Welcome to Spinout, the journal of the
Monash Sporting Car Club.
In this Web version of Spinout we select
the best articles from recent months and "classic" articles
from the past
and spare you the dross.
Spinout is published monthly by the Monash Sporting Car Club Incorporated. Opinions expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of the club or its commitee. Copy right of this publication is vested with the Monash Sporting Car Club Inc. Material may not be reproduced for commercial advantage, but may be used by other motoring organisations without written permission provided suitable acknowledgement is made.
After a long wait and a grossly missed "June" deadline the web version of spinout is finally here. After visiting the local physician for a reality check we decided that this just wasn't going to get a regular monthly update with all the boring stuff, so we've just picked the choicest articles current and past for your reading pleasure.
Also those of you with a creative flair may want to print out and build some of the MSCC series of cut out cars. In the future I may even run a colouring in contest for the colour scheme on my race car based on one of these.
Please Enjoy!
Latest Issues
You will need Adobe Acrobat Reader to read these. Get it
here.
May - June 2002
April 2002
March 2002
February 2002
"U Boat Commanders Convention 1997"
- Bear's version of Sprintski 97
"A Bedtime Story" - Why you
should attend Sprintski
Spinout "Classics"
"Beware of the Beige Magna" - Scott
Stewarts obsevations of Beigians
"A Dodjy Exert" - Building the 180B
SSS Dodjymobile, an MSCC Legend
"Another Dodjy Exert" - Further
adventures of the Dodjy automotive team
Please forgive the spelling in the Dodjy series of articles.
We think it may be intentional?
MSCC Test Drives
Porsche Boxter
MSCC Cutout Model Cars: Print these out and make a race or rally
car
Datsun 1600 / P510 - make your very own
"Dato"
U BOAT COMMANDERS
CONVENTION 1997
You will have no doubt heard of the arrangement "you bend you mend
", its quite a common and workable agreement for guest drivers at
sprint meetings. Well for SPRINTSKI 97 TGR insisted on a unique variation;
"you bend you pay the legal costs for the divorce proceedings ".
Sadly the Spider has supplanted me as the sole object of TGR's affections,
she loves him like a newborn and it was clear should I so much as dirty
the Fiat badge I'd be up to my ankles in shit while doing a hand stand.
However for the past two years the closest I have been to racing at SPRINTSKI
is
being scared senseless in the death seats of Ruley's 'Rana and Big Al's
winged hairdryer under the guise of a directors treat. This year, Campbell,
bless his heart having been compassionate enough (read caught napping)
to replace me, had let slip the dogs of speed and set aside all caution.
Suitably emboldened I filled out my entry form with brave strokes, in a
dark corner of the lounge room, after Sallie was long asleep, with Crazy
Fock on hand for protection and to whisk the "smoking gun" form
away immediately. For better or worse I would now race at SPRINTSKI 97.
Car preparation began clandestinely at once, items required were listed
and acquired, a roll cage was briefly considered and rejected. If I rolled
the car I had no desire to live for the aftermath! Mounir Haddad one of
my senior mechanics, sometime ruthless Mid Eastern terrorist, sometime
Fiat expert handled the transformation with usual aplomb. Really I'm sure
it will be handy to have the Spider equipped with a spigot mount for a
.50 cal heavy machine gun, truly. A fire extinguisher, harness and other
paraphernalia appeared on the car, along with some new discs and pads,
four rebuilt brake calipers, fresh brake fluid etc.A trip to Ital Motors
to reset the carbies and have an animated conversation with Michael the
mad Italian about why new aircleaners for twin IDF carbies approximate
the GDP of a small South Pacific Nation in cost. Some Fiat 132 gls rims
were found and the horror task of cleaning and painting them performed
admirably by Fuc my #1 apprentice, our Avon race tyres were mounted up
and we were ready to go. Thanks to Mathew Bready for making the harness
mount for me and Barry at Bob Jane Prahran for supplying FOC the sexiest
tubeless valves you've ever seen and everyone else who helped.
