Last time I was out with the CTCRC boys was Silverstone National, October 2013. It was a wet quali, we accidentally put the Jag on pole, then it dried out and we got mugged.
The plan this time was to be mugged a little less. With that in mind, the car is 50kg lighter, and we fitted larger front brakes. Road testing in the three days leading up to the meeting allow the brake balance to be sorted by adjusting pad materials, and we’re off to Silverstone at 6am on a bright Friday morning for testing. Because the Bear is picking up pants for a living, I’ve roped the old fella into driving the lorry. He’s never driven this particular lorry before, and whilst he could jump into a 1950s Bedford without hesitation, the struggle with the gearbox that went off in the DAF looked a little like he was wrestling a python. That was not a reference to masturbation, on this occasion.
I last raced on the International Circuit in 2007. The international back then was the National circuit, with extras, extending it to over 2 miles, and including Bridge Corner, which was brilliant. I hadn’t realised until we arrived that they have completely changed the track since then, and not one corner of the current International featured on the old International. So, a new circuit to learn. I like that.
Testing was to be a proper test, with several tyres, and brake pads, and temperature probes, and other exciting things to play with. The paddock, when we found it, was the shiny new F1 paddock, and we got large and shiny garages, with toilets that worked and soap that got refilled, a media centre with air conditioning and lots of glass, all that sort of nonsense. Sadly, the event has attracted many fast and shiny GT cars and their vast shiny transporters. The old removal van and the 30 year old Jaguar looks a little out of place amongst these leviathans. They have crews putting tyre shine on the expanding 40 foot trailers. We have mushrooms growing inside the windows on the top deck.
The staff are efficient, and neatly pressed, we’re unpacked, signed on, fuelled and ready to go bang on for 9am. Half a dozen laps, getting a feel for the car, checking nothing is going to fall off. There is a knocking from the front wheel that gets worse under braking. I knew caliper clearance was tight on the 16s, but I thought it was actually clear. Trying not to use the brakes but to still learn the track - because to come in costs you the session and I only need to learn where the corners are - is not easy when there are all these GT spec Porkers, Fiats and TVRs wanging past at Mach 6. Why in the name of God’s armpit they put me out with them, when there was a session full of MGs, I do not know.
Wheels off, and curing the knocking was simple. I attached the caliper. In fairness, Bear did say he might have left one loose. In fairness, he was trying to kill me. Second session, and giving it proper grief, there is a squirt of water onto the screen at high rpm. Damn. Tried again, no good, did it again. Back to camp. Tried removing, cleaning and tightening the cap. Another try. No use. Water system is pressurising before it gets hot. That’s the head. Plugs out, all dry, no steam cleaning, blow by is uni-directional then.
Various cures attempted, but no use, it’s a kettle. That’s the head gasket. It’s 12.30. I was all set to pack up and go home, but Officer David talked me off the ledge. The last session of the day is 2.45pm. We had it swapped and running just after 3pm, in time to just miss the last laps. Swift work, bearing in mind we’re a Bear down. Begging to be allowed out in session 2 didn’t work, they were booked up. I tried bribery, and mild sexual harassment. Neither worked. I left an oily handprint on a shiny white painted door. It’s not where I offered to put it.
That rather blew testing then. I’ve done a dozen slow laps on the wrong tyres for £199. The gasket failure itself was odd, it had eaten the fire ring, and split it horizontally, and munched a path to the water gallery. No temperature issue as such, but still broken.
Something like this does change my approach to a weekend. This becomes, from this point forward, a case of surviving the event, I will now be nervous of the engine all weekend. The head on this engine belongs to the Bear, it’s on loan. It’s very expensive to replace, and the potential risk to it was why I was all set for throwing the towel in, I never quit, but you don’t risk someone else’s equipment. Even though it’s now fixed, I won’t trust it, I’ll watch the gauges all weekend long, and I will be short-shifting without even meaning to, to try and make sure this engine goes home without any further issues. That said, it’s my first race of the year, so I’m as sharp as a butter knife anyway.
Decamped to one of those shiny garages as the posh folk departed, and claimed my spot in this hallowed chapel of speed, revelling in the knowledge that people as esteemed as Max Chilton might have used these very toilets. The forecast suggests me might roll the wet tyres down there too. Our small toolchest and stack of tyres is somewhat at odds with the array of boxes, benches and tools the shiny black Cosworth of McLoughlin alongside has brought to the party. They are operating on a different level altogether. If we take it a bit seriously compared to some of the Jag boys, he’s playing at a professional level. I’m slightly envious, but not envious of the cost of it.
