|
Post by OT on Apr 22, 2002 22:29:35 GMT -5
I hope you don't mind but the next one is a bit different - not exactly motor racing - well almost sort of...
|
|
|
Post by OT on Apr 22, 2002 22:30:31 GMT -5
I just thought I might briefly describe driving conditions in the "bush"/outback of NSW Australia and one of my quick visits to the offices that were under my supervision. I don't know what it is or why, but I have difficulty in relating to speeds in kph (mph is much more familiar to me) however I prefer to think in terms of kilometres for distance. Yeah - I know - wierd.
One thing that most people have a problem comprehending in Australia is the distance that needs to be travelled. Bear in mind this country's large size and small population, funds for our road infrastructure is minimal at the best.
At one stage in my life I looked after 6 offices in the western half of NSW. Where I was based - Condobolin - I lived on an 8,000 acre property (no I didn't own it) 60 km out of town and used to travel in an out to work each day - part dirt part bitumen, the road was flat and fast. At this particular point in time I had a motor vehicle that was one of Australia's icons - an A9X Torana Hatchback. This car was seriously trick and had heaps of grunt. One adage that I always had in my more "inspired" days of owning and "preparing" cars and thier capabilities was that I always wanted to be able to get out of trouble faster than I could get into it.
One of the really neat benefits of country life was that I got my "Articulated Truck" drivers license and helped cart the wheat into town at harvest time. Driving a 22 wheeler is a great experience and if anyone has the urge or chance to drive a big truck - DO IT! - 16 gears and a split diff - it's seriously impressive, and you might just get an appreciation of the problems that face long haul truckies. While the property owner was trundling around in his header, harvesting the wheat, I was tripping back and forth, taking the wheat into the silo in town - 40 tonnes a trip - maybe 5 trips a day - cool stuff - actually, it was bloody hot - mid summer in the west, temperatures can reach 50 degrees C (in the shade).
The trip:
My first office was Nyngan - 300 km north. It was never a particularly nice drive to Nyngan because the road always seemed to be in poor repair, but that is the lot of the Australian motorist. I traveled to Nyngan at dawn Monday to get to the office as it opened at 8:00. A nearly uneventful trip except for rounding a corner to find the road strewn with cattle. The oversized 4 wheel discs did a great job to stop us just in time. It's quite a common occurence in the bush to see livestock grazing on the "long paddock" as the road is known. Speaking of time; time is of much less importance in outback Australia - if you tell someone that you are going to turn up at a particular time, they're not too worried if you aren't on time, just as long as you turn up sometime on that day. After a brief stop to yarn with the stockman and then slowly weaving my way through the herd, I reached Nyngan only a little behind schedule. The job done for the day at Nyngan, Bourke was my next stop - Monday afternoon.
Bourke is north-west of Nyngan. 200 km over one dead straight piece of bitumen, broken by a very slight right, left kink part way along. This was one bit of road that I was not planning on spending much time on and my little car was eating up the distance very quickly. Some time before, I won't go into detail, I had the "oportunity" to get my car checked out by one of these new fandangle radar units. The little Torana registered 162mph through the trap - by the way, we are talking about late 1970's machinery here.
Anyway getting back to getting to Bourke - it was late afternoon and I was "motoring" along when I thought I was seeing things as the horizon started to turn black in the distance. Before I knew it, everything had gone pitch black and I was doing 360's down the road. I had hit a swarm of locusts crossing the road while I was doing about 120mph. For those that have no idea of a locust plague - locusts are an insect around 4 to 5 inches in length and the thickness of a medium cigar. They swarm in numbers of huge proportions and they walk and fly, devouring everything in their path that is green. We were hit by a locust plague back in Condobolin and the bastards nearly stripped all the green paint off the roof of the house! There are so many of them that they can block out the sun. By the time I finally stopped, I had come out the other side of the swarm, but it took me nearly half an hour to clean all the windscreens and the radiator of their splattered bodies before I could continue. Monday night - in Bourke - wow that's excitement - NOT!