The Friday before the event a convoy was organised consisting of the Spider, an MG GT V8 of a mad mate of mine Paul Nichols (I can say mad without fear of contradiction because the man rallies an Austin 1800, case closed) and Sue Ransom's wicked little supercharged MX5. Very kindly Simon F took my race tyres and I then received a phone call from the aforementioned Ransom to ask if anyone could take her race tyres, as her beau Richard and the race poodle Jose were taking up all available space in the MX5. A quick phone around found St Rupert of the yellow 1600 willing to offer transport for four tyres, I don't think however he was quite prepared for the extra bits which snuck their way in, like two sets of golf clubs and three helmets! Anyway much to his credit and my eternal gratitude Rupert took most of the gear without too much complaint drawing the line at golf clubs only. A quick blast to Winton had me straining to hear those sensual notes from Paul's lusty MG all the way up and it was Pizza with the rest of the crew the now infamous Exec Hideaway and then into bed.
Saturday morning overcast and threatening was begun by delivery of the traditional health breakfast to our room; sausages, eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes and any other artery clogging substance you can imagine. Arrival at the circuit was accompanied by apparently clearing skies and I set about putting on the near treadless Avons. Then the drizzle started followed closely by the rain and then the tropical bloody monsoon, oh what a grand return to racing! Campbell bravely carried out the drivers briefing and after a short flagging session the Spider and I tentatively hit the track. Young master Rule cheerily jumped into the passenger seat much to my dread, as I wanted no witnesses to the display of little talent rustily applied that ensued. However much to my surprise we managed to negotiate the nexus of lateral grip, hard objects and divorce for the whole ten minute practice without incident, even managing to keep Ruley awake the whole time. Despite earlier misgivings I was really impressed with the way the $20 each ex Formula Ford Avons hung on in conditions that would have gotten Noah all hot and hairy. Some more officiating and then the second session began, I asked TGR if she would come out with me, the violence of her response took me back a little and I was informed she hadn't even looked during the session before. With this tasty confidence bolster in mind Spider and I attacked the second session, drying conditions allowed a little more aggression and the handling of this essentially standard little car was a revelation. A smile implanted itself on my face and never left throughout lurid tank slappers and idiotic brake lock ups, Aryton Senna I ain't but at least I enjoy what I do. Couldn't believe it when the session was over and I drove slowly back past the dummy grid to see TGR still covering her eyes like some apocryphal monkey.
The competitive runs in the afternoon saw the Spider twice matched up with AB's midget and we each had an enjoyable pursuit of the other, then abruptly it was over. Sadly between timing and flagging I could only squeeze in two runs. The first of which was quite dry and naturally the top was off, if you ever have the opportunity to blast around a race circuit in an open car take it! Chasing AB's elusive little red MG, warm sunshine on the back my neck, the rasp of exhaust, the pungent smell of hot brakes and that delightful "on rails" feeling that sticky tyres transmit were all so immediate and strong. Last time I felt this deliriously exhilarated was 4000ft in the air dangling under a bit of nylon, except I think flinging the topless Spider around with abandon was even better! Incredibly after all the grief given by her to me, TGR announced that she regretted not having raced, women's prerogative and all I guess. On that note tyres were swapped on the car as the heavens opened yet again and thoughts were turned toward hot showers, abundant but crappy Pub food, good friends and copious amounts of fire water.
I'm sure what happens the Saturday night at Sprintski is closer, in
truth, to the real spirit of the event than the day of racing. A lot of
good people, some in very altered states of consciousness, laughing, having
riotous fun and manufacturing the most horrifically twisted legends about
one another (some of which I might add are quite true). In fact this is
the one time of the year you can see our race winner (since he started
night shift); the evil Rupina hold a smile for more than two nanoseconds.
Indeed Rupert's facial muscles seemed to be powered by Tequila, the more
you give him the more they deflect. I think though for next year we are
going to need a venue change. Not because the food has gotten even worse
(TGR's food bit back!) or that the Phantom has up and left, but because
I cant stand to see Digger in exactly the same seat with I suspect the
same drink since last year and every year before, as long as I can remember.
The man is nothing if not a creature of habit. The night was great fun
especially when Dodjii Howden attempted to communicate with a local who
was in a continuous state of mid fall and ranting unintelligibly to himself.
Tony shrewdly selected the popular Benalla dialect of spastic drunk and
a conversation that was equally nonsensical as hilarious unfolded, this
guy insisted he was a glider pilot (heaven forbid not Sunday morning).
