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Post by Byron510 »

Thanks for reposting Keith, hard to believe it’s been 25 years since you wrote and had this published in our old paper monthly newsletters.

Since I live near that “Dewdney” line, it makes it more interesting. Somehow the story seemed shorter than I remember, but just as enjoyable. But it has aged relatively well, a credit to its author.

Thanks for the flashback.

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because the opposite never works.
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Post by bertvorgon »

Thanks guys, I just cleaned it up from the spelling and punctuation errors.

25 years...CRIPES where has the time gone. That was the height of the Duffy Tours, Hikes To Hell, a very cool time.

Din Nimi and I still talk about the time we got a clear run on the Duffy...scares me now when I think of that!
"Racing makes heroin addiction look like a vague wish for something salty" - Peter Egan

Keith Law
1973 2Door Slalom/hill climb/road race / canyon carver /Giant Killer 510
1968 Vintage 3HP Mini Bike
1971 Vintage 13' BOLER trailer
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Posts: 11350
Joined: 04 Aug 2003 20:45
Location: White Rock, B.C. Canada


Post by bertvorgon »

As there is not much going on in the car department, being into winter now here, and, after so much crud going on, I thought maybe a nice light story would be in order. I write for a mining newsletter too, non car related of course.

I have also tried to document some of our youthful adventures for the family history book.

This story takes us back to my youth, to a simpler time. I hope you enjoy and that it may bring back memories for you too!

The one picture of DUKE and I, was taken in later years, when I worked on a ranch at 93 Mile House in the Caribou.

Uncle Jack and the California Kid

The gloss black Chevrolet Impala Super Sport, with California plates, rumbled into our driveway on a blistering hot August Sunday, idling for a minute, then silence. The neighbourhood went suddenly, unusually quiet, a car like this never before seen in our working man’s world. Even the rabble of dogs stopped their incessant yammering and barking.

The driver’s door opened, then the passenger door. Out of the driver’s side came my Uncle Jack, and then, jumping out of the passenger side, came his sister’s son, Cousin David, soon to be nicknamed, the California Kid.

My brother Kim and I, plus the neighbourhood kids, stood there in awe, as David was dressed in a brilliant yellow Polo shirt, pure white shorts and, something never before seen, white runners.

We had collectively never seen a clean kid before.

“Oh my, that will not last!” mumbled my mother. How true that was to be.

Jack and David had another companion with them, who leapt from the car, giving a big stretch on the lawn. The local dogs took one look and decided they should leave. This was the biggest German Sheppard, aptly named Duke, ever to hit our neighbourhood. After being cooped up in that hot Chevrolet for most of a day, he promptly watered every flower and shrub in the yard, much to my mother’s horror.

The year was 1963 and to the great delight and surprise for my brother and I, my dad and uncle had planned, through the winter, a fishing and camping trip over the coming week, up into the Caribou. My dad and his family had had a cabin on the Lake of the Woods, outside of Kenora, Ontario, where they were used to landing massive Northern Pike. My uncle’s love of fishing was not to be had in the wasteland of Los Angeles, where he lived. He would come every second year for some salmon fishing, but, this year we were to go after some Rainbow trout.

David of course was beyond excited, to be heading into the wilds of B.C.. After the concrete and asphalt of L.A., was a dream about to come true. For Duke, he was about to go insane, as he had never seen so many real trees. Duke was truly the son of the real Rin Tin Tin lineage, my uncle having met the breeder of that line of dogs.

We could hardly sleep that night we were so excited.

The plan was that on Monday we would all go to downtown Vancouver, to the Army & Navy store, an adventure unto itself.

We needed to stock up on fishing supplies, plus pick up a few camping related things. Those days, in the 60’s, when you entered the Army & Navy store, you went down a set of creaky old wooden stairs, with the worn metal strip on the edge, you were first greeted with the incredible smell of canvas, as though it was sitting out all day in hot sun. The other was the wonderful odor of the gun packing grease, a fresh machine smell. The store then truly carried military surplus gear, mainly from WW2 at the time. A few years later I would buy my British Lee Enfield .303 Jungle Carbine from them, my brother an 8mm Mauser, both of which over the years dropped a few deer.