The full CTCRC circus rolled in. The BARC lays on a meeting and then some. We’ve these high end GT cars all around, gearbox karts, the Kumho BMWs, Thunder Saloons boasting a 24 car grid that makes the CSCC’s counterpart look a bit anaemic, a combined pre 83/93 grid of 43 cars, pre 2005s, the Vtec challenge, a thousand Caterhams, and TV cameras about the place.
Now, the problem here is that the paddock is set up for 26 cars, 13 teams, ie F1. There are 200 cars, and 500 support vehicles here. The paddock was swiftly, as Officer David put it, fucked. The blessing to the garages, however, was that there were only racing cars in it, and the driver respected each other’s parking spot. It was a ballache, but there was always somewhere to put your car, and nobody stole that spot. There were cars from 3 different series in my vast garage, and nobody failed to get in or out for 3 days. There is a level of co-operation and amicable assistance here that is on a different plane.
My dear old dad, not having been to a race meeting for a while, has to admit that this vast cavern stuffed full of racing cars of all size and shape, presents a gleaming spectacle not to be found elsewhere. It was, with hindsight, something to enjoy being part of.
Barbie, no booze, bed. Signing on was relaxed, scrutineering was in the garages, they came to us. Nice. Helen passed swiftly. The first of the year is always slightly worrying. Then, mercifully, the rain hissed down. The hiss became a torrent. We RainX-ed the screen and fitted the wet tyres. The Cossie’s 2 mechanics swapped the springs, dampers, anti roll bars and tyres. It took under an hour. The torrent became buckets in time for qualifying. Distant thunder cracked the heavens, lightning flared. Awesome. Pulling into this maelstrom in a racing car, huge drops, warm as blood, thumping off that metal skin over your head making a noise like war drums, the rumble of engines as you prepare to drive 300 horsepower of old GT car across a lake, it’s just one of those experiences.
Sitting in assembly relatively briefly, nerves do show a little, though I won’t admit that to myself in that moment. I am known here as being pretty good in the rain, there is an expectation to meet. I expect to go well in the rain. David expects it. My father expects it. A distant Dermott, and Bear, expect it. But I don’t really know the track, I didn’t get my testing in, I've not driven since last October. What if I’ve forgotten how to drive? I could have a more sensible hobby, like hang gliding. Why do I do this? The weight of expectation is pressing.
Qualifying was more like sailing.
The photo might be clear, but he really can't see me until this point.
Did I mention it was wet? It was. That Capri is trying an experimental line.
Could see precisely bugger-all by this point, and cars were navigating by each other's wheel tracks.
The competition is lighter, more powerful, and shiny. This man is not a fan of Jaguars.
My Cadwell nemesis from 2012. Understeers like a drunk puppy but it doesn't half pull.
And at the sharp end, you'll find these things.
At the other end, this stuff. But there's nothing wrong with his car control.
Simple and clean under the SD1 bonnets, but the live axle seems to hurt them in the rain.
Out they roll. This one just cleared off. 350bhp and only a tonne, and driven hard, how can you argue!
Dear Mr M3, I promise not to smack you off the road like the last XJS you encountered.
It's all kicking off. The grid is an eclectic mix, to say the least.
No, I know this isn't the right line, I was dodging what looked like an accident!
I'd like to say he did me on the brake or something, but in truth he just drove straight past me.
I really can't make it stop any harder than this.
Best bit of the race, for me, was the fight for the pre-83 win, in the race we weren't in.
Away we go again. This is the target. It's deceptively quick.
Further back it's no less fiercely contested, but the cost of some of the cars pushes the level of respect up a bit.
Mind you, they're all a bit pricey, and they don't tend to go smacking each other about.
Nobody else has a tax disc though.
Flagged out, and forget all that, Helen likes it wet. I like it wet. We like it wet together. Left assembly sixth, and passed 4 immediately, the last two turned left to go to the wrong circuit as we joined Hangar straight, and I was in clear air. Except for a Gulf-coloured Cossie, Millar, powers past as we reach Stowe, and gets in the bloody way.
