Sun, beer, racing—a busy day at Wigram

Press, 25 January 1988, Page 4

Sun, beer, racing—a busy day at Wigram

By

CHRISTOPHER

MOORE The Lady Wigram Trophy Meeting 1988 — a place where men are men, cars are Formula or Group A and you drink your L and P straight from the can. As the summer sun scorches the grass along the Wigram course, the distinctive sound of several hundred beer and soft drink cans being ripped open in unison accompanies the whine and drone of highly tuned and pampered car engines. Dress is optional for Canterbury’s car racing Ascot. But for most attending this drive-and-be-damned extravaganza it’s cardboard sun shades, shorts and vividly red bodies. By the time the midday sun bums high above the course, many of the spectators’ bodies match the vivid orange-red of Paul Radisich’s formula racer. The smell of hot engine oil and burning rubber mixes with the odour of cooking hot dogs and the crowd sprawls lazily along the circuit. For the white-coated officials, dignity and decorum prevents any unseemly display of the flesh. Conscious of their position, they marshall thp public at the eni 4

trances or drive across the grass in vehicles flourishing large white flags. With the tenacity of devoted sheep dogs herding a mob of recalcitrant sheep, the army of officials direct, chivvy and chide. The wrong pass or ticket is met with a frown and raised hand. For the hapless visitor who steps out of line and blocks the view, a low growling “move” usually shifts feet. While the competitors hurl themselves round the course, the public demurely trundle in their cars towards the correct parking area. Once established, the public stake out their territory for the day. For some this involves a sun umbrella, beach chairs and blankets, while true connoisseurs hoist themselves on to the top of big trucks and vans equipped with easy chairs, netting and sun shades. One long distance heavy truck features a line of lounge chairs and a single sofa while across the track, an innovative enthusiast has attached a portaloo to the end of his makeshift grandstand. Wigram appears to be in continual motion. In .

the lull between races, the stationary racing cars are admired, discussed and criticised. The air is filled with references to early model Ralts RT4s, narrow tracks and suspension modifications. A gleaming red and chrome model engagingly called “Predator” bares ferocious metal fangs at the admiring onlookers while the mechanics in the drivers’ tents cosset and fuss around lumps of machinery Once racing is under way, conversation is difficult. Motor racing produces mixed reactions. For the devoted fan, it obviously contains the subtle fascination of a motorised ballet. For the newcomer to the sport, reactions range from a severe headache to a growing sense of tedium The endless circuit is interrupted briefly when a saloon car takes its driver for an unscheduled trip through a fence, across the grass verge and into a paddock. Necks crane as the rescue trucks and the St John Ambulance officers speed to the rescue. One of the official’s trucks, obviously anxious to provide an encore, ploughs through another fence. A portly official . by the track .... ..

bounces like a whitecoated rubber ball with excitement, yelling out inaudible instructions as the other cars speed by. The crashed car is in a critical condition. The driver walks away unhurt. The crowd resumes looking at the race. More cans are ripped open as the noise of the racing cars continues. The uninitiated can only stand and wonder. Is this the way to treat a BMW? By mid-afternoon, some of the racegoers are gently snoozing in the heat, oblivious to the noise, smell and dust. A St John official wonders how some of the crowd who have been consuming beer since 10 a.m. will clamber down from the grandstands. Then, during the hour* long Class A race, tragedy strikes. The soft drink stand runs dry. But the races finish at 5 p.m. Cosseted racer's are carefully moved into their transporters while several hundred sun-blistered bodies gingerly climb on to burning vinyl car seats for the drive home with dreams of BMWs, Formula racers and traffic officers on the Riccarton Road dancing through their heads. _ ?.