Dad and Jack went to the fishing supplies section; we headed to the surplus side, David was in awe of all the guns, bayonets, ammunition and other detritus of War. I was tasked with grabbing a tin of B.B’s for our Daisy Mfg. Co. B.B. gun. David was beyond himself that he was going to be able to fire a “gun”. He also started to get the first signs of stains and dirt on his white garb, a large smear of grease appeared on his shirt.

Our escape vehicle was to be my dad’s 1962 Mercury station wagon, a behemoth if ever there was one. The whole neighbourhood could fit into that wagon. The three of us kids were to take “turns” as to who got a window, or, sat up front between Jack and Dad. There was of course, the issue of Duke.

That Monday night we hardly slept, talking about how great it was going to be to have a campfire, build a shelter, sleep under the stars, shoot the B.B. gun all we wanted, and, fish all day long.

Tuesday morning dawned bright, promising to be hot. The wagon was partially loaded the night before, but, by the time we loaded the rest of the gear and coolers, there was NO room for Duke in the back. Duke then…needed a seat!

Now to back track a minute, as we were packing 5 days worth of clothing, it was noted that my Aunt Vernie had packed only white’s and light colours for David, as though she did not grasp what this trip was to be. David was about to embark in his second set of PURE WHITE everything.

As Dad fired the Mercury up, the three of us drew straws as to who got to sit in the front; the other two got the back seat …with Duke in between. We were armed with enthusiasm, chips, pop, and pepperoni for the road.

To this day I do not remember where the lakes were that we headed to, somewhere around 100 Mile House, or around Green Lake, maybe. Dad said it would take us the better part of the day to get there. The Fraser Canyon highway #1 was still in its original form, we still had to use the old Alexandra Bridge, built in 1926, where there was only one way traffic, controlled by a traffic light. All this took time, as we wound our way up through Lytton, then to Cache Creek and on up to the lake area.

We stopped a few times to stretch legs, switch seats, and give Duke a run. All the while snacking away on our road food, of which some pepperoni was given to Duke as a treat, big mistake as you will see. Every time we got back in the car, we were sweaty and Duke got dustier. The dust in turn was rubbing off on David’s not so white T-shirt.

We finally turned off the highway, our excitement building, as we must be getting close. Down a long winding, dusty road we went, the heat building in the car. Dad had a map that a co-worker had given him, as to our camp and fishing heaven destination.

We went through some of that wonderful, open Caribou grass land, then, ahead; we could see a tall stand of trees down in a bowl, with THE LAKE behind them. We were there!

We three kids bolted from the car, a wave of dust coming over us from the car having stirred up that gray, brown landscape and then little puffs of dust from our footfalls. Duke bolted for the trees. We left Dad and Jack following, Dad reading his map.

As the five of us got into the cooler shade of the trees, the mosquito’s attacked with a vengeance, as did the horse flies, no-see-ums and other insects wanting to consume us. Dad at the same time, after looking at his map, said; “We have to go to the other side of the lake, which is where the campsite is!” And then YELLED….”Back to the car!”

The bugs were eating us alive…and following us.

We all started running, and laughing, at the same time, charging back up the hill, all of us covered in mosquitoes.

“Shut the doors and roll up the windows!!” my dad yelled.

We started swatting mosquitoes both off ourselves and the other person next to us.

As dad started the car and jockeyed it around, to head back down the road, I looked at David. It was as though a fire engine red paint brush had been flicked at him, his T-shirt was covered in small splotches of blood, the inside of the car was starting to look like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. So much for white.

As we started to bump along the road, with the windows up, the temperature is now 110 Fahrenheit in the car, and it was filled with dust and bugs.

Remember the pepperoni we gave to Duke? After being cooped up for so long, when he was able to get out and run…his digestive system finally kicked in. He is sitting between me and David when he started to fart, evil, mystery meat and pepper farts! We are all sweating and now we could not breath. Dad screams; “ROLL THE WINDOWS DOWN!!!” I swear when I looked at Duke, he had a silly grin on his face, his tongue hanging two feet down, and sounding like the #99 Royal Express Steam train that has just come into the station.

