Popping my drag racing cherry...

[Neeek]

I thought I’d post this one up because I’m still thinking about it now, and it took me a good hour or so to fall asleep when I got home because I was still buzzing… they say this drag racing lark’s addictive and now I know what they mean. Although I will restrain myself from getting into it because who knows how much of my time and money it’d swallow! So, allow me to share my first drag racing experience…

I’m nervous. It’s a warm and sticky Wednesday evening and I’ve come to Willowbank after far too many “yeah, we’ll have to do that”s. In the staging lanes there’s enough time for Dan to get the digital SLR out and take a few arty shots and I shoot the proverbial with my mates. They explain why we’re waiting so long as the tractor runs up and down the strip taking care of one of the many oil-downs we’ll have to endure on the night. It’s 7.15pm.





There are some interesting cars here tonight, but sadly not a single X-series Falcon apart from my own. Notables include an old Kingswood wagon with venetians and a cowl induction hood, loping along and sounding very mean. Then there’s the two-tone 55 Bel Air that’s even more evil sounding. A few imports, lots of Commodores, a Merc 230E on bling wheels and our crowd – a TE50, a TS50, two F-trucks, an AU XR8 and my wagon.

After nearly an hour of waiting, we’re almost ready to go. I’ve borrowed a crash helmet from my wife, of all people. Going drag racing wearing a white open-face helmet your wife used when she had her Vespa isn’t exactly a professional look, but it’s got the right sticker and thus I’m cleared for take-off. Start the car up and follow the finger-pointing marshall out to the far lane. I’ve been told what to expect – drive around the water trap unless you’re doing a burnout, stage properly, try to cut a good light. My hands are shaking and I’ve forgotten to wind up my window, so the guy with the water hose tells me to “wind it up, champ”. Champ. More like chump; my heart’s beating much faster now. I need to pee.



I glance over to my opponent for this, my first quarter-mile run. Hah, it’s a little Datto! He’ll never catch me in my mighty wagon, no way! He must have all of 2 litres under there! Feeling a bit more confident, I inch forwards until both white lights are lit. This is it. This is my moment. I’ve waiting years to do this. I will conquer all. That Datto doesn‘t stand a chance.

The orange lights count down and before I see the green I feed the power in and the clutch out. I have no idea how many revs I’m using because my tacho doesn’t work. However, I get away cleanly in what seems to be a pretty decent start and grab second gear as the noise builds to a crescendo. Out of my peripheral vision I see that I’m ahead. Ha – little white Datto’s no match for me! You’re toast, my friend! And before my brain registers the last t in toast, he’s passing me, spitting fire and brimstone out of his cannon exhaust. Bloody hell. I snatch third and the little Datto is GONE. I’ve never in all my years of the traffic light grand prix had my **** handed to me quite so comprehensively (later I see why – there’s a hairdryer the size of an F-truck under there, nestled up close to the block!). Now I’m just flooring it, hoping that by some miracle I’ll reel him in; nope – not a chance. He’s out of here. I cross the line nearly four seconds after he does, and can just follow his tail-lights so I know where to turn off the track.

Bumbling back on the return road, I’m shaking and my palms are still gripping the wheel tightly. MAN, that was fun! Picking up my timeslip I feel a crushing disappointment – I ran a 17.398. My little Datto friend did rather better:

Me

R/T .634
60ft 2.595
330ft 7.270
1/8 11.234
MPH 63.15 (yep, that’s a pathetic 10 and a bit seconds for the 0-100km/h dash!)
1/4 17.398
MPH 80.43

Little Datto

R/T .599
60ft 2.852
330ft 6.528
1/8 9.359
MPH 89.83
1/4 13.678
MPH 111.96

I turn back to the staging lanes and “celebrate” by loss with the guys. I’m trying not to feel disappointed, as it was bloody good fun; but still, I was hoping for better. I’m parked up behind Dan, and after a while we realise that we’ll be running together.

My second run is more of the same, only this time I’m racing Dan in his XR8. He launches very slowly and beats me quite soundly, but it’s not the massive loss that I suffered last time.

Me

R/T .330
60ft 2.872
330ft 7.504
1/8 11.329
MPH 64.47
1/4 17.318
MPH 82.09

Dan

R/T .834
60ft 2.758
330ft 7.042
1/8 10.509
MPH 71.50
1/4 15.858
MPH 92.58

He’s not too pleased with his time either – as I suspect most drag-racers feel after their run, there’s always more in it; better reaction, a better launch, faster 60ft, more top-end, yadda-yadda.

But finally, the planets are aligning. It’s time for me to take on Nick in his F-100. Nick and I have been meaning to do this one for a VERY long time, and we’re here and ready. We both avoid the water trap, and line-up. This time, I deep-stage – I’m going to need all the help I can get here. Nick’s truck might weigh more than the moon, but his motor’s a fair bit warmer than mine – I know what it was capable of in a ZH Fairlane Marquis and I’ve seen the dyno sheets, so I’m not going to let him get the better of me. I want to win with my homebuilt budget Clevo. I need to. There’s pride at stake.





Here we go again, build revs and feed the clutch in quickly for a prompt getaway and I’m off. Glancing left, I can see that I’m ahead. There’s no time to woop for joy because it’s not nearly over yet and besides, I’ve got to concentrate and change up to 2nd. I manage a good fast change and the wagon barrels down again, full noise, flicking small stones up against the underside as it lifts its petticoat up and tries to run faster. My foot’s halfway through the firewall, my grip on the wheel absolute. Just as I’m about to snatch 3rd I catch a glimpse of the truck’s bonnet in my mirror. Gaining on me. In that gear change, Nick makes up some more ground. In the final fifty metres, we’re damn nearly staring at each other as we blast down the runway – he’s gaining still, ever-so-slowly. Can I hold him off? Can I? Can I?

We cross the beams and I scream like a schoolboy. I beat him! Can’t’ve been by more than a foot, but I bloody beat him! Ever the gentleman, he lets me go first into the turn for the return road. I’m going way too fast for it, so take an interesting line through the corner and then bumble along to pick up the timeslip. We stop, get out, shake hands and laugh. Best. Fun. Ever. And I bloody beat him!

Me

R/T .120
60ft 2.785
330ft 7.380
1/8 11.202
MPH 64.64
1/4 17.168
MPH 83.04

Nick

R/T .774
60ft 2.517
330ft 7.098
1/8 10.776
MPH 66.74
1/4 16.574
MPH 85.65

So what if he ran a better time than me? I was first across the line, largely down to the pretty respectable reaction time. That’s what counts. If I could just launch it better and drop those 60ft times. If I could practise my gear changes so they’re faster. If I could get my tacho hooked-up properly I’d know when to shift…

There’s a 16 in the wagon. I know it. Maybe next time.