Pure Tech Racing

It has been along time since I sat in a single seater. Technically it still is a long time because the single seater I sat in the other day wasn't really a single seater at all! Confused? I am. Shall I start again?

The year was 2012 and it was the dizzying height of British summer time. March. We have had a lovely March here. I even sat down the beach with my girlfriend last Sunday and enjoyed a Pimms.

But as the weekend ended and April began, the news was already talking about snow in Scotland. As sub-zero temperatures loomed, one Scottish man considered wearing a pair of trousers, then decided against it. Emergency services had begun stockpiling essentials like Scotch and deep-fried Mars bars in preparation for the cataclysmic winter which would sweep our nation. It will roll down the country, obliterating any hope we had of a nice summer.

So, anyway, it was March. And a friend of mine made the unfortunate error earlier in the year, of agreeing to marry some girl.

The chap in question is head honcho on a Formula Student team. Formula Student, for the uninitiated and those too lazy to Google, is a University challenge where groups of students learning motorsport technology can design, build and race cars. This happens at Universities all over the world, then they have a big race meeting at Silverstone, where the cars break down and the students all get drunk and watch Big Bang Theory.

For his surprise stag effort, we took the budding victim, err, I mean, groom to be, to Pure Tech Racing in Gatwick. The venue looks, from the outside, like a professional race shop. Inside is impressive too with a cafe and row of Grand Turismo cabinets for people to play whilst waiting for the real simulators. There were a couple of F1 cars. Oh, and the new Mini Cooper Cabriolet parked in the lobby.

The first thing they do is check your literacy by making you write your name clearly on a piece of paper. It was a shaky start but with teamwork, grit and determination, we were able to overcome this first hurdle.

The next thing they do is give you a drivers briefing.

The drivers briefing is brief and mostly for the drivers. It  contains the usual "red means stop, green means go, one way around, no bumping" you know the drill.

After that it is qualifying. The game room is massive and looks like the bridge of a starship. The games cabinets are laid out like a proper race car and do all proper race car things. They have four point harnesses and even in softy softy billy bunter mode, they can still pull 1.5g. In race mode, it is possible to have an accident in the game which moves the cabinet so violently that all the monitors smash.

Pure Tech Racing use their own track so that there is no advantage to race track veterans like your old and crusty scriber over here. I, of course, kept quiet about my racing history, just in case they had any other handicaps they could put on me. All I have ever wanted in life is an unfair advantage and it seems like whenever I get one, some git wants to take it away from me.

You start in the pit lane. There is no clutch in the simulator which makes it considerably easier to move than a real race car. It is still possible to stall the car though. Once you get on the track the car is as close to driving a real formula car as most people will get. It uses a sequential box with paddle shift which made me mindful of the old Baby Grand with the motorcycle box. I used to spend lots of time wondering what gear I was in when I was racing that...

After a few wonky gear changes, locked brakes and getting used to the steering wheel feedback, it was time to examine the track.

You get about 15 minutes for qualifying and the track isn't too taxing so you are not rushed into learning all this stuff. From the start line there is a chicane which, when you're on a flyer, you will use all the curb and go into it a lot faster than I ever managed in my time on the simulator. After a few pretty ragged attempts, I opted to go in slower and have an easier time of it. If you take too much curb here, you have one of those monitor-breaking accidents that I told you about earlier. You can actually die in the game. If you have a big enough wreck, you have to start the lap again from the pit lane. And, for added realism, the race instructor stabs you in the heart with a ski pole.
After the chicane, the track opens out into a very fast sequence of bends interrupted by a couple of hairpins. Like all racing, there is an art involved. The computer car has peculiarities as does the computer track. All of these must be mastered to be really fast. However it is easy enough for the total novice to have a pretty good stab at a decent lap time just by hitting the marks, learning the basic line and where to slow down.

After qualifying there was a very civilised coffee break where I could gloat about how fast I was and the instructor could explain to the other drivers why I was so much better than them. They give you a proper data logging read out with a speed trace of the tracks lap record and of your effort. It is all very proper and gives you ideas to work on for when you get back in the cabinet for the race.

The race itself is about 13 laps or fifteen minutes, whichever comes first. Our race started, as many simulator races do, with a monumental pile up in the chicane. It all started, as it often does, when Billy Big Balls decided to make a bid for the lead from the last row of the grid. Fortunately, my main competitor and I, had already gone by then. We raced as far as the next hairpin where he promptly drove off the track and into the boon docks and I never saw him again. I tried a few different lines with the car and a few different driving styles, which the car didn't really reward. That said though, we were on the billy bunter setting and I dare say, the more realistic the game gets, the harder you have to work. The car was built to be easier to drive. More importantly, fun to drive. And that it was, after the race everyone agreed that it was fantastic and we shall definitely be doing it again.

