Paul Cockburn’s E-Type Jag at the 1991 Street Machine Summernats

Legendary Aussie motoring journalist Paul Cockburn passed away this week. As tribute, we present his rollicking Wheels yarn from March 1991 about the time he entered his beloved E-Type Jag in the Street Machine Summernats...

First published in the March 1991 issue of Wheels.

Bateman: (verb) to inspire mischief in others. Example: “That Hitler chap could bateman a crowd really nicely.” The warning signs were there when the plot was hatched at the Wheels Christmas party, but like a fool, I ignored them. Firstly, wine had passed my lips and, secondly, the originator of the notion was Photographer Bateman. How many more portents should I have needed?

Your Bateman, as mentioned in previous dispatches, is not one for the still-life snaps and has an extraordinary talent for persuading others to place themselves in a variety of perils so that he might photograph the result. This one was a cracker. Working on my diminished faculties, he somehow made the idea of entering my six-cylinder (and very Pom) E-Type Jaguar in the Street Machine Summernats seem like fun. Then sold the idea to a delighted management.

8

Common sense dawns in the clear light of the next day and I put a call through to the top tent. This no longer strikes me as such a good idea. They disagree and say I seemed happy about it last night. I say I was drunk last night. They say go to the fridge right now and call them back in an hour. By such tactics I am therefore persuaded that mankind in general and the fortunes of Casa Enthusiasm in particular will be well served by me being a) away and b) endangered. Thusly I motor to Canberra, expecting to find some folks from the hill-tribes cavorting in a minor chaos of horsepower. This is not what I find.

What I find is a whole lot of folks who’ve damn near built their own city for the duration. Sprawled across the completely occupied acres of the National Exhibition Centre (Natex) is an entirely well organised community complete with their own housing, security/police force, shops, performance areas, grandstands, seminars and even an FM radio station.

What else I find is that said security force is comprised of very large lads whose major task seems to be keeping you out of where the fun is. Until they spot the black bangle of journalism, that is, which we of the fifth estate have affixed to our wrists. This seems to calm the big fellas down quite nicely, and I make a note to try an experiment to see how far the luck can be pushed with two black bangles:

“Hello, I’m very media and would like you to balance this target on your nose while I...” No, I’d find the colour-blind one and regret it for the rest of my life. One nanosecond. Best to just muse on the idea.

Why they have very large security here quickly becomes obvious. They have very large patrons who display a certain familiarity with the tin and who, left to their own devices, might respond alarmingly if one of their number said, “Listen, why don’t we flip this town upside down and plant oats on its bottom?” Nonetheless, on the day of my arrival, the beerhunters seem friendly enough and tolerant of my chosen weapon, which fits in like Jeeves at a barbie and is every bit as ideologically suspect.

8

Having promised management I would enter everything, we begin with the judging for great beauty, only to be doomed from the off when the judge asks if the undercarriage of my car is chromed or gloss-painted. It turns out that mud-plated is a bad start. Compared with the incredible standards of preparation shown by the cars here, the E-Type, which I had previously thought well-maintained, is obviously an embarrassment to itself and all present.

I apologise for the lack of attention to the diff’s finish and skulk away. Mind you, it does pass scrutineering as being fit for the driving events, so maybe we can do something there. I’ve entered them all, but have no idea as to what they might entail.

For this I need a guide, and seek out Bigfoot, an erstwhile fellow designer who, when forced to choose ’twixt going where the horsepower might lead or being a normal human being, made the right choice and now roams the land wrangling mad cars for Max-type films and strangling eucalypts to keep his hands fit.

He is a frightening sight, resembling an upright acre on which Ashley & Martin grow experimental hair crops, but is wonderfully tame and proves a godsend as far as local knowledge is concerned.

“Foot, these driving events – is there any way I can do them and still have a car left to get home?”

“Sure. Easy.”

“Thank God for that. How?”

“Use someone else’s car.”

The four events are Spear-a-Spud, Motorkhana, Go-to-Whoa and Burnout. It is practice for this latter that I attend first, expecting it to be a contest of flamboyant acceleration. It’s not. Cars with rear brakes disabled, fronts locked on and rear wheels spinning wildly have three minutes to cover a course of 100 metres, during which it is desired that they a) fill all the world with smoke b) blow their engines apart or c) explode their tyres.

8

The berries get revved right out of the engines and each participant promptly disappears into his own cloud of smoke from which, after minutes of excruciating noise and stench, will come a Whoomp as either one or other of the above-mentioned expendables expires. Or man and beast get overly ambitious/lost/confused/tired or gassed, and whack the fence. All are results equally pleasing to the crowd and, I’m told, sure to gain points.

But quite how it’s judged is beyond me, because the competitors are lost to view most of the time. A highlight is the sight of one car emerging at the end of its performance completely smoke-filled, the driver invisible. He stops and gets out. Smoke floods from the open door. He lifts his visor. Smoke floods from the open helmet.

The performance will involve hundreds of cars during six hours in the Sunday finals, but I will not be among them. Okay Mr Ed, I know what I promised, but as my lady so elegantly says when the proposal is dodgy: “No way; that’s what you’ve got animals for.” I’ll run the other three.

