lacarrera92-1, 7/31/92
La Carrera Classic, 1992, pt. II
In my last posting we were just finished the La Bufadora
Hillclimb, placing 11th out of 20 some-odd cars. While it felt
good, placing high in this event unfortunately doesn't mean jack
in the overall results, it just means you get to start the main
event earlier. The idea here is that if you place high in the
Hillclimb, you must have a fast car, and so then if they start you
earlier in the actual race, you'll be passing less people, which
makes for a safer race. Sounds good in theory, but in actuality it
only addresses the extremely slow and fast cars correctly. Those
cars that are either quick but slow (me!), or fast but sluggish get
jumbled up in the middle. I'm not complaining as it makes for a
bit more wheel-to-wheelness the next day, but that was exactly
opposite the intent.
Friday, June 26th, 1992 (day 3 continued)
Anyway, the Hillclimb was a blast, the car handled like the
world's biggest go-kart with the newly-fitted Panhard, and best of
all, we didn't break. In fact, only one car did, a beautiful 70 1/2
Z-28, complete with brand-new big block, 4spd, cage, etc. He ran
this car in the Silver State Challenge last year with some 130-
140 times, and now today he campaigning an even stouter engine. A
stouter engine that unfortunately lasted only thru the second shift
before losing all oil pressure and spinning a bearing. Big block
rod knock is truly a sound to behold, probably more obnoxious than
backing off the Sprite at high rpm in the Alameda tunnel. The
transformation from racer to "I've got nothing to lose now" party
fool is truly miraculous as well, as once we got the Z back on his
trailer, this person (who shall remain nameless) and his dutiful
henchman (nameless #2), became THE life of the party. Fully
convinced he could speak Spanish, he was the epitome of ugly
American, embarrassing and hysterical all at once. We spent quite
a while with this person at the market near the starting point of
La Bufadora, waiting for his truck to arrive, drinking his beer and
listening to big-block bench racing. A very colorful chap, who we
hadn't seen the last of yet. Not even close.
We were back to the hotel by dusk, high on adrenalin and
Tecate and in dire need of food and shower. We fiddled with the
cars a bit then showered and headed off into town for a bit of the
local flavor. Somehow we ended up running into the life of the
party (LOP) and his sidekick again, who were showing no signs of
slowing down. Still wearing his Nomex, and with a Tecate in each
hand he began leading us to his "happenin places", sputtering
unintelligible Spanglish all the while. We finally managed to ditch
him at an upstairs disco where gringos, let alone drunk gringos in
racing suits, were seriously out of place. On our way back to the
hotel we stumbled our across our old friend the roadside taco bar,
where we pitstopped and feasted on fresh tacos with napales
(cactus) and the most horrible tasting sweetened coconut milk
ladled from a huge jar on the counter. Thankfully I cannot
remember what it was called. After eating, we called it a night
and staggered home.
Saturday, June 27th, 1992 (the day of the race)
Up early and into the pool, and the hotel was already bustling
with activity. The parking lot was a collage of cars warming up,
frantic last minute prep, and styrofoam cups of bad coffee
everywhere. The word got around that we needed to assemble down by
the water by 9am for our false-start out of town, and the sponsor's
decals were being distributed. I was amused that there were so many
large decals, I was running out of space on my car. Unfortunately
none were big enough to cover the grey fender that Mt. Hamilton
took out.
There was actually very little left to do to the car, save for
a plug cleaning and setting up the video camera. The camera mount
proved to be a bugger, and in the process of snugging up the clamps
on the roll bar, I promptly stripped out one of the mounting bolts.
By now it was too late to fix it right, so I set it up the best I
could, and headed off for the false start.
Downtown was the mayhem it usually was, locals and federales
and racers and organizers all jumbled together trying to get this
thing under way. Finally we were told the starting order, and the
cars began lining up.
One by one we were sent off at 1 min. intervals, off thru the
center of town then out towards the hills, directed by federales
at every corner, till finally we would end up at the real starting
point some 10km outside of town. I felt it a bad sign that in this
very first non-race section did my first two mishaps occur. Nothing
serious, mind you, but enough that it triggered my "oh-oh" reflex.
First, while trundling along one of the potholed streets, a glance
in the rear view mirror indicated that a combination of the horrid
road conditions and stripped mounting bolt had rendered my video
cam in the upside-down orientation, taping lovely footage of the
tops of power poles and the sun. Then, while studying this to
determine whether or not the whole shebang was going to soon be
dragging behind my car by the power cord, I missed a turn and
headed down the wrong side of an expressway, against traffic, with
screaming federales flanking me. It's hard to see a sheepish
expression inside a full face helmet, but I had one. They guided
me back onto the correct path (Muchos Gracias mi amigos), and off
I went. I was very thankful when I finally reached the actual
starting point, and knowing I had a few minutes to wait, hurriedly
attempted to secure the camera again.
