Friends,
First off, I'm really quite proud of the responses I received from my note
committing to drive to the race in Daytona. It's reassuring to know that
there is such a hearty bevy of like minds in the group. Thanks for the
support.
Wednesday morning, right after dropping my 8th grade daughter off at
school, I headed south out of Atlanta. The weather could not have been more
perfect; severe clear CAVU @ 70 degrees F. The car was loaded to the
gunwales w/ tools, top, jack, spare gas & water jugs, driver's suit &
helmet, a cooler, spare tire, a case of 20w50, regular clothes & personal
gear, cookies, nuts, cell phone and portable radio (which I never turned
on.) I have a 10 gallon fuel cell, fully juiced, with no fuel level
indicater. Man, I was loaded for bear! Even the morning rush hour traffic
seemed to part for my launch.
I must admit, however, that my driver's seat started to take its toll
within an hour. Shifting cheeks helped a little but there simply weren't
enough cheeks to go around to aleviate, (or however the hell you spell it),
the noticable level of discomforture. But, hey, the sun was out and the car
was purring.
After about hour three or four I had worked out all the corrections for
tach and speedo indications per mile. Ole #96 at 3000 rpms in overdrive
will hold a steady 72.5 mph. This exercise would come in helpful later at
the racetrack. To pamper the car, I elected to cruise at 2700 rpm's (65
mph) for most of the highway miles (435 each way).
Valdosta, lies just north of the Florida state line and is about half way
to Daytona. Approachiong it, at first I didn't associate the sweet smell of
warm oil with my car. I think I subconsciously assigned it to the local
pulp wood industries. The air-temp had risen to the mid 80's and the oily
smell just seemed to go along with it. When I pulled in for gas, the odor
level quadrupled immediately as a dark brown puddle formed under the
engine. I got that old feeling in my gut. But I must admit that fortified
with $500 dollars in 20 dollar bills in my pocket, a cell phone, a fancy
Visa card and civilation(?) near, I still felt that I had everything going
for me. After a couple of false stops at modern, unimaginative service
facilities, I found a well worn one with what we affectionately call a good
ole' boy of a like mind. He and I put the car up on a lift. In no time flat
Norbie tightened up the two loose bolts on the fuel pump and, voila, the
hemorhaging ceased. I am quite capable of this elementary form of surgery,
but sometimes it's far more prudent to stand back and just show
appreciation. We went ahead and changed the oil, checked the transmission
and rear end, greased the universals then retired to Sonny's Bar-B-Q for
lunch. Norbie and I pigged out on pork plate specials, gallons of sweet tea
and fried peach pie. I have to say that I enjoyed every minute of the whole
non-episode.
Back out on I-75 I noticed that there was a disconcerting pinging in the
engine when under hard acceleration. On the second time I stopped to retard
the spark, two friends, Neil Estes and Bob Wagner drove by, slowed down and
stopped to offer a hand. They were caravaning race cars (an MGB and Lotus
23 respectively) to Daytona. Their only comment worth repeating was, "Hell,
if all you're doing is taking a leak, we're outa here." It was damned nice
that they stopped but when we all got going again, they pulled away from me
more or less like they would over the weekend at the race track. 2700 rpm's
determined my speed and "hell bent for leather" determined theirs. The rest
of the trip was absolutely beautiful and wonderfully uneventful.
I elected to drive katty-corner across north Florida rather than keeping to
the Interstate. The farm land interior of that state is lush and the cattle
ranches productive. The working heartland of Florida is everything you
would want Americana to be. Go Gators! The off-Interstate highways still
work and can be well worth the few extra minutes.
The race weekend was extraordinary. Race icons like Brian Redman, Paul
Newman and Hurley Haywood tended to eclipse those of us in old English
sports cars, but that's their problem. I'll bet the stories we told over at
that cigarette stinking honky tonk on the Beach each evening competed
nicely with the practiced quite reserve required of "luminaries of
distinction." But who knows, maybe they lie too.
The track was a hoot! I've never driven a car at full throttle (or is it
full song as Serling Moss used to say) for such extended periods of time.
The course uses all four NASCAR corners and straightaways but swings you
through a couple of tight hairpins in the infield. The first time through
the high bank turns was a bit like flying. Your equilibrium stays neutral
but you keep your horizontal references in the corner of your eyes. The
truly fast cars were given lots of opportunity to blow it out. My car
topped out at 112 mph on the straights which religated me to the arse end
of the pack. Of the 13 starting cars in my class I ended up in 7th place.
