Instead of easing into it sensibly, I jumped straight into the local GT Challenge series.
That was educational. I was used to scratch racing, no handicaps and crap. We all started when the lights went off and raced as hard as we could to get to the front and hopefully stay there until the checkered flag dropped.
GT Challenge was bracket racing – different car classes with massive speed differences between the classes. That’s sports-car racing. Getting lapped by the big chequebook cars wasn’t all bad – traffic management was a new game. I quickly learned to use them to punch holes for me - allowing me to pull moves on the cars in the class I was racing against.
When I first arrived on the scene a GT Challenge Primadonna said to me –
“Welcome to the big leagues, bru.”
Idiot. He tied a ribbon to the rear wing of Fat Bully - a signal to the other drivers that I was new to the class, a rookie. I promptly ripped it off. Then he walked around the car twice, crouched down, peered into the wheel arches, looked at me, clearly trying to wind me up -
“This thing looks heavy.”
“It is.”
“In what class are you racing?”
“The one they put me in.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“You know what you’re up against, hey?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll get lapped.”
“I hope so.”
He gave up and walked away. They say racing attracted kings and clowns. The idiot didn’t leave the impression of a king.
That year’s championship concluded with Fat Bully 1st in Class and Runner Up in the overall results. I raced hard, had a blast and bullied a few of the faster cars along the way. At the end of the season, I parked Fat Bully and that’s where it remained – In storage. Perhaps one day I’ll recommission it and continue the relationship. And that idiot assclown who tried to wind me up came over at prizegiving after the final race and said –
“You made history with that big car of yours. Well done!”
“Thank You.”
“Where did you learn to drive like that?”
“On back roads – I was Ten.”
I think he thought I was being sarcastic.
- Pierre.
