Then the “King of kings” arrived, Bill Elliot, the winningest driver in NASCAR in his time, and born and bred in Dawsonville, hence his nickname, “Awesome Bill from Dawsonville.” After five minutes with this man, you honestly think you’ve known him all your life; in fact, the whole town’s like that, the accent is perfect, just what you want to hear in Georgia, a soft, rolling vowel movement that sounds like a warm blanket.
He took me to his race shop, and I asked him if I could have a job, he just laughed, but I was serious about it. There are two of these beasts just sitting there like greyhounds with the hare running, and them being tied up at the starting line, these cars just don’t look right unless they’re racing.
It was all too brief; I had to leave, and I didn’t want to. It was a strange feeling: four hours ago I’d never heard of it, and now I’ll probably go back every year. It’s not the Pyramids, it’s not the Vatican or the Sydney Opera House, but it is Gearhead Heaven. Go see for yourself.
Chapter 49
The Greats
ARE THEY DRIVERS OR GODS?
I don’t think anyone who lived through the fifties or sixties can forget the names Juan Manuel Fangio, Stirling Moss, or Jim Clark. There were lots of other great drivers: Jack Brabham, Bruce McLaren, Dan Gurney . . . I could go on. But, being English, you just loved Stirling Moss. What a name! Can you imagine at the baptism: “I name this child Stirling”? His dad had to be a money-mad banker, and the surname—Moss, a rolling stone gathers no and all that. Great stuff. It’s up there with Baron von Richthofen, and he wasn’t even a baron. My name’s Brian Johnson, but when I’m racing I call myself Giancarlo Ferrari.
Who could forget Stirling Moss and “Jenks” driving the Mille Miglia and winning by hours? One of the great drives in mankind’s history. Denis “Jenks” Jenkinson had written down the route on a kind of toilet roll and basically invented the rally system of racing. Turn one hundred yards, bend at six, over slight hill at four, I need to piss at once. But there was no stopping except for gas, and that beautiful Mercedes 300 SLR ran perfectly all day. The record still stands: How cool is that? When coppers stopped drivers in England for speeding, they would say, “I say, I say, I say. Who do you think you are, Stirling bleeding Moss?”
Juan Manuel Fangio was the granddaddy of them all. He wasn’t thin, he didn’t look fit, and he was in his forties when he won his fourth world championship. He wore a bloody T-shirt and loafers when he raced. His face and the faces of other racers had that great look when they took their goggles off: their eyes made them look like a panda getting shagged by an elephant. He was the greatest race driver ever, in tough competition: Tazio Nuvolari was also great, along with Ayrton Senna, Schumacher—oh, it’s hard to resist writing everyone’s name down. But there was one area in which Stirling Moss had the better of Fangio. After winning a race, Fangio and the mysterious lady he always had with him celebrated with dinner and drinks. The unmarried Stirling Moss would go out and have a shagfest. “Popsies,” he called the girls. That’s the way to do it! They reckon it was rubbing his head up and down on the headboard so much that made him bald.
Then came the Beatles. And with them, Lotus, Jim Clark, and Colin Chapman. Two handsome, brilliant men, and they were British; Clark came from the Scottish town of Duns, and Chapman looked like David Niven. They dominated racing in the sixties, whether it was in a little Lotus Cortina Mk1 or their Formula 1–2 cars. Chapman was a known fanatic on keeping the car light, to the point that when a car had finished a race, if it hadn’t fallen to pieces a hundred yards past the checkered flag, he’d get mad. It was great to be a teenager then. Britain ruled the world of racing and music, and we still had an army that could fill Wembley Stadium.
Clark was a farmer, and he drove every week to test and race Lotus cars, and then on Monday after the races he’d drive home again, about 320 miles. His driving style was like his nature: cool, calm, and humble. It was deceiving, too, because he was terrifically fast and smooth. The man was legend. He was twice world champion, and, sadly, died during a Formula 2 race at Hockenheim, Germany, on April 7, 1968. On the fifth lap, he veered off the track at 150 mph. They still don’t know what happened. He was only thirty-two years old.
