The only hard part is trying to sleep. The revelry goes on late into the night, with the sounds of metal on metal ringing in the chill air as modern-day knights in armor fight with swords, axes, and spears. The occasional siren breaks up the rhythm for the ones that go to the hospital, or jail. Amazingly, the cars themselves are untouched the next morning. Nothing but a little blood spatter, to wipe off with the dew. Cars are sacred here.
And some of the best action of the show happens at night. Bobby Stuart from the Jensen Club set up an impromptu drag race on a deserted stretch of Mountain Road, and they whupped the Aston Martin cretins hard. There was no sign of the fun the next day - a flatbed hauled the wreckage to Canada before dawn - but two guys in a red Interceptor were boasting of their victory to anyone who would listen, next day on the show field.
The real high point of the night was when the MG club outlaws raced through Smuggler's Notch at 2AM. They close the road up there this time of year but proper British car enthusiasts always have bolt cutters in their ever-present tool bags, and some have torches. Those little cars went through the hairpins faster than I'd have thought possible, and most of them made it out alive.
As all that unfolded, the Land Rover guys were replicating Gleason's famous night time crossing of Siberia up on the Mansfield ski slopes. They'd tried to rent daytime access to the mountain, and been rebuffed, but a night raid was more fun anyway. The mountain maintenance crews are probably still cleaning up the mess.