I made it a little better, and then I heard the first car tear
off in the distance and knowing that soon would be my turn, hopped
back in and secured myself. One by one they counted them off, and
finally I was up.
The car was running a little warm with all this idling, and
so we were both very happy when we got to go. This section was a
78 km long top speed section, followed by a 20 some odd km transit
section to the next stage. I had studied the route book for the
curva peligrosos (dangerous curves), and had their locations
memorized. Excepting for these, this runs was entirely a 4th gear
banzai at the fastest pace I felt comfortable. Redcar performed
flawlessly and felt smoother and more surefooted than she ever has
before. The suspension modifications I've made in the past few
months had really paid off as I kept up a very brisk pace thru this
entire section, and completed it w/o any traumas or being passed.
The transit section immediately afterwards is an untimed stage
where you can go as fast as you want, but the organizers do not
guarantee clear roads or no citations. Consequently I kept it at
about 70, figuring that all-outing it here would just reduce my
chances of finishing where it counted. Other people didn't quite
have the same idea, as soon I was passed by Paul in his Charger,
and a very quick Karmann Ghia. I was very thankful to see my
teammate pass me with the thumbs up, indicating that all had gone
well for him in this first stage.
Finally my drive in the country came to an end, as I reached
the starting point for the flying kilometer stage. This is just
what it says, 1km to get up to speed, 1km timed, and 1km to get
back down to speed, then transit on to the next checkpoint at Valle
de Trinidad. Simple enough, and so we staged.
Waiting for everyone to arrive, it had gotten *hot*, and
Redcar had begun to complain by fouling out the plugs some. I was
attempting to clear it by frantic throttle blipping, but that only
did so much. Finally they began waving us on, and I knew that as
soon as I got her up & running she'd be okay. Well, my time came
& she balked. Missing and spitting black smoke, I was having a fit
trying to get her cleared out & up to speed in just 1km. She was
really off at the start, but about midway thru the temp came down
a bit, and everything cleared out. Just about the time we started
to really collect some speed, I began looking for the finish timer.
No-one in sight. 1km came & went. No timer, no flagman, no nothing.
2km came & went. I began to worry that I had misunderstood the
instructions and wondered if I should slow it down a bit. No, no
signs, no other cars, & I kept the wick turned up. 3, 4, 5km came
& went, & the only sign of life was a rattletrap Mazda pickup that
I passed doing at least double whatever he was doing. I kept it up.
We came thru the town of Independencia with the tach at 6500 and
the speedo off the mark. (I later calculated 6500rpm to be just a
tick over 100mph). Nothing, no-one. Finally on a long straightaway
I took a chance and picked up the route book to see where the next
checkpoint was. I guess I must have gotten used to driving that
fast on that road to have thought it would be okay to read a little
bit, cause now I think it quite daft. As much as I could tell from
quick glances at 95mph, I determined that there was about 15km
until a major checkpoint/pitstop. So we kept on. Redcar was really
singing her song, everything working in harmony, bouncing along
this rotten road at nearly 100mph, and I couldn't have been
happier. Finally as the checkpoint km marker approached I caught
sight of a gold 911 in the distance. I slowed but quickly caught
up as we both began doing "I have no idea" gestures. Finally we
rounded a bend and were greeted by federales, flagmen, and race
traffic. We'd found the checkpoint. Slightly confused, utterly
ecstatic, and nearly out of gas, I pulled into the dirt road that
led to Valle de Trinidad and coasted to a stop. There were a few
other cars there, but conspicuously absent were most of the first
starters. As we discussed the possibility of buying gas here, we
were told the lead cars had gotten ahead of the flagmen, and so w/o
anyone to tell them where to stop, had gone on to the end ! We
would have to wait until they returned before we could start again,
and so we shed Nomex, opened hood, and took a breather. (Later we
would find out that they had *lost* the finish flagman for the
flying km and that was why it turned into the flying 20 km. They
did have the timer in place however, which indicated that Redcar
had turned a respectable 89 mph, while Paul managed
117 mph !)
After about an hour we had fueled up and checked out the cars,
and most everyone had been rounded up, so we were sent on to stage
for the last timed section. This would be another speed section to
the final checkpoint by San Felipe, after which there would be a
Tecate-hosted BBQ, and then the return trip to Ensenada.
No particular starting order was selected for this stage, and
in my eagerness to get going, I had gotten staged near the front.
We were counted off as before, and tore off one by one. This
section was mostly straight & flat, with a few deceptive sweepers,
but for the most part you can keep it up. I nervously held 90-
95mph the whole way, (nervous because this was the area that Redcar
historically has chosen to have some minor things go wrong, and I
was so close to finishing), but no traumas this year tho as she
kept her pace all the way to the checkered flag. The familiar faces
at the end who were usually offering us condolences were instead
offering congratulations, and I had a smile from ear to ear as we
buzzed into San Felipe.
Now, it would seem that a story about a race would end when
the race is over. Not so here, as there was more adventure
associated with the return trip than there was with the race
itself. In the interest of brevity however, I'll give you the
condensed version.