Dodjii struck up a lively debate on the conjugation of the verb to glide,
the consensus emerged that the correct noun was glud and I truly don't
think I will ever regard aviation in the same light again. The party broke
up about twelve and the revelers retired universally exhausted, except
for Rupert who I think still cant walk quite right after finally winning
Sprintski
All considered I think the day was a great success with a near record number
of entries and Campbell deserves our hearty thanks and congratulations.
Also thanks to all else who helped on the day whether you froze at the
flag points (as Brendan did all day) or laboured in the timing tower (as
Sue, Vanessa, Trish and Campbell's brother and girlfriend did all day)
you were appreciated. All of you, plus all who entered went together to
carry on a long tradition of fun and friendship which I hope has a long
life yet to lead and look forward to seeing every one of you safe, well
and ready to go at SPRINTSKI 98.
BEAR
Once upon a time in the far away Land of Jeff there was the Kingdom of
Monashia ruled over by a wise king Laurence (Well actually he was a bit
of a lout really but history likes to record kings as being wise). Once
a year King Laurence would hold a great chariot race which he called Sprintski
(having a weird bent for things that sounded eastern Euro). At Sprintski
all comers would challenge the King's champion, a giant named 'Al' who
drove a brilliant blue, winged chariot drawn by a poweful stuffed pig called
'Extra Grunt'.
Contenders would come from all over the land to challenge Big Al but none
could triumph. Some would even resort to feeding their horses a lethal
cocktail of protein enriched hay and red smarties, or using specially grooved
horse shoes but to no avail. Drivers in their attempts to conquer Al would
loose control and crash in to the guard towers of the king's castle or
veer off the road into the moat, never to be heard from again.
Attendance at Sprintski was of course compulsory for all Monashians. Those
who failed to attend would be ruthlessly hunted down by the king's goon
squad. Although they might run away to hide in the mountains, the king's
thugs would find these traitors and mercilessly torture them with pointless
anecdotes from the Spice Girls' book before breaking their legs as a permanent
reminder of their infidelity. Repeat offenders were forced to eat their
own private parts before being torn limb from limb and their dismembered
body parts bronzed and presented to the victors of Sprintski as trophies
(Didn’t I mention that as well as being wise the knig was also a sadistic
animal who enjoyed watching the suffering of others).
After the racing the people would attend the king’s feast. The king's
jester would tell tall stories of past events and legendary challengers.
The people would drink lager that the farmers had made from their hops
and down tequila slammers and look on their fellow revelers with frosted
eyes. The festivities would continue until the people had drunk all of
the beer that the farmers' arms could carry, then they would set out for
home with sore heads and queasy feelings in their stomachs, trying their
best not to vomit on the heads of their fellow travelers.
And so the tradition and legend of Sprintski today.
Legal Disclaimer - Any similarity to any actual persons,
either living or dead, or actual events is probably coincidental, unless
its not in which case its your own fault.
And remember, if you're not there we will find you.
Some traditions never die……
Beware of the
Beige Magna
By Scott B.Sc., Dip. Ed.
Every experienced driver knows the telltale signs of the wood duck; the anti static "ligtning strip which doesn't even touch the ground, the hat, the "baby on board" sticker, the fluffy dice hanging from the mirror, etc. There is however, one class of motorized disaster who has not yet received due attention: The Beigian.
If a car comes at you the wrong way round a roundabout, it is likely to be coloured beige. The car with just the parking lights on at night or high beam on a sunny day has a Beigian behind the wheel.
Like the car you choose, the colour you choose it in is a statement of identity. White is health club stylish, red is tyre squealing fast, black is official on LTDs and cool on a Porsche, so what is beige?
Nothing interesting is coloured beige. Deserts are beige, forests are coloured; biscuits are beige, pizzas are coloured, army fatigues are beige, dress uniforms are coloured. Psychological colour tests never include beige because beigeis a non-colour.
What sort of person owns a beige car? A non-driver, that's who. Beigians are too timid to commit themselves to a real colour. Red, for exemaple acr be scarlet, burgundy, maroon, monza or crimson, but light or dark beige is beige.