In two minds what to do, I elected to follow him for a bit whilst I learn the track, and pass when I could. He’s slow where I’m fast, I’m slow where he has power that can find tarmac, so he’s in the way but he’s my pathfinder for now, it’ll do. It’s really wet out here. No, worse than that. The spray was something else. It’s the first time that I have really been unable to see ahead, ploughing on down the straight, spinning the rear tyres up at 100mph in 4th on puddles I can’t see, driving into a white wall of spray with a dim light in the middle. The camera could see better than I could.
The screen fogged up fast. So much for the anti-fog stuff I put on. Or the demister. Or the open window, I’m scrabbling at it with my gloves, and the anti-fog stuff merely makes it harder to clear. My letter of complaint will be with the maker shortly.
It got wetter. It couldn’t, but it did. Crawling about the place, using torque in lieu of rpm, passed the Cossie when he ran out of grip. A turbocharged nutter in an Escort special flew by on proper wet tyres, and span it nicely straight away. We passed many cars, sliding past M3s with some ease, wheelbase making for stability, weight making for grip, but I never got a lap in. I simply couldn’t see well enough, and it was my own internal fogging at fault, not really just the spray. One for the to-do list.
It was bad. I like it wet, but that was something else, there are cars navigating from each others’ wheel tracks. As Helen goes off line to pass them we find the deeper water, requiring a demonstration of testicular fortitude to make it work. It would have been very easy indeed to smash the car to bits on the Hangar straight, 100mph on standing water, wheelspin, get that wrong just once and the bridge parapets beckoned, and you’ll take half a dozen with you in this spray.
Helen was smashing through standing water I couldn’t see, turn one is fast even in the rain, and outbraking people into it had me literally floating in places, the front would wash wide then grip, the tail would wag, and another grey hair was born. Caught and disposed of two SD1s, which is useful, they’re my target cars in the pre-83s, but as the flag falls traffic has clogged my runs and lights in the mirror are the black Cosworth, he caught up. I’m not convinced we haven’t just left a lot of time out there, I think I had a pocket full of seconds still to use.
Lesson learned. Timesheets put us 4th from 43. It could have been worse then.
But, now we have the same problem I’ve had for pretty much my entire racing life, qualifying well against faster cars, and then having to deal with the consequences when the race starts. It used to be my roadgoing class car against the modified cars, and lacking the power to defend against them off the start, the races were often a strategic retreat. Now we’ve gone modified, but moved to a series with much faster cars in it, so same problem.
And the sun has now come out, the water bakes from the circuit. I’m 4th on a grid which, realistically, I should be about 15th on. Last time out, they all knew I was dead meat. This time out, they still know it. But at least they’re friendly about it. Mr Cosworth remarks on the Jag’s amazing abilities in the rain, in the casual knowledge that he has a better than 50% power-to-weight advantage on me. I discuss with the M3s which side they plan to pass me down, and on which lap. A really good result would be to hold onto the top 10, ie in the top quarter of the field.
I never admit defeat, but I will acknowledge that it looks a bit difficult. Off come the R1R tyres, on go the 888s. Brand new 888s on the front, meant to be bedded in in testing, which didn’t happen. We can at least take the labels off. The Cossie’s mechanic next to us, busy turning it back into a dry weather car again, winces at the sight of the shiny tyres going on.
I’ll just have to give them some grief on the green flag lap and accidentally do a lot of practice starts between the garage and the red lights. But the start has now become a rolling start, because the TV cameras are here, so no chance of pulling a blinding start to jump that Cossie off the line, and of course, no proper green flag lap now. Bugger.
On the upside, I can now see outside. So can everyone else. Damn. I’m running out of cards to play, I might just have to get on with it. We’re starting at the front of the grid on a track I don’t know against faster cars in a machine I’ve not driven in anger on a dry track, with tyres that aren’t yet bedded in. What can possibly go wrong?
To the race then, and after four laps of the paddock to get us gridded up in a live pitlane (what the hell!) we roll out bang on time behind the pace car. A slow lap offered little chance to add heat to rubber, and I nearly rammed the M3 of West a couple of times trying. That wouldn’t have gone down well, the last XJS he saw was at Donington, and it hit him as he lapped it.
