The V8 Is Dead and I've Come to Terms With it

Note: Toyota flew me to Sydney to write this story.

My obsession with race cars began when I saw Mark Skaife tear up the track at Bathurst. The supercars sounded like a pack of lions breathing at the limits of exhaustion and instantly I knew I had to own a cammed V8 with an obnoxious exhaust that crackled and popped with every throttle. I didn’t want to go fast, I just wanted to blow the hats off bystanders with a growling exhaust.

This love has lasted my whole life, which is why agreeing to drive a Toyota 86 GT race car felt like cheating. Toyota had invited a bus load of journalists to Sydney's Motorsport Park to race cars and promote the 86 Racing series. And I was going to do both, which flew against everything I've ever known.

In high school you had to pick a side: V8s or turbos, which basically meant Holden or Fords against cars from the Japanese Domestic market (JDM). There was an underhanded bogan patriotism in V8 culture and an air of elitism around the JDM boys. But since high school, motorsport and car culture has shifted dramatically. Both of my younger brothers have opted for JDM cars—the Toyota Supra and the R34 Nissan Skyline. They told me it was because they were cheaper to run, but I suspected it was the Paul Walker effect from The Fast and The Furious.

The V8 culture I loved is slowly fading. The tribal rivalries between Holden and Ford have become just a memory for old blokes at the pub. This transition was made official in 2016, when the V8 Supercars changed their name to Supercars after the “Gen 2” rules opened the series to any engine. James Warburton, Chief Executive of the Supercars, even went so far as to say: “I can see a day when there is not a V8 engine in the field.”

For me, the death of the V8 seemed complete as we arrived at the track. Sitting on the bitumen, a row of fine old-school Toyota race cars opened me up to corruption. The other motorsport journalists began unpacking their faded racing suits and connecting their GoPros into their chest harnesses. Another driver was in a lycra outfit holding a Louis Vuitton briefcase, all of which reminded me of what killed the V8 in the first place—money.

The only way you can graduate from street car culture to the track is best summarised by NASCAR driver Junior Johnson: “How do you make a small fortune in racing? Start with a large one.”

The enormous road cost to run a V8 is no different in motorsport, with V8 supercars costing upwards of $500,000. For V8 teams, this kind of price tag eats up profits from wins, meaning they have to survive on sponsorship and prize funds. Some of the best drivers in the world have struggled with the cashflow hurdle. Lewis Hamilton's parents remortgaged their home so he could continue racing, while Kimi Raikkonen's father was forced to acquire night work as a taxi driver and bouncer to sustain his son's dreams.

Now, contrast this with the 86 GT race car, which can be on the grid for $70,000.

In the press conference before the cars hit the track, Toyota’s vice president Sean Haley briefed the wanna-be racers about the event: "The Toyota 86 Racing Series was created as an affordable, grassroots racing series to foster new talent.” The competition opens up the sport through a low cost strategy that encourages female drivers and competitors as young as 15.

When I sat in the 86 GT, it was the first time I'd sat in a race car, my nerves amplified as the car was locked into gear. The racing versions of the Toyota 86 are fitted with a roll cage and performance kit developed by Neal Bates Motorsport. I immediately began to feel my temperature rising beneath the weight of the protective gear, as the engine growled through the revs.

I planted my foot and the car shot off, forcing me back with the Gs. As we approached the first corner, a light caress on the brakes wound the car down in an unnatural fashion. While my SS at home feels like a bull on wheels, galloping along the highway, the 86 GT was like a jet that powered up instantly and maintained a crushing force of torque.

After the race I needed a cigarette. I felt that strung-out, after sex exhaustion that drowns your mind in dopamine. I began to think about cars differently. I was bogged down in the aesthetic roar from a V8, but the thrill from the ride relieved me from my hang-ups about JDM cars. My V8 spirit was fuelled by excessive power delivery and bogan attitude, but the 86 GT had exploited boost to awaken me from my puritan slumber.

When I got home, I stole the keys to my brother's Supra and blasted Australian Crawl as I cruised into the orange hue of suburbia. And I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

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