Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Sitting on the line, the motor gurgling and choking. Watching the tree of lights red, yellow, yellow, yellow, green. Go! The supercharged engine hammers the air, grunting and straining as tires slip on the gluey substance laid down under the ‘fats’: The tires that are little more than half inflated black balloons finally gain traction. The long probiscus of the dragster sniffs the tar, digging itself in deep. Aerodynamics make it plough down the dragway. almost as elegant as a dragon fly. In 8.9 seconds it’s all over, just the raw smell of burnt rubber and high octane motor fuel slashing the air. Another set of funny monsters approach the line.

This is the food of the Western suburbs, the take away entertainment they talk about all week The crowd is alive with beanies and Ugg boots and flanel shirts. Hot dogs, pies and cokes coat tongues and future heart problems. Next up it’s a couple of ‘mods’. Normal street cars modified to be no more then a shell of their former selves. Bonnets open with the periscopes of  supercharger intakes, rear wheel arches contain ridiculously sized tires and skinnier front ones. The driver sits inside a lattice of protective tubing in case of a roll over. Sitting inside his helmeted atmosphere, breathing slow, tasting the  expired nylon of the padding, waiting again for that tree of lights to count down. Under the bonnet layers of carefully crafted chrome reveal the work of a master, each section of the motor given the attention of  new born baby. These are the babies of these young fathers and mothers. Their  raison d’etre resides in one and a half tonnes of living breathing metal that cry down the track at 250 or more….