In 2000, I raced my Lotus Cortina Mk1 at Daytona, and it was number 21, Jim Clark’s old number, and the same color scheme. I got a podium place, and I met Jim Clark’s widow, Sally, in between races. She singled me out, held my hand, and said, “Jim would have been proud of you.” She was misty-eyed and I choked up. I enjoyed that tear.
Chapter 50
The Bounder Unleashed
TOO HUGE TO DRIVE
About ten years ago, I flew up to Chicago to race at a brand-new track called Gingerman Raceway. I was meeting my buddy Tim Tyrrell, ex–All American footballer, ex–LA Rams, ex–Cleveland Browns. He had picked up a motor home that I’d rented and was going to bring it to the airport. Then I was going to drive the 120-odd miles to the track.
Tim had stocked the fridge with beer and wine and sandwiches. Tim’s a big lad, and he thinks everybody eats like him. “Hey, Brian, I got some good vittals for ya! Check this out.” He’d bought some shrimp. They were the size of a baby’s wrist and just as long. “Holy shit, Timmy! How did you get the fridge door shut?” I should have known that Timmy was a “Special Teams” player (this means you have to be mad, fearless, and very, very strong). “Well, there’s your map. See ya, and good luck!”
The motor home was called a Bounder. It was friggin’ huge. It was too wide for the chassis and too long for the wheelbase. It had enormous mirrors, about two-feet long. And pretendy wood throughout. My mission was to drive to Gingerman, which was on the other side of Lake Michigan, and rendezvous with Thomas and my brother Maurice, who had trailered up the Lotus Cortina. They didn’t have a hotel, so it was imperative I got there. Oh-oh! It’s already four thirty p.m. and I have a long way to go.
I finally get out of the airport and on to the freeway. The Chicago rush hour is just beginning. It’s absolutely jammed, and I am just getting used to the width of this thing. It’s a bit like punting a whale down the River Cam. Bloody hell, that truck was close! Too close! It’s getting dark, I’m trying to find road signs, trucks are attacking me at every opportunity, and the noise of the flippin’ cutlery and the blinds rattling and the cupboard doors banging open and shut was getting me just a tad snippy when—BANG! A truck takes off my nearside wing mirror. It’s an electric one, and now it’s hanging by the wires, banging and bashing against the bodywork. Oh joy! Now I’ve got the whole fucking orchestra and I can’t stop.
After about four hours, the traffic thinned to a 30-mph cruise. I was worried about the boys. They had no food, and Gingerman was out in the boonies. I finally left the interstate and started to ask at garages where the track was. “Never heard of it” was the general response. Well, somebody’s gotta know, but nobody did. It was about ten at night when I called the boys. “I still can’t find the road.” They couldn’t help me, because they had driven in in daylight and a farmer had shown them the way. Bollocks, what am I gonna do? There was a Wendy’s ahead. I asked there, and a little kid said, “Sure, mister, you go down that road there.” “Thanks, kid! Here’s ten bucks,” I said.
Nearly there. I phone again. “Guys, I’m nearly there.” “Hurry up, we’re starving! And it’s pitch-black. And there’s no sign for the track because it’s new.” “Okay. I’m about five miles away.” I drive down the road, and there is a big sign: road closed.
“Oh, hell’s bells and buckets of shit—no, not bloody now!” So I did what every man would do. I moved the barriers and continued down the road. Turned out there was a very good reason for the closure. They were repaving the road. There were holes the size of Holland. The Bounder was rolling and bucking like a covered wagon. After three miles, I was getting worried. It was pitch-black out there, then suddenly I saw the light from a torch. It was them. They were jumping up and down and waving—I’d made it. No wonder nobody knew where it
was. It was a bit like Croft Aerodrome all those years ago—a bloody field in the middle of nowhere, with no signs. The boys were very happy to see me.
The Bounder looked like it had been attacked by Apaches. Mirror hanging off, cutlery and plates all over the floor, mud from the potholes everywhere. But it was warm. We set up the bus, started the generator, put in the Blade Runner DVD, opened the wine, and ate the food. Then it started to rain, and it didn’t stop for ten hours.
