Campbell Cassidy's blog

Often a driver, or more often a pair of drivers will be brought before ?The Man? to receive anything from a tender ear to points on their licences, which transfer into time penalties and eventuality exclusion from racing. In some circumstance the entire field maybe called to discuss, standing water on the track or other hazards but in this case it was for a bollocking, which is a lot like a rollicking but hurts more. Seeing as how I had blown the motor in the 74 car I walked in feeling fairly bullet proof. Val started the show off by explaining what measures, censures and other penalties, up to and including a kick in the teeth, she could bring to bear. We were described as dangerous maniacs, intent on clearing the locost spirit from gene pool with every turn of the wheel. The normally taciturn chief scrutineer (only a certain type of man strives for this title) even pitched in with a less colourful but more damming pr?cis of the driving to date. The drivers attempted to mount a defence but once this temerity had been put down the Clerk of the Court Course read out the charges, ?The 74 car??? I slid down in my seat and tried to look like someone else. The assembled drivers nodded like penitents at a lynching. Val concluded the first charge and moved on to the second charge, ?The 74 car, retired from the race?..? by this time I was ready to retire to Brazil. Mallory was a couple of dot balls on the score card but three valuable lessons came out from this little oasis firstly don?t try and impress younger women in your car, secondly don?t get done up the bum in hairpin and secondly always wear dark glasses (and a false moustache if available) to compulsory drivers briefings.

Update: I recently saw Sarah Moore win her Ginetta Junior race on TV, she had not only thumped her brother but had also put the hammer on her boyfriend who finished off the podium and was not available for interview after the race. So boys its not only me??

Mallory Park ? Race 3
Being a relatively small circuit with a large entry of locosters, the day was split into qualifying, heats and a final. Matt and I were in different heats which gave me a chance to actually watch my first locost race. My heat was a rough affair and with a horrid mess heading into the hairpin for the first time, I took the conservative option and tapped the brakes some 10-15m early. They say that no good deed is left unpunished and it was only a couple of heartbeats later that Mr R. Dixon delivered my punishment to the rear quarter of the once achingly beautiful 74 car. With a swift kick in the pants to sharpen up my drive I was full gas down the start finish straight when I noticed that engine temperature was a touch high, which is like saying that Keith Richards may have been a touch high, the engine lasted to the start finish line before expiring in a black cloud and pulled off to the marshals post on the left and watched my second locost race.

The 750 Motor Club is composed as far as I can make out of exceptional human beings. Compared to the lifeless robots that populate my part of London they are, to a man and a woman, kind, friendly and well disposed. None more so that the Clerk of the Course, Val, but as the tannoy pinged the locosters heads sunk into their collective chests, like puppies sitting next to a pile of pooh, ?All Locost driver to a Compulsory Driving Briefing?

Snetterton ? Race 1 & Race 2. ? Weather: Bruce Lee (nasty nip in the air)

Objective: Survive. Secondary Objectives: Qualify without breaking anything, finish a race without breaking anything, get an upgrade signature on my licence, try not to come last.

Outcome: Primary Objective: Met, Secondary Objectives: Partial Success?

A true competitor would have come down the night before and acclimatised to the carrot crunching ways of East Anglia but getting up at 5am to drive to the race seemed like a good idea at 5pm the night before, a night in my own bed, etc, etc, but twelve hours later with my phone sounding like the nuclear fallout warning alarm the rationale behind the early start was exposed in all it?s stupidity. By the time I?d packed the car and got past, un-pinged, by the London surveillance systems I was sweating like a geordie at a spelling test.

07:30 Snet, Tony was up and about as it was too cold to sleep without the huskies, and he had the cars up on axle stands and the kettle on. Turns out that the kettle was the key piece of the black beast?s ignition system and therefore racing equipment but strong black coffee was readily available from the caf? at Snet as more stimulants on top of first race nerves was clearly the route to success.

Qualifying, my first outing in anger; jacked up on gallons of coffee and torqued up to a thrumming tension in the assembly area caused by a misplaced scrutineering ticket. Lit up the tyres and let it rip. It?s quite amazing how slow a car rotates on grass and that amazement doesn?t diminish with the second, third or even fourth rotation. I failed to manage anything close to a clean lap but still managed to qualify in the middle of the field with something approaching my quickest lap. The relief was physical and probably my ?play of the day? was to stretch out and fall fast asleep for a quick power nap to the amazement of the TMC gallery, sang froid or 5am start, you be the judge.

