Back in 1998, I was studying full-time and working part-time as a mechanic, so money was tight. I was lucky to still own my VG Valiant hardtop, let alone race it.

So I would live off baked beans to help squirrel away some coin. But it was worth it – not only did I have extremely efficient bowel movements, but I also ended up with enough bucks to take the car to one of Performance Street Car’s Shootout events at Willowbank Raceway.

First published in the September 2026 issue of Street Machine

The Aussie off-street racing scene was hotly contested through the 90s and early 2000s, complete with national and state Top 10 lists, and these one-day Shootouts generated an excitement akin to our own Drag Challenge.

In what I can only describe as a Christmas miracle, I was ready to go by early Friday afternoon, the day before the Shootout. Tools were packed and the car was clean, so I set off to the local servo to throw in some Super before relaxing in front of the telly and having an early night.

Or maybe not. On the trip home, I gave the Val some healthy throttle in selected low gear, and the BorgWarner 35 auto transmission slipped until I backed off.

Now, this wasn’t your usual, universally despised BorgWarner 35 – I’d refined it over the years with a Slant-six BW front pump that allowed for a Torqueflite-style converter, and a mix of BW40 and BW51 internals. It was good enough to handle 230rwhp of four-barrelled 265 for high 13s – quicker than a triple-Webered R/T Charger when new, and that was all I cared about.

I hoped low transmission oil was the problem, but I knew in my heart of hearts what it really was. Servicing it the weekend prior, I’d noticed that the rear drum surface was glazed shiny, which can cause the rear band to slip, but I’d just set the inch-pound torque wrench to ‘denial’ and adjusted it, promising the auto a proper freshen-up once the Shootout was run and done.

I was at a crossroads: Do I just select second on the shifter and rely on ‘breakaway low’, with its crappy shift point, to get me off the line and run lacklustre times? Or do I whip that ’box out with less than 24 hours to go? Of course, I went with the second option, so I checked the oil, which was spot-on, then jumped into my daily and shot down to the local transmission shop to grab anything I might need.

I dropped the ’box, stripped it to a bare case, and hit it with some degreaser and the garden hose, before a quick trip back to the servo to clip my air gun onto their tyre air to dry it out – home compressors and pressure cleaners were a luxury back then. 

I gave the rear drum a healthy scuff to dull its shine, installed a fresh band, and gave everything a general check-over, then hastily reassembled and reinstalled the ’box by early evening. My povvo uni budget forced me to recycle the week-old Type F oil through coffee-machine filter paper.

Then it was time for a test drive. I was hoping I’d be back in time to still catch a 21 Jump Street rerun and a late dinner before bed. Unfortunately, the trans wouldn’t shift out of first gear at all; I may as well have been driving half a Powerglide.

Back into the garage to check the external basics. All was well, so I tore the ’box out for round two. I rechecked the main assemblies and found nothing; I knew it had all the gears prior, but I convinced myself that the throttle valve was sticky, so I gave the valvebody a time-sucking rebuild just in case. Back into the car, and still no joy – one gear all the way. 

It was now nearing midnight, but I knew the problem had to be something simple. As I lay there on my creeper, calmly regathering my thoughts and staring at something that used to be my friend, it hit me harder than a bag full of wombats to the nuts: had I reinstalled the road speed governor incorrectly? It’ll fit either way ’round on the output shaft, but its oil holes will only line up one way.

That made total sense as the cause of my no-shift woes, so with renewed vigour, I popped the extension housing off in-car, confirmed I had the governor arse-about, then reassembled it before enjoying a proper all-gears test drive in the early hours of Saturday morning. 

I scored three hours’ sleep that night, but I made it to Willowbank. My racing funds had been depleted buying transmission parts, so I relied on a bag of Twisties and a bottle of Coke to get me through and a promise from my sister to spot me some beans if I needed a tow home. Happily, the hardtop ran a treat, running a PB and making it through to the third round of Six-Cylinder Eliminator before I snoozed on the line, finally feeling the effects of one very long night.