After the race there is official results, more data logging sheets and even a real podium. No spraying stuff at people though.

All in all it is a great evenings entertainment. Everyone should drive a formula racing car just for the experience. If you cant get to do that, then do this instead. In fact, even if you have driven a formula car, still do this. It is a very worthwhile driving experience.

I won by the way.

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

There is a reason you must always carry a Zippo lighter.

The other day, my Team Awesome team mate and I were watching a documentary about UFO's.

Unidentified Flying Objects.

We watched it as sceptics to see if it would challenge our belief that only drunk country hicks ever see aliens. It certainly did challenge this idea, pointing to a few credible people that have claimed to see flying saucers.

However, though I understand that there are probably lots of things flying around the clouds that are "Unidentified", I happen to believe that they are more likely to be piloted by a bloke called Dave from Basingstoke, than a small grey creature from the lesser regions of Alpha Centauri.

After the program I pointed out that I believe more in ghosts than I do in aliens. My team mate disagreed.

Wrongly.

Stating, also wrongly, that there is more evidence to support the ideas of aliens than there are for ghost. I then pointed out that his mother is so fat, her left butt cheek is actually in another time zone. He said "You can be very childish sometimes." To which I countered, "You are more." Before leaving my seat and ambling to the front door, with an accompaniment of aeroplane noises, to defecate in his new trainers.

Although it wasn't discussed at the time, I think one thing we can both agree on, is that neither of us believe in curtains.

Curtains are quite possibly the stupidest invention in the history of the world. I don't have curtains and haven't since I left home.

Humans, like all animals, rely on light to tell their bodies what they should be doing. If it is light, you should be up and foraging for food. If it is dark, you should be watching Simpsons or asleep. These things were built into us at our creation. When it is light outside, I want to see it. I want it to wake me up. Likewise, if it is dark and cold outside, I don't want to be woken up. This is a perfectly natural thing.

"Yes," I hear you cry in that stupid voice you use when you think you are more clever than I am, "But when I get up, I open the curtains to let the light in!"

Well, I'm afraid all that proves is, that you're a git.

You got the things hanging there, covering a perfectly good window. They probably cost you a fortune and dare I say it, they look very nice.

To you.

All your friends think they are ghastly horrid things. I know they said "Oh yes, they're lovely!" When you showed them your freshly purchased window coverer. Truth be told, they wouldn't use them to wipe their dog's bottom. They look like a hobo has vomited on to a table cloth, and you thought it would look nice hanging on the wall. Better than a window. But even you KNOW you're wrong because in the day time, when you are about the house or when you have friends over, the curtain is tied up in a bunch to the side of the window. You cant even see the bloody thing. No no no, you only unveil this terrible contraption at night. When no one is around to see it. Including you, you're going to bed.

Frankly, anyone with curtains is an idiot. Curtains have been responsible for more wars and mass genocide than any over invention in the world. They have a terrible impact on the environment. The curtain has all but wiped out the Caspian Tiger and the Sumatran Rhino. It has increased third world debt and made many thousands of staving children homeless.

Next time someone is showing you their new curtains, think about the children and the future generations of this world. Then set alight to his new curtains. Think of the world you are saving as you watch them burn.

Together we can make the world a better place.

That is why you must always carry a Zippo lighter.

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

toothousandandeleven

I remember thinking to myself, as I looked at the #5 Roots V8 Racing Chevrolet sitting expectantly on the trailer, that it was a bit rude of the world to carry on like this.

I had escaped, you see. A deal had taken place that saw me flying to the United States to drive an ARCA Stockcar at Little Rock. I lost myself in the North Carolina sunshine, fell in love with the little half mile "paper clip" style oval and the hugely over powered and under braked NASCAR has-been race car. It is all the same as Euro Late Models. As ASCAR. As Speedcar. As the now NASCAR affiliated Race Car Series. That's what we tell everyone, isn't it? That we are a kind of NASCAR in our part of the world? But it isn't the same. Not by a long long way. Not even by ARCA standards which are still a long way from NASCAR Cup. I soaked up the heat, pounded laps and talk about a type of racing that very few people outside of America truly understand. I felt like one of them, even though I didn't quite talk the same. I felt connected. Wired. Home. I knew I would be racing in Holland the following weekend, but that was as far from my mind as you could imagine. The only things I bought from my life on the other side of the Atlantic were my race gear and the image of how proud Tony would be to see me driving this car.