It was about this time that it suddenly occurred to me that I?ve only ever entered the track from a rollout and that some knowledge about race starts might be helpful about now. The Tony, as ever, was on hand with the required info, ?pin it at 3500rpm and dump the clutch? ? yes sir.

After the potential minefield of forming the grid and with the red lights on, I did just as Tony suggested and with a small porky squeal watched as the cars behind me became the cars in front on me and spread across the track four, more?, wide into the onrush of the first corner. Hold your line and hold your breath: and we were through. Disappointingly I had forgotten to stop holding my breath and it was half way along the back straight when my helmet started shrinking or perhaps my head was expanding and I remembered to breathe out. A nice pass in the esses and this racing thing was starting to look good. Round Coram and a nice tight line through Riches and it looked like I might be in a race, not at the front of the race but in an interesting pack of cars mainly flying the yellow and black mark indicating: Danger! Beware! Avoid! Pass! this yellow square with a black cross indicates that a novice, which is actually an anagram of many interesting words, was behind the wheel. Off at the esses cost me all of the handful places that I had made up and in an attempt to regain some ground, I out-braked myself into the final chicane, Riches, and straight-lined over the grass, no spin this time, and back on to the start finish straight. Red Flag! back off and coast round to the start/finish line. Paranoid about restarting the car and in the full expectation that the red lights could come on at any time, I kept the engine running and watched the temperature climb into triple figures. Now paranoid that the car would overheat I shut it down but without a fan and motionless the little lump in front was pretty good at retaining the heat and when the red lights went out, I managed to reach the first corner where accompanied by an enormous crack the car spat out all of its fluids, I steered the smoking remains round the back of the marshals post and got out for a fag.

Humiliated by lack of a result due to being too stupid to switch the engine off, race 2 would be a new dawn. A similar starting slot on the grid and another attempt at Tony?s starting formula resulted in predictable results. I remember hearing that Albert Einstein?s definition of insanity was repeating the experiment without changing the variables and expecting a different result. I climbed up the order as locoster after locoster catapulted themselves into the kitty litter but without anyone to race I toured round trying to concentrate on not joining them. This proved to be a very astute strategy for the first race meeting of the season as it landed me a result and a few points in the championship for 15th a hair ahead of Steve Kirby in the 88 car.

Very pleased with myself with this performance, it only took 30mins before the results were posted and my presence was required by the stewards. First race and I?m up in front of the man already. An extremely ambitious entry to the final chicane had led me to cut across the grass before rejoining the main straight and the clerk of the course informed me that I was to be docked 5secs and relegated to 16th place due to corner cutting. I explained that I had relinquished any advantage I may have accrued however to my astonishment this was not my crime. Apparently I had cut the chicane itself too many times and together with my co-defendants, who included Matt, would be subject to a time penalty, much finger wagging and no signature on my licence upgrade card. Robbed! See below for photographic evidence to the contrary.
Nevertheless big fun, if a little scary, and one hook well and truly planted in this aging guppies mouth?..

Snetterton ? Race 1 & Race 2. – Weather: Bruce Lee (nasty nip in the air)

Objective: Survive. Secondary Objectives: Qualify without breaking anything, finish a race without breaking anything, get an upgrade signature on my licence, try not to come last.

Outcome: Primary Objective: Met, Secondary Objectives: Partial Success?

A true competitor would have come down the night before and acclimatised to the carrot crunching ways of East Anglia but getting up at 5am to drive to the race seemed like a good idea at 5pm the night before, a night in my own bed, etc, etc, but twelve hours later with my phone sounding like the nuclear fallout warning alarm the rationale behind the early start was exposed in all it?s stupidity. By the time I?d packed the car and got past, un-pinged, by the London surveillance systems I was sweating like a geordie at a spelling test.

07:30 Snet, Tony was up and about as it was too cold to sleep without the huskies, and he had the cars up on axle stands and the kettle on. Turns out that the kettle was the key piece of the black beast?s ignition system and therefore racing equipment but strong black coffee was readily available from the caf? at Snet as more stimulants on top of first race nerves was clearly the route to success.

Qualifying, my first outing in anger; jacked up on gallons of coffee and torqued up to a thrumming tension in the assembly area caused by a misplaced scrutineering ticket. Lit up the tyres and let it rip. It?s quite amazing how slow a car rotates on grass and that amazement doesn?t diminish with the second, third or even fourth rotation. I failed to manage anything close to a clean lap but still managed to qualify in the middle of the field with something approaching my quickest lap. The relief was physical and probably my ?play of the day? was to stretch out and fall fast asleep for a quick power nap to the amazement of the TMC gallery, sang froid or 5am start, you be the judge.