To be continued…
|
|
|
Post by OT on Apr 22, 2002 22:32:10 GMT -5
Tuesday's office inspection of Bourke out of the way and we're off to Cobar (tuesday pm) - the bitumen way, is back to Nyngan and hang a right (due west) out to Cobar (350 km). Being the adventurous type I decided to go the direct route (200 km due south) on a graded dirt road. Well that was my big mistake of the week. Little did I know that they had been quarrying 60 km out, and carting the dirt into town.
A couple of things here, in certain areas the graded dirt road is aproximately two "lanes" width of centre surface, but they camber the road off into what they call a "table drain". Quite often it can be better to drive in the table drain because the road surface gets so pot-holed as they grade the road very infrequently. Secondly, the soil in this area is very fine and as the trucks were carrying the dirt into town, not only were they pounding the road to a pulp, but dust would escape the trucks and settle on the road. You may not have heard the term "bull dust", but it is a very nasty hazzard to come across on the road. The idea is not to stop in it as you won't get going again, not in a hurry anyway.
Back to getting to Cobar - as soon as I left the township of Bourke, I could see a pall of dust in the distance. Just as I reached the end of the bitumen that denoted the outskirts of the town, the sky in front of me was brown and out of the dust came this thundering truck that ripped past me at a rate of knots as everything went black - visibility = zero. I slammed on the brakes - again I'm extra grateful for the big 4 wheel discs. I ended up in the table drain but safe. Some 10 minutes later, the dust had started to clear enough so that I could just see about 5 metres in front of me and I started forward very cautiously. It was about this time that I discovered the bull dust. The road had been so badly mashed, that it was was like quicksand. The table drain was the only available avenue for making forward progress. I had settled into a pattern of dodging old fence posts that littered the table drain when I saw the next huge brown dust cloud only moments away and hurriedly found somewhere safe to stop while the next dirt truck went past. In all, it took me about two hours to travel that 60 km to the quarry site and it took me 50 minutes to travel the remaining 140 km of dirt road to Cobar.
I checked into the pub at Cobar and asked what was on the menu. The Publican asked me if I liked seafood - silly bloody question - so he told me if I could hold on for an hour or two, the mail plane was coming in with fresh seafood from the coast - a weekly event. No problems there, I went upstairs, had a shower and changed and settled back with a beer or two. In the ambiance of an old outback pub, I had one of the best lobster meals I had ever had mmmmmmmm…….
To be continued…
|
|
|
Post by OT on Apr 22, 2002 22:32:57 GMT -5
Wednesday morning was spent in the Cobar office and I set out for Broken Hill 450 km away that afternoon. For the overseas people that have heard a bit about our kangaroos, there are several types of "kangaroo". The "big red" can come in varying sizes, but the ocasional "BIG" big red will look down at a 6 foot tall man. The most common variety on the Great Dividing Range (closer to the coast) is the "rock wallaby" while the most common variety in this region is the "wallaroo". These guys average about 4 foot in height in this area and hang around in packs. The closest experience I have had to contact with one of these animals (I have been blessed in this respect) is one that jumped over the roof of the car while I was doing about 100mph. Thank god he missed the car, but he took out the centre roof aerial. Only the day before, one of the fellows from the Cobar office had hit a "red" standing in the middle of a bend, catapaulted the beast over the roof and into the bed of his ute (pick-up-truck) and the weight of the 'roo simply ripped the tailgate clean off and the bastard got up and hopped away. Emus are much worse than kangaroos for being a menace on the road. They also hang out in groups and seem to take great delight in standing by the side of the road, waiting for a car to come along and then see if they can make it to the other side of the road before the car hits them!
Travelling out of the Cobar region, heading due west, you pass what appears to a demarcation line where the trees are simply replaced by salt bush. It is a dramatic change to the scenery. The drive to Broken Hill is uneventful boring and hot. Mile after mile of sun scorched earth, saltbush and mirages. Long straights, long sweeping bends, long thoughts of a beer. The only point of real excitement and relief is crossing the Darling River.