The rain running down the aeroplanes porthole sized window washed away the warm glow of North Carolina and reminded me that this was my real home. England. A place too wet to run stockcars how God had intended them. I didn't unpack. I gave my house mates a hazy run down of what happened, still slightly shell shocked. Then went to Belgium to collect my steed, the aforementioned expectant #5, for the coming Dutch race.

Originally I had been asked to drive the #77, but later it was decided Chris Roots would do this. News I was very pleased to hear. Tony's car should be at Venray, and it should be a Roots driving it. Chris would drive the #77 and I would drive the #5 rental car. It would be a hard weekend for all involved. Especially for Lynne and Chris. I wasn't much help to them. I got the #5 on the podium a few times, running out of rubber while everyone else was bolting on new tyres. I proved that Roots V8 Racing have good rental cars, but that was all I could do. What we needed was something else. Maybe something not found on a race track. Something to change. Something that meant Tony was still there. Sometimes I could feel him there. Sometimes he feels so close you could touch him. But I know he isn't there. I know how much it effects me and I feel guilty. It must be ten times worse for Chris, Lynne and the rest of the family. I am so ashamed of my inability to support these people that I love so much.

Back at Venray, I can't even look Chris in the face when he is seeking comfort from a bottle of beer in his race hauler. I go to bed early. I get out of bed late. I pause only to hug and kiss my house mates who have come to support me. I put my lid on and race. That is pretty much all I can tell you about the best oval track in Europe. Sorry if you wanted a review of Venray. Go back to Google and try again.

The following Late Model races I used the #77. I took an easy start position somewhere near the front to win at Warneton, feeling like I was borrowing a life that wasn't mine to borrow. I raced Tony's car before, but back then I was just keeping it warm for him. Make sure it was race ready for when he comes back. But on the final laps of that heat, I knew he wasn't coming back. That he would not race this car again. That I couldn't phone him after, and tell him how well his car had gone. Or compare set-up notes. Or talk. Or anything. Christof stood by the drivers window until I had composed myself enough to get out of the car. "The crowd are waiting and you still have a job to do." said that little voice that allows me to turn off Kelvin and turn on that guy that smiles and waves and talks to the race fans and gives the kids his trophies, chats, shakes hands, tells the jokes and puts on the show. As I got out of the car, Christof whispered "For Tony." I nodded, took his chequered flag and waved to the Belgian crowd. I took the car to the pits and when I saw Lynne again, it was all over for that smiley flag waving guy. I would have given anything for the whole world to just crumble away. I am ashamed again. Selfish. I break down in Lynnes arms instead of supporting her with her grief. We are not sharing a victory here, we are sharing a loss. This is what we race for now. Winning here will never be the same again. I don't want to do the next heat. Or the final. Or the next meeting. I'm not sure I want to race at all. I go and sit in the camper and stare at the window. I watch my friends, colleagues, fellow drivers. I should be out there with them, showing them a strong front. But my legs wont work. My mouth is too dry when I go to speak. I make sure it is too close to race time for them to engage me when I leave to get back in the race car. I am failing them.

By the time we are going to Ipswich, I have completely lost the plot. There has been an accident which means we can't use the M25 and must drive through London. I am on Tony's computer finding a route as I have done many times before. I need to take charge. To sort this minor problem out and get us under way. But it wont come. The person that won three local road rally titles in his rookie year, now seems incapable of reading a map. I stare and stare at the screen, but it is just squiggly lines, none of it makes sense any more. I now have a blinding headache. I screw my eyes shut. "Concentrate. You have done this a hundred times, just get on with it." But I couldn't. Every time I looked at the printout it looked wrong. I tried cross referencing maps and even looking at pictures of the junctions on Google Earth, but it may have well been another planet because I recognised nothing. On the road it was no better. Lynne had to guide us through the first bit, then we found our old friend/rival Jimmy, who guided us back to the motorway. I wasn't even in proper control of the hauler. Then I started telling myself I shouldn't be driving. Not the hauler and certainly not the racecar. But that would let even more people down. I needed to try to get it together.

A race at Silverstone in August with my dad's team bought back some memories of times before I became a stock car driver. It was relaxed, I drove neat and cautiously, racing is expensive here. It was a lovely weekend, I miss racing with my dad and his team, but not enough to drag me away from the ovals.

I started planning a way to get the #13 back on the grid at Warneton for 2012, and when I could see no way to make it possible, I got a Sprint Car instead. I couldn't finance the Late Model. It was too expensive and too far to travel. I needed a change.

It was all excuses. I ran away.

But it's ok because now Chris will race the #77.

Except Chris got a new car for Superstox.

Tony would have been ever so proud to see Chris and Nick racing together in Superstox. Especially when Chris goes on holiday and young Nick "Borrows" his dad's race car and knocks all the wheels off it...

But I guess that still means less time for the #77 Late Model, a car that Tony also loved.

Here we are, both skirting the issue that someone has to race that car. Someone has to shine that light in Tony's series. We can't run away. We have to go back.

I have to go back.

I have to do more for the series and for Roots V8 Racing.

I will make sure the #77 will win at Venray, on the track that Tony was so looking forward to racing on and never got the chance.

And I will build a new Late Model to race with my name over the door.

This is my 2011 confession.

So...

Does anyone have an old Ascar chassis for sale?

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

Elms_Venray.flv

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

The pizza conspiracy.

Now, I am not one to complain as you well know. And as far as paranoid goes, I am so far from it, I can barely see it! However, I have noticed recently that our pizzas are being sabotaged.

It all started when I ordered a Chicken Sizzler and ended up with a Mighty Meaty. Not the most horrendous of errors, I grant you, but suspicious non the less.

For those of you not familiar with the Domino's menu, I shall explain. The Chicken Sizzler consists of an Italian bread circle smothered with a tomato sauce that Domino's like to describe as "secret". It is then littered with the carcass of a brutally murdered battery hen, caked in cheese (That's one of your "five a day") and topped of with chopped chillies to mask any taste the chicken might have left.

The Mighty Meaty on the other hand is more of a quiz than a meal, as you try to guess what noise each of the random chunks of animal might have made when they were alive. Was it a "Moo"? Or maybe a "Baa", perhaps even a "Woof". Domino's even try to make this task harder by turning some of the animals into sausages and then thinly slicing them before using them to garnish your pizza. Other bits look like the animal was shot with a 12 gauge and then the bloody chunks scraped off the wall and straight into the oven.

The point is, both of these pizzas are excellent in there own right. But there is a time and a place for each, you see? Sometimes you just want to kill chickens and sometimes you want to kill every-bloody-thing in the barnyard.

On this day I only wanted to kill chickens, however the man who misread my email was a bit overzealous with the bolt gun and I ended up with the contents of Noah's Ark splattered around my pizza.

It was nice, but I couldn't help feeling like I was eating innocently slaughtered animals, while the guilty ones were still crammed in cages, being force fed and pecking each other out of frustration.

But, I am a cool customer. So, like the time I watched a toddler fall over on an frozen lake, I just let it slide.

Last week, worried that those battery chickens were getting it all their own way, a couple of friends and I ordered three Chicken Sizzlers. That should be enough to wipe out a fair chunk of chickens and, indeed it was. It was closer inspection of the pizza that led us (mainly me) to believe that someone at Domino's was out to get us. One of the pizzas contained a pudding. That's right, my friends, some sawn-off little poo stick had put pineapple on one of the pizzas. What sort of sick, depraved person would do such a thing? A saboteur, that's who. Some sneaky Russian ex KGB cossack bastard.

Or do you think it's the cat? Could our cat have someone working on the inside of my favorite eatery?

Or the caterpillars! They have been quiet for months, but I saw one in the workshop today. They could be phoning up, saying they are me and changing the orders!

Or my bed sheet! Could my bed sheet be in cohorts with a man that provides my food? This could be disastrous!

What if it is something to do with all the black cups that my house mate bought home the other day? Yes they have Star Wars on them, but black cups are controlled by aliens! I keep telling people this, but it is like no-one listens! You will all be sorry when the aliens take over your cup cupboard! Mark these words!

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

My bed sheet is possessed.

As if life wasn't hard enough, with caterpillars in the bathroom, ghosts on the stairs, no spoons, no money and a love life that largely resembles a board game, it now appears I have a possessed bed sheet.

The bed sheet in question, isn't actually mine. It was lent to me on a permanent basis by my house mate.

I say house mate, she is actually the head of our household. She is our illustrious leader who must be obeyed.

Feeling the instigation of some kind of pecking order, my other house mates and I, all vied for the post of second in command. She reviewed our applications for the job and, after some careful deliberation, bought a cat and gave the position to him.

The cat now rules us with a rod of iron fists. he makes us open doors and windows and fetch kitty treats from the kitchen. If we don't do his bidding, he tells his master and she then makes us stand on our head in the bath until we drown. We have lost many a house mate like this.

I myself, have drowned several times since living here.

I have even tried to lead a rebellion! Several times I have left the cat around the neighbours house with a note around his neck saying "Adopt me!" but they keep sending him back.

With a note saying "No."

Last week I put a tin of Whiskers on the far side of the busy main road outside the front of our house, to coax him into the traffic. But he wouldn't cross.