A Beigian declares that his car is only something to get him from A to B. This ignores the fact that the car needs to be driven from A to B. Watch the Beigian in action and you get the picture, the car is taking him from A to B, he's certainly not playing an active, thinking role in the process.
Beigians hat convention so are alwaysin the wrong lane at a roundabout.
Beigians fear their own reflections, so don't use mirrors.
Beigians are safety conscious, so sit in the overtaking lane at 80km/h.
Beigians in supermarket carparks go against the arrows.
Beigians enjoy simple pleasures, like driving for miles in the country
(a metre from the back of a tractor).
Beigians smoke pipes while driving
Beigians hate drawing attention to themselves so are reluctant to switch
on their headlights at dusk or in fog.
Beigian think speed cameras are a good thing and if nobody exceeded 100km/h;
no one would have an accident.
Beigians wear hats while driving. It is a ploy to disguise the fact they
have pointed heads.
Beigians are superstitious, they believe that a flashing indicator will
protect them when they suddenly change lanes in the path of a semi-trailer.
Beigians think ahead - when they wish to turn right from a divided road,
they will occupy the right hand lane at 20k's under the speed limit for
at least 2 km.
Calls to add another lane to the South Eastern Freeway are clearly anti-Beigian, for an extra lane in which to sit at 80km/h is obviously designed to confuse Beigians. The 60km/h speed limit after 11pm is a victory for Beigian politicians.
If you don't believe me, wait, within a week you will have a close encounter of the Beigian kind.
Of all the instances of superb Beigianism I have ecountered on the roads, the following best captures the Beigian spirit. Imagine you approach a set of traffic lights on a dual carriageway. There is no other traffic about you, but at the lights are two vehicles, one is a school bus, the other is a Falcon GT. Which vehicle do you pull up behind? Watch the Beigemeisters stop behind the bus.
Some cars are naturally beige, regardless of their actual colour. Volvos, Nikis, Ladas, Hyundais, Cressidas, Crowns, Pintaras and of course Magnas are beige at heart. When they are also coloured beige, it is an aggressive Beigian statement.
My parents once owned a beige Commodore. It was an automatic four cylinder version with Grand Rally S tyres. The GMH engineers who were responsible for it were quoted as saying; "It was such a dog, we should have tied it up and shot it." It chose the only honorable option. One day it died of self immolation. The only things left were the custom number plates.
You can buy a Commodore in beige but not a Group A. There are Falcons that are beige but they are not GTHOs. VW will sell you a beige Golf, but not a beige Golf GTi.
You have never seen a beige Ferrari and you never will.
From Spinout July 1991
An Exert from the Dodjy Automotive History Books - Volume 1
T'was a braw-brick-moonlit-nit-t-nit as the Dodjy Brothers, and their K-9 side kick Jess, huddled around the dinjy dimlit headquarters of Dodjy Automotive Workshops. The eerie clinking of rusty hubcaps and assorted Datsun parts covering the walls, and the pungent odour of sump oil soaked concrete were particulary predominant that night. It was the beginning of an especially important maybe even historic, occasion.
Realising this, Dodjy, himself, reached for the top shelf, and carefully lowered a tin of his best. Not the cheap, rough stuff, he normally dishes out, this was the real McCoy, black label gouch. Motorspray Thinners, the label announced, as he blew the thick layer of dust from the can in one long drawn out breath as if to tease our raging appetites, the nasal passages began to run like salivary glands during a McDonald's advertisment. Our hands shook cold turkey, as the priceless nectar was poured into our awaiting rags. "We all know what lays ahead of us fellas, we gotta uphold the legend of our forefather's and the K-Team. 'Snot goin' to be easy, ' twill be a rough road, but we'll do it. With the 'elp of." Dodjy stumbled for a moment and swallowed. "The S-TEAM " Suddenly the radio burst into a pounding melody of trumpets and bass drums, as we punched our soaked rags together, then held them to our noses inhaling deeply.
The team spent several hours in deep illusionary thought, planning the strategy as in true Dodjy tradition. Secretary Jess, of course not actively sniffing that night, took notes. Neighbours were awoken as the team emerged and Big Al tripped over Dodjy's rubbish bin. They stumbled away, with the help of their trusty guide dog Jess, to their respective Dodjy Automotive franchises. Nothing more could be achieved that night, but to sleep and rise bright and early in the morning, eager to begin this new chapter in the the Dodjy history books.