I’ve never done a rolling start before, not in daylight anyway. My understanding is we race as soon as the lights go out, meaning as they go out I ought be charging at the guy in p2 flat out from close range. But this M3 in p3 is not as close to the leaders as I think we should be, so can I close on them now, effectively overtaking him before that happens? I dunno. Screw it, better to seek forgiveness than permission. Trying to time that run on the Cosworth is tricky, because the leaders aren’t stupid. All things considered, it went ok, the Jag was flat out and closing on them as the reds vanished, take some of my old-school torque, you turbocharged sissies. Sadly, the turbos appeared to be already engaged, and they came past me like I was a rock in a stream.
The Cossie surged ahead, the M3 from pole is off, and as we get to turn 1 the M3 in third has pulled alongside again and there is Millar’s insanely powerful Cosworth going down my outside and heading too hot into turn 1. He rockets off beyond track limits, but he doesn’t give a damn about that and he’s coming back on whether I’m here or not. I do my own bodywork, so as the steel walls close in to each side, a lean on the brakes is in order, and we’re now 5th despite as perfect a start as I could have hoped.
Off pace through 2 as a result, and head for the inside to hog the apex at 3. Braking too early and too much as we learn the stopping capability of the car with these brakes and tyres, another M3 passing me round the outside, that’s 6th. Sluggish out of 3, and moving to steal the apex of 4 when I spot 2 more Beemers wanting that same hole, simultaneously. Rear wings on the XJS are a real pain to repair, and it’s only going to delay the inevitable by seconds, so I opened the door. As it happens, that didn’t matter, because as I did, the white one went for the apex with the blue one alongside, and one of them broke a front wishbone, and retired. He did bloody well to miss me, as it happens.
Now 7th. The relief of Hangar straight. At the end of it, the problem of the braking zone. I can’t tell you what it’s like as you batter towards a 70mph right hander at twice that speed, in a car with unknown stopping and cornering capability, with a swarm of angry hornets on your bum, save that the mental risk assessment says to try the middle pedal a little on the safe side. It’s not a time for heroics. Next lap we’ll go later. The slowish corner entry has me vulnerable on the exit, and as we hurtle into the chicane another Beemer passes on the brakes, as the guy in 6thcocks it up and falls off. In the confusion I’m briefly 6th again, butunclear if the accident is going to rejoin the track I gave it space and the Beemer comes back to demote me to 7th, hanging me wide so another Cosworth steams by.
Well, the car’s running. After the head gasket failure I don’t want to push my luck, so 6000rpm is my mental limit here, but my natural tendency to change up early means I won’t hit even that. That means 5thgear is engaged, despite the 3.54 diff. The brakes, well, I can smell pad, but I don’t know which end that is. Yes, you can tell the manufacturer by smell, but neither end has my usual EBCs in, these smell like Mintex, and I didn’t think I had any of those fitted.
The tyres have not been heat cycled, so when do they go off? Well, from the feel of it, anytime now, but then I might be travelling faster now I’ve done a lap in the dry and can learn the circuit. We have a more lively rear end than before, possibly rear brakes still hanging on a bit too long on turn in, but that’s me, I’m a naughty trail-braker and I can fix that by not doing it. It is really hard to assess what you’re doing as you’re doing it.
We’re sitting inside the top 10, just, but there is a car in the mirrors. Managing the gap would be sensible. I can’t, he catches me. A little Mk1 Escort. How the hell has an Escort caught me? I mean, come on, I have twice as many litres here. I hadn’t really factored in that I also have 50% more weight, because we had a great dance. That car slides and drifts about like a drunk kitten, but it’s always travelling forwards. Get Helen sideways and she scrubs speed off instantly, but that car keeps going forward.
That’s 8th, I think. Is it 8th? I can’t keep track. 4 places lost in the first lap. That’s not going well then, but it should have been 6.
As the race progresses, a couple of things intrigue me. Helen is able to stay with the enemy through the fast corners. There’s nothing through turns one and two that made us look slow, wind her up to speed and she can peg the fast machinery, the weakness is in the places that power-to-weight plays a factor. Were it all 90mph corners we’d be faster, but it’s not.
She stops a lot better than before, but it’s still not M3. Watching the videos later, Helen is chirping the tyres under braking, so it can’t get much later, but they can arrive at full speed and stamp the pedal, no tyre noise, and they just stop. I know there are some very fancy ABS systems going on, but the electronics aren’t thatmuch better than my synapses, for the sheer grip they have there has to be something more going on. I am minded to suspect that the Kumho tyres might be a factor. But we’ll worry about that later.
