It has been interesting to see your soapbox derby pages, and has brought back many memories.

Growing up in the late forties to fifties in the railway town of Peterborough, 240 km north of Adelaide, with no TV (horror) meant imagination was our main driving force to beating boredom.

Our "soapies" or "down hillers" was one of our main sources of enjoyment.  How we never suffered injuries any greater than loosing layers of skin still remains a mystery.

The hills we used on "our side of town," were one sealed road, "Stiggies" and quite safe, but the other, un-sealed, steep, and very rough (known to all kids as "Devil's Hill" or Power House Hill,) was really the sublime challenge.

The smoothest track being the narrow footpath, with barbed wire fence on one side, and a deepish storm water drain down the other, and at the bottom, a narrow roadway for breaking/bail out.

If you didn't break or bail out, the daredevils hoped the five strand fence bordering the main town drain, (cement walled, eight feet deep, and wide), would save us from the great plunge.

No one ever went over, but some carts partly penetrated the fence.

Really, not too many made it to the bottom, the hill was so steep, we fairly rocketed down the footpath, until about midway through the run where the path flattened for a driveway.  This change in incline was usually enough to throw the driver, off balance, particularly if someone was game enough to "double up," and take on a passenger, with both usually biting the dust.  Pretty coarse dust at that.

Occasionally when feeling really adventurous, some would take it to the road.  Really rough, and with deep water eroded rut running diagonally across the road.

After inspections of the rut, and "best crossing spot" the foolhardy would set sail hoping to get to the bottom.

Very few did.

One speckie sticks in my mind was when one of the gang, "Spoggie Mc Neil" brought along a really neat wagon type thing, front steering axle on a turntable, and the thing was really meant for towing by means of a single shaft.  Perhaps behind a bike.

Spoggie felt that his machine had the weight, especially if loaded with four passengers, to ride out the rut, and make it to the bottom.

They set sail hell for leather, down Devil's Hill. Spoggie leaning forward over the front of the cart, the draw shaft now a tiller.

They were going like a rocket, looking great, but then loomed "the rut" good night nurse!

The loaded cart didn't have the weight to out ride the turbulence, became airborne, inverted, and spewed the riders in all directions.  Once again all walked away after great laughter.

Kids from the other side of town were a great source of fun too.

They had no hills their side of town that could offer a good ride, so when they ventured our side, took a ride on our carts, usually took top honours in the skinned knee championships.

Once a year the local scout group would run a soapbox Derby on the Hospital Hill.  A main thoroughfare through the town.

Most of the local carts would never reach the foot of the hill, just ran out of grunt.

But there were usually four Adelaide Pro. Carts would come up to Peterborough for demo runs, and test rides.

No local, from memory ever built one like theirs, perhaps money was the killer to this design, or was it the small town apathy to keep a good thing running?

Pretty soon we kids would be back rattling once more down Stiggies or Devil's, no cheering crowds, just the whoops and yells as another bit the dust.

Well that's it.  Soapies of Peterborough.

Barry Booth