Well, things don't always go to plan. It was after midday, it was raining, the notes Jess took were totally illegible, there was a constant pounding in the o'l noggin, and to the Brothers, last night wasn't even a blur. As usual, when circumstances appear grim, the team looked to their leader, Dodjy, for guidance, and in turn he looked to his idol, the great God Dr. I.P.Longinhard, an old bloke Dodjy once met, whom at one time or another owned every Datsun model produced between 1965 and 1975. It happened many years back, at one of the country swap-meets Dodjy frequented, and ever since it has been Dodjy's dream to, not only to own every Datsun produced between 1965 and 1975, but to sell every Datsun produced between 1965 and 1975. Suddenly a bright shaft of light burst through parting clouds, the Dodjy Brothers looked simultaneously, mouths agape, towards it. Immediately the silence was broken by a familiar ringing sound, it was the Dodjy phone, an incoming call, could this be it ? "That'l be the phone", Big Al announced. I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. "Ello; Dodjy Automotive, if you want it done right the first time, don't bother us, "It's Alex here." "Who?" "Alex!" "Alex who?" "You know, Alex, you came around a couple of weeks ago and told my dad that you would clear up our backyard by carting away my 180BSSS for 300 dollars." "Or yer, now I remember." Shit I thought, probably 7 foot tall and built like a P76. "What's up ?" "If you come and take it now, you can have it for 300 dollars. My dad told me either I go or it does." "Nope sorry mate, I could only give you 250 now." "Piss off, you know I paid 650 for it, it's 300 bucks or nothin." "What ? We can 'av it for nothin ?" "You know what I mean." "All right just testing." I thought for a moment, maybe I had been around Dodjy a bit too long. "I'll be round this arvo copulater."
It wasn't quite a 240k, but you can't always have everything. You know the old saying, "A bird's bush is better than your hand", or something like that. It would have to do. Quickly I dialed Big Al's Dodjy Automotive franchise. "Ello, Dodjy Automotive, where near enough is just too good." "Hey Al, you know that 1808, the one with the puke orange paint job and the flames on the bonnet." "Or yer, so what about it ?" "That angle we used on the ol man must 'av worked, we can 'av it for 300 bucks." There was a muffled rustling sound from the other end, the sound of someone rolling around in fits of laughter. "I'll come round now, but we'll need a rope." "I've only got that ol rotted bit that keeps brakin." "Sounds perfect, seeyalata."
She just sat there, her dull matt finish garnished with rotting gum leaves and bird shit. We quickly paid the cash and made a run for it, dragging it home behind the Z. Twenty minutes later, as I jumped from the Dodjy Automotive tow truck (ala 260Z) Big Al greeted me with waving arms and that funny language which only he knows. "Why didn't ya slow down, didn't ya see me signlin? Whadidya think yaws doin." "O'r sorry Al, thought yaws wavin to those school girls again, or pretendin yaws an albatros or somthin."
As if he was psycic, Dodjy turned up out of thin air, one arm in plaster, the other clasping a rather large sledge harmer, and the manditory six inch smile on his face. "Well, when do we start?" "Tomurra!"
Morning was broken by a heroic solo of the resident kookaburra, the other birds following with their daily rituals as the sun crept up the garage door. This was to be the day in which another legend was to be born. A day to go down in these history books.
The Dodjy Brothers gathered bright and early, ready for work. With their tools in their hands, they finished writing their names on the paling fence, zipped up their trousers, and got on with the job at hand. All the necessary equipment was there. Oxy cutter, arc welder, large hammer, even larger hammer, and the angle grinder. "Well boys, we have four hours in which to make a legend. May the dodjyest force be with us." Big Al handed him the largest harmmer, and the required bodily harm was performed. What an artist, a master by his own right, every strike a calculated blow to the panel, exactly the correct angle, exactly the right size grin on his face. The initiation was complete.
As I passed around the thinners, we stood back to admire the workmanship. I think we all remembered back to when the K-Team reined over the Autocross tracks and University car parks. The days of glory were about to return.