Saturday, June 27th, 1992 (The Return Trip)
As promised, Tecate had cold beer and the barbies a-flaming
when we reached San Felipe, so the finishers swapped stories and
feasted. One particular entry, Fritz Kott, took the big skid award
with his '54 Lincoln that was losing tranny fluid at such a rate
that it had locked up on him at *high* speed, leaving two strips
of rubber ~ 100 feet long. He made it tho', right behind me, and
the degree of satisfaction that finally, in the four years that we
had known & assisted each other in this event, we had both
finished, was beyond handshake congratulations. It was hug-worthy.
We did.
Casualty talk was thankfully low, initially being only father-
son team Bob & Neil Senz discussing what a disintegrating V-12
sounded like at full speed. Then we got the word there had been an
accident. Apparently a 930 slope-nose that had been run in the
Touring class had failed to make one of the last sweepers, and he
balled it up into the desert. He was ok, but the irony of this is
that the cars in this class were to stay behind a pace car, (who
happened to be the Ensenada Chief of Police in a 635), but this guy
had begun dicing with him *after* the checkered flag. Adding insult
to injury this person had so had another accident earlier on in the
parking lot in Valle de Trinidad ! I don't think he'll be asked
back.
The news of the accident had made us somber, and so we filed
out to return to Ensenada. We stopped at the 930 to help lift it
onto the trailer since it would no longer roll, and I have
photographic testimony to the strength of the 911 body shell. It
had rolled hard, but the roof had only come down enough to touch
the tops of the seats. He was very lucky.
Fritz had stopped here to help, but now we had to help him get
going, as the Lincoln tranny was slipping so bad that it had to be
pushed off to engage high gear. We all began to push, but the thing
had dumped so much oil that the back end of the car was entirely
slicked over. Finally we got good grips & off he went.
We continued motoring at a leisurely pace, drinking in the
countryside that we had raced thru just hours before. Then as I
rounded a left hander by the world's smelliest garbage dump, Redcar
quit. As in dead. Paul and the GTV team were behind me and so they
pulled in. Luckily the Alfa guys had their chase vehicle full of
tools (and their car on a trailer). We quickly determined the coil
had expired, and they reluctantly offered up the Alfa's to get me
back. We swapped, and she started right up. Off again.
Fritzs' transmission must have been slipping badly, as we soon
caught up to him. Albeit slow, it was quite a treat to watch this
period Yank Tank negotiating this tortuous road. I was mesmerized
as we played this 40mph version of follow the leader, when one of
the most horrible sounds I have ever heard suddenly erupted from
under my bonnet, the tach jumped, and the car again died. I coasted
off into another conveniently-located spot, fully expecting to see
the crank sticking out the side of the block. Everyone pulled off,
and we popped the bonnet. At first we found nothing amiss, and
then, way down under the tangle of oil cooler lines, I noticed that
the distributor cap had come off. Knocked off, upon closer
inspection, by a tachometer gear drive reduction box that had begun
flailing about wildly when the drive had frozen.
It had not only taken off the cap, but one of the cap clips
and the rotor as well, and not nicely either. Most of the rotor
was intact so I put it back on, and mad the cap stay mostly where
it should by bending the remaining clip. With only 25 km to go, I
crossed my fingers & turned the key. Sputter-sputter, blap, vroom.
No high rpms, but it might get me home. Again we did the push-
thing with the Lincoln, and again we were on our way.
We moved along at about 25-30mph, anything beyond that & I'd
start missing. But it was enough to collect one more car in our
caravan, a very original looking '54 Lincoln Capri convertible. As
I followed he & Fritz, these two examples of automotive legendry
on the road that made them famous, I saw something that I will
never forget. It still gives me chills to recall it; As we moved
along a long uphill, the convertible moved over to drive alongside
Fritz in the sedan. They paced each other, and as we drove along
the pock-marked Mexican highway with the blood-red sun just
beginning to set ahead of us, the sight of these two '54 Lincolns
side by side were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And then
it happened; the passenger of the convertible, a little boy of no
more than 10, reached out to high-five Fritz in the sedan. The cars
moved closer, and their hands connected. Briefly they touched
hands, and I would've given anything to have a picture of that
sight. It was one of those never-forgotten images that I hope I
have described well enough here to convey the level of emotion it
created. And then just as quickly as it happened, the convertible
sped up and pulled in, and it was over.
We continued on to the hotel, Redcar holding on, and at the
very end Paul went ahead and got the ramps on the trailer just in
time for me to pull in & on, and shut it down. The 1992 La Carrera
Classic was over, and we had finished.
Results:
Me- 3rd in my class, second to last overall, avg. speed
~72mph.
Paul- 2nd in his class, tenth overall, avg. speed ~ 81mph.
It has been a pleasure writing about our adventures, and I hope
that you enjoyed reading them as much as I enjoyed having them.
Daren Stone
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