THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO ASHWORTH,

THIS LITTLE PIG STAYED AT HOME

Big argument on the drive on Friday night:—
"It's my turn for a comp," said Flying Pig.
"No, it's not your turn, you did the last two events," replied Yellow.
"But I haven't done a comp yet," continued Flying Pig, "And the Pig-Master
did say I was as ready as I was going to be."
Yellow shook angrily on his worn-out 650's, this was going to be a fight!
He was not about to let this noisy young upstart take his rightful place on
the start line on Sunday.

The argument festered well into the night. Flying Pig was adamant, as he
was wearing the best tyres, but he would wait for a final decision in the
morning.

When morning came. Yellow, who was living out, was first to see the trailer
arriving. Here we go ... let's sneak on whilst nobody is looking. But th(
trailer went on up the street where a rather shiny lightweight purred quietly
up the ramps and was towed awav. Yellow rattled his wings in disgust.

Flying Pig had been having a wonderful dream . . . 3-2-1 Green! Red-line

it! Clutch in, and shower the start line crowd with dirt! 2nd! 3rd!

Red-Line! . . .

Broadside into Turn 1, perfect 4-wheel drift. Floor it again! . . .Absolutely

flying! Burn off that poxy Class 2 motor down the back straight . . . watch

the speedo, 65 ... 70 ... 75 ... 80 ... (LIAR! the speedo only goes

up to 70). Take the chequered flag and anchors on! ...

What a run, fastest time of the day! . . .

Rattle! bang! crash! Flying Pig woke up to a terrible noise from outside.

"What's going on?" he muttered, wiping the sleep from his headlights with

oily rag.

It's that posh lightweight from up the street," fumed Yellow. _"Gone off

with my trailer . . . Wait until I see him ..." The argument continued . . .

Saturday night . . .

Yellow was sulking in his corner, the argument was lost and Flying Pig would

be the lucky one on Sunday.

Hope you break a half-shaft," he goaded angrily . . . "That gearbox won't

last one lap."

Flying Pig turned a deaf wing mirror to him, and settled happily to sleep

on the trailer, dreaming of great deeds and fast times.

Sunday morning . . .

What a long queue Graham! And it's only half past nine! Too much standing

around. Flying Pig decided to play-up.

"I'll just flood that left carb," he thought. "And what about locking the

handbrake on?" . . . Waste of time really, 'cos Brains was quickly allocated

a lump hammer to intimidate him into behaving. Was that scrut'ing novel

or what?

Not much time left to go now, follow the last coiler on to the line . . . The

previous night's dream came flooding back as the lights went to green. . .

2000 - 3000 - 4000 - 5000 . . . Clutch in ... Floor it ... 2nd ... 3rd ...
WOW! Those new needle valves sure have done the business! Broadside into
the first turn . . . roar down the field, BUMP-BANG-OUCH! What was
that? . . . Over the stream and down the wall side . . . mind the backend
doesn't slide away too much . . . BUMP-BANG-CRUNCH! . . . there it
goes again.

Down the track . . . mind the drop . . . wet bend . . . twisty section . . .

don't clip the fence too hard! . . . Warming up now . . . fan on ... up the

hill . . . over the rocks . . . CRUCH-BANG-OUCH . . .

By now full consciousness had been regained, this was no dream ... it hurt!

Flying Pig was glad to finish that first run, and pottered quietly back to the

pits. Great amounts of looking underneath failed to find anything broken.

Time for another run. Just a bit slower over the lumpy bits, please!

Runs 2 and 3 passed but there was still that painful crunch. Brains crawled

under again . . . "There it is, look at that propshaft where the paint is

missing." "And where is all that oil coming from?"

Can we carry on? asked Flying Pig.

"Oh dear, why is there no drain plug on the front axle?" came from beneath.

Run 4 ...

Scrounged a plug from Mr. Unwin (thanks!).

Well down on the leader board, and fed up with all the hassle. Flying Pig

decided to take matters into his own hands at the end of the run . . .

BANG-WHOOOOOSH! Great clouds of steam issued forth from the front end.