With the accuracy of a fine Swiss time-piece, the team moved around the car, performing their generic modifications.
-Remove the dog from the roof.
-Chop three coils off the front springs.
-Replace the oil in the front struts with Penrite HPR-50, used of course.
-Chuck a couple of Big Al's stretched lower control arms in the front.
-Rip out the diff, pull the back off, wave the majic wand around inside, chuck it back in.
-Remove the dog from the roof.
-Chop four coils off the rear springs.
-Put two and a half back in, cause we went too far.
-Watch Big Al strip dawn to his jocks and dance around the front yard because he thinks a piece of grass I tickled his neck with was a spider.
-Watch Big Al chase me around with a claw hamner in his hand.
-Put out the fire Dodjy started while welding up a crack in the chassis rail.
-Rip out the interior.
Neighbours looked on in amazement,as we wheeled It out of the garage."Well
fellas, howdoyareckon she handles now?" Like lightening there was
a rush to the driver's seat. This time I got to test it out. As part of
the Dodjy Automotive policy, all road tests must be done prior to painting,not
because we want to save the paint job from stone chips, or the possibility
of pranging the car after all the efforts of painting. Nope! This way all
the old farts and busy bodies would be complaining about an orange Datsun
180B,with flames on the bonnet fishtailing through their pertunia patch.
We were about to own no such car.
Testing was a great success, in true Dodjy style, the car had a mind of it's own, in no way controllable by the person hanging off the steering wheel. The car was set up perfectly. A lot of banging, clanking, swearing was evident as Dodjy rustled through the old paint tins looking for the most offensive, disgusting, and totally unmatched colour scheme. This obviously wasn't easy. To be honest, we wern't totaly happy with the quality of colours available. It seamed that most of the good tasteless, colours had been used on the 240KGTRS4WSDOHCTURBO.
The dog was removed from the roof, blindfolds donned, and mask filters soaked in thinners. We were ready to create a masterpiece. The spraygun swept around the car with artistique flair, runs, crizzles, and overspray positioned with pin-point accuracy. What would behold upon removing our blindfolds?
We stood back, leant over, prepared for the expected gastro-intestinal reaction, and removed our blindfolds. What? Something had gone wrong. Drastically wrong. This wasn't even worth a dry reach, let alone a full bodied, multi-textured barf, with carrots and corn. What had we done? It looked half respectable, with its white and yellow stripes, tastefully breaking the Telecom blue predominancy. "Next thing we'll be watching out for gateposts n trees, maybe even banning Jess from the roof incase she leaves paw marks or somthin." Dodjy blurted out. We looked to the ground in shame. "I knew we shouldn't 'av skimped on the thinners."
Another Exert from the Dodjy Automotive History Books
Following the crewel attack on the Dodjy Automotive Racing Team, last round of the Sprint Championship. (Spies say that it was a combined effort by all other competitors in an effort to avoid the humiliation and embarrassment of being blown off by such a disgusting assembly of poor workmanship and total desperation), Dodjy Bird, their fearless leader, decided that desperate situations require desperate measures, and called a secret meeting at the Headquarters of the Dodjy Automotive Franchise chain.
There was the familiar odor of a top quality thinners, wafting amongst the rumble of murmuring voices, dog scratchings, and various bodily functions announcing themselves with acoustic, and fragrant delight. Dodjy rose and turned slowly towards the team. The room quietened with an eerie abruptness, the meeting had commenced. "Ok fellas, I s'pose we can learn a lesson from all this. Not all of the teams who run in Sprints run purely to have fun, and wreak havoc and carnage. I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. Some people actually take this sport seriously and would resort to these measures to keep the likes of us away. Well all I can say is when the going gets tuff, Michael Douglas get's lucky." Dodjy looked down at his feet for a moment, paused, drew a big long breath, and announced that we were going to have to spend some money on the car." Twenty Dollars! Bloody insult to have to pay that much for a lousy head-gasket, Couldn't we just...... na, I s'pose not." "Big Al, hows the milling machine going ?" "Or not too bad, nearly finished rebuilding it· Bloody Telecom, ya reckon they could afford a new one." "All right, if you face the head, we'll wack it on next week." "Or yer, better fix that 2 inches toe out on the back, and the brakes if we get time."