As kids, we could not stop laughing.

Circling around the lake, maybe a mile, we came to what appeared to be the road down to the campsite marked on Dad’s map. We were now sitting just below a small ridge, which then went over and down. Dad, with his “discretion is the better part of valour” thinking, suggested we walk down to make sure he would be able to drive back up.

My brother and I bailed from the car instantly, but, David had taken his runners off to get some of the burrs (the inspiration for Velcro believe it or not) off the shoe laces. We were never supposed to take our runners off in the presence of human beings; the first of the off-shore manufactured rubber based runners, purchased from Army & Navy, caused our smelly feet to kill even a charging moose at fifty feet.

The car disappeared from sight as we ran down the small incline to the lake, where there was a very small dock, sticking maybe eight feet out into the lake.

We stopped at the edge of the dock, marveling that this was to home for the next four days.

All of a sudden, we heard David coming down the hill, great puffs of Cariboo dust firing up from each footfall. He had to be going thirty miles an hour when he passed us, hitting the dock at full speed, his legs starting to do the cartoon style of straight leg braking, when…. he hit the wetness of the dock.

He shot straight out off the end of the dock, maybe four feet out, hovered for a microsecond, then disappeared under the water!

My brother and I looked at each other in shock, and then totally cracked up, laughing, as David fired up out of the lake like a breaching whale, sputtering and gasping after hitting the cold lake water.

Kim and I dragged him out, over the end of the dock. He was covered in lake bottom mud, reeds, and his runners were filled with gravel…nothing was close to white anymore. As he lay there like a beached whale, he sputtered;”My wallet!”

David was quite mad that we were laughing, but, we dragged his soaked wallet out of his back pocket so he could see it was all there, albeit soaked. To this day, 57 years later, I see him going off the end of that dock, just too funny.

Meanwhile Jack and Dad had determined that the trail was ok to drive down, so we were able to set up in the only spot close to the lake, fifty feet away from the dock, just perfect and our wilderness camp established…or so we thought.

It was now very late in the day, we had spread David’s wallet contents out to dry in the sun, a fire was going, and dinner had been eaten.

This side of the lake was good for not too many bugs, but, when that sun went down they came out with a vengeance, keeping us close to the fire and smoke.

Like any first night camping, I lay there listening to all the strange sounds, feeling like sleep would never come. The odd mosquito that had gotten into the tent did not help either, that whining buzz sound just before they land on your ear to take a pint of blood.

I awoke to the sound of my dad dragging his trusty old camp percolator coffee pot off the fire grate, the smell of smoke and fresh coffee in the still morning air. Sticking my head out of the tent I saw that thin layer of white, morning mist on the lake, speaking to the clear blue sky overhead.

We soon were scattered along the side of the lake, fishing rods in hand, there were fish jumping everywhere except within our reach. They seemed to sense our intent!

Much to my uncle’s delight, he caught the first one of the day and two more were to follow, caught by my dad and David, who was beyond ecstatic. They were small, but on the fire for lunch, they were a treat beyond compare.

David, Kim and I spent the rest of the day trying to build a survival shelter back in the trees, good thing we did not have to survive, but, it was fun.

The second night was a repeat of the first, but, at one point, before I fell asleep, I thought I heard a metallic sound off in the distance. I had good hearing then, long before a life time of shooting, melting furnaces, and race cars.

We awoke the next morning to hushed voices and something being dragged. Sticking my head out of the tent I saw two guys dragging a small dingy down and onto the dock, then into the water. I climbed out of the tent as they fired up their little motor and puttered off into the mist for a morning of fishing.
We were up and after breakfast, Dad and Jack announced they were going for a quick trip to town, to grab some more supplies. We promised to stay right at camp.

A few hours later, we heard and saw the small boat heading right to us, pushing up onto the sand right in front of our tent. One fellow got out and asked if we had any pliers. “I think so.” I said, “In one of our tackle boxes.” The other fellow had gotten out, with his hand held out, supported by his other one.

He had a fish hook all the way through the thumb. As kids we were fascinated with all the blood, I had not seen that much since I got cracked in the head during a rock fight in Edmonton, where I lived for two years. He had to cut the barb off so he could pull the hook back out, and it was a BIG barb. From the looks and sounds, the pain was enormous, as they had to really get the pliers pushed into the thumb, to get below the barb to cut it. Seems that he had stumbled in the boat on a cast and the hook just came short and caught him in the hand.

No sooner had they dragged the boat back up the hill and out of sight, than did a very large person rumble down the hill, to our campsite. In a really Deep South accent he asked; “You’alls git an axe ah cun borrugh?” “fergot mihne!” We were brought up to help fellow outdoors men so I gave him ours, he promised to bring it back soon, as he slowly climbed back up the hill.

We had heard more noise from over the hill, so we thought this would be a good time to see what was going on. Blasting up to the top of the hill and looking down into the meadow below, we were astounded to see what looked like the preparation for the D-Day Invasion of Normandy! Holy Cow….the weekend invasion of our peaceful, wilderness campsite was about to begin. Campers and boats littered the meadow now.

Dad and Jack came back in late morning, shocked at what they saw and heard from our tales of our morning experience. Basically, the weekend crowd had arrived and the co-worker of Dad’s never gave him the heads-up about how busy and popular this lake was. We lucked out on being there early in the week and got the primo campsite, or so we thought.

Our American friend rumbled back with our axe and explained that he had read about fishing in B.C. in “OutDoor Life” magazine, so thought he would give it a try.

We spent the rest of Thursday just being kids, fishing and setting up targets for the BB gun.

It was Friday morning when both the infamous BB gun incident happened and the Lake invasion began in earnest. Instead of Dad’s coffee pot being dragged off the grate at dawn, we heard a multiplicity of voices and things being dragged and rolled down the hill. The hoards of fishermen had arrived, launching their boats and puttering off into the lake, which instead of the morning mist, would soon be covered with that blue/white haze of two stroke motors.

We had breakfast, bacon and eggs over the fire again, with Kim setting up some targets for the BB gun, some twenty feet away. He was having trouble hitting them and became quite focused, not wanting to relinquish his turn with the gun. David got frustrated with that and kind of pushed my brother. Without thinking, and violating Rule #2 of gun safety, he was only eight after all, spun around with the gun pointed at waist height. David instantly just grabbed the barrel, wanting his turn…and pulled the gun. My brother’s finger was on the trigger…..PPHHTT…went the BB gun… gut shooting David right next to his belly button. Oh my God… he screamed, my brother said it was not his fault….David was alive…it was only a BB gun after all. It went though his t-shirt and left a very smart red mark on his stomach. That gun was over twenty years old at that point and thankfully had lost some of its power. The gun was put away for the rest of the trip, after a good lecture…AGAIN…on gun safety.

Saturday morning dawned bright, yet with sadness, as it was time to pack up and leave. Dad and his brother got caught up on a few years of life, we got to just be kids, having the time of our lives, even getting our survival shelter finished. We always had a rule of the outdoors, leaving a small stack of kindling for the next camper who comes along. I think that goes back to the days of trapper’s, who might show up at a cabin or campsite in a storm, and a pile of kindling could save their life. To this day I do that even at Provincial campsites when we leave.

I don’t remember much about the trip back, I think we slept most of the way, other than stopping for breaks. NO pepperoni for Duke, who I think thought he had died and gone to heaven, with the open places to run, a million trees, with no concrete or hot asphalt.

Pulling into our Richmond driveway brought my mom to the door in an instant saying that no one was to track anything into the house; all dirty laundry, reeking of smoke, lake water and sweat, was to be left in the mud room. Runners were to be left outside, to be soaked in a bucket of water first. She had been through this before.

David’s pile, of what once were white clothes a week ago, could not even be saved by my mother, who used bleach on an industrial scale. Jack even gave Duke a bath before he would let him back into his new Chevrolet.

Sunday morning we said our goodbyes to Jack and David, now nicknamed the California Kid by our friends. David proudly wore his shirt with the bullet hole, stains and all, his white runners, torn and ripped on one side, and now a shade of gray, he WAS one of US now! He could hardly wait to get home and tell his tales.