"Looks like the rad's blown" . . . "Time for this little pig to go home!''

Limp back to the pits . . . Where is the hole? . . . Fetch some water . . .

There it is, that little front hose, well blown! . . . Time to go on the scrounge

again (thanks Mick!).

Also time to slow down now and make sure of a finish . . .
Sunday night . . .

Yellow giggled happily in his corner, "What was that?" he asked. "Didn't
get first? Tut, tut . . ." "Break something did we? . . . Told you you weren't
ready!''

Flying Pig backed quietly into the garage, to await major surgery. His day
would come!

PIG-MASTER

Guardian Angel of the 80's

ANOTHER FINE MESS, OLI

Once again muggins was roped in to help Stevie Wonder set out a trial —
HAMELDON — life gets really rough sometimes.
The idea of caravanning was thrown out due to the previous week's weather.
It hissed it down. Friday evening was spent loading the yellow peril on to
the trailer ready for an early start on the Saturday morning.
We found the weather was just the same over the Pennines as it was at home
— threatening heavy rain. Thankfully it held off and the sun did eventually
come out. The Whittakers were the sole campers when we arrived and Andy
Bury was already into setting out the RTV. Once the kids were away with
the motorbike we got into our routine — "We can use this bit. Drive round
and through that water" — sunk at the first attempt. Luckily an early arrival
for the RTV arrives and is put into service with the towing-out — the first
of many.

Another early arrival in a 4WD Jap pick-up wanders off down the top track
for about 100 yards and then his front end disappears into a deep pond. Steve
at this point, directs me through — well not quite through — some soggy
moorland — sunk again. This time the motor has to be towed out by two
motors — its getting better by the minute.

We all set off to get the stricken pick-up out and end up setting out a section
around it (Section 5).

Dave, Carol and their trusty 110 help out by setting out a section close to
the entrance, whilst we progress down the track gingerly. Another section,
then back to base for more sticks.

Down to the bottom of the main track to use one of the two firm bits of
Hameldon, "Should get three sections out of this bit, easily," says Wonder
Boy. Dave is with us to lend a hand before the start of the RTV. Steve sees
a good finish to the section and spends 10-15 minutes trying to extricate (good
word, huh!) out of a gully on to a ledge with a nasty little drop off to his
left. He eventually manages it, turns immediately left and drops off the ledge
on to his side in a hole — brilliant!!! Not a chance of pushing it back on
to four wheels. Time for a long look at the chassis and under carriage. This
appears to be in fine nick apart from a crack on a cross-member — where's
the welding gear. The prop shafts are good and tight with well-greased nipples
(in-joke from Trentham).

It was with great reluctance that it was eventually decided to pull it on to
its roof — with the assistance of Dave's 110. When doing this the driver's
door comes open and implants itself into the ground. There was nothing for it. It couldn't be helped. We had to continue with rolling it on to its side
and back on to its wheels. The engine oil was running down the windscreen
on to the truck cab roof, which, as we know from previous experience, drop'
back on to the seats when the motor is righted and you get oily arses for the

next three years!
 

When back on four wheels the damage was surveyed:

Crushed back body; flat roof. sagging wings; badly bulged bonnet and no
driver's door. Oh, and an oiled-up cab!

Once cleaned up and Steve, having partly recovered from his flight across
the centre console, Dave and Carol depart to marshal the RTV and we head
back for a coffee and burger.

Fully refreshed and keen to continue — well, not quite — we head off back
down from whence we came and Steve shudders as we pass the point of the
incident. The next two sections were set out very carefully without further
risk of laying down, bringing the time round to 5 o'clock — time to get back
home for the three S's and out to a wedding do.

