Motor Racing Poetry!

I wrote this piece sometime in the mid 1990's as a reflection of my boyhood visits to Pukekohe in the late 1960's and early 1970's. This particular celebration if you like, was about the raw assault of the Big Banger's as experienced from our usual viewing spot in the infield at the hairpin at the end of the long back straight. Here it is....

THE BIG BANGERS.

Two teenage boys huddled in a windswept paddock,
eyes straining down the adjacent narrow asphalt ribbon.
Adrenalin excitement is pumping through my veins,
as the gutteral thunder of huge American engines,
crescendo's across this plain.
"They're off!", screams the distorted megaphone voice,
lost immediately in a sweeping tidal wave of sound obilivion.
Low squat luridly coloured steel projectiles,
sweep into the back straight.
Mustangs and Camaros, Monaros and Falcons,
the "Big Bangers" bunched together unleash there,
heavy artillery down the long chute to where we await.
A wave of heavenly thunder assaults my senses.
Shaking with anticipation, my eyes still locked,
on that empty piece of road.
Wham! The sledghammer like blow in my stomach signals,
from behind the picket fences the leaders slam into sight.
Rivetted to the spot, trance like I watch,
this mass of moving metal, bearing down on me.
Bucking writhing and slamming down through the gearbox,
the velocity is stripped away.
Gosling for position and who's nerves will give way first,
the ballistic sounds of back firing V8 engines.
Sliding through this tricky little turn on their huge sticky tyres,
then get the hammer down again,:) as soon as its straight.
The hero's and their machines deafen, in a cloud of smoke and fury,
Disappearing into the late afternoon sky.

Just discovered another little ditty while I was looking through my archive researching something else. I wrote this little motor racing poetic? aside when I was 12 in 1968, so it has plenty of flaws...

THE RACE

The engines roar,
while tension draws.
Then they're flagged,
but one car couldn't be fagged!

One lap completed and,
many sweating managers are seated.
Thundering, screaming they are cheered by,
but one crippled car comes in to die.

A car's steering goes,
another's engine blows.
At last its over,
and won by a Rover!

Don't know about that last line I'd say I was going for a convenient rhyme....

That is a fantastic poem Gerard and just how i saw it growing up at Bay Park, as a kid it was always the "Big Bangers" that lit my fire!!

OH Yeah, there will be a repeat of this at the Gulf Denny Hulme Festival in 2 weeks and i have no doubt we will infect young and old alike :) watch this space.

Dale M

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Gerard Richards

I wrote this piece sometime in the mid 1990's as a reflection of my boyhood visits to Pukekohe in the late 1960's and early 1970's. This particular celebration if you like, was about the raw assault of the Big Banger's as experienced from our usual viewing spot in the infield at the hairpin at the end of the long back straight. Here it is....

THE BIG BANGERS.

Two teenage boys huddled in a windswept paddock,
eyes straining down the adjacent narrow asphalt ribbon.
Adrenalin excitement is pumping through my veins,
as the gutteral thunder of huge American engines,
crescendo's across this plain.
"They're off!", screams the distorted megaphone voice,
lost immediately in a sweeping tidal wave of sound obilivion.
Low squat luridly coloured steel projectiles,
sweep into the back straight.
Mustangs and Camaros, Monaros and Falcons,
the "Big Bangers" bunched together unleash there,
heavy artillery down the long chute to where we await.
A wave of heavenly thunder assaults my senses.
Shaking with anticipation, my eyes still locked,
on that empty piece of road.
Wham! The sledghammer like blow in my stomach signals,
from behind the picket fences the leaders slam into sight.
Rivetted to the spot, trance like I watch,
this mass of moving metal, bearing down on me.
Bucking writhing and slamming down through the gearbox,
the velocity is stripped away.
Gosling for position and who's nerves will give way first,
the ballistic sounds of back firing V8 engines.
Sliding through this tricky little turn on their huge sticky tyres,
then get the hammer down again,:) as soon as its straight.
The hero's and their machines deafen, in a cloud of smoke and fury,
Disappearing into the late afternoon sky.

---

Great Stuff, Gerard.
Motor Racing poets seem to more scarce than hens' teeth. Even in song lyrics, while there are plenty about cars, very few about
actual racing - only one that comes to mind is "Rapid Roy the Stock Car Boy" (?Jim Croce). Any more examples of your fine work?