Only yesterday, during his daily "sit on a box" exercise routine, I tried to push him down the stairs. My house mates stopped me, fearing the repercussions from the great one. Too many house mates have lost their lives from bath drownings lately.

Sad sad business. What was I talking about? Ah yes, this bed sheet.

It is a cunning device with elasticated corners which allow it to grip the mattress. Saves all that "tucking in" nonsense. It should be easier to make fit than an epileptic in a disco.

It, however, isn't.

Being human, or at least having a passing resemblance, I only have two hands. A mattress has four corners. Don't just take my word for it, go and look at your one now.

This means that, at best, I can only fit half the bed sheet at a time. I then have to stretch the other half over the mattress before the first half pings off like a cheap pair of C&A knickers and shoots across the room like some kind of intercontinental bed sheet missile.

Just the other day I was making my bed with the window open. My bed sheet shot out of the window, decapitated the postman, crashed into a Ryanair flight ended up in the fast lane of the M23.

When I do finally tame the bed sheet and get into bed, I generally sleep like a log. I really tired one. But it is at this point that strange things start to happen.

Despite the fact that I lie perfectly still when I am in bed, as any of my former lovers will testify, my bed sheet moves around on its own.

My bed sheet tries to kill me in my sleep.

First the corners unhook and then it wraps itself around me until I look like some kind of sausage roll. Except with me instead of a sausage. And a bed sheet instead of the roll bit. A sort of "Me bed sheet". That doesn't really make any sense, does it. What did you mention sausage rolls for, anyway? We was going fine before you said that. This isn't a bloody buffet you know.

The bed sheet wraps itself around me whilst I sleep and tries to smother me. Fortunately, I always wake up in time before it finally chokes me to death.

I only realised it was trying to kill me recently. Now it knows that I have worked out its devilish plan, I think it is going to up its game. I spot it giving me evil looks when I get dressed in the morning.

I am so scared, I might start sleeping on the sofa.

Why do all these things try to get me? My life is so difficult.

fml.

Think about that if your having a bad day.

At least your bed sheet isn't trying to kill you.

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

Cold, Cat and Spoon

I am ill.

I have a cold.

Except it is much more serious than that.

This is the kind of cold that wiped out the dinosaurs.

Not many people know that the dinosaurs were wiped out by a cold, but they were. Trust me. I was there. Seriously, have you ever had a bad cold before? It is like having death tap dancing on your chest. Massaging your throat with his scythe...

Sometime I want to saw my own head off to make it stop, but just as I get hold of the saw, a coughing fit starts and I end up chopping chunks out of the kitchen and dismembering the cat.

This raises all sorts of important questions. Why is there a saw in the kitchen? The answer is simple. When we order a crusty loaf, we don't ponce about. Why is there a cat in the kitchen? Well, we ran out of crusty loaf.

Cats do not make very good bread though. Firstly, you need to try and get them in the bread bin. This is not a precision job, as a cat has a surprisingly large leg span when you are trying to get it in a hole that it doesn't want to go in to.

Removing the cat from the bread bin is far easier, if slightly more dangerous. A cat who has been kept captive in a bread bin for a while is liable to pounce at whoever opens the bread bin and give them a lively slap around the face with a claw. The trick here is to get a second person to open the bread bin from behind and, as the cat pounces, give it a fair old swing with a cricket bat. That usually takes the fight out of them.

Chopping your cat into slices can be very difficult if the cat is moving about, and you wouldn't want to nick your finger, now, would you? If your cat is still wriggling, give it another slap with the cricket bat. Now, when you chop your cat, the middle bits tend to run out everywhere. Some people like to freeze there cat first to stop this happening, but I find, if you go quick enough, you can get the slices to a plate without too much escaping.

If it is a cat sandwich that you are making, then the next question to arise is, what filling? For this, I like to use more cat. Think about it for a moment, the cat is already out, if you wanted anything else you would have to go to the fridge or the cupboard. Making sense now, see?

Lop yourself off another slice of cat for the filling and then top it off with a nice slice of cat!

The purrrrrfect Cat Sandwich! Or Catwich as I like to call it.

If you didn't freeze your cat, I recommend a spoon to eat it with.

Not that I would know what it is like to eat a cat with a spoon.

I bet you are you dying to know how many spoons we have in our house. Have a guess. No, you're wrong. The correct answer is eight. That is one each, if there were eight people living here. Or two each if there were four people living here. But there isn't. There are five people living here. and that means one of us must go without spoons.

Probably me.

Life is always taking away my spoons. Everyone else in the entire world has two spoons and I have none. I am the boy with no spoons.

I am exactly two spoons short of a full set of spoons.

Did I tell you about my cold?

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***