It was a summer to remember.


My uncle jack visited us a few more summers and in 1966 asked my dad to find an acreage for him, as his plan was to move back to B.C. with his new wife and step daughter. Jack came back to 8 acres just east of Langley in 1968, where he built a new house and went on to become the leading Canadian salesperson for Panasonic Electronics (Matsushita Electric), who were making their first inroads to the North American market. I can clearly remember him talking, after a trip to the Panasonic factory in Japan, of the engineer’s talking about making a television that would be 1/2'” thick and hang on a wall…that was in 1960’s! In the late 80’s he moved back to Tucson, Arizona when he retired, passing away in the mid 2000’s.

The BB gun as it turned out was his; his initials are on the stock, carved as a kid in Winnipeg. I got it when we visited my Grandma in 1960. It then stayed with my dad when I left home. Then to my brother, and, it is now in my nephews hands, still in the family all these years. It was made between 1936 -1940.

Cousin David I never saw again, time and distance just happened. A few years ago though, he cropped up on my brother’s Face Book page, where we found out, that he did not continue with his dad’s printing business, but, ended up having a very successful fly fishing business!!!! Who knows if our trip was the seed for that.

Duke remained the faithful companion for Jack, until he passed away in the late 70’s. I hope he is out there running through a million trees, drinking fresh water…and…maybe even dreaming about some pepperoni.

Thanks for listening,
Keith Law
March/April 2020
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"Racing makes heroin addiction look like a vague wish for something salty" - Peter Egan

Keith Law
1973 2Door Slalom/hill climb/road race / canyon carver /Giant Killer 510
1968 Vintage 3HP Mini Bike
1971 Vintage 13' BOLER trailer
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Joined: 07 Jul 2003 23:19
Location: Langley


Post by gooned »

As always a great read Keith, thanks for sharing, a great glimpse into a simpler time.
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Thanks Keith! Wonderful story telling. It brought back many memories of my youth.
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Post by bertvorgon »

Tales from the Great Rolling Dyno


As I was going through my albums, I thought I would throw up this little story of our early car club days and the cars we destroyed.

In the mid 70’s, as Solo grew as the poor man’s motorsport, a dearth of car clubs had been formed. One was the Columbian Auto Sport Club, the first one I joined. The enthusiasm was huge at the time and as we organized, as did others, half of the Solo season’s events, we made a lot of money. We came under the non-profit heading so we had to burn up some of that money, after all the wonderful trophies had been made for the season.

We used some of the money for go-cart weekends, parties, barbecues, a few tours of things…and then, in a brain storming session, came up with buying cheap, end of life type vehicles to use for whatever.

The “whatever” was the fact that we had unfettered access to the Westwood race track on non-race weekends. We could do whatever the hell we wanted as long as we did not kill ourselves nor have a full on road race. Imagine having access to that 1.8 mile track for a weekend, with only our own rules to govern us.

None of us had brakes that would last any more than 3 - 4 laps anyhow, so that reality kept things at bay. I still had the stock calipers and drums then, with Metal Master pads, with no cooling and brake fluid that was marginal at best. Four laps and I was done.

I wish I could tell more stories of those days and Westwood adventures, but, I don’t think the statute of limitations has expired yet. I did at one point, at full race speed in my existing car, crack into the 15’s for lap times, chasing Dave Humphries in his GT3 car. No small feat for my car.

What a time.

We did our own time trials and giant Solo events as a club, members only and a few “invited” people of known skill and mind set.

This is when we decided to have a “club” car, something that could be used on the back little trail road around the Clubhouse, which was situated just outside the track at Turn 2.

As we had the track for the weekend, a large group of us would camp out by the clubhouse, where in the evening I would build a nice camp fire and we could burn something over that. More on the barbecue’s to come!

Our first car was the Toyota, cost us about 200.00 bucks if I remember right. We bolted in a proper 4 point harness for safety and had to wear a helmet of course. One of the fellows flat towed it up there for the weekend. What that thing survived at first was stunning.

