts it would be foolish not to get all the gear now so helmet and bondage gear, rear hub mods. Five, maybe six pounds?
For those keeping track, the tyre for this meeting was the class-appropriate 225/50/16 Toyo 888, riding a 16x7J rim, largest allowed in class. Car weighed in at 1360kg, engine a 3.6 AJ6 with one or two tweaks. Not too shabby for an old boat. Season over, see you next year.
Taking them from behind:
That was not the plan: