GREEN WITH ENVY. My life in drag racing.
I went to my first drag racing meeting in 1986. Heavily pregnant with our first child, I wasn’t really that keen on going. It was a cool day and slightly overcast. Martin had been threatening to take me to a meeting from the minute we’d started dating three years earlier. I’d managed to get out of going up until then. I wasn’t really a motorsport fan; my idea of a good Sunday was a game of tennis or a walk in the mountains.
Already a day overdue, I was the size of a barrage balloon. Searing pains shooting through my legs made me wish for the oblivion of sleep. If I was to go, I wanted a comfortable seat and plenty of warm drinks.
The skies were a soft dove grey, peppered with marshmallow like clouds. Occasionally opening out, they revealed rays of longed for sunshine.
By early afternoon I’d seen as much racing as I could stand. While Martin photographed every pair of cars that lined up to race, I curled up on the grass bank. One waterproof army poncho over me another under me, I went to sleep. I didn’t notice when the jet car rumbled up the track, or the ground vibrating as the engines roared away, flames shooting out the back. I didn’t hear a nitrous fuelled engine blow up in the pits, spewing parts into the crowded concessions area. It wasn’t the only time I missed ‘the action’, just the first.
Over the next few years we would go racing once or twice a season. We would leave our daughter, and then our son too, with my parents. Eventually I took over the photography, leaving Martin to enjoy the spectacle.
By 1990 I’d become a regular alongside racers and crew, photographing cars, engines and team members. I would joke with them about the boredom of a racing life. I envied them their motorhomes, where they cooked lunches, and made cups of tea in the cold weather.
We travelled every day of the meetings, taking sandwiches and a flask, just enough to sustain. We took only one rucksack, any more would have been an inconvenience. Our cameras took up a lot of room, and were far more important than food. When you were making room for yourself by the track, vying with other photographers for the best spot, you didn’t worry about bags.
Two years later and we become more than just spectators. At the last meeting of the previous season I’d been introduced to Leigh and Pat. Leigh was a quiet man; his Frog Eyed Sprite had blown a gasket and he wasn’t in the best mood, but he welcomed Martin and me with smiles and hugs. At five foot eight and nine stone wet through, Leigh fitted the mental image I had of him perfectly. Martin had talked about growing up next door to him many times.
During the winter off-season Martin and Leigh found a new race car and modified it, making it ready for the opening race meeting. That was when we became the Green With Envy Drag Racing Team.
A beautiful topless E-Type Jaguar, she was British racing green with a Jaguar 3.8 litre straight six engine, and a full roll cage in black. Low to the ground and sleek, she ran on unleaded petrol and nitrous oxide. This volatile combination meant she could run the quarter mile in just over nine seconds. Running those times would have meant adding a parachute to the back to slow her at the finish. Not wanting to spoil her looks, we joined a slower race class, running as close to 10.90 seconds as possible. Any quicker meant breaking out and losing the race.
Purring like the cat she was named after, a low, steady, throaty growl, she would spring from the start line. With a burst of speed she covered the ground running down her prey before flying over the finish line victorious.
Drag racers can’t run in the rain, slick tyres are used on them. This means that the rubber is smooth, the rear tyres are huge, fourteen inches across, and need heat to get grip. The heat is achieved by a burnout, the most wonderful sight. While the car is stationary, the rear tyres are spun up in a patch of water. As the heat from the spinning tyres evaporates the water, smoke begins to billow out, white clouds form to obscure the car.
The smell of burning rubber stays in the air, catching your nostrils. Standing close and breathing it in, you get a head rush, breath in too much and you go dizzy. Stay around the start line too long and addiction follows, craving the smell of burnt rubber, spiced with the tang of fuel. It’s an aroma that stays in your head long after it’s washed out of your clothes. Some days you will stop in your tracks like a wolf catching the smell of food. A familiar, longed for hint on the breeze transports you back to the trackside.
As the cloud of smoke fills the air, suddenly the driver will take his foot off the brake and the car jumps forward. Getting grip on the now dry tarmac, the tyres are hot and sticky, at the point of melting.
The team soon became firm friends, travelling all around Europe to one meeting after another, having a laugh, winning more often than we lost and by the end of the year we were class champions. For the next five years we won consistently. Leigh was dubbed the cat for his lightning reactions. When he was behind the wheel of that car he was a machine, but if something went wrong, if he red lit[1] or made a mistake, he was a nightmare.
In 2004 we went to Mantorp Park in Sweden for the Veidec Festival. In the last week of July we set off for Harwich to catch the ferry to Holland. By now my kids had left school. Beki, my daughter had just begun her gap year before university, and David had been accepted into catering college.
‘Don’t forget to enjoy yourself, and if you want to get me something from duty free, I could do with some ‘bacca’.’ David was already laughing as he turned and shut the door.
The journey to Sweden took over three days, beginning with a five hour journey in the back of the transit to the docks. The transit had been transformed earlier in the day electrical wire junction boxes and tool boxes were replaced with custom built seats filled with bedding and food, a mini fridge, rucksacks filled with clothes, and a tent bag containing the awning for the car to go under at night.
Behind the van we towed our custom built white panelled trailer that housed the Jaguar, strapped down for the journey, she was a snug fit. The car was so low to the ground, making room above her in the trailer for our hob and sink, another small fridge and more storage cupboards. Not an inch of usable space was overlooked as we packed, the toilet we tucked into the front of the trailer alongside the shower and its pipe work, which would be set up on the outside of the trailer at the meeting, in the shower tent.
Sweden was wonderful. It never went dark; dusk and dawn met each other keeping the night at bay. When we arrived, having travelled in convoy with another race team, we set up our pits. Later we walked the circuit, getting to know where the toilets were, the club and food halls, and of course the offices to register our arrival and book in for scrutineering[2].
When everything was settled and Pat and I had the afternoon meal cooking, Leigh and Martin took the car out for a test run.
‘What’s up Leigh?’ Pat and I asked when they returned. The thunderous look on Leigh’s face telegraphed his fury.
‘The engines running sluggish, needs the new jets putting in.’ Leigh didn’t raise his voice, but the chill his words gave off told us something was very wrong.
‘So put in the new ones you got last week, you knew this was a possibility.’ Pat said.
We had asked other racers what jets they used in their cars at this track, and made sure we had a good supply.
‘We haven’t got any Pat.’ Martin said quietly, motioning to us to come out of the trailer. When we got outside, Martin explained.
‘There’s only half of the new set we got in the week there. The ones we need have gone.’
‘Oh let me guess’ Pat didn’t raised her voice, her blue eyes change from warm to ice cold, her smile disappeared. ‘Kev’.
‘Looks like it, he was up the unit on Wednesday’ Martin explained. ‘Scott’s racing tomorrow at Shakey[3].’
Kev was Leigh’s brother. His stepson was racing that weekend, and it looked as if they had once again taken parts from the Jaguar stock to put on their machine.
‘Leigh’s gonna ring Kev now.’ We knew what was coming, even standing outside we could hear Leigh’s side of the conversation.
‘Kev, you just had to do it didn’t you?’ There was a brief pause before Leigh went on. ‘The jets I bought last week … yes them… What do you mean you needed some? So did I. That’s why I put my fuckin’ hand in my pocket and bought the bastards. You just waltz in and nick 'em you thieving git; I’m fuckin’ sick of it. You’re a useless piece of shit.’
I guess then he rang off because seconds later there was a loud crash as his mobile was smashed against the wall.
Dave, one of the other racers, our travelling companion and a bit of show off most of the time, was there within minutes with a box full of jets of different sizes. That’s the nice thing about most of the racers; they are good lads at heart, willing to share if they can. A big man in build and character, over six foot with a pot belly, Dave always wore garish buttercup yellow knee length shorts and dark purple shirts. Combined with his bleached blonde crew cut hair and well defined calf muscles that could be seen to expand and contract as he walked, he was a memorable figure around the track.