Yep, just like exams all the work was left to just the right time, the day before. "Never do now, what can be done tomorra," is what we always say. The phone rang at Dodjy Automotive Headquarters. "Dodjy Automotive, where we always finnish on time, even if we can't do it properly." "G'Day, it's me, come round early tommura, better bring the oxy, ya never know what might happen. Grab Big Al on the way."
Just after lunch they arrived, Big Al rubbing his groin, and yelling obscenities at Dodjy in a high-pitched scream. "What happened, sleep in or somthin?" I said, after almost all of the hardest kicking of panels, slamming of doors, swearing, and skinning of knuckles had been done. All that was really left to do was just replace the head, set the tappets, slot the rear trailing arm pivots, rebuild the exhaust, fix the brakes, and tape the gear-knob to the stick. All the easy stuff.
We set to work in a systematic array of calculated movements, which could only be compared to such classics as the Nut Cracker Suite, or John McEnroe, live at Wimbleton. Every member of the team knew the exact job they each were to carry out, in order for the job to be completed. Big Al lying under the car, wineing about his hangover, Dodjy slopped in the driver's seat, right leg hanging out the wirrdow, wondering whether or not a 240k can really fly, Jess serving refreshments from the usual well stocked paint store, and me doing all the work. Fortunately we had some Araldite to glue the chunk of aluminium, which broke off the head, during one of Dodjy's famous and never successful attempts at handbrake turns, this time in his sister's 200B.
Once we got the head on it was only a matter of torquing up the head bolts and setting the tappets. "What the hell areyadoin AL?" "Chattin up the head bolts, what did ya think?" "Ya stupid idiot, thas not how ya do it, ya spose to tighten 'em up 'till they strip, 'an back 'em off half a turn!" Dodjy announced in a somewhat condescending tone. "I s'pose ya think checkin the tappets means smellin Sammy Davis's shoes. Big Al blushed and walked around the back of the car.
3 hours, and a 4 liter tin of thinners later the team was finished. Tomorrow would be the big test. The usual rush for the Driver's seat took place, before parking the car around the side of the Franchise, via the new housing estate. "How does she handle now?" "Sideways!" "Bewdy!" As the team dissipated for the evening, Dodjy peered towards the setting sun mumbling, "Ah, a red sky at night......Better take the gumboots.
We left for the Island at 7:15 AM. Such a devotion to the team, we showed, when we could be snuggled up in a nice comfortable bed. The company 280c, with it's immense muscle pulled like a school boy. "Better stop at the servo fellas," Dodjy said as we pulled in. Big Al always willing to help, raced inside and disappeared behind the counter. "What on earth are ya doin?" Dodjy said, as he caught Al with his arm up the console operator's dress. "Or just feelin er up, what did ya think?" Dodjy grabbed Big Al by the ear and dragged him outside to show how to fill the tank properly.
We were off again, weaving down the highway, Dodjy, working hard at the wheel, to convince us that he isn't trying to slalom in and out of the little white reflectors in the middle of the road. Oh such a joker is our fearless leader.
We arrived at the circuit, unloaded the car, and imnediately went to work, borrowing the required parts to get through scrutineering. With amazing foresight, the team had cunningly marked the position of the flat spot on the right front tire, with a piece of chalk. The car was carefully maneuvered into position, over the flat spot, whilst the Chief Scrutineer was rolling around in fits of laughter. The first question was how long this car would last for. He knew he had asked a stupid question.
After the driver's briefing I went out to win the noise test, taking out poll position with a 78db. A few twiddles here, a bit of tinkering there, and a hellofalot of bashing right there, resulted in the E.P.A man not bothering us for the rest of the day. Dodjy did the honours, and took it out for it's first run, prematurely exiting from the track, with the temperature gauge passed the H mark. "Doesn't that mean honkydorry?" Big Al questioned. It must be the gauge, Dodjy concluded, as steam hissed from the radiator cap, and dribbled over my shoe. "Yep, I think yer right, everything looks normal under here". "Next run I took her out, sure enough, the naughty little needle jamned itself against the H mark, but it wasn't going to fool me. I was flagged in early, due to a mistake on the marshal's part.(They just can't help themselves, they have to wave that checkered flag at the car, it's all psychological, you know, something to do with repetitive mental conditioning). As we opened the bonnet, Dodjy decided that maybe she was overheating, so we fashioned a thermostat out of a pair of thongs, two stones and a piece of bark. We knew all the time that this was all she needed.