Full throttle laps around the club house, each of us getting two, timed laps. The engine would scream! It was on the second set of laps that I think it was Gary Milligan who lost it on the straight stretch and creamed the bolder. We dragged it back to the start line and pounded, pried and bent the offending fender out of the way.

Off we went again till it got kind of sideways on the straight, which was slightly downhill, got crossed up and ended up on its side, unfortunately on the driver’s side and the person came firing up out the passenger window, as we ran with fire extinguishers.

We got it up righted and on we went, till just before dark, the engine seized. We let it cool down for an hour while we sat around the fire, then tried restarting it. Holy Crudmucker away it went!!!! It lasted about 20 minutes before it seized again and we called it a night, as most of us were getting quite blitzed too.

In the morning it started once again, lasted 10 minutes, and then died, no compression, so it was DONE! It endured about 6-7 hours of that abuse, just amazing.

That Saturday I was to cook dinner for the gang, as I had been up Island to my folks and had caught a 32 Lb salmon the weekend before. At the lunch break I had gotten my fire pit and grate organized, ready to start at 5 to 6 in the evening. I had never cooked a salmon THAT big before.
So now imagine we have all been up since 5 in the morning, spent a huge part of the day in the hot, summer sun, plus many, many laps on that track, which did require some serious concentration.

Gary and I got the fire lit and sat back with a bottle of wine that Gary brought…and if some’s good, more is better…that bottle was GONE. I really did not feel anything… I thought. The fire got nice and hot and started making the good coals I needed to cook the huge salmon on.

It was not long that others came to the fire and the wobbly pops came out, as it had been that hot day and most of us never drank enough water, so the beer went down quite quickly and easily.

Gary and I took turns watching the fire/salmon, as the club car got fired up and the laps began.

So at this point, none of us had had much food during the day, not a great idea.

The salmon was taking much longer than expected and of course the fire had to be monitored and wood fed in, but, not enough to burn the salmon.

Next thing is that a few of those funny cigarettes were being passed around; it was NOT me….Oh Jeezus……

We ended up eating around 9 in the evening, that salmon was perfect, but, we ALL were VERY gonzoed at that point! To the point that one of the fellows asked me if he could take my 510 for some night laps around the track……I gave him the keys….to this day I cannot believe I did that. That was my 1972 at the time. It survived, but considering how blitzed we all were, maybe a miracle.

I can honestly say, in my almost 71 years on this planet, I have never been that out of it. I climbed, crawled into my tent, where the world spun when I closed my eyes and at some point in the middle of the night, I awoke lying in the bushes, staring at the stars, freezing and covered in dew.

In the morning I awoke to the sound of the Toyota being fired up, cranking and grunching to life, where it made maybe 2 laps before it died its final death blorp. Most were sorely hung over, making for a late start to the day and I was feeling so bad, I packed up and went home around noon. Lesson learned!

The second car to come along was the English “Mr.Guts” and what it survived was truly amazing.

I only have one picture of it at Westwood, but it survived an afternoon/evening of doing laps around the club house. We decided to be a bit more “easy” on it and I spent the day focussing more on my 510, as it had a new camshaft to try out.

Its next outing was to the back of the property that we had built our new gold refinery on, just east of Steveston. The back lot was just a big mud pit, as the water table in Richmond, being right at sea level, meant drainage was next to non-existent in the winter. The blue Datsun in the background was owned by one of my co-workers, who had one of the largest supplies of Datsun parts you could imagine at the time. It was too bad that he was ahead of the time, as this was during one of the slumps of no interest in the 510. He ran it as a sideline business for some time, then sold everything.

That car spent the whole day at full throttle getting through the mud bog, getting stuck only a few times, where one of our club members would drag it out with his little Suzuki 4 x 4. It was so funny to watch the water just gush out of those headlight buckets. It survived the day!

Its next outing was to be dragged up to Logan Lake, as the normal Barnes Lake Ice race course was too soft for cars, so everything was moved to the higher elevation of Logan Lake.

For you locals, John Haftner (record holder for Knox Mountain Hillclimb) and Gary Milligan, also brought their latest snow mobiles up, for some testing. They were into at the time, as a winter sport, “High-Marking” in the mountain bowls. John offered me to take it for a rip across the lake, which was very smooth for the most part. He said; “Hang on and Stay low!”