Stu

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stubuchanan

Great Stuff, Gerard.
Motor Racing poets seem to more scarce than hens' teeth. Even in song lyrics, while there are plenty about cars, very few about
actual racing - only one that comes to mind is "Rapid Roy the Stock Car Boy" (?Jim Croce). Any more examples of your fine work?

Stu

---

Hi Stu, thanks for you nice comments. Taking you at your word I had another dig in my archive and came up with this one about a weekend trip I made to Palmy (Palmerston North) in 1998 with my brother. We took in the stocks on Saturday night and Manfield on the Sunday. In between we imbibed in a fair amount of refreshment so I remember most of Saturday was pretty slow... Anyway here it is for what its worth...

HEARTLAND

Down by the dirt oval,
the harsh blast of V8 engines fill the chill night air.
Saturday night fever at the Palmy Showgrounds,
local rednecks ring their gaudy battered jallopies.
The Richards Boys are here,
imposters from outta town, amidst the local faithful.

Here in the Heartland
wind whips through wide country town streets.
Holed up in some late rock licence,
Strobe light, disco sounds, its the only place on the "Square".
We're doin' some women watchin',
Manawatu babe's 'n' boys, doin' the mating ritual.

Here in the Heartland,
towering Tararua's, menacing backdrop,
beyond the plain, lies this rugged mountain range.
Hammering into the hills, in our Jap hatch,
on a gravel switchback and a heaving gut.
Alone in the alpine exposure,
below par brothers read fragility,
retreating for the lowlands.

Here in the Heartland,
a twisting asphalt track,
sacred turf, petrol heads paradise.
A freight train of moving metal,
ancient HQ's looking better than new.
Thunder in frightening formation,
the tight left hander at the end of the chute.
Transfixed we watch, from this grass bank,
hunkered down out in the hinterland.
Here in the Heartland

Composed in a morning-after semi-stupor. Like a modern-day Samuel Taylor Coleridge, He composed "Kubla Khan" in a drug or medicine-induced coma, then forgot most of it when he woke up!

Stu

Hey Stu, nice take on that psychedelic flavour of my last poetic rave, I would have liked to have thought it was more Hunter S Thompson Gonzo style, but dreams are free. Of course I couldn't let your interpretation slide without offering another piece. Unfortunately I can't track down any more motor racing stuff but this one is pure automotive hardcore...

DRIVIN' IN AUCKLAND

Welcome to the great Auckland weekend on wheels,
everyone's out brandishing,
their steel, rubber, plastic and tin...
Critical Saturday morning mission,
hunting down the meanest Flat White in town.
On Ponsonby Road she mercilessly tailgates,
any pod sod blocking her path.
Peroxide plastic, production line blonde,
impatience etched on her face at the lights.
Tenaciously texting the girls,
for an early caffeine catchup,
and crucify the blokes gossip tirade...
Attacking the makeup, in the rearview,
of her rakish little, red sports coupe...
While punching through the spectrum of,
loud rock stations,
She's a paranoid, anorexic Auckland gal...

Drivin' in Auckland
The charge of the urban elite,
in the flab battling, Remuera Matrons
tractor brigade...
On a trail to Contours Gym,
four wheel drive, battle cruisers in line astern.
Menacing bull bars and fat knobbly tyres,
unleashing nasty aggressive unfeminine side...
Sweet adoring mothers, behind the wheel,
witness an ugly transformation unfold.
Grim killer instinct written on her face,
as she eases up lights ablaze,
on YOUR bumper in the fast lane...
Inching ever closer, mouthing off,
"Get out of the way you F!@#ing pathetic
little car driving loser...
The road rage tango, played out over town,
for all to see.

Drivin' in Auckland
Extreme decibal boom box, lurid coloured,
blatty exhaust contraption.
Could only signify the arrival of,
the latest endangered specie...
The great Auckland boy racer plague,
reverse baseball cap, pock marked,
callow brain depleted adolescent...
Dark wrap around mirror shades,
at the wheel of his insanely powered projectile...
Poor deluded young fool,
on his hell bent quest of doom...

Drivin' in Auckland
Fat bloated, middle aged racing wannabies,
big boys playing with their lethal toys.
Massively under skilled geriatric hoons...
souless blubber, selling sadly faded sex appeal,
dining out on a long bonnet,
and an overstuffed male testosterone zone...
Corporate expense account Aussie V8 performance,
thundering along, in their eco destructive dinosaurs,
These dismal dudes, a total danger to themselves,
let alone the rest of us....