It was about this time that it suddenly occurred to me that I?ve only ever entered the track from a rollout and that some knowledge about race starts might be helpful about now. The Tony, as ever, was on hand with the required info, ?pin it at 3500rpm and dump the clutch? ? yes sir.

After the potential minefield of forming the grid and with the red lights on, I did just as Tony suggested and with a small porky squeal watched as the cars behind me became the cars in front on me and spread across the track four, more?, wide into the onrush of the first corner. Hold your line and hold your breath: and we were through. Disappointingly I had forgotten to stop holding my breath and it was half way along the back straight when my helmet started shrinking or perhaps my head was expanding and I remembered to breathe out. A nice pass in the esses and this racing thing was starting to look good. Round Coram and a nice tight line through Riches and it looked like I might be in a race, not at the front of the race but in an interesting pack of cars mainly flying the yellow and black mark indicating: Danger! Beware! Avoid! Pass! this yellow square with a black cross indicates that a novice, which is actually an anagram of many interesting words, was behind the wheel. Off at the esses cost me all of the handful places that I had made up and in an attempt to regain some ground, I out-braked myself into the final chicane, Riches, and straight-lined over the grass, no spin this time, and back on to the start finish straight. Red Flag! back off and coast round to the start/finish line. Paranoid about restarting the car and in the full expectation that the red lights could come on at any time, I kept the engine running and watched the temperature climb into triple figures. Now paranoid that the car would overheat I shut it down but without a fan and motionless the little lump in front was pretty good at retaining the heat and when the red lights went out, I managed to reach the first corner where accompanied by an enormous crack the car spat out all of its fluids, I steered the smoking remains round the back of the marshals post and got out for a fag.

Humiliated by lack of a result due to being too stupid to switch the engine off, race 2 would be a new dawn. A similar starting slot on the grid and another attempt at Tony?s starting formula resulted in predictable results. I remember hearing that Albert Einstein?s definition of insanity was repeating the experiment without changing the variables and expecting a different result. I climbed up the order as locoster after locoster catapulted themselves into the kitty litter but without anyone to race I toured round trying to concentrate on not joining them. This proved to be a very astute strategy for the first race meeting of the season as it landed me a result and a few points in the championship for 15th a hair ahead of Steve Kirby in the 88 car.

Very pleased with myself with this performance, it only took 30mins before the results were posted and my presence was required by the stewards. First race and I?m up in front of the man already. An extremely ambitious entry to the final chicane had led me to cut across the grass before rejoining the main straight and the clerk of the course informed me that I was to be docked 5secs and relegated to 16th place due to corner cutting. I explained that I had relinquished any advantage I may have accrued however to my astonishment this was not my crime. Apparently I had cut the chicane itself too many times and together with my co-defendants, who included Matt, would be subject to a time penalty, much finger wagging and no signature on my licence upgrade card. Robbed! See below for photographic evidence to the contrary.
Nevertheless big fun, if a little scary, and one hook well and truly planted in this aging guppies mouth?..

Donnington ? Track Day, Weather ? English. Objectives, Meet new team and impress them with silky smooth driving style and outright pace. Fags smoked +/-300, coffee 3.47 bbls (US). Outcome: Abject failure followed humiliation by children.

Expletive-deleted, expletive-deleted, expletive-deleted, expletive-deleted, expletive-deleted?. fuck. Not a good day. The never say unfixable ethos of Locost was driven close to its bleeding edge in order to shoehorn Mr Edwards into the co-pilot seat of the yet to christened 74 car and off we went for a few sighting laps of the Donnington track and it?s fascinating ecology, more expletive deleted. Clearly disgusted by the reduction in his circumstances from the airbrushed luxury of a professional super cup team to Locost, Sean was enjoying his revenge cold. Locost being the very polar opposite of what he does for a living, this outrage to his professional credentials would like any other good deed not go unpunished. The outrage was probably compounded by a skint knee, bless these thoroughbreds, and it was with some savour that Sean delighted in stretching both my cognitive abilities and my cojhones with a barrage of instruction that could be distilled into variations of the word power prefixed by; more, double more, triple more, full, max, complete etc, etc?more ecology, lots of ecology, more expletive deleted and much sniggering from the stalwart men & woman of the TMC Motorsport team and for a cherry on top: a collective snigger from the mandatory collection of the under fives that seem to populate these events, my godson specially flown in for the occasion as a promising county level sniggerer even managed to snap me being hounded down by a Volvo estate ? Round 2 to Mr Edwards.

