Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There (24 page)

We walked slowly down the lane taking it all in. The rattle of pneumatic tools and laughter from one side mixed with the sudden roar of a big-block V8 firing up on the other side; music bellowed from a old bus converted into a mobile tool shed; a guy wearing only a sombrero, a pair of budgie-smugglers and a high-vis vest scooted past us on a minibike singing a Creedence song. There was an instant sense of community, of comradeship; everyone wandered about like it was a giant family barbecue. Random racers I’d never met before in my life knew who I was and would greet me like an old mate; they knew we had been waiting for three years for this opportunity, just like they had, and made me feel welcome instantly.

Genuine interest and a common goal prevailed as an undercurrent, like an invisible subterranean river running under the salt and permeating through every conversation, every wave and curious nod towards your bike or car or rocket. Not one person was going to walk up to me over the next four days and say, ‘Mate, is that thing diesel?’ They just knew, and their questions were often at a level that only Colin or Ed could answer. Blokes that looked like they literally just got out of prison for eating babies would wander up, crack a massive smile and say something like, ‘Good afternoon, gents, tell me, what’s the in-line velocity resistance like on that super tipex 5000 G-Spot pulse injector modulator in this temperature, cos mine’s running like shit today.’ And I would just go blank.

Everyone knew their stuff, inside out, upside down, back to front, and everyone had an exploded diagram of every part of their machine in their heads at all times. I was lost like a cocktail waitress in a G8 summit and left the pit lane a little in awe. But, as I soon learnt, there’s a very good reason why these people are so tuned up, because if it gets gnarly out there you’re a long way from medical help or a mechanical workshop.

That evening after Rob’s campsite culinary skills produced an excellent dish cleverly called ‘Rob’s Surprise’—an amalgamation of pasta and sauce mixed with several nondescript forms of grey genuine imitation meat substitutes—I grabbed a whiskey and wandered over to the edge of the lake to watch the sun go down. It was so beautiful, a warm kaleidoscope of changing colours sliding across the sheen of the salt as the sun melted into the horizon, it could have been an alien planet, then the stars came out clear and bright. I walked back to our camp, hearing laughter and conversation all around; this was a new sensation, experiencing this blend of awe, excitement and belonging.

I was sitting down on a folding chair, our camp lit by the headlights of Rob’s four-wheel drive, when a filthy bloke in work gear reeking of oil and madness leapt out from the night. My mate Simon Hann had jumped into a site vehicle and driven nonstop from a drilling rig in the middle of Queensland. After the relief of not having crapped ourselves because of his little prank, we were all suitably excited to see him.

Steve had never met Simon so I introduced them as Steve stepped out of Rob’s luxuriously appointed bush shower wrapping a towel round his belly. ‘Where the fuck did you just come from?’ Steve said as he shook Simon’s hand.

‘I just drove down from a drilling location in Queensland,’ Simon explained.

‘Ah, you’re in the drilling game,’ Steve said, nodding to himself in confirmation, ‘I thought I could smell the booze.’

We were soon all settled around our camp under Pajero headlights, talking rubbish and pissing ourselves laughing while working our way through a vintage Macallan liberated from my father’s stash—cheers, Dad.

Monday morning 6 a.m. Rob woke me by undoing the little zippered flap door on my swag and farting through the opening. ‘Rise and shine, speed racer.’ He laughed and staggered over to his bush shower. But I knew he wouldn’t be laughing for long. Last night after we’d finished off ‘Rob’s Surprise’ I got my first go in Rob’s James Bond racing toilet, unfortunately forgetting that there was a series of valves to open and levers to pump prior to leaving the remains of ‘Rob’s Surprise’, so I just left it for Rob, as a surprise. As he entered, you could hear him swearing from the pit lane.

Day one for us was the rookie drivers’ meeting; this involved getting the breakdown on pre-qualification to run our vehicle on the main timed track. Speed Week has two tracks: the main timed track and a GPS 3-mile track where you run your machine for the first time on the salt. The GPS track, as the name suggests, is not officially timed; instead they use GPS units to log your speed. It’s also used to qualify for your various licences.

The categories were as follows:

Category E, current and valid state driver’s licence

Category D, 125 to 149 mph

Category C, 150 to 174 mph

Category B, 175 to 199 mph

Category A, 200 to 249 mph

Category AA, 250 to 299 mph

Unlimited, 300 mph and faster.

The record, albeit unofficial, that we were chasing was set in 2007 at Bonneville by a Texan man running a custom-built bike with a BMW 3 Series car engine; he reached 130.614 mph (210.203 kph). So if I was successful in qualifying for my first licence Category D, I’d have the opportunity to break his record.

We towed the trailer down onto the salt and set about rigging up our pit lane digs. Once we got the shade frame up and a large tarp down, we secured everything to the salt with big tech screws and homemade plywood rings like washers, because at night the wind rips across the lake with enough force to blow your entire camp away. The daytime heat is brutal: the average temperature is 50 degrees Celsius, there’s no natural shade or water, and everything is bleached white so the heat is bounced and radiated from above and below. It’s dangerous enough going fast on an uneven unsealed surface; out there it felt like we were doing that on the surface of the sun, and I hadn’t even got my leathers on yet.

The meeting for us rookies was held by a gentleman simply and universally called ‘Animal’, who reared up out of nowhere and grabbed a microphone. The huge crowd instantly fell silent, especially us ‘Salt Virgins’, as Animal cleared his throat. Standing on the step of the DLRA mobile office, he sported shorts, thongs, a high-vis vest and a huge handlebar moustache that almost covered his mouth, basically looking like he would kill anyone who didn’t pay attention. So we all paid attention.

Next was scrutineering or tech inspection, where the DLRA officials make sure that your vehicle is good to go. The rulebook is thick and very detailed so this isn’t a hasty process. I jumped on the bike and rode it over to the three-lane queue forming for inspection. The vehicles that started lining up looked incredible and their noise alone vibrated right through my body: fully retro-styled hotrods, cigar-tube Lakesters with mirror-polished giant wheels jutting out that looked like full-size 1950s toy cars, the full spec Streamliners ready to push 300 mph, a Jaguar E type and an XJS, a 356 Porsche Speedster—there was even an old split-windscreen Volkswagen Kombi in there, and a truck. The bikes were equally diverse and abundant, from a Honda CT 110 postie bike capable of more than 80 mph to vintage to ultramodern, the lot.

I bounced around the three queues talking to everyone and getting their take on racing on the salt, and enjoyed the same mix of smiles and heatstroke. However, the scrutineering gets serious when you consider the speed these people are reaching; it gets even more serious when you see the inside of their vehicles and watch them go through the inspection process.