Drivin' in Auckland
Young upwardly mobile, cellphone toting,
yeah he's the style police from the "Grammar" zone...
Chizled haircut, Amani jacket, Ray Ban's and Gucci loafers,
behind the wheel the ultimate JAFFA!
the Subaru Quadcam Legacy, his symbol of success.
A strange persona transformation,
grips him each time he enters the cabin.
The sinister growling motor awakens,
such demented animal antics...
One moment a civilized corporate raider...,
the next, a high speed compulsive,
motorway lane changer...
The fine art of judging the traffic lights,
meeting the Russian roulette challenge head on,
the measure of the modern macho mana.
Subaru Legacy Man, always guaranteed to be,
the last to break that "Red"...
Drivin' in Auckland

Wrote this piece in 2005, so its a bit dated. Hopefully anyone? who reads it, takes it in the spirit it was written which was to entertain at competitive poetry slam competitions...

More years ago than I care to remember
When I was just a lad
I was taken to the motor racing
Accompanied by my Dad

Back then it was at Ardmore
And we travelled there by bus
From Cambridge thru to Auckland
Usually just the two of us

The racing there was great
So many different cars
So different to what we were used to
They could have been from Mars

The Internationals were the drawcard
With all the latest cars
But we rooted for the locals
And hoped they would be the stars

As years rolled the classes changed
And over many years
We came to know the racing saloons
And boy they raised some cheers

From the early racing Mini's
To the later Lotus Cortina
We got to know the Mustangs
Man those V8's were meaner

Their drivers became our heros
They really put on a show
The crowd all stood and cheered
When these guys were due to go

We remember them with reverence
Names like Fahey, Dawson and Marwood
Coppins, Riley and Bryan
And many more that could

The glory years of allcomers
We saw some wild machinery
Those cars were unbeliveable
All dressed up in the finery

Over years the cars were changed
And different cars were tried
The drivers all were vying
Just for fun they all lied

Smaller cars came on the scene
The screaming fours and sixes
They mixed it with the big V8's
Man they supplied our fixes

Progress is a continual thing
And nothing ever stays the same
The latest cars from overseas
But the racing seemed so tame

Over the years I drifted away
I seldom felt the need
To go and watch the modern cars
Even though they had the speed

Some years ago I read about
The rise of historic motor races
Man this was such a buzz
I couldn't wait to go to the places

Numerous of the old cars
Had been saved from destruction
And owners of these lovely beasts
Were treating them to reconstruction

It never ceases to amaze me
The number of these old cars
That are still around and racing
And once again becoming the stars

To try and keep a track of them
I started my own list
Now well over a thousand strong
Reading through it produces a mist

For all us old historic fans
These races are a must
To see the cars and drivers
Fills us all with lust

The Roaring Season has become our pride
The information is incredible
Thanks to Steve Holmes for the foresight
The brotherhood is totally memorable

It is great to see the historic clubs
All getting their cars together
And putting on incredible races
No matter what the weather

To HMC, F5000 and TACCOC
All the other clubs and schemes
We take our hats off to you
For indulging us our day dreams

Hi kiwi285 Thanks for sharing a wonderfully evocative poem. Brought back lots of memories of the "golden era". Really liked the imagery which had heaps of nostalagia for me. Also got lots of laughs from your humour in it. Yes motor racing might be clincally faster now, but somehow it seems to have lost some of the old atmosphere. Would be keen to hear any more treasures you might have stowed away. Fabulous stuff and its great to hear these poetic motor racing celebrations of the past. Bring them on.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Gerard Richards

Hi kiwi285 Thanks for sharing a wonderfully evocative poem. Brought back lots of memories of the "golden era". Really liked the imagery which had heaps of nostalagia for me. Also got lots of laughs from your humour in it. Yes motor racing might be clincally faster now, but somehow it seems to have lost some of the old atmosphere. Would be keen to hear any more treasures you might have stowed away. Fabulous stuff and its great to hear these poetic motor racing celebrations of the past. Bring them on.

---

Hi Gerard,

Thank you for the kind comments. Yours are masterpieces that evoke fond memories.