Well we blitzed the field, of course, just like our faithful followers with that G.T.R. thing. Big Al chickened out at the last moment, and drove his 120Y, so in order to submit the car to as much torture as possible, we allowed Paul Rule to take his place. The Dodjy Brothers hold no grudges. The car ran like a Berger paint tin, just wouldn't stop. At each pit stop, all we did was check the oil, water, and flat-spot, and clean the bugs off the side windows.
Driving the Dodjy Automotive Datsun 180B SSSOHC car was a sinch. According to the manual, just buckle up the seat belt, ask the nearest five people for a push, after three tries at push-starting the car take your foot off the brakes and turn the ignition on, (noting to the people that you were just joking) and let the clutch up. Once underway, veer swiftly to the right hand side of the track, to avoid the sound meter, change into 2nd. gear (note the gearbox fitted to this vehicle is of the racing type. Shifting must be completed using the following procedure. Remain at full throttle until the tachometer stops moving in the clockwise direction, with throttle remaining in the full position, quickly, and carefully, wrench the gear knob in the direction of the required gear. while kicking the clutch peddle. eg. Ist.=towards the ash tray, 2nd.=towards the fire extinguisher, 3rd.=towards the handbrake, and 4th.=towards your naughty bits. Please observe paragraph 2 subsection 1 of the preparation manual, stating that the ashtray, handbrake, and fire extinguisher must remain intact, also paragraph 1 subsection 1 of this manual, stating the required seating position, and genitalia size. FAILURE TO OBSERVE THESE WARNINGS MAY RESULT IN MISSELECTED GEARS OR TROUBLE IN FINDING 4th.GEAR).
After selecting 2nd. gear, repeat the gear changes until in fourth. If you find trouble in selecting fourth gear exit at Honda and wait a few more years. On approaching the right hander at the end of the straight, grit teeth whilst flicking the steering wheel in a clockwise direction. Do not use the brakes or back the throttle off, brakes must be saved for Honda corner. Regain control of the vehicle before entering the Southern loop, flick the wheel in an anticlockwise direction, then immediately back in an clockwise direction, which is the position to be held through the duration of the corner, in order to observe through the side window, thereby having a totally unobstructed view. As you exit the loop, wave to the flag marshall, and shift into 4th. as necessary. As the vehicle passes the 50m braking marker at Honda, wave to the spectators, depress the clutch, shift into neutral, release the clutch, blip the throttle, depress the clutch, shift into third, release the clutch, depress the clutch, shift into neutral, release the clutch, blip the throttle, depress the clutch, shift into second, release the clutch, remove the right foot from the throttle and......well it's too late to brake now so wave the steering wheel in an left-right-left motion, with the throttle at the full position. The vehicle is designed to negotiate Honda corner in this fashion. If the vehicle enters the spinning mode, do not alleviate throttle position. Hold vehicle in the sideways position until entering Siberia, note, a shift into 3rd. must be completed without jepodising this motion. Upon entering Siberia, wave the wheel in the opposite direction, and look through the righthand window. Shift into fourth, and continue into Lukey Heights. Do not resist the natural tendency for the vehicle to flick sideways whilst passing the cameras. Approaching M.G. corner, depress the brake peddle with both feet, and lock up the wheels in order to heat the brake disks as little as possible. Down shift into second, allowing the resulting compression lock-up to set the vehicle sideways for the corner and depress the throttle to the full position. Note the throttle must remain in the full position until Honda corner. Shift through third into fourth, whilst not upsetting the sideways motion of the vehicle. Allow the vehicle to straighten, briefly, as you veer to the right hand side of the track to avoid the sound meter.
The not-so-quick teams there on the day were, Big Al(who was just about, but not quite), Rupert in the 1600 (who was just about), and Tony Bernstein in his laser (who was just quite). The Dodjy Automotive Racing team again rein supreme, and once again prove that it's not the car that counts, it's the amount of desperation in the driver's eyes, and the amount of swelling in the driver's pants.
