A sparse collection of Ferals: 4 blokes, three cars and a dog. But I suppose it was winter and the Mauler is still poxed with his silly dancing disease. He should have a look at the movie "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?", and take heed!
The Yandoit and the Lupino were equally amazed at the sudden friendliness shown by "The Club that is often mistaken for the Victorian Senior Citizens Club", at their recent Newstead Jolly, and so we decided to visit them at their Rob Roy Hillclimb event. Just to be neighbourly ya know. Ha, ha!
The Yandoit had it all planned down to a tee, and so it befell the Arthur Long, the Lupino, and a ring-in Sailor Brett, to just lie back and enjoy the experience. Which we did. It did seem a little strange that Brett was expert in Weapons Systems; did the Yandoit anticipate something we knew nothing of.
The first part of the journey was basically the end of the track the Yandoit and I did in a recent Winter Frolic. This is well worth redoing, and this time when we arrived at the Spargo Creek Pub, they had got over a "little incident".
Apparently, a little time before, a "lady" was drinking in the bar, and thoroughly enjoying herself when the spoilsport of the newby publican, no doubt full of the newfound poxy details of The Letter Of The Law, put an end to her innocent enjoyment on the spurious grounds that, in his humble opinion, she had "had enough". Quite rightly, she took umbrage at this. In fact she took extreme umbrage, and not only umbrage, but a bloody large 4 Wheel Drive, which she drove though the double-brick wall of the bar. Yep! Hell has no fury like a woman spurned!
That is not to say that they were open when we arrived, but as we pulled up, a little hand reached around the "Closed" sign and turned it around. They are learning that in the sticks open hours are when people arrive, not arbitrary hours. They'll survive if they get creative.
After a couple of restorative rums, we journeyed through the Lerderderg River to Blackwood, where the pub was closed, but the Store offered a really nice pre-lunch meal on a closed-in verandah with a wood heater. Very civilised.
From there, past the large chook and onto Woodend. A quick dash to Wallan where we were all shocked to see the pox of suburbia extending so far out.
After some more superb muddy dirt roads, edged with gigantic mountain ash trees and enormous tree ferns, we ended up in the State Forest above Toolangi, where we pitched camp.
And a splendid camp it was too. Right beside a river, with firwood provided. There was a sign saying dogs were not allowed, but fortunately the Frazzle could not read, and thus took no offense.
Sitting by the camp fire with the white trunks of the mountain ash rising up into the darkness, with cathedral majesty, the Lupino was reminded of his Grand Uncle Albert, who did much the same thing for a little Austrian at Nuremburg, to great acclaim, but with search lights. I reckon he would have approved of the trees; much more economical (Albert always was a tight-arse).
In the morning, the camp was struck, and the Lupino sashayed forth to do the perfunctory obligatory oblutions, in the cold, adjoining mountain stream, when a strange vision presented itself, which left him shaken, but not stirred.
Dipping the Pepsodent into the trout stream prior to ridding the teeth of last night's red-wine encrustment, he chanced to see the moon rising on the right.
"Strange," he thought, "It rose last night at about 9.00 pm. A bit early for it to come around again!"
Even stranger that it appeared to be rising under the bridge over the road, and in front of the trees.
Then a hand came around from what he had assumed to be the dark side, clasping a bar of soap, and the full horror was revealed! These were the freckled buttocks of Arthur Long, engaging in that arcane Pommie ritual of the mortification of the flesh through totally nude cold bathing!
Like a large white troll he disported himself under the bridge, lurking there for any errant Billy Goat Gruff to come along, and all he got was the Lupino, who was calculating if he had time to run to the camp and retrieve his camera before the bastard transformed back to mild-mannered Arthur. Fuck it, too late!
We were a considerable distance from Christmas Hills where the Rob Roy hillclimb is located, in fact closer to Yea, so we had a nice drive along some superior dirt roads that the Yandoit had selected. I cannot for the life of me understand why so many vintage car people never venture off the tarmac. On the dirt, the scenery is better, the roads more interesting, there is very little traffic, and the cars are actually built for the conditions. Must be some anal thing, probably poor potty training. I blame their mothers.
We eventually arrived at Rob Roy, where, again, there were signs saying that dogs were not allowed. Frazzle just ignored them. I don't know why they bother.
We arrived at the same time as the Bentley Drivers Club, and I thought we contrasted pretty nicely, with all of that smug, pretentious bourgeois stodge. The punters at the entrance thought so too, because they gave us a good welcome. We parked away from the glitz, and found a Valiant to park next to, which turned out to belong to Young Liam, son of Rampaging Robert, who were there to try out their "new" rocket.