I’m selected for Eyeball Judging, in which (in one of the many paradoxes of the event) immaculately cleaned cars are to be run endlessly around a dirt track while being eyeballed for overall appeal. I am advised that a partner with great tits adds to the points in this one, but am interrupted in my search for same by a stout, young, wonderfully drunk man who assures me he knows the trick.

Given that he makes the offer from the passenger seat, I see little point in debate. We therefore perform, in convoy with the other competitors, a dignified lap or two until he releases the tip: “Next time you go past the grandstand, give it a big boot. The crowd will love it and you’ll get the judges’ attention,” he confides. “But we’ve been told not to do that,” I reply. “That’s why no one else will think of it. Trust me.”

Bowing to his greater knowledge of these things, I slow as we pass before the crowds, then give the thing a big boot. The car flicks sideways in the dirt, bellows like a mad thing, rockets forward ... and is promptly stopped and disqualified from the event. I watch amazed as the Judas Chinaman accepts the crowd’s approval.

8

Come nightfall, Bigfoot suggests a cruise as essential to the learning curve, and we set off on another paradox: Cars built to go like hell being subjected to endless 10km/h cruises. Nonetheless, it provides time to examine aspects of protocol, beginning with my observation of the crowd’s partiality for breasts. I spot a splendidly large and hairy man with a fine plastic pair tied on. Lesser beings wear them on their heads.

But most of all, it’s held best that the womenfolk have real ones on their front-parts and display them at call. I enquire as to the etiquette involved, fearing that, “Good afternoon, I’m from Wheels magazine – my card – and I was wondering if I might inspect your breasts ... my father was a doctor,” might tax the attention span available. Bigfoot assures me that “Show us ya tits!” is widely accepted.

Introductions are unnecessary, as is dialogue. “That one there on the right is a beauty. You must be proud,” isn’t going to do much for anyone’s spiritual growth. Look, grunt, move on seems the policy.

Next morning Bateman batemans his own baby brother into the passenger seat as I prepare to enter the Spear-A-Spud event. This I observe to be a mad sprint in and around obstacles, pausing so that the passenger can spear a potato and hopefully (crowdwise) fall out. I comment to Bateman that the contestants seem to be a wee bit throttly and that my intention is to be quick, smooth and accurate.

He looks at me sadly. “That oughta keep ’em in their seats.” He tells me that to get the crowd cheering I need to spin off, to get them on their feet I need to spin then roll over, and to really get them jumping and whooping and throwing the women into the air I’ve got to spin, roll and have the car come down on top of me. He then takes position behind a sturdy fence. Bateman Jr shares my innocence of this sport, but is quite happy to support the speed-rather-than-spectacle approach and we whip around as best we might. To our enormous surprise, we take third place out of the 750 entrants.

Next up is the Motorkhana, which is run across a longer and faster course and which sees many of the competitors losing the plot and either spinning or spearing off into the posts. Given that these are metal, there’s minor panel damage aplenty, and once again I decide to keep it quick but clean. As in the other events I will contest, there is no practice and only one run per contestant. It’s learn as we go.

8

The car gets its power down beautifully and handles the course in a series of easily controlled slides, but I suspect I might have been too conservative. Turns out not. When all the runs are finished, the E-Type is outright winner by more than two seconds. This turn-up seems to give the machine some street cred and, despite Bateman’s attempts to organise a photogenic riot/lynching (“Youse gonna let a poofter car win ya prizes?”), the Jaguar is universally accepted into the fraternity.

It makes friends with the like of Michael of Marque Detailing, who determines I am entirely too witless to keep a car properly clean and commands that I give the thing to him regularly throughout the weekend to maintain. Bless him. Hell, this is fun being an honorary street machiner. I buy a dickhead hat and a pair of breasts. In the heat of celebration, I tie the latter to the portrait of the Queen in the organiser’s office and later forget to retrieve them. She is, however, still smiling when I see them last.

Come sunset, I join the assembly for the Supercruise and get an entirely convincing display of the power and size of this thing. The main street of Canberra, the nation’s capital, is closed down for miles and a whole army of police closes off every intersection to other traffic. We own the road, for God’s sake, and thousands of people watch and cheer us as we cruise through (to our own radio station), displaying scant regard to proper dress.

The crowd, in some places dozens deep, spills onto the road and the whole thing feels like the Mille Miglia in slow motion, only noisier. Bigfoot makes the point that, without law to compel it, you wouldn’t get this many people out to vote in Canberra. I get the feeling that anyone connected with any aspect of automotive matters, from manufacture to legislature, ignores the messages here at their peril.

Eventually the streets are returned to their customary usage and we all retire to Natex to feast on the giant unidentifiable carcasses (road-kills?) spinning on roasting spits, before taking in the evening’s cultural event, the wet T-shirt competition. This happy prospect sustains the thousands who fill the arena, all roaring for tits. Mercifully, not for mine. It’s 10 minutes before the scheduled start but, then again, the program has been entered in a competition for fiction, so God knows.

