More automotive high jinks.

A old friend of mine popped out of the woodwork on Facebook this week, and he posted a picture of himself and me playing at hooligooligans back in 1998 or 1999.

He and his girlfriend, and my wife and I, went on a classic car rally. It started in Bath, and ended up at Silverstone near Milton Keynes. We were eminently well tooled for the job with his 1968 GTO, which singlehandedly increased global warming by about 1 degree over the course of the weekend.

Silverstone was fun, but not as much fun as Castle Combe circuit in Wiltshire. We rocked up there, did a couple of laps, then the girlies got cold. This was England in midsummer, which gives you an insight into the inclement weather we tend to have. Accordingly, we dropped the wimminfolk off in the clubhouse, and went out to really lay some rubber down with a soundtrack of shrieking tyres not shrieking females.

You’re all aware of my liking for American musclecars, despite their inability to go round corners or stop. They’re not particularly fast (about 130 top whack because the V8s are relatively lazy and don’t rev too well), but the acceleration is bloody relentless. However, you’ll see from the photograph I was right about them not being too fond of going round corners.

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That’s me in the passenger seat trying not to get tipped out, and my friend Ray twiddling the tiller. You’ll also see that in spite of the heavy duty antiroll bars the behemoth is wallowing about like a pig on a trampoline, hence the inside front wheel being off the deck. The photo was taken on a bend that is far from the fastest section of the track. The fastest bit is a chicane that we nearly failed to negotiate. Ray forgot it was there, and it was only my frantically poking him and suggesting he might want to get some lock on RIGHT ABOUT NOW that we didn’t stack it into the tyre barriers.

Now given that the girlies had complained of the cold, you may wonder why we didn’t have the lid up. Here’s the thing. We needed to be seen. Why? Because I was wearing a Richard Nixon latex mask. Roy was Bill Clinton. My wife was a creepily authentic Ronnie Reagan. We looked the part. However you can’t talk when you’re wearing them, hence my need for frantic poking to make Ray aware I was desirous of audience with him.

Lots of fun. Particularly earlier when we’d had to cross a pretty acute humpback bridge that was only just wide enough for Pontiac’s finest. The very long nose of the Goat rose into the air, and Ray, somewhat anxiously, said, ‘All I can see is bleeding sky.’