That I moved up in the pack so notibly is but a tribute to Mother
Attrition. Do I want to go faster? Sure, and I will. But I danced with the
one who brought me and I danced all the way home. I have to also say that
the weekend was one of the rare and memorable ones in a lifetime of more
than a few experiences.
My Sunday race ended at 3:30. By 4:10 I had my windsield back on, my gear
loaded and drive out the tunnel to I-75 north-bound. With 110 octane in the
tank the 'ole car hums along even more effortlessly than the ride down. It
is damned near intoxicating. The weather is perfect and all gauges are in
the green. I try to stop to top off the fuel and pick up some cokes and
stuff, but I can't make myself break the spell. I am invincible. Somewhere
betweeen the adrenaline drain-off after the race, the anticipation of the
trip home and the exquisite Florida afternoon, I'm as stoned as we used to
get as kids when we were "just experimenting."
Right about the time I come up again on Valdosta the sun is setting and,
put-put, I run out of gas. No problem. In the trunk I have a spare gallon
of race fuel, good for an easy 30 miles. Coasting with a dead engine off to
the shoulder of the road I notice that the roadway is bermed rather steeply
down and away from the paving. There's no paved shoulder, just a grass
embankment. My decision is to err to safety and so I pull 5 or 6 feet off
the Interstate. It only takes a minute to pour the gallon of gas into the
fuel cell. That old gut feeling comes back again, however, when the engine
refuses to start. It's dark now and the car rocks each time a semi rumbles
by "at full song." The first thing I do is pull off a fuel line and try to
suck up the gas to prime the fuel pump. All I suck is toxic fumes. I then
try to pour the last few drops of gas out of the gas can down the fuel line
but the passing traffic keeps blowing everything around too much to hit the
1/4" target. Even with the little pocket flashlight in my mouth it's hard
to keep everything aligned, so I give up. Next I unload the trunk and try
to blow into the fuel cell to pressure feed gas to the fuel pump, but the
filler hole is too large to make a good seal. While back there, I reach
inside the tank to make sure that the fuel pick-up is clear. Well it is. It
is also completely clear of the fuel which has quite naturely puddled on
the low (opposite the pick-up) side of my awkwardly banked car. Not to be
discouraged, I get out my jack to lift the low side of the car to hopefully
level the tank. Each time I get the low side tires off the grass the whole
car slips down hill sideways. Damn. This is turning into a challange of
some dimension. I consider taking the fuel cell out and gravity feeding it
to the the engine but this doesn't fit the tempo of my problem solving
mindset, yet. It will be my last line of attack.
In retrospect, my next ploy borders on fantasy but I guess you had to be
there to appreciate it. I load my tools and jack back into the car and
decide to push the car by hand back up onto the Interstate where it is
level. My lineof sight back to the headlights of rear approaching traffic
is about 3/4 of a mile. This will give me something like 45 seconds of hard
pushing if there is an interuption on traffic back that far. I wait about 8
or 10 minutes for my chance. It seems like a hell of a long time. When it
finally comes I find that I can't push the car fast enough to get it back
up on the roadway within my time window. Quickly I put the car in first
gear and reach inside for the key to use the starter to help. Anguishly
slow I begin to make a little headway. One compression stroke, push and
then another. I keep looking over my shoulder for headlights. Mine are off,
of course. I need the battery for the struggling starter. Man I am pushing
hard. Then unexpectedly the engine fires, first one pop then a few dead
strokes, then another pop. Then, Vroom! The car takes off with me steering
from my pedestrian position running alongside it down a pitch black
expressway. With one last quick look over my shoulder for traffic, I hold
on to the steering wheel and swing in over the left rear fender and trunk.
With agility I thought I lost decades ago, I climb over the roll bar and
squirm with great comfort into that formerly horribly restrictive drivers
seat. Now running on all four cylinders, I cooly flick on the headlights,
run through the gears and motor merrily on down the highway.
Within 15 miles I pull into a Exxon-Huddle House combination, top off the
car and wolf down a wonderfully greasy patty-melt with double onions and
cheese and 2 huge glasses of milk. It turns out to be the perfect formula
for absorbing lingering gastric 110 octane.
The last 250 miles home is charactorized only by the astonishing beauty of
a warm, starry clear, October Georgia night. The Arabian moon sets about
9:30. At 1:00 AM I wake up and kiss daughter Ruthie good night.
Now I have to ask you. Who in their right mind would want to trailer a car
to a race? It simply doesn't make sense.
Richard Taylor, '65 TR-4, HSR #96
|