First published in the December 2002 issue of Street Machine

I stopped dead in the centre of the driveway of Harry’s Diner in Windsor, Queensland with my mouth agape. Snap! My mind took a mental photo of the magnificence before my eyes. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but I could have ripped up a few thousand words on the sight before me. It was a postcard picture, to say the least, of similar genre to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

I felt like I was stepping back in time and about to walk onto the set of Happy Days. Nothing I had ever seen while street machining in Sydney boasted such a casual and carefree environment. One thing was for sure, the night, and Harry’s Diner, looked certain to hold all the pleasures that I’d gotten into street machining for in the first place – great cars, good people and fun times.

There was no agro, no commotion and it was refreshing to see that it was still possible for people to get together with a bunch of cool cars without the dickhead element arriving to muck it all up.

At any second I expected Ralph Malf or Fonzie to come cruising around the corner and pull in alongside the endless line of 50s and 60s US-based street machines. Talk about a time warp! Even Harry’s looked like a blast from the past with chequered floors, pressed alloy bench tops, old-fashioned fittings and filled with the charm of yesteryear.

The mechanical clatter of a high performance machine approaching filled my senses but I was too scared to move out of the centre of the driveway in case I disturbed the dream and woke up to find it was really Monday morning and time to go to work. The car was getting closer to me and as I stood there in a trance-like state feeling it approaching from behind, I was suddenly saddened that the dream was about to end.

But over it wasn’t and as I took a few steps into the car park of Harry’s Diner my fingers felt clumsy as I tried to load my camera, scrambling for a memento and proof that it was all true.

“There’s a ’57 Chev two-door,” I exclaimed to Street Machine photographer Simon Davidson. “No-way! A 440-Plymouth … a two-door ’55 Customline … ’70 Camaro … GTS Monaro … HZ panelvan with flares, curtains and the rear decked out in velour and shagpile … a blown, nitrous Datto … blown Harley … Safari wagon … Check out the moon discs … look at the flame job … did he really drive that here?”

With each step around the car park and past the row of gleaming bumpers it was like a step towards the pearly gates of street machine heaven. Young guys and gals lounged against bonnets and doors, taking in each car as it rumbled past with their own summation.

“Hey, Woodsy’s got the HG going,” one remarked.

“Ooh, listen to that,” from another. “That’s fat!”

By 8.30pm the car park was loaded and the night air filled with the sound of laughter and fun. Someone was doing a run to Maccas as Harry’s was chockas … Dave was taking orders. The screech of tyres out of the driveway swivelled heads and brought an air of concern that someone might complain.

A couple of police cars cruised by paying little attention to the disciplined crowd even after a sill-scraping HG wagon painted matt black with Moon discs, a flame job and blower, carbies and scoop bolted to the bonnet cruised by. Instead of the whirr of belts and pulleys, the even exhaust note of a standard six-cylinder engine was clearly audible above the commotion. She was just a cruiser.

It was a day where the good guys prevailed and just a standard Saturday night at another of Queensland’s cruising spots. The tales flowed non-stop, the laughs sincere and at the end of the night there were no goodbyes as tomorrow night was another night out.

I yearned for my rumbling rig to be parked beside the other cool cars and consoled myself with the knowledge that there would be another night out cruising Brisbane and the Gold Coast. I would make sure of it.