Will have a look and see if I can find any others. It can be interesting to wax lyrical every now and then. I did it once at a funeral where I was asked to speak and found that this was much easier and provoked some laughter from the attendees.

Are you going to the Denny Hulme Festival - would like to meet you.

Mike, there is an old saying `if you can`t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit!'. I`d have to say you`re obviously pretty passionate about your motorsport and that is an excellent bit of work.

Steve the other saying is that Bullshit baffles brains. And how true is that.

Hi kiwi285 Yes I agree with fullnoise68 your historic NZ motor racing poem is a grass roots epic of your personal experience of many years. I also find waxing lyrical with verse has been a very rewarding process over a number of years and I also have done some performances a few years back. Humorous content has often worked very well, in winning over audiences I found to. Unfortunately I won't be able to make either of the NZ Festival of Motor Racing Weekends, but would be interested in meeting up with you at some stage if that worked.

Lets see what we can arrange Gerard.

Keeping the momentum going here. Another piece I wrote a few years back 2007 to be exact, which has a strong Kiwi automotive flavour. My father was a travelling salesman in the late 1950s and 1960's throughout much of the mid North Island of New Zealand and this piece celebrates his romance with the road, with his cool early Holdens, both an FE (1958) and an EK (1962). He bought these both brand new in a time when this wasn't so easy to achieve. It was a time of travelling rough twisty highways and staying in old colonial hotels, reeking with charisma....

MY FATHER'S HEROIC QUEST

Two tone '58 Holden sedan,
sun glinting on chrome and steel,
tanned, shades adorned man.
Sunday afternoon,
twin lane blacktop,
barreling out of town.

Twisting asphalt into the hills,
man and machine merging,
in the rhythm of thrumming rubber.
Behind the wheel, the driver,
eyes ahead, mind drifting.
Leaving behind a woman,
three little boys in the big city.
Another selling tour,
hitting the provincial circuit, with his merchandise.

The Traveling Salesman!,
another roadside town,
down the long high-way
A hotel room,
in some crumbling colonial edifice.
Alone with his selling samples,
strategy on his mind,
how to crack the local, captains of industry.

Renaissance highway man,
searching again, for that restless road fix.
Legacies still burning bright,
of freedom war days,
with his hardcore fraternity.
Riding the wild Atlantic,
seven times in destroyers and Queen Mary.
Life bonding mate-ship,
on the road across the globe,
his restless soul still yearns to roam...

Close those deals,
with the usual shonky pub grub,
and back on the blacktop again.
Pounds shillings and pence,
keep that loot rolling in,
funds to keep his family, in the big smoke afloat.

He loves the feel of that steel,
Holden straight six, rumbling down the line.
Radio resounding in the cabin,
the latest popular sounds.
Over the hill, through the valley,
across the plain, to the next town.

New prospects await,
the selling tango, fires his desire.
This man he's in his prime,
jousting verbally in the bartering stakes...

The Call of Home,
at weeks end, draws him,
Weary of the road,
the lonely nights,
his woman and boys await him.

Moving right along. I've worked out in the Western Suburbs of Auckland for the last 8 years... This is true "utrageous Fortune" territory... This piece is a celebration of the Westie spirit for all things Automotive and other slightly edgy but passionate vibes of the old Waitakere spirit...

The WESTIE

Out of lowlands of New Lynn,
to the plaster stucco wasteland of Massey Heights.
Down in the basin beneath the ranges,
they're locked in their ,
Hardie Fibre board boxes,
through Glen Eden, Henderson and Kelston.
Souless sea of suburbia,
trapped in barren culda sacs...
Cloning the natives temptations,
with the fabulous Mall,
and Fast Food culture...

The WESTIE
Stamping their style and taste,
the WESTIE has but one option,
The "Automobile!", the timeless vehicle of escape...
Hardcore addiction, of the most crippling kind...
Petrol Head paradise, lined up at the lights.
Westie Dave about to lay some rubber,
down long Lincoln Road...
The Holden V8 enshrined in folklore,
your motor and set of wheels.
Out here, steel speaks louda' than flesh,
true measure of a man's mach mana...

The WESTIE
Arm draped out the window,
black tee-shirt, trimmed goatie.
Mirror shades,
striking some serious attitude...
The stylist master stroke,
the mullets alive and well,
in the bowels of the West...
Davey Crockett ain't got nothin'
on this designer fashion debacle...
Dave the dude,
inhaling deeply,
on his cult Camel Filters...
The man's got his degree,
in picking hair brained,
tight jeaned bottle blondes...
Essential window dressing,
to the passengers seat, in the V8 Coupe....

