In Defence of Summernats

It might not matter to you, but it does matter.

Nothing I write about the Summernats will sum up the event more eloquently than a number plate I encountered on a hotted-up 2007 Suzuki Swift.

The car had been modified to an absurd degree.

The owner – a lovely young bloke called Jack – installed roll cages, changed the suspension, lowered the body and swapped the engine. Out went the 1.6L 4-cylinder; in went a 6L V8, which puts out a diabolical 700 horsepower. A Lamborghini Aventador has a comparable output, but with a chassis actually designed to take it.

Suffice to say, it is a staggering amount of power for a small car with the aerodynamics of a toaster.

Jack made a few aesthetic improvements, too. The car is painted a bright, lemon yellow, with coloured LEDs under the body, and sponsor names on the side panels.

And then there are the custom plates.

“Your mum rides for free,” they read.

Then a bit below that: “it ain’t weak to speak”.

Of course, this delights me. The dichotomy is sublime.

“I’ll fuck your mum!” The car says. Then, in the next breath: “But seriously. Let’s talk about mental health.”

Inside me right now there are two wolves fighting. The one that wants to be glib, because I think this is funny, and the one which can see the value of such messages being imparted on the back of a Suzuki Swift hot rod.

There are certain conditions which must be met, it seems, before some Australian men feel comfortable talking about their feelings. The vital precursor to any kind of vulnerability appears to be a performative display of masculinity. Hitting on women! Burn outs! Mullets! Pull-ups! Only then, perhaps, a more serious conversation can take place.

I wish it were different for men. In an ideal world, we’d kill the misconception that men must meet adversity with robotic stoicism. That feelings are for women, and a sign of weakness.

If the sexism underpinning this belief system could be abolished, it would greatly benefit both genders. But we have been born into an imperfect world. Sometimes the best we can do is help each other navigate the conditions endemic to us, as best we’re able.

Photo courtesy of Summernats

But it’s so easy to be glib. Especially when it comes to an event like Summernats.

After all, this is a festival which has been a public punching bag for many decades. It’s been painted as an embarrassing spectacle, a bogan pilgrimage, a crass gathering with no inherent cultural value.

Admittedly, it’s deserved some criticism and scrutiny.

Summernats is predicated on thousands of car enthusiasts descending on Canberra, camping in the blazing sun, and driving their hot rods. There’s often drinking involved. It’s no wonder things have, once or twice, descended into lawlessness.

Or so I’ve heard. The Summernats I attended over the weekend was relatively tame. Certainly no worse than any supercars race I’ve been to over the years. And you know what? It was fun. Unironic, unapologetic fun.

Sitting in a grandstand, watching a comically overpowered car throwing burnouts until their tyres exploded into rubber confetti was joyful. Seeing people parade their museum-quality rare cars was a privilege. Everyone was approachable, and largely quite respectful.

Photo courtesy of Summernats

Of course, it was also ridiculous and crass.

In one of the pavilions, half a dozen tattoo artists were taking walk in appointments. The flashes had phrases like “I love sluts”, “pound town”, or, my personal favourite, “ya dog cunt”. I spoke to one young man who got his first tattoo at that booth. He chose a picture of a woman pulling up her shirt and flashing her boobs. SUMMERNATS was written across her chest.

I asked why he chose that particular picture for his leg.

“I’ll be able to look down and have some memories flash through my head,” he said.

I won’t need a tattoo to remember Summernats. It was an absurdist spectacle from start to finish – a detour out of normal life into something far more loose and eccentric.

But do people genuinely think the attendees aren’t themselves aware of the absurdity? Of the humour? That they’re not leaning into cliches for their own amusement?

Yes, putting a V8 engine into a Suzuki Swift is ridiculous. That’s the joke. Yes, a mullet competition is bogan. That’s the joke. Yes, goading people to do burnouts outside of the (many) designated burnout areas is stupid. That’s the joke.

But Summernats is discussed like the people who don’t understand the humour are the very ones who constructed it. It’s easier, perhaps, to turn the attendees into the punchline.

Every year, like clockwork, television crews seek out the drunkest, loudest, most obnoxious people in the crowd, ask them questions in bad faith, and then allow them to be pilloried by their audience.

This year, the unlucky tribute is some poor woman who made the mistake of talking to Seven News. This lady was overly enthusiastic about her love of Summernats, had her response turned into an Instagram reel, and was then subjected to hundreds of unkind (and at times incredibly defamatory) comments from strangers. The social team eventually stopped people commenting, but kept the video online.

Photo courtesy of Summernats

Why are the the people who go to writers festivals not subjected to the same treatment? If you shove microphones in the face of enough people, eventually you’d find someone worthy of ridicule. But we leave these people alone, because some festivals are Important and Worthy and Serious. Unlike car events, which are low rent and, therefore, open season.

Nevermind that underneath the burnouts, and the skids, and the dagwood dogs, there is an established community that genuinely tries to look after its people.

Well, mostly anyway. There is still the occasional punch up.

Personally, I suspect that some people have an aversion to events like Summernats because of a subconscious belief that, in order for pleasure to be worthy, it must also feel a bit like work. That unless you’re a little bored, or a bit challenged, you haven’t spent your time meaningfully.

The best antidote to such views, I think, is watching a tyre explode into a million bits of rubber. Take as needed.

Thank me later.