Kings Cruise

Transmission starts....

It's the first day of summer on this island Britain. A Peugeot 205 sits next to me snarling and rasping, headbutting it's limiter. All around are Escorts and Corsas and Puntos and Saxos and all manner of street furniture. Amongst the humdrum a few hints of homework hit my ears. An unbadged, lowered Rover 200 rips past with a whistle and the characteristic sneeze of air that is a dump-valve. What lies beneath? A Mark 2 Escort with small, shiny, dished alloys whistles and sneezes, a true labour of love.

This is the Kingsditch end of the Cheltenham cruise. Whilst some other boys and girls are lapping the Cheltenham one-way, dodging police cars and racing each other at the lights, these boys and girls are doing the best they can to show off and fit in.

The atmosphere is tense, but only for me and the photographer who has come along for the ride. So far one cruiser (the 205 mentioned earlier) has parked head-on in front of where I am sitting, his aftermarket angel eyes on full beam to try to intimidate me. I carry on scribbling. A little later another lad gets in his Celica and smokes his front tyres whilst staring at me, all angry eyes and gurned face. I carry on scribbling. He gets out of his car and marches over to me.

"Why are you writing down number plates?" he asks me. I can smell the green on his clothes. Paranoia should always be met head on, no hesitation. I turn my pad around to show him.

"Does this look like number plates to you? Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to write down number plates in a place like this?"

His manner relaxes. He seems embarrassed. He laughs it off, tries to explain himself before walking away. He returns later to ask us what we're doing. By that time We're taking photos of a Sapphire Cosworth doing Doughnuts that fills the car park with scratchy smoke that a few of the lads cough and choke on.

Think hot-rodding died in the sixties? Think again.

Transmission ends....