For me, racing is basically a high speed exercise in problem solving. We never have the fastest car that we can sling about without a care, it’s always a case of making the best of what there is. I know some drivers hurl their car with reckless abandon, and then look surprised when it’s broken, or there was an accident, and I like putting on the nutter hat as much as the next guy, but I also know who pays the bills for getting it wrong, so there is a balance to find. So what goes off in the brainpan as we’re scuttling along on lap 3?
He’s better in slow speed stuff and on the brakes, a lot better on the brakes. I have more power, and it’s possibly the Jag better in high speed corners, so for three laps we diced. Close, clean racing. Side by side through corners, a car width given and taken. I know this guy is the pre-83 leader, so he is who I’m secretly racing, this is my indication of where I’m really at. And better yet, I now know he’s a clean racer. I can play with those.
I’m starting to lose my grip on him when the M5 catches and splits us up. Puts me tenth, I think, I lost count. Same deal with the M5, the Jag can deal with it except on the brakes. Speaking of brakes, that’s when mine failed. The pedal goes hard, and the car ceases to slow down as well. We’re about ¾ distance. I’ve lost some pads, clearly. I assume it’s the rears. I’m not going to retire, obviously, it’s just another problem to manage. Speaking of problems, I’m sure that oil gauge dropped very low through that last right hander, but it’s very hard to watch it during the corner, and it’s fine on the straight. Surge? What do you do about that, corner slower?
We’re a sitting duck for the next Cosworth and M3, both pass. We actually give them some more grief, the Cossie understeers like a bitch, and we’ve more poke than the M3, which seems a bit less racy than the others. The Cossie falls off a lot, and puts me on the grass as he fails to notice that his accident is still happening, but without incident the flag drops.
Helen comes home 13th. It’s slightly disappointing, because I wanted top 10. But she finished, the engine held together, the brakes haven’t killed me, and I even think the tyres started to come back a little, but then was I moving more slowly anyway?
Parc ferme, which is standard here. Sweat and sunshine, hot oil, the thrum of many cooling fans, it must be the end of a race. The gentle waft of bullshit as drivers relive the race.
To base, and off with the rear wheels. All 4 pads on the metal. They went in on Thursday evening, so they have done 30 laps, including the wet qualifying. A better solution to brake balance is needed. For now, however, a straight swap for the same again, because race 2 is only about 10 laps.
Nothing wrong in the front, but wheels off to check, as usual. Refuelled, oil topped up. The dipstick was on the medium mark, explaining the possible surge I thought I saw, we’re ready for the morrow and it’s beer o’clock. Or would be if I were drinking. No beer at race weekends has made this a better hobby. You wouldn’t think it, but it has. Whilst I was being virtuous, I note that co-incidentally the BTCC meeting running this weekend is breathalysing all drivers.
Timesheets say we need 6/10th to match the Escort, but we are faster than both SD1s that would be my class B rivals in the pre 83s. We can find 6/10s, somewhere, surely? I declare, bravely, that tomorrow I’m having an Escort. I suppose that was capable of being misheard. Nobody believed me anyway.
With a long delay til race 2, gear packed and the eternal search of the sky for rain draws the afternoon on. Black clouds fail to drop their cargo, and the sun beats the world into glorious technicolour. Sunshine after rain makes the whole place look like someone changed the planet’s contrast settings, but there is no moisture going to jump from the air to pull Helen back into contention.
Boards, lights, nothing, go! Not a dreadful start, power past the M3, going great guns into turn 1 but have to lift a little early because I can’t tell what the Escort now on my nose is going to do, my tyres are better than his when cold so I will try to corner faster, but he can stop so much better than I can that if he taps the brakes I’ll hit him. There is time to think about this sort of thing even in the chaos off the line. Some other Jaguar drivers might consider this sort of thought process. That lets Mr M3 back through, and that problematic understeering Cossie I need to get rid of.
The problem cars here are the M3, the red and yellow Cosworth, and the Escort of Primett. I want to chase the Escort, but the other two are in the way. From behind there are two very fast M3s coming from the back, and they will mess things up when they get here, but this is the battleground I’m fighting today.
Initially there is hope. Cossie passes Escort, and Helen tries to pass the M3. I’ve got the same sort of power, faster in the faster bends, but I just haven’t got the ability to stop to make it work, and trying slows you down. This is like the old days of roadgoing vs modified class XJS, the strengths are not so much stronger that I can overcome the weaknesses, which in turn are his strengths. Also, I’m still as rusty as a 1970s MG. Damn.
