STRAIGHT TALK

There’s a bloke by the name of Bruce Kimmins, originally from Shannon in the lower North Island, who was one of the cleverest metal workers in the New Zealand car scene back in the 1980s. He’s gone on since to do astonishing things in the US — from hand-forming Cobra bodies for Carroll Shelby, to building Ferrari and Delahaye bodies that have won at Pebble Beach, to contracting to Vic Edelbrock. Bruce is a truly amazing guy, and his story will be well worth telling one day. Back in the late 1970s, I saw a 1939, or thereabouts, Ford coupe in bare steel that Bruce had formed from a sedan. It was metal finished, and utterly perfect to the point at which you couldn’t know it wasn’t an original coupe unless you looked at the underside of the roof and saw all the hammerwelded joins everywhere. Bruce had a 1960-something International pickup back then that he’d put a small block Chevy engine into, and he and fellow Shannonite Euan Mark would use the old Inter to tow Euan’s ‘Puff ’n’ Stuff’ T-bucket to the drags in Euan’s early racing days in the early 1980s, back before Euan became a poor farmer and had his own pickup. Bruce and Euan were buddies with drag racers Mike Poole, Pete Goldsworthy, and Robin Silk, and they’d all travel away together and give each other a hand if one of their cars wasn’t going. One time — back in either 1983 or 1984 — Euan, Pete, and Mike (all North Islanders) did a road trip together in Bruce’s International, towing Euan’s T-bucket in Euan’s enclosed trailer to a big drag race meeting at Ruapuna Dragway in Christchurch. They’d driven south after knocking off work early on Friday afternoon, crossed over the ditch on the ferry, and then driven down the Kaikoura Coast to Christchurch through the night, arriving at Maureen Fairbairn’s place at about 3am to find a raging party in full swing. They had a few beers; caught up with everyone; and then, knackered from driving since mid-afternoon the day before, climbed under the pool table — the safest place — and went to sleep. Less than a handful of hours later, it was time to get up and drag themselves — feeling pretty second-hand — off to Ruapuna for Saturday’s scrutineering, practice, and qualifying. Now Mike Poole, drag racing legend that he is, had something of a reputation for being a lightning-fast stick-shift operator in his famous old yellow ’32 Ford coupe drag racing hot rod and also for having deep pockets and short arms — to the extent that he’d buy Rheineck or Lion Brown rather than something decent just to save a few bob. On the way to the track that morning, Mike told Euan to pull over so that Mike could hop out of the truck and hide inside the enclosed trailer behind them to avoid paying the $10 entry fee into the racetrack. Mike hadn’t figured on two things: first, that the trailer was pitch-black inside, had no ventilation, and had a whole bunch of fuel drums, so the fumes were going to make him sick; and, second, that Euan Mark is, basically, an arsehole, and spent the next 20 minutes of driving to the track making Mike even more sick than he would have been with just the fuel fumes by aiming for every pothole — “There’s a big one; let’s get that sucker; yeehaaa!!” — swinging the trailer behind him like a go-go girl, and generally making Mike’s trip inside the moving dungeon as uncomfortable as he possibly could. Euan and Pete spent the whole 20 minutes laughing their heads off in the cab, imagining what Mike’s money-saving ride in the back might be like. “Hope he thinks saving the ten bucks’ entry fee’s worth it!” “Hahahaaaa!!!” “Reckon! I’d rather pay a hundred bucks and not be sitting back there!” “Hahahaaaa!” “Ooh, lookey, there’s a roundabout — let’s bounce the inside trailer wheels over that one!” Poor old Mike was getting sicker by the minute and wondering why he’d picked such a bunch of pricks to have as mates. Eventually, Euan and Pete arrived at the Ruapuna entry gates, and a couple of cheery Pegasus Bay club members on ticket duty greeted them as they pulled up to a stop. “Morning, boys! How ya doin’? Haven’t seen you fellas before.” “G’day,” said Euan. “Yeah, I’m Euan and this here’s Pete. We’re from up north, and we’ve come to race my bucket.” Meantime, Mike is sitting back there in the trailer almost ready to throw up, thinking, Thank f**k we’ve stopped — we must be there. “Good on you blokes for coming all this way,” says the ticket man. “Welcome to Ruapuna. Thanks for coming — and, look, don’t worry about the entry fee; there’s no charge for anyone from the North Island. Have a good weekend!” You just can’t even to begin to imagine how hard Euan and Pete were laughing when they heard that. Oh — completely unrelated — one more thing while I remember. If you know Wayne Rogers — or Ronald, as he’s known to his mates — from the Kapiti Coast, ask him how his mammogram went. Yeah, seriously. The guy — though we all love him to bits — is a complete clown, even when he’s not trying to be. He went to hospital a while back — nothing too serious, so that’s good — and had to get an ultrasound. Next day, a mate asked him why he went to the hospital. Good old Ronald got his wires crossed and said, dead serious, “Oh, I just had to go and get a mammogram”! Plonker!

Mike was getting sicker by the minute and wondering why he’d picked such a bunch of pricks to have as mates