Sunday dawned bright and sunny — so somebody told me — but the motor
did not look any better than the day before. Brain's in gear — get the seven
sections that are set socked up to keep the punters happy until lunch. Then
with young Stephen and old Tim's help, we set about the previous day's RTV
sections and turn them into six more serious trial sections. Lunchtime again.
Two sections left to do and Michael Chaloner offers to lend a hand — "Why
is that back wheel wobbling, Tim" — "cos it's only got two nuts left on
it". Straight-forward job —just borrow a nut off each of the other wheels
— just one problem — they're a different size to the other three and it gets
better, the studs have loosened in the hub. Twenty minutes later it's running
again with just the two nuts (as well as those on the wheel). With a slight
alteration to the finish on the section we now have 14 sections — 1 to go.
Not wanting to wander too far from the pits area, we (that is Michael, Tim
and I — Steve had wandered off. I think it was the sun that got to him) make
use of a virgin gully and a couple of hillocks to get the 15th section. After
testing it a couple of times I gently try to bring the motor back to the start.
It does not want to go back — Two U-bolts have come adrift from the rear
axle — whatever next! Two replacements are tracked down from Duncan
(thanks Duncan) and expertly fitted (thanks Michael and Tim).

By this time the competitors are nearly finished and it only remains for us
to start collecting in the sticks. Thankfully, one or two competitors helped
with this task and it was soon completed. It's a nice sight to see the sections
being collected rather than seeing all the motors being loaded up and
disappearing off the site with masses of sticks left to be collected.

On behalf of Steve, thanks to all who helped to set out, mend the motor,
marshal, and especially those who helped collect the sticks, the landowner,
the scran van and Him up on high for letting the sun shine and for not causing
us any problems.
Must be time for a holiday.

ROB

HAMELDON

Here goes, Rob, I've promised and I've promised. I will not faulter, I will
do a write-up.

I nearly did one for the expert novice event, but I gave up, so Mrs. Seedall,
you escaped my poison pen.

I parked the Thunderbus after Mount Tabor and didn't touch it until Saturday
before Hameldon.

1 Amp had kindly agreed to weld up a bit of the chassis while I agreed to

cut his tyres.

So, I arrived home after squash at about 12.30 on Saturday afternoon.

Neita said: "Are you having some lunch?"

"No" I replied. "I'm too busy, I have to get down to Micks. Ellen will
have the kettle on anyway." So I trundled down to Micks. His little baby
Landrover was in the garage, so that would have to come out and mine nosed
in. I noticed there were some little wires creeping out of the bonnet of his
little baby. I thought ah, its got a little heater to keep it warm. Not so, his
pride and joy had a little flat battery. Wur wu!!

"Ney, bloody hell."

I thought this could be the start of a bad afternoon.

Not so, tan t tah, to the rescue, "THUNDERBUS". We connected the jump

leads and away she went. Not like the guy who tried to get into the nightclub

without a tie. On returning to his car found he only had some jump leads.

so he tied them round his neck and went back to the door. The bouncer said

"All right, you can come in, but don't start anything." Tee-hee.

Anyway, I digress. Mick started on my chassis, and I started ploughing

through his tyres.

Time passed on and still no brew. Eventually we finished our respective job

and arranged a time for the morning. I trundled off home, still brew-less

and packed up the old girl ready for the morning. Then I had a cup of tea

Boy, was I ready.

We all (that is, Mick, Mick. Pete and myself, with our respective wives;

went out for a drink that night to celebrate Mick Heywood's anniversary.
The night was lively and entertaining.

At about 10.30 p.m., now wallowing in a gallon of lager, my mind wandered
back to the dryness I had encountered that afternoon.
I plucked up courage and ask El why no brews had appeared. A debate ensued
as to who should or should not have made a brew. Anyway, all that remains
to say is that on my next visit to the Heywoods I have been assured that 1
will be force-fed brews until they come out of my ears.
So, come 11.30 p.m. Mick and Ellen, Pete and Sue went to the Indian. Mick
and Jeanne roared off in the Rangie and Neita and I walked home.
Sunday, 8.00 a.m., up with the larks, usual breakfast and off to Mick's —
sorry, 1 Amps — we are back to Landrover talk now.
Squirrel was supposed to be towing 1 Amp's motor, no, no, no, not his baby.
too dirty at Hameldon, his old one. Pete couldn't come so Squirrel and 1
Amp were going to double enter his, and I was going with mine.
When I arrived at 1 Amp's, he was there loading up the Landie on to the
back of Pete's van.
"Where's Squirrel," I enquired.
"Don't ask," he replied.