After a good night's sleep in Broken Hill and having done the day's work, I head off to Hay 650 km south east (Thursday pm). This is not a bad part of the country, travelling through the lakes area and down into the Murray River area, some very pretty scenery, quite a change to the desolate "centre", before you level out into a return to the salt bush and dogwood trees and some of the flattest country in the land. It's quite staggering to be driving at a very rapid speed with nothing to gague your passage, when all you can see is the horizon - nothing else - just a flat horizon - you just don't seem to be getting anywhere. God knows what the early explorers must have thought of this part of the country - the end of the earth?
I reached the motel in Hay in time for a quick bight to eat, a shower and straight off to bed. Morning brings another hot sunny day. Hay is quite a pretty little town, not much happens there, but like most country towns, very friendly inhabitants. With the office inspection done and a bight to eat at the local club, it's off home.
Condobolin, and a well deserved slab of beer lies 350 km away to the north-east. Once we depart the flatlands of the Hay-Jerilderie plain, we finally meet the welcome sight of the more estabilished trees of the better soil types. Nothing exceptional on this part of the trip except that we're getting closer to home - I can smell that first beer already.
Five office inspections over half of the state of NSW and over 2200 kms travelled in four and a half days. My little car trundles up our kilometre long driveway and I get it settled in the garage for the night - it hasn't missed a beat. My big German Shepherd is waiting for me at the gate. With his paws on my shoulders he gives my tired face a lick. I settle down in the hammock on the verandah with a beer. I'm asleep before I can take a second swig.....
|
|
|
Post by JWK on Apr 23, 2002 5:37:32 GMT -5
wow- what can i say...thanks....
My question is, how do you make a seemingly mundane story so damned interesting!!!?
Good stuff OT, and thanks.
|
|
|
Post by greg99 on Apr 23, 2002 5:48:35 GMT -5
Just awsome - I was in the passenger seat the whole time! Thanks OT
Where can I buy the book ? ;D
|
|
|
Post by Henrik on Apr 23, 2002 7:28:04 GMT -5
OT!
Thank you! Great story, very well written, and just keeps you wanting for more....please!
I suppose I should really take the gloves off and try some story telling of my own.
Great stuff!
|
|
|
Post by glendo on Apr 23, 2002 13:51:21 GMT -5
OT, get it published, make some $$$ and shout us all to a world shamu gathering!
|
|
|
Post by Henrik on Apr 23, 2002 15:33:28 GMT -5
I know I posted this a while back on F1-Live, so if you have read it before I appologize. I just thought it would fit here in Shamu, and I still miss that car!
Squeaky sounds of rubber soles against the concrete floor break the silence of the dark underground parking as I make my way to the tool of my Sunday crime. For yes I have sinned on this day of rest. This dark and cool place, similar in atmosphere to the real thing, is my cathedral. It is here that I worship an object which has become the obsession of many a man. I come to this place of rest, not to confess, but to raise hell.
As the heavy metal door shuts noisily behind me, I am engulfed in complete darkness. The temptation to hit the light switch is there in the back of my mind, but I resist so as to not break the mysterious atmosphere that now surrounds me. This is not the first time that I find myself here, and as the many other times, I make my way slowly to the spot that I know so well. It wont be long now.
My hand reaches out and touches the object. The feel of the cold metal is smooth and exciting, and my hand continues to slide along the surface until it reaches the handle. I pull gently and the door pops open, a muffled click echoing through the bare concrete room. A dim light beckons me to enter this chamber of pleasure. As I do so, I am greeted by the pleasant smell of well weathered leather, but also a smell of old and slightly stale air. It has been a while since I last ventured in these quarters. A faulty master brake cylinder has kept me from committing my crime for some time. But now all is well and I let the soft and smooth leather take me in its arms. The light which showed me the way in now displays in its full this slightly gloomy yet comfortable cabin. It reflects of the wood panels, and shows the way to the ignition. I slowly insert the key, now warm from my excited hand. I close the door, and all is dark around me again.