We were welcomed at the start by the new Prez of the Senior Cits, Jocund Stephen, and his daughter Sarah, who, by the by, with her sister Emma, is one of the most accomplished exponents of roadtrial skulduggery,( I know because we were on the same team a few years back. What a cheat! Keep up the good work, gal!).
I have it on good authority, from several sources, that there was a "palace revolt" at the Senior Cits against the fundamentalist Ayatollah Aimless, in which the entire Committee said: "It's either you go, or all of us will!" And thus, Joy and Fun were allowed back into the Club, at the top, and Privilege and Snob's Choice chucked out.
But it is one thing to replace the head, it is another entirely different kettle of mullet, to attack the pox of privilege that riddles the body of the Cits. For example; at this, (open) hillclimb the 1st and 2nd fastest times were by A Model Fords. Yet, in (closed) Club events, they are not an "Eligible Car" because they do not appear on "The List of Eligible Cars". This list is the most arcane bit of nonsense and mirrors the elitist prejudices of the founders of the club in the 1950's. A large number of those members have not left that mindset, and, though they generally don't compete, because of their age, they vote. So I wish Jocund Stephen all of the best. I reckon his biggest ally is probably The Grim Reaper. The bastards must die soon. I'll supply some wooden stakes if he likes.
Yep, they were all there, all the "quality", the Buggati's, the Elvises, the Deluges, the Hispaniels, and the Lagondelas. All the speed that money could buy, but what tickled the Lupino's fancy was the 1928/38 Marcsel Chrysler Special of the Lupino's near neighbour, Rampaging Robert. You go so far to only discover home.
On the right is RR fettling the car with a borrowed tomahawk. Despite this, it still ran!
This is a splendid "home-made" racer that is truer to the 1920's ethos of Austral racing than most of the cars there. Made up of bits that were handy, and "go" rather than "show" being the main concern, with a limited budget, it acquitted itself very well on its first outing, outperforming cars umpteen times the cost.
The engine is a 1954 Dodge, but from a Chrysler design from the mid 30's. A side-valve of 100HP, fed by triple SU's, through a Dodge transmission to a 1937 Austin 14 rear axle of 5.2 ratio. The chassis is a 27/28 Chevrolet. The wheels, front axle, and the steering are all Austin. The fuel tank, complete with numbering, and the seat, comes from a vintage aero liquidated from Black Nick when he went belly-up in Castlemaine. (Rampaging Robert is another bitter survivor of that very charming rogue.) The radiator is grey Fergie Tractor, and the master cylinder is Valiant.
And the name? Marcsel? RR bought the bits from a bloke called Mark, who had them in a paddock. The "sel" comes from the last three letters of RR's name, spelled backwards! Obvious really. What a fucking Joy!
Given this splendid provenance, the car came under the jaundiced, gimletty eyes of the (Club organised) CAMS scrutineers, who were not of the Jocund Stephen persuasion, and threatened to disqualify the car "because they had had a complaint (anonymous) that the springs were moving." What?? If the fuckers don't move they become brackets. And in another note of intimidation they said that "They would look out for him at his next event , Mt Tarrengower." The good-ol-boys of the Senior Cits call the shots, despite what the head might direct!
But the Ferals are not of your spectator inclination. We were soon bored with standing around, and were yearning for some dirt. The Lupino was also getting the Neural Flight Signal, (wall to wall bourgeois respectability does that to him). So we fucked off.
Ya gotta give it to the Yandoit boy, when he prepares, he does it well. The return trip was every bit as good as the beginning. Don't know where the fuck we went, but it was good. There was only one minor contre-temps, when the Lupino, motoring happilly, crested a brow, and immediately came upon the stopped form of the Arthur at a T junction. The brakes were a tad asleep, and, as I did not fancy wearing the A Model as a hood ornament, I sorta just went left, and fuck the consequences! But the BMW owners of the world were safe; shaken, not stirred.
We went by various bits of dirt till thirst forced us to stop at the Romsey pub, where we were entertained by the local ."
stock-brokers on their Harleys attempting attitude, and burning rubber to do so. For someone who spends $300 on a tire, this only confirmed the fact that these characters were fuckwits without any compensating qualities, and their bikes, like themselves, were just poseurs. As their advertising says; "Not just a bike", I reckon they should add: "But a heap of loud outmoded crap, with riders to match."
After that it was a seamless drive home along the Burke and Wills track, with the Yandoit and the Sailor really getting into it, and overtaking and obviously being infected by the boy-racer ambience of Rob Roy. Unfortunately.......the gods have ways of dealing with hubris. A mere few clicks from the Yandoitean Nest, the unmistakeable sounds of a death rattle was heard, and, as they say in the Classics, "The Player retired hurt."
Apart from that little glitch, it was a bonza run.