Apparently Squirrel had telephoned and said he couldn't come.
Now we have to return to Saturday night to ask ourselves why. Was it because
Mick hadn't bought Jeanne as big a card on their anniversary as Mick had
bought Ellen: was it because Mick didn't take Jeanne for an Indian; or was
it simply the clout behind the ear-hole Jeanne gave Mick just before they
left. Who knows? Maybe we'll find out next Friday night. Next episode of
Whalley Waggoners Walk will appear in next month's Mag.
So the W.W.T. consisted of me and 1 Amp and a handful of kids. James.
or Little Rolf as he is known to his friends, Neal — I can break any bone
in my body — and Barry, or Torchy as he is more commonly known. Barry's
dad has a butcher's shop, so we like Barry coming because he brings lots
of pies and cold sausages, plus he can get up, not like his sister Nicola, but
that's another story.

Anyway, all packed up and off we went. An uneventual journey saw us arrive
at Hameldon around 9.30 a.m., we unpacked and went for a scrutin. No
problems, so we had a wander round and had a chat with a few faces including
some faces we haven't seen at a Pennine trial for some years, like Ian Bartram
and "His Maiestv Karl Gudgeon."

Neal and Barry were alternating with 1 Amp. We roared off to Section 1.

Brent Taylor was first on the line and he cleared it. I followed and cleared

it too. 1 Amp followed, but unfortunately collected a one.

We then burbled down to numbers 2 and 3. The sharp little hill on section

2 was causing some problems for some people, as it turned out for us too.

I collected a nine and 1 Amp collected a ten.

We ploughed, on and finished the seven sections before lunch. Right lads,

back to camp and let's get into those pies and sausages.

Just before lunch my fan had ceased to work, so on our return I decided to

fix it. I'll have to be quick though, 'cos all the pies and sausages will have

gone. I finished the fan and sped over for the grub. Would you believe it,

not a pie or a sausage in sight. You greedy buggers I thought, wrongly, would

you believe it, our Barry didn't bring any.

Bah, never mind, into the paste butties. I did have a sniff round the butty

van, but resisted.

After all that disappointment 1 Amp and I set off to section 8 for the start

of the afternoon's fun, both with eleven points, I hasten to add. We browsed

round the 8 section and waited for the marshals.

"You might be in for a pot," said 1 Amp. Arg!! the kiss of death. Sure

enough 1 Amp cleared the section and I collected a seven. The next section

was no better, I made a silly mistake and collected another six, but I starred

on the next section - the one with the boggy bit at the end. Everyone was

getting stuck.

I set off and poddled up to the four stick. Right give it it's head. The old

girl roared into life and cleared the bog. Magic, Sarah even gave me two

ticks and a "well done" on my score card.

Down to the caravan now and the two sections down there. Both of us cleared

the uphill one, but trouble was looming round the corner. Well, for me

anyway.

I watched from the back of the queue as the various motors attempted the

section. Split Pin set off first and dug himself into the first bomb hole. After

that, various motors clipped the ten stick, but were not penalised. Mr. Miles

was watching this as well. and by the time I went through the marshal had

cottoned on and awarded me 10 points.

I disputed the fact that I should be given ten which no one else had, and called
Graham over to justify my claim. Let's say a heated discussion ensued to
no avail. I roared off in disgust. Wrongly so, because I caused one or two
people a nervous moment as a ton of Landrover leapt over the hill at them.

To those people I apologise, but, from where I was setting off, I just couldn't
see you. No excuse though, and I apologise. The marshal was only doing
his job, but what annoyed me was the fact that there was another answer
Graham, but you couldn't see it.

Anyway, enough serious stuff and back to the trial. Two more to do. Both
done fairly easily, and the day finished with a score of 36, I think. So back
to camp, pack up the motors and off home.

My thanks of course to the Landowner, the Marshals and everyone else who
made the day possible, and on a lighter note, a special thank you to Ian Bartram
for adding a little light-headed joviality by going around with a large orange
glove on and Tangoing everybody, including me.
See you soon, 

CLIVE COCKS

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