I sit still for a while, and then let the devil in me take control. I turn the key one snap and the fuel pump begins to tick silently somewhere behind my right ear. Tiny lights show of the numerous dials in front of me and the key is turned yet another snap. The silence is broken by a roar as 330 horses come to life. A gentle push of my right foot sends thunder through the darkness of the room, and the vibrations send shivers down my spine as I can feel my adrenaline surge. I pull my foot back and the engine settles down to a soft gurgle that is so unmistakable of Detroit metal. My foot moves over to the left, and as I push the brake pedal the wall behind me lights up bright red. I flick a switch and the whole room lights up. Grabbing the large steering wheel with my left hand, I slide the chrome shifter into D with my right hand. The engine note drops another tone, and I let my foot drop from the pedal.
|
|
|
Post by Henrik on Apr 23, 2002 15:34:49 GMT -5
Continued...
The car rolls forward slowly, and I gently nudge the gas pedal so as to improve my advance. The excitement really has me now, and I rejoice in seeing the garage door begin to slide open, letting in the bright rays of the early spring sun. The roads lay dry and abandoned before me, and the quiet Sunday morning is ripped open as I jab more enthusiastically at the gas pedal to move out. The time has come to sin.
I reach the empty highway and let all the horses loose. The car jerks suddenly forward as the auto 'box kicks down, and the beast roars in what seems a never ending acceleration of pure power. The rear suspension is set to hard, to handle the high speeds that I soon find myself traveling at. A modern day GTI attempts in vain to keep up to my progress, and I laugh out loud in sheer exhilaration as I see it disappear in my rearview mirror. Soon I turn off the highway and head up a small road up the mountains. The outdated tires screech as I make my way to the top. Here I pull over and let the engine settle back down to its gurgling idle, and grasp the cold chrome door handle to get out. Stepping back to admire this beauty with the early morning sun reflecting in the chrome, my racing pulse begins to slow down a bit. My face is flushed with the excitement and the cool mountain air, as I stand there and simply admire this machine. The twitch in my fingers again becomes too great, and I climb back in to cruise back home.
As I begin to make my way back, the speed is much more reasonable. Instead I am relaxed and enjoy the comfort of the leather all around me. I gently glide through the curves of the mountain road, where only minutes before I had blasted through with the tail wide. The sound of the engine is no longer that of a roaring beast, but a gentle bear. Then without warning, and oh too soon, the garage door is here staring me in the face, beckoning me to come back to the sane world, and putting this instrument of desire away, out of reach of us poor mortal souls. Having backed the car into its hiding place, I blip the throttle once, and then turn the ignition key and become submerged again in the darkness of the garage.
The thunder of the exhausts still echoes in my ears as I open my eyes and find myself sitting in my room, a pair of keys in my hand with the name Jensen molded on them. For that is all that I have left of this car. Yes, I can still also look at the two black spots on the wall of the garage where it once stood, left there as a signature of this, in today's world, irrational car. I just hope that the current owner feels the same, for it is one of those cars that needs to be loved and cared for, something that alas my financial situation just wouldn't allow. Man I miss that car.
|
|
|
Post by JWK on Apr 24, 2002 9:20:20 GMT -5
LOL.... LOL!!!!
im sorry for laughing- but are you sure you dont write romance novels??
LOL! i guess im being insensitive, but oh well, i couldn't resist! Good stuff!
|
|
|
Post by OT on Apr 25, 2002 2:20:57 GMT -5
Hey Henrik - don't sweat it - just let these young pups laugh and think what they like. I know exactly where you are coming from. You must miss that treasure terribly...
...almost as badly as Stevema ...
:-)
|
|
|
Post by Henrik on Apr 25, 2002 5:02:09 GMT -5
OT! Thanks for the support, and the Stevema comment! LOL! Posters are now gonna start wondering what that is! Anyway, here's to story telling By the way JWK, for romance novels, I use the name Henrietta Lamoureux.
|
|
|
Post by Henrik on Apr 25, 2002 6:48:52 GMT -5
By the way, I found the trace of the car from my story a while back. Here is a link to a picture of it today (I didn't want to paste the picture here as it is big, and I don't know how to reduce the size!) www.jcc.ch/images/gv200x/GV_Interceptor1.JPG
|
|
|
Post by greg99 on Apr 26, 2002 18:27:32 GMT -5
RacerX - grab a beer, sit back and relax, you asked for that one
I wasn’t supposed to be in Jerez on October 26, 1997. The race wasn’t even supposed to happen.