We pack the wet tyres, hoping that will provoke the rain. No, the race gods aren’t falling for that. A brief shower of mere seconds is there to tease us. Well, damn.
Standing start today, now the tele’s packed up and gone. There’s one solitary cameraman and a presenter lurking about for the GTs, and there are two leggy ladies with Pirelli-branded breasts striking a pose for the cameras, but I hope they’re getting a flat fee rather than by the hour, because they’re done within about four minutes and at no point looked likely to pose on the Jag’s bonnet.
Out we roll. A green flag lap allows the chance to mess up the start, and to warm the tyres. Just as well, because it took half a lap for the brakes to wake up, clearly the pads need some heat in them and there were a few concerned pokes at the pedal for half the lap.
Worse, Escort retakes Cossie. Shit. I couldn’t achieve that yesterday. Bellamy’s blue M3 storms up behind as I’m looking at the yellow one, and I leave him the apex at Stowe, because there’s no sense delaying him even by that one corner. That he went for a look at the M3 into the next corner suggested a man on a mission, and I want him to mess up those ahead to give me a chance to get involved. Doesn’t work.
Slowly, I lost my grip on them, I knew it was going to be early in the race or not at all. Taking stock, SD1s in the mirror getting smaller. Escort ahead is not catchable. Engine temp 95 degrees, with a head gasket failure two days ago. But it’s not getting hotter, and it’s a hot day, so we’re ok. Head down and chase, or settle? Or we could do some testing. Without pressure, can we try some different lines, or braking points, do we coast for a lap and then see if the tyres cool? You think you’re doing all this, but you’re not. You’re pretending to be a racing driver, but you’re a slightly sweaty man in an old Jaguar mumping round by itself trying to hang onto the lead lap. I’m clearly not on my best form here either, I can tell, and more importantly I can admit it.
The understeer is a bit bouncy. I think we need some more time setting the shocks. The oversteer on corner entry is me still hanging onto the brakes too long and trail-braking. Must stop that, it no longer suits the car, though there is an argument perhaps for softer rear springs. We have work to do.
Lapped cars make for sport. A Porsche 944, when I started racing, would be faster than the Jag I was in at the time. Today we pass it as casually as treading on a spider. I think that’s the car that was signed by David Coulthard. Trying to spot his signature on the nose in the vibrating mirror at terminal velocity down Hangar straight was, I accept, a waste of my time.
Flag falls, and we’re 14th today. The laptime is down by ¼ of a second. That’s better. The damned Escort has also picked up though, we’re now a second too slow. We will get there.
Well clear of the dreaded Rovers. They did notice. The XJS that’s hiding in Class A of the pre-93s is something they have already spotted is in their class for the 83s. So much for a sneak attack.
Parc ferme, held, checked, and released. It’s every race with these guys. I like that. Load her up, and let’s grab a timesheet and go home. For a circuit with two significant straights, it seems to me that we’re losing out on sheer power to weight. Analysis says we’ve closed the gap to the M3s by about 6 or 7 tenths of a second compared to the last meeting. That’s all in the better brakes and weight loss, I myself am slower than I was last time out. It’s still a vast gap, but it’s smaller. It’s all I ask, this was the whole point to coming here, to get thrashed and to get faster as a result.
The vagaries of the class structure gave Helen her 31stand 32nd class wins this weekend. The news, however, is we can be right at the sharp end of the pre-83 grid if the 3.6 can make 300 horse within their regulations.
We’re used to performing above our expectations. 14thplace from 43 is lower than we hoped, but we have to note that everything in front of us was a BMW or a Cosworth, but for that little Escort. We’re peering at the back of Bellamy’s M3 trying to find 2 seconds per lap when a thought dawns, and I tentatively voice it to Officer David. This car was developed by BMW’s motorsport division. Ours was built in a shed, and we had to invent half of it. We feel a little better.
With that in mind, that was a successful shakedown weekend. Now I’ve woken up and development is underway, next meeting will be faster. What we need is either the rain, or a track that’s like driving in the rain, or both. Where’s next? Oh yes, Cadwell baby!
That damp quali
That damp quali if you're a Capri
Magic moving pictures of all the same stuff you're reading about.