The next day, there was a quagmire outside. Thomas said we’d have to change the gearing in the Cortina. But where? On grass? How the hell were we gonna do that?
“We crawl underneath and I unbolt the bell housing. You hold the drive shaft and we slide it off together,” said Thomas.
“Sounds friggin’ dangerous to me,” I said.
“It’s easy,” he said.
I knew he was fucking with me. We got underneath and got started. He said, “Now, now.” I pulled the drive shaft back. Christ, it was heavy. I pulled, and the oil came out all over my face, my hair, my eyes. It was black and nasty.
It started to rain again.
After much tugging, pushing, swearing, and alignmentization, we finally got the vicious bastard back on. We were covered in oil and it was getting dark again. The rain was like Zeus pissing on you, so I got a bar of soap and stood out there and showered in the rain. Cleaned up, we got back in the Bounder and dried off. Maurice cooked a shepherd’s pie. The rain kept falling, and in the motor home it sounded like a really bad drum solo, and it was gonna be a long one. You know the old saying? It’s when the drums stop you should worry, because then the bass solo starts!
The racing that weekend was not a success. It rained constantly. People were skidding off everywhere. Those with very expensive racers just turned around and went home. The only good thing was Tim Tyrrell came to the track with a friend, and he was going to drive the Bounder back to Chicago. The first thing he did was reverse it into a fence, taking off a large portion of the back end (and he didn’t even notice). The Lotus had been plagued with problem after problem, mainly the brakes—which will get your attention real quick, causing the old rabbit’s nose anal trouble all weekend.
We finally got home, and a few days later, I got the bill for the Bounder from the rental company. The damage had exceeded the rental and they would never rent to me again. I thought that was a bit harsh until I saw the damage report. Tim had even managed to lose the other wing mirror on his way back.
Chapter 51
Moscow 1991
PLAYING THE SOUND OF FREEDOM FOR A MILLION PEOPLE
AC/DC had just finished our last gig of the world tour in the Barcelona Olympic Arena. Crowd’s going mad. We were in the dressing room feeling good, manager rushes in—we’ve just had a call from Russia.
Us: “Who the hell do we know in Russia?”
The manager: “No, from Russia itself.”
Us: “You mean the country?”
The manager: “Yeah, the country.”
Us: “Piss off.”
Actually, he wasn’t kidding. Boris Yeltsin had just outcouped a coup and was standing on a tank promising the young people who had stood by him anything they wanted. “AC/DC!” they screamed. So they phoned us and asked us to be there in three days. Now, my charity and imagination stretch only so far, meaning how much? And how are we going to get twelve trucks and six buses from Barcelona to Moscow and set up in three days? It would be easier to shoe a camel.
Anyway, some mention of gold and all the caviar you could eat seemed to do the trick. (Our manager liked caviar. I won’t mention his name, because he was a dyed-in-the-wool twat.) Now, how the hell were we going to get there? “No problem!” said the voice on the phone. “We fly down three Antonovs to pick you up.” Well, they flew in next morning. Probably the first Russian military aircraft in Spain since the Civil War. The band flew Aeroflot and, yup, it’s as bad as they say. Outside toilets, hammer-throwing stewardesses who tell you to “pees off” in Russian, all the cheap vodka they can sell you. And our air crew were cranky because the coup had failed. We took off. The pilot did a barrel roll just to prove the plane really was an ex-Tupolev bomber. He needn’t have bothered. I mean, I’ve never been on an airliner with a Perspex nose and a tail-gun position.
We made ourselves comfortable in our bolted-in deck chairs, and off we went. I threw the air hostess a smile and she threw me a bowl of hot Stroganoff. As we approached Moscow, the stewardesses seemed to look much smarter. They must have shaved before landing. Or was it the effect of the vodka . . .
Anyway, wow! Here we were in friggin’ Moscow! Who woulda thunk it, me, Brian “Dunston-on-Tyne” Johnson? We got to passport control expecting the worst. The rest of the lads, worriers all, said to me, “Jonna, you go first.”