I had just come back from Suzuka the previous week, thinking my season was (finally) over and that I would take it easy until next March. My colleague was handling Jerez but with the unexpected number of people attending the race, I was called in to the rescue. That was plenty fine with me, Spain being very close to my heart.
I arrived on Thursday, under a very hot south Spanish sun, so hot in fact that all hell broke loose: it started raining cats & dogs….and I won my first Wet T-shirt competition. So much for white shirts. But the rain was by far the least of our worries. Schumacher and Villeneuve were at each other’s throats and the tension was clearly palpable. We all feared the worst, security was at its max, the reds and the blue were avoiding each other with disdain. Schumacher was leading the WDC by 1 point in front of Villeneuve. If they both went out…..guess what?
By Thursday night, the arid and sandy area at the back of the Paddock was turned into a green oasis, the Paddock Club was ready to welcome a crowd of VIPs early Friday morning.
Friday turned into a quiet day, save some conflicts with the local authorities but we thought they were resolved. Little did we know!
Saturday proved to be very interesting indeed, to say the least. Qualifying started and offered the most incredible spectacle. Villeneuve signed a solid 1’21.072” placing him on provisional pole, the crowd was ecstatic, so were we. But wait a minute…here comes Schumacher….has he grabbed the pole? What? 1’21.072”….. the roar in the grandstands made the earth tremble. This was not happening!! The Swiss TV commentator was so stunned, he made the mistake to say that if a third driver got the same time, he would WALK home to Geneva (1’900 km). It wasn’t long before Frentzen appeared in the distance to establish an unbelievable record - 1’21.072”. Never in the history of F1 had such an amazing situation been seen and all the officials were frantically turning the pages of their rulebooks: who got to start on pole? To everyone’s relief, the book stated that positions would be allocated in the order that times had been set: 1. Villeneuve, 2. Schumacher 3. Frentzen. The rulebook had prevailed.
Renault had of course all the more reason to hold that Saturday night party at a beautiful hacienda in the Andalucian countryside. I had never actually been to Andalucia, the home of flamenco and guitar, I had never had the total southern Spanish experience – I was blown away!! The warm evening was just perfect in every aspect: fantastic food, amazing dancers, good company and lots and lots of speculation about the following day’s race… Villeneuve quickly showed up, tried a few flamenco steps, made a total fool of himself (I just love the way he doesn’t care about what people think) and quickly went for his beauty sleep. We left the party at the wee hours to catch a short 2 hours of sleep.
And suddenly it was Sunday again. Race day. THE race day. I cannot describe the frantic activity in the Paddock. I had never seen people walk so fast, talk so fast, think so fast. Every one was on the edge, something was going to happen, we could all feel it. Both Villeneuve and Schumacher, as well as their respective teams were under close scrutiny. We were all hoping for a fair race, with the disturbing feeling that it wouldn’t be.
The start of the race was our cue to get some food in spite of having our stomachs in knots. We followed the race on TV, eating was definitely not a priority anymore. Lap after lap, I just knew we were getting closer to a decisive move from either one of the leaders. Schumacher was leading, closely followed by an eager and incisive Villeneuve. On lap 48 of 69, at the Curva Dry Sack hairpin, the Canadian saw an opening and dove straight into it. Schumacher, being the gentleman that he is and seeing the championship slip away, slammed the door on Jacques in a desperate move. In a fraction of a second, our jaws dropped, our hearts stopped, the large German staff burst into an explosion of joy. The next fraction of a second, however, saw us lose it completely as we jumped on the tables in a sadistic celebration dance. Luck had decided to be on Jacques’ side that day and Schumacher ended his season in the gravel. But the excitement was far from over: Hakkinen and Coulthard’s McLarens were comfortably reaching the finish line in a memorable 1-2, Mika’s first victory in 8 long racing years. Jacques joined them on the podium for a well-deserved champagne shower.
|
|