Chapter 33

(In 2018, South has several road courses complete with driving schools. In 1991/92 there weren’t any schools. More tracks but no schools. What to do? what to do? Ah well ... lie about it, I suppose. It Is fiction.)

It was a curvy hilly narrow tarmac with just enough room for passing. No Civic Engineer would have designed it so ... neither would a City Planner. Some rich Scotsman had it built for his son ... poor lad.

It was everything a fledgling race car driver could want stuffed into 40 acres ... not hectares ... acres. Before the dreaded French Measurement. In that 40 acres was almost 3.67 miles of hell.

The son ... poor lad ... didn’t care ... clockwise was as good as anti clockwise. On camber curves became off camber in the other direction. When he retired from the hectic and settled down ... he opened a school... ‘to keep his hand in’ or so he said ... and to satisfy his darling wife ... poor lad.

Three weeks of eight hours a day and racing on Saturday.

Think about it ... The in town Learner Permit driving his Mum to the shops or his Dad to the pub gets what? ... two hours practice a week ... surely not more than five. I had Sundays off ... and Race Day was a treat compared to the lessons.

When it was over, I could drive in a downpour, fix a flat, change a tire, synchronize a pair of SU side-draft carbs, set the timing, change a rear-end, beat out a wrinkled panel, change an engine, a clutch, a transmission, spark plugs, chase down an electrical short, clean a windshield, change and aim headlamps, hotwire an ignition, take any corner at speed, pilot a rally car ... win a 5 lap race between 7 equal cars ... and that was before I learned to drive a modified on an oval.

It didn’t seem fair that I had to have five more months behind the wheel before I could drive a pickup load of junk to the landfill or a load of scrap steel across the street to the scrapyard ... Not that I needed a pickup ... the trio ... Mattie, Albert and Jimbo had the lot cleared and the Cat on the hard before I was finished learning. The New Zealand Transport Agency didn’t think it was fair either ... but it’s the Legislature ... blame them.

I did. I sued. And I had their under age children followed while they drove ... unlicensed ... all over South ... and filmed when they went in the pub ... staggered out and drove straight past the traffic patrol.

I got my license.

And didn’t need it. I never drove. Except Saturdays.

I was over insured and under-car-ed. Eventually, Albert ... bless his minuscule brain ... found me a car five times as old as I was ... a 1931 M.G. F-Type Magna known as the 12/70 It was a six-cylinder, with a newly designed, riveted steel chassis with sliding trunnion suspension, underslung rear axle and centre-lock Rudge wire wheels. The 1271cc engine was a Wolseley Hornet 37.2bhp with a straight-cut ENV gearbox. A four seater in disguise it was possibly the most complete pile of rust and dents I had ever seen.

“Albert,” I whined, “What am I going to do with that?”

“Same thing I did with the Royce,” Albert grinned. “Restore it.”

“The Cat is afloat. You have nothing to do ... except sail ... and race your Farr ... and your Saturday insanity,” said Mattie.

I was about to speak when Jimbo said, “Teaching doesn’t count. You do that because you must. One more year and you will be released from duty and free of the Attendance Officer.”

“I hate it when you guys are right.”

“Where are we going this Friday?” Asked Mattie. “It’s a holiday, school is out and the racing canceled. Cat the boat ... and Cat the animal need out of town.”

“You choose,” I said. “Someplace warm.” I thought about that for a second. “But not ridiculous.”

The trio put their heads together. Buzz. Jimbo looked up, “30 days?”

I nodded.

The buzzing grew louder.

Uhoh ... trouble.

They reached agreement.

“Everything works?”

“Yes.” I agreed.

“Reliable?”

“Reasonable.” I said, “There are still problems with the sonar. I’m expecting replacement tomorrow.”

“Close enough.” Jimbo said. “How many can we bring?”