Snetterton ? 750mc Test day, Objectives, try to not humiliate myself in front of my new team, a la Donnigton, or any passing under fives for that matter. Try to keep it on the pavement, Try not to be last. Outcome: Failed.

In my soon to reach fledgling status: the only red flag I?ve had waved at me was of the metaphorical variety that started this whole process off?.not so today. Locost is a series based on the best seller by Ron Champion, Build & Race Your Own Sports Car for 250quid. Nowdays the book on Amazon costs nearly 90 quid so even if, as recommended by Mr Champion, you can pick up an old Ford Escort for 50quid then the remaining 110quid will have to stretch pretty far. Locost however is a gentleman?s sport compared to another of the forumale organised by the august men and women of the 750 Motor Club. Whilst watching a series dedicated to 14-17 year olds I was reminded of the old sports pun about going to see a fight at Madison Square Gardens when an ice hockey match broke out, turns out in motorsport this is called Sax Max: a well intentioned attempt to productively channel teenage energy, instigated by someone who had clearly never met a teenager.

The TMC Motorsport team, who were providing the crumbling beauty that is the 74 car were also holding a hooligan in their van and aided by a small number of kitchen utensils, a pan of hot water and the traditional fresh towels, Tony finally coached some life out the Black Beast: a Bio-Ethanol Burning (sometimes) Bruiser that is so tough that it refuses to move lest this be confused with backing down in anyway. All remedies had failed to light the thick vegetable based protein that this planet-saver ran on and only after an extended tow (Norwich I think) did the studded black warrior finally deign to storm away from the paddock leaving nothing but skid marks, from onlookers mainly, and pieces of razor sharp black bodywork flying into the mercifully empty grandstands, with the kind of noise that you would expect from an expertly thrown ninja shuriken on a snowy market day.

This notionally green machine, liveried in matt black and driven by a by now liverish Matt C, was the talk of the paddock. A project in genetics and canola oil from Coventry University this Locost racer was the charge, your honour, of Mr Matt Cherrington, a youthful veteran of Locost, whose faultlessly reliable and demonstrably quick car was now in my infant like hands and perhaps Matt was a shade greener with envy, rather than greener than greenpeace as again the stubborn Black, Bio Beast which had now adopted a pacifistic posture and was not starting on, or for, anybody. Whilst in the background the rustic charm of the ever dependable 74 car purred like a butter milkshake.

After the bruising spectacle of Sax Max and with most of the broken bits of Citroen cleared out of Sunday market stalls, the buzzing swarm of machinery that is the Locost grid was off and running, and off, and running and off, and off and then Red Flag. End of Day, not very quick, lot of grass to be cleared off the paintwork but still straight and still starting, onwards and never backwards, well not until the front end came back round again.

Locost, A novice’s tale

Snetterton – Track Day, October, Weather Mysteriously Fine, Objectives: Bit of laugh with my best mate in his new porker. Outcome: Success

I really thought there would be a bit more glamour and a lot less camping, or at least a bit more of the Barbara Windsor sort of carry on camping, clearly I had a lot to learn.

A few track days behind the wheel of my friend’s recently rebuilt and nearly totally waterproof 964 RS had prepared me for absolutely nothing in Locost racing other than the general of juxtaposition of Snetterton and the A11. My nameless and shameless friend, one of the newly anointed pinstriped city pederasts had arranged for Sean Edwards, son of a F1 driver, and very much a rising star in International Porsche Supercup racing to come down to Snet and show us both the ropes, or more accurately just how ropey we were. It seems almost laughable now given the wild speculation and breathtaking risks that the banking industry employed to bring us to our economic knees but my studiously risk averse amigo refused to put any of his new pride and joy onto any of the kerbs or even exceed 3500rpm but being far more experienced in these matters my own contribution was to make his very pretty little car spit out an alarming amount of brake fluid and finally a prop shaft, after a very, very neat – no kerbs – no grass, no stall, 720 on my way into Russell’s.

End of the day for both of us and the end of track days for my friend, it’s the downturn you understand, and despite public outcry he remains the complete banker however the dark die was cast with a throwaway line, from Mr Edwards, about something called ARDS tests and me not even having a race licence. Turned out that this was to be a bit of red flag to this aged bull and as the months followed and the dominos fell I was back at Snet in a VX220 roaring over the exit kerbs at Russell’s just as required by Sean and much to the delight of my examiner (more of this later). One ARDS test passed, now to find some racing and to score at least one point on the absurdly overachieving Mr Edwards.