I had never tried one of these things, so wide eyed and innocent I hit the throttle. Holy Mother of God, I hit between 90 and 100 miles per hour in a heartbeat! Scared the hell out of me.

As the day progressed, the engine finally went “soft” and then started to run really rough. It either dropped a valve or lost compression in one cylinder, it was done and off to the scrap yard on Monday. I can’t remember what it cost the club, not very much and the fun factor was huge.

The last car we had, in the heyday of Westwood access and before the track really tightened up on weekend stuff, was either a Pontiac or Chevy station wagon, BIG one, V-8 powered. The Sports Car Club of B.C. had gravelled in a part of the upper parking lot, increasing the area there.. The wagon got unloaded and readied for the day.

As I arrived, a club member named Dave B. decided to take it for a warm up blast the full length of the new lot. What he had not done was walked to check things out, and about ¾ of the way, to the end, was a small dip in the gravel. Dave hit it at maybe 50 MPH, a horrendous crashing sound, then, it launched him 3 feet in the air, coming down HARD, nose first, blowing two tires and breaking all sorts of suspension stuff! Done in 6 seconds! I just cried myself laughing, he was quite sore, as the compression both hitting the dip and landing was actually quite severe.

We survived those years, crazy at times. I took some of the club members on occasion, high into the mountains, to explore an old gold mine, as I did in the mid 90’s, with the 510 Club people.

Good times not forgotten!

Keith Law
Jan. 26, 2021
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1st Club Car at Westwood.jpg
1st Club Car at Westwood.jpg (680.86 KiB) Viewed 853 times
1st Club Car at full throttle.jpg
1st Club Car at full throttle.jpg (612.26 KiB) Viewed 853 times
1st Club Car after the boulder.jpg
1st Club Car after the boulder.jpg (487.08 KiB) Viewed 853 times
"Racing makes heroin addiction look like a vague wish for something salty" - Peter Egan

Keith Law
1973 2Door Slalom/hill climb/road race / canyon carver /Giant Killer 510
1968 Vintage 3HP Mini Bike
1971 Vintage 13' BOLER trailer
User avatar
Posts: 11350
Joined: 04 Aug 2003 20:45
Location: White Rock, B.C. Canada


Post by bertvorgon »

more, hope you enjoyed another period in time.
scan0021 (2).jpg
scan0021 (2).jpg (466.88 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Pulling the fender out.jpg
Pulling the fender out.jpg (662.07 KiB) Viewed 853 times
on the bank.jpg
on the bank.jpg (535.17 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts9.jpg (732.04 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts8.jpg (716.44 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts7.jpg (517.7 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts6.jpg (476.84 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts5.jpg (667.24 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts4.jpg (689.26 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Mr.Guts2).jpg (484.94 KiB) Viewed 853 times
"Racing makes heroin addiction look like a vague wish for something salty" - Peter Egan

Keith Law
1973 2Door Slalom/hill climb/road race / canyon carver /Giant Killer 510
1968 Vintage 3HP Mini Bike
1971 Vintage 13' BOLER trailer
User avatar
Posts: 11350
Joined: 04 Aug 2003 20:45
Location: White Rock, B.C. Canada


Post by bertvorgon »

and last
the rock won (Large).jpg
the rock won (Large).jpg (394.41 KiB) Viewed 853 times
Westwood Tace Track.jpg
Westwood Tace Track.jpg (50.86 KiB) Viewed 853 times
"Racing makes heroin addiction look like a vague wish for something salty" - Peter Egan

Keith Law
1973 2Door Slalom/hill climb/road race / canyon carver /Giant Killer 510
1968 Vintage 3HP Mini Bike
1971 Vintage 13' BOLER trailer
User avatar
Posts: 51
Joined: 19 Dec 2020 08:40
Location: Victoria, BC


Post by ostaylor »

First time seeing this thread as I'm new to the site... impressive archive of memories. Great stories to spend some time with. Thanks for sharing.
72 Datsun 510
2.3 LZ with 280zx 5 speed
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