Wow, Richard, brought tears to my eyes. What an adventure.
Bill
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Richard Taylor [SMTP:n196x@mindspring.com]
> Sent: Thursday, October 09, 1997 9:15 AM
> To: fot@autox.team.net
> Subject: Daytona, 97
>
> 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
>
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