in the world of drag racing
The latest update as of May 12, 1999
No report yet. Finally we have some small success with the used computer. It's been alive for almost eight hours now and despite it's lack of storage space, a CD-ROM drive and a modem, looks like it will all we need it for at the moment. Oh, oh, spoke too soon; this one's running Windows 3.1 and definitely doesn't like the long file names for almost every one of my website files. Just another wrinkle in the linen; somehow we'll get it all ironed out... one of these days.
7:00 pm: Burleigh Heads. In two bays of a radiator shop, the monthly meeting of the Surfers Paradise Drag Racing Association is gradually convening. Coming down here directly from Ken's shop, bypassing dinner, we are happy to find we haven't missed the "sausage sizzle". Introductions made, soft drinks purchased, we make a bee-line for the grill and grab a few "snags" (sausages) and buns filled with grilled onions. Table manners aren't required at this function, as the floor can just be hosed down before business starts tomorrow.
Club President Simon Holgerson calls the meeting to order: "hey, you mob in the back, shut up and sit down". A quick report from the treasurer and it's on to the meat of the agenda. How did everyone do at Willowbank last Saturday and who can insult their mates' choice of engine brands in the most colourful fashion.
Hands-down winner of the "hard luck" award for the meeting was the bloke who blew up three starters, drove into Ipswich for two more and then proceeded to split his tranny in half at the 1000' mark. On his first (and last) pass of the day. From this point on, things gradually degenerated into a free for all of good natured abuse until Simon exercised his authority once more with an even louder "shut up you mob".
Business finished, the brand new Dodge Avenger Super Sedan car of John Widgery was pushed inside and for the last hour everyone stood around the race car in small groups and did what racers do best: bench raced. Where everyone's a winner, reaction times don't count and we all set ever-quicker personal bests everytime we re-tell our "war" stories.
Taking our leave shortly after 10:00 pm, we follow Ken back to the highway, trying desperately not to end up in Tallebudgra or Coolongatta or Mudgeeraba. (Try prounouncing those three in rapid succession three times... or even once for that matter).