Personally, I don’t hold out much hope for the grandstand which, under the pounding of a lust-crazed patronage, looks like it might soon be torn asunder just for laughs. Just when the bellow starts sounding truly dangerous, our hostess mounts the stage and the roar goes up tenfold. Invited in many tongues (some unfamiliar and, I suspect, local) to start the topside inspection, she declines.

Her speech begins and ends with the extraordinary question: “Hi, guys! How are you?” As if some poor sod three rows from the back might yell back, “Quite well, thank you, but still with a slight head cold.” Aspirants are brought on stage to display their suitability for motherhood and are judged swiftly and with great candour. It may be that honesty is virtuous but I suspect that several once-proud maidens will require trauma counselling as a result.

8

The contestants are narrowed down by vox populi, but it appears extra information is required. I don’t believe the cry “We want Bush” is a political statement. Bateman, needless to say, has secured a vantage point that nicely confirms his booking in hell. The winner gets $800, or $400 each, which Bateman says is fair if you think about it. I prefer not to.

The event is brutal, primal and terrifyingly powerful, but fails to make much sense to me. As do other things like: “Where do all these people and their cars go for the rest of the year?” There is only one cure for things making no sense, and after a sip or three of Riesling under the clear bright stars, a shocking concept vividly emerges.

Imagine a giant underground road network where the horsepower monsters roam, emerging once a year from a secret tunnel in Natex. They rise to seek brides, breed, breathe fresh air and dump their fumes. They rise to feast on those carcasses. They are the Morlocks and we are the Eloi bred for their consumption! That’s what’s on the spit! That sign over there... The Great Australian Roast...

I rush to Bateman with the vision and he offers no alternative, adding only that he believes there to be another exit near Blacktown, in Sydney’s west. I thank God for my honorary Morlock status and retire to a deep and troubled sleep.

On the final morning, I join the queue for the Go-to-Whoa, which seems to be about as brutal a thing as you’d want to do to any good car. It involves a full-bore, dump-the-clutch departure and all the acceleration you can muster for 100 metres. Then you get to do a sudden-cow-surprise stop exactly on the line. This should confuse the car totally and deliver a short-wheelbase version, even if you hadn’t ordered it. Never having done this exercise before, I am affeared of making a complete fool of myself against the 5-6-7-and-more hundred horsepower competition.

I decide to go for broke and dump the clutch with about 4500rpm showing. The E-Type spins its wheels briefly then, showing why it would never work worth a damn in a burnout, hooks up and goes like a shell up the strip. Apparently it is one of the quickest launches of the day and the crowd noisily reconfirms our acceptability. I end up in the Top 10 run-off.

Bateman suggests a little discretion at this time, pointing out that scoring another trophy might be an offence to mine hosts. Far better, he counsels, to do a mega-rev smoke at the start, which will have the added benefit of being photogenic. The man never quits. I ignore the advice, launch even harder than before, whack up the strip well sideways and rev it well over the limit to avoid a gear change, which is when blubber noises come from the engine. Cuss, cuss. I slam on the brakes but miss the mark by an inch. Over and out.

8

The engine sounds horrible and I feel much the same. After all this abuse, after all these miles together, have I finally broken it? Bigfoot introduces me to his friend Barry, with the assurance that he can fix a space station using only a block of ice and a ballpein hammer. Can he save us now? Is Pavarotti the big one?

The quick and correct diagnosis is that the big rev has simply collapsed one of the air cleaners, and rectification takes but minutes. Hours, however, are spent with him checking, tuning, fettling and generally fussing over the old dear until it runs as sweetly as a brand new one. And for this he will accept no reward other than the odd test drive to ensure the correctness of his labours. Not only am I honoured by his care but also privileged to overhear some workshop gems...

“How’s Greg these days?”

“You know his car fell on him?”

“Jeez, no... how is he?”

“I think it did him some good.”

Leaving Barry to his labours, I venture to the burnout finals and witness, for as long as I can stand it, the destruction of all the rubber reserves in the land. A solid early claimant for glory is the four-rear-wheel drive Holden One Tonner. It manages to explode all four driven wheels in sequence, to the delight of the thousands settled in to spend six hours in the blinding, shadeless heat.

Despite the essential crudity and wilful profligacy of the exercise, it must be admitted that some of the contestants show extraordinary levels of skill in initiating and controlling wild and lurid spins while consistently remaining mere poofteenths from the fence. Nonetheless, for me tyre smoke is a bit like botty burps. Your own are okay, but anyone else’s...

Finally, it comes toward an end. Four days of massive punishment to man, machine and Mother Nature culminate in the Award Ceremony and hoedown of Sunday night. Someone has obviously dawn raided Copperart to produce a mound of trophies. Mine come with all manner of gifts and treasures – and enough cash to again well and truly fill the fridge as a safeguard against sanity.

In truth, the whole episode makes no sense at all. Then again, try explaining Wimbledon to a horse and it’s all no different. I can only say now what I said then as the cornucopia flowed: “I came to write about a small bunch of loonies having a fallabout. I found a very large bunch of loonies having a fallabout ... and I ended up, very happily, being one of the loonies having a fallabout. Thank you.”