The lightbulbs in Russia are all 11½ watt, so it all looks a bit, well, Russian—as gloomy as Gene Simmons’s next career move. The guard fella took one look at me and screamed, “TOVARICH!”
I said, “No, my name’s Brian.”
Then all these other fellas came and picked me and the rest of the band up on their shoulders and carried us through to the main arrivals hall. We couldn’t believe it—there were thousands of people, who were supposed to be the bad guys, cheering and shouting. We were put into our cars—the whole point of this story—which were ZIL limos. The real deal. The ones in the movies (the ones that separate the proles from the Politburo). I wonder who has sat in this bugger before me. The cars were just as ugly as American Cadillacs and just as daft. The ride felt like two wrestlers were shagging each other in the boot. We had our own escort—a magnificent fella on a Harley, I swear, with a buffalo head with horns instead of a helmet and a hide down his back. I’m sure he was a descendant of Genghis Khan. Chrissie Hynde wouldn’t have liked it, but I wish I’d had my camera.
The gig went ahead as planned at Tushino military airfield. Our crew was magnificent and TimeLife were there to record it. We were told it would not rain, as they had aircraft spraying the clouds with “Russian secret vepon.”
Our dressing tent was just that—with duckboards and two 11½-watt bulbs. The tour manager kept coming in and saying, “There’s half a million out there, and they’re still coming.” Bloody hell, that’s a lot of comrades.
Then, half an hour later: “Lads, there’s over a million. The authorities are getting nervous, so they’ve drafted in thirty thousand armed soldiers.” I thought, are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s dangerous. I really needed to take a leak, so I went outside and peed against a concrete pillar with a rusty ball on top. I was admiring all the old and new aircraft at the airbase in the gathering gloom when two big buggers with proper guns started shouting at me, “Nyet, nyet, capitalist riock ’n’ riolla, nyet!”
They were quite peeved. As I pissed, I nearly shat myself. After our translators had calmed them down with much talk and a carton of Marlboros, I asked what the problem was. “You just pissed on Sputnik.”
Pissing aside, it was the biggest concert anyone had ever played. The mood of the crowd was cautious at first, then very feel-good, and then, when the rock ’n’ roll started, to these people it was the sound of freedom.
Chapter 52
Alligator Alley
HOME IS WHERE THE ALLIGATORS ARE
My first Florida trip was with Paul Thompson. We rented an apartment in Fort Myers Beach. We arrived at Miami airport—the noisiest I’ve ever been in. Then we rented a car. Paul looked shocked. I’d have thought that years with Bryan Ferry’s wardrobe in Roxy Music would have readied him for this, but no. It was a Ford Shitehawk. We had to get out of Miami.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but whenever you drive out of a rental car park, you always end up in the area where all the murderers and gangs hang out. I was only shot once; Paul caught a bullet in his teeth (drummers can do that).
We headed west to the other side of Florida, but first we had to get across “Alligator Alley.” This road was notorious. It was dead straight and a
t night you couldn’t tell how far away the oncoming headlights were, which made it deadly to overtake. Alligator Alley was also famous for the alligators on the side of the road, so getting a puncture or breaking down was definitely a bad thing. And this car was rotten. I mean, it was brand-new and it couldn’t pull your cap off, and we frightened ourselves. Well, I was driving, and it was dark and the wrong side of the road. We arrived at Fort Myers Beach, checked in, and immediately checked out—fell asleep, I mean. We were knackered.
But we’d survived. And it can’t have been too hard, as I would return in 1984 to buy an apartment there.
Chapter 53
Teacake
HANDICAPPED CARS ARE DANGEROUS
Teacake was the nickname of a laborer who worked at C. A. Parsons, an engineering firm. He had a wooden leg and a personality to go with it. I only tell this tale because it involves one of the strangest vehicles on the road in the sixties, a government car given to people who’d been injured or wounded in the army, or who had a handicap. They were all painted blue, they had three wheels (nice and safe, then), a sliding door, and a top speed of 25 mph. They also had a tiller instead of a steering wheel, so boating lessons were required. Teacake had the distinction of having overturned one whilst tremendously drunk, and he was now banned from driving.
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