This has been sitting in my draft for months so I thought I might as well post! Cue nostalgia.
That segment on Episode 3 of Top Gear Australia totally took me back to my childhood. We thrashed around in “The Bomb” as we called it, and with the utmost of respect I can assure you. It was a white Datsun 1000 that Dad picked up for a few hundred dollars at a clearing sale. Bargain! Even more so since the boot was filled with over $400 worth of junk the owners had forgotten about since it didn’t open. Ski gear, some powertools, etc.
At first, it didn’t actually have a knob for the gear stick. When we found an old spare, the diagram didn’t actually match up to where the gears were, which was cause for much grinding. “Can’t find em? Grind em!” as our bus driver would say. We always felt so elite explaining the gears to newbies, cousins and such – anyone who had never driven it before.
To open the boot you had to stick your thumb into a precarious, potentially spider-filled hole in the boot lid and flick the internal lever just the right way while gently nudging the boot lid downwards. Only then would it pop open. I must admit, I had it down pat and still have the muscle memory.
We must have used the boot for something as I remember opening it so many times. I suspect it was mostly used to courier cubby supplies and possibly the occasional unsuspecting family pet. For some reason I also remember there being a tin of pink pumpkin seeds in the boot. I don’t think they were the eatin’ kind. Someone will know what that pink stuff was.
Paddock bashing is all fine and dandy, but when your farm has a 900m airstrip, that changes everything. I would love to boast about the epic drag races we had, but having only one paddock basher put a dampener on that idea. Our intolerably controlling parents (at the time) instigated a rule that we never exceed third gear in the old wreck. This resulted in an effective speed limit of about 60 km/h. And Dad, the smart alec father that he was could tell by listening if we ever broke the rule. But that was no problem. You just had to drive far enough away so Dad couldn’t hear 
. Hang on a sec while I change into my speed racer outfit.
But simple rebellion for the sake of it, whilst not lacking in thrills, became somewhat of an adolescent cliche. And the threat of a sans-Bomb lifestyle always loomed. So we decided to get creative. We mapped out a race circuit around the house, over to the shed, around that tree with all the machinery under it, over past the tip then back to the house. We’d each set our time in the Bomb then the other would try and beat it. Then when that got boring, we’d try and beat our Bomb times on the four-wheeler. Oh what shenanigans!
The Bomb was destined for a fate not uncommon to paddock bashers. Gradually, it began to idle higher and higher until one day it just overheated and blew up in a furious and spectacularly dangerous explosion… OK so maybe it just stopped going. Dad gave it away to someone a couple of years ago so hopefully it will see some kind of rebirth or at least facilitate some vulture’s DIY as a source of parts.
Anyways, R.I.P. Bomb. Thanks for the memories. I should dig up a picture of you one of these days…
Tags: irl