Dave drove a ‘Model A’ panel van the same deep purple as his shirts, with the team name on the side, ‘The Dark Revenger’. This meeting he needed another crew member, so Pat and I took it in turns to help at the start line, which was hysterical. Dave had OCD; no one could put their hands on his van without a cloth under the hands or gloves on. He parked his car on a carpet laid out inside his awning, and vacuumed around it every couple of hours. The car had been lovingly polished three or four times between every race. God help anyone who dared step over the rope into his space uninvited.
He was a good laugh, but not someone either Pat or I would trust around our daughters. He was a dirty bugger, and didn’t care who knew.
The meeting went well until the fourth day when suddenly out of nowhere snow fell. The day started out cold and windy, and by ten in the morning it was raining hard. Finding that the trailer had several leaks, we contained them with saucepans and pint glasses, all the time complaining about shoddy workmanship.
Thunder echoed repeatedly around Mantorp as we played cards in the warm trailer. The tap tapping of the rain slowly building in tempo as the afternoon wore on. Phil Collins crooned away in the background as the smell of curry and rice permeated the air. The dry piney tang of my second glass of Retsina slipped down smoothly as I won another hand of cards.
When Dave joined us around three I was on a roll, and we were falling about laughing.
Suddenly Leigh or perhaps it was Dave suggested strip poker. Martin warned them against that idea.
‘Josie’s a card shark guys, she’ll have you in your birthday suits inside the hour.’
‘Spoil sport’ I pouted. It wasn’t a total lie; I’d paid my college tuition and bought my art supplies by playing cards. ‘I had a chance there of finding out why Pat is always smiling’
‘You wouldn’t have got your answer there.’ Pat joked, ‘good things don’t always come in small packages you know.’ Pat grinned at Leigh, who winked at her.
‘Sort the drinks out and behave.’ Martin snapped at me. He could be very playful at times, but often went out of his way to embarrass me. If I managed to bounce his playfulness back though, he would sulk.
When we opened the door at six that evening the rain had stopped to be replaced by snow. It wasn’t thick yet, just a light feathery carpet of blue-tinged cotton wool. The sky was the most magical vision, like in a childhood dream of Santa’s’ wonderland. Wispy white clouds released their wondrous gift into an azure sky.
In just under a week we had gone from temperatures in the twenties with no wind and plagues of mosquitos, to torrential rain. High winds buffeted the van and trailer, rocking us to sleep and then waking us with a jolt, as the gusts smashed against the exposed sides. Then snow.
‘If it doesn’t stop by morning and warm weather reappear, we’ll be packing up and leaving.’ Leigh said that evening.
The next morning at eight the meeting was called off. By virtue of having gained the most qualifying points we won the class. We took home the trophy and enough money to cover the ferry cost. With low spirits we packed up and started our journey back through Europe at a leisurely pace.
By the time we got to the German border with Holland the weather was back up in to the twenties, the sun was out and we were once again in our shorts and t-shirts, sweltering away inside the transit van.
We were team mates until 2010 when Martin passed away. I still go drag racing, and now my son and grandson go too. Leigh, well he still races Green With Envy, and he is still winning.
Santa Pod is where I feel closest to Martin, down at the finish line sitting in the grass. His ashes were scattered out of the back of the E-Type at 120 miles an hour, as Leigh made a memorial pass down the track. Ruining his qualifying run by breaking out of his class bracket, Leigh covered the quarter of a mile in 10.20 seconds, 0.7 seconds too quick.
Martin became one with the tarmac and rubber, the track glue and wind. Martin loved drag racing. What better way to say goodbye was there?
[1] The start line has a ‘Christmas tree of lights’. At the top are a series of amber lights, the reaction timer starts when the third amber comes on. Since there is a half-second (or .500 seconds) delay until the green light comes on, a .500 reaction time is perfect. Leaving the line before the green light will result in the dreaded red light... a foul start, and losing the race.
[2] This refers to the checks performed on each car and bike before the start of a race meeting to ensure that they conform to the rules and safety regulations. Any machine that violates the rules and regulations will automatically be disqualified from the race.
[3] Shakey, the name racers have given to Shakespeare County Raceway, a drag racing strip at Long Marston just outside Stratford upon Avon.