The WESTIE
Sharon knows her spiritual calling,
shamelessly flaunting all shes got...
Pushup bra and deep plunging cleavage,
pouting her bursting bazookas,
to lusting eyes while trapped at the lights.
Saturday night fever,
cruising Henderson boulevard.
Heading to the shining mecca,
of the next tin bacyard garage party...

The WESTIE
Sounds pumping from the Shed,
assault Rock 'n Roll vibes, for the groovy tribe...
Round the sacred barbie,
beers clutched tightly to their chests.
Blokes attired in the latest,
"Warriors" and "Blues", stunning evening wear...
Deep debate holding forth,
in the latest League heroic atrocities...
Gals networking to the side,
retro Gothic babes,
refugees of the time warped 70's...
Crushed velvet and white muslin dresses,
Playing that old sham,
saucy virgin line...
"The Sisters",
they're workin' their trade,
looking to that after party payoff...
Stuffing themselves in jeans,
several sizes way to small....
Advertising their wares,
juicing up those beery boys imaginations....
Meanwhile the nippers run amok,
lookin' to sneak a sip,
of the "old mans" numbing nectar...
Caught in the latest craze,
fart bombs and cracking whips,
the currency of, juvenile popularity,
way out West...
The WESTIE

Okay, I know most of you dudes are into Detroit iron but I've always had an open mind... and yes I owned a very quick little Honda CRX and was very fond of it. I wrote this poem about it in 1999.

"RED CRX"

Non descript she is not,
reeking of that rabid Auckland road rage flame.
She's my red machine,
sitting in the capsule, carrying me as I make the rounds.
This city boy on his circuit,
out thrashing in the maze,
to make the next commitment.

She's my 'lil red CRX,
take me to that special place, where only we both know.
Time out in reflection,
a porthole to the crazy shit,
in the town I love to hate.
Talking up a tirade of flimsy words,
people engaging me, in that old myth,
"human relationship salvation"
Insane laughter rips through me,
random delusions running riot in my head.

She's my 'lil red CRX,
five speed, 16 valve twin overhead cam rocketship.
Japanese high tech gizardry,
blitzkrieg performance for the inept masses,
the terminators of the 90's...

She's my 'lil red CRX

I wrote this in 1998, so please excuse the reference to the cassette player which was still a valid sound system then....It is commemoration to the grim reality of being caught in the jam...

EARLY MORNING BLUES

Woke up this morning,
sound of rain on my roof.
Out in the wind lashed darkness,
lies my destiny with this day.
Draggin' my leaden body,
left behind the warmth and safety of this bed.
Another bout of futile thrashing,
battering my being to make a buck.


Fire another caffeine shot,
to kick start this boys shattered head.
And stumbling out into the darkness,
to dance the clutch slip blues with all the rest.
Punch a cassette into the player,
sounds cranking in my head.
Words resound within the capsule,
I'm alone shifting gears,
focused on the brake lights ahead.

Ensnared in this urban madness,
sitting in this symbol,
of mans manic urge for success.
Twisted paranoiac delusions of escape,
Yeah! take the next exit,
and get the F@#$ outta here.

"RED CRX"

Non-descript she is not,
reeking of that rabid Auckland road rage flame.
She's my red machine,
sitting in the capsule,
carrying me as I make the rounds.
This city boy on his circuit,
out thrashing in the maze,
to make the next commitment.

She's my 'lil red CRX,
we got a good thing goin' here,
the suburban screamer and me.
Saturday morning in the tarmac war,
"Shades" on, he's combat hyped,
Councillors, masseurs and mates to see...
Lashed down low
he's clutching the leather wheel rim
and pumping the metal (foot) plates.

She's my 'lil red CRX,
take me to that special place,
where only we both know.
Time out in reflection,
a porthole to the crazy shit,
in the town I love to hate.
Talking up a tirade of flimsy words,
people engaging me, in that old myth,
"human relationship salvation".
These random delusions,
running riot in my head.

She's my 'lil red CRX,
five speed, 16 valve twin overhead cam rocketship.
Japanese high tech gizardry,
blitzkrieg performance for the inept masses,
the terminators of the 90's...

She's my 'lil red CRX