Sitting on the patio late last
night with a Landshark and a cohiba, I mused about how amazingly well this class holds up. Makes you kind of proud,
don't it, like you want to go out and witness to the world? I would imagine
if the Rodrigues clan had written an owner's manual (don't get me started on that), the forward would have had some scripture, kind of a take off on
Matthew 5:14:
"FM drivers are the light of the world. A driver on the podium cannot be hid. Nor do team
owners light a lamp and put it under a bushel, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the paddock. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see
your awesome machinery and give glory to Star Mazda who is in Pacoima."
Well, I had occasion to give my testimony last weekend, but it all happened quite innocently. I won't pretend that I was being a devout
evangelist or anything, I was just looking for an outlet for my ya-ya's (as the Rolling Stones like to say), you know, looking for some cars I could pass.
The next official race was going to be the annual "Laguna Seca 60 car beach party and safety car parade."
With all the out of towners and impossible gravel traps, it was an event that I had sworn at and
consequently off of.
So, I decided it was time to "go home to my roots" (club track days); something I do once a year or so and it just so happened that the American
Racing Club was holding a double race at "beautiful Thunderhill Park" as they like
to call it.
With about 70-80 drivers attending the track day and another 100+ friends and hangars on, it's kind of like the county fair; lots of folks milling around
aimlessly and very few of them with any idea what the shiny black/green FM was. So, they came by my paddock like I was selling vega-matics for 3 easy payments
of $29.99. I should have had a stack of Star Mazda brochures; in fact Gary R. should be paying my expenses and giving me a Star Mazda paint job, that's
how well I was carrying the torch.
The guys most impressed were all the yupped up Porsche club guys. They were having a hell of a time swallowing their pride and believing I could be 10-15
seconds faster for 1/3- 1/5 the price of their cars. And it was really making them uncomfortable that someone 2-3 times their age was doing it. The younger
ones with bright new tats would ask: "Yeah, you're quick but is that car a chick magnet?" Of course I was thinking "does it look like
it?" but I quickly responded with "Yeah, but my very comely crew and umbrella
girls are not here this weekend. I just needed a break so I sent them on an all expense paid cruise." (which would have been pedal boats in Folsom Lake
if I had any crew) They stared at me like I was Hugh Hefner. Kids, what do they know. Prolly never heard of Paul Butterfield or Jimmy Morrison either.
But the big payoff is having all those (300+) beady eyes on you during the race. That's more people watching an FM than 5 of our SCCA races. The ARC
races field about 25 cars of various persuasions; this time ranging from an FV, a CSR, the usual Spec Miatas and M3s to a shitload of Porsches including
some GT cup cars, a couple of Ferraris and monster Vipers and Vettes. Always a good time since it's really a vintage 13-13 atmosphere. which is comforting when there's all this heavy metal behind you.
Come race time, we have a drivers meeting and I make an impassioned plea for the guys in the 3500 lb monsters to remember there's a frail bit of human
flesh pressed into a frail and low slung bit of 1350 lb car out in front of them. They promise they'll watch for me
and the flags if I spin which I avoid at all costs.
In Saturday's race there's a 600 HP Vette on pole who qualifies at a buck-46 using the T-5 bypass. Elmer's
the owner/driver with a team and budget that he could run Indy Car with. I'm almost 5 seconds slower on the outside
of row 1 and wondering if I can cut off the Viper in 3rd spot. On the start, Elmer steams away and I move
over thinking I've blocked Joe in the Viper, but somehow he's found a car width of pavement and roars on by me into T-1. As you can imagine, the first lap is always exciting; I'm hoping to god I don't spin and get smushed like a
bug. Fortunately, turns 2, 3, 4 and 5 are quite slow so I'm on Joe's ass waiting to pounce going into
T-6. And as expected, he has to brake for 6 and I slip by with Elmer's big buck Vette still in sight. Well after 5-6 laps, Elmer's still in sight and I'm beginning to curse him for baiting/taunting me. I can't catch him but I'm bustin my butt tryin'. A lap or 2 later I come out
of T-15 and see this huge cloud of smoke and him limping away and pulling off.
So I look in my mirrors, don't see anyone and cruise on home to the checkers, lapping a few more Miatas in the process.
Sweet.
In Sunday's race, I'm on pole, 'cause even Elmer's kingsize budget can't bring the Vette back from the dead. I know that Joe in 2nd spot is going to smoke me on the start again (duh) and have 3 cars lengths going into the first
turn. I think about taking the outside spot, more on the racing line, but realize that's not going to protect
against the #3 car and maybe #4 place cars. As we roll off the grid, it dawns on me that I forgot to reset the carb
screws from the full lean warm up position. Uh-oh, WTF have I done now?
It's bloody hot and I'm as lean as can be; time to listen for detonation. Well with my usual fatalism, I decide
to stick around for the first blood-curdling lap at least. As we're side by
side waiting for the green, Joe is about driving me deaf with his Viper pipes just 5 feet from ears. He gets me by more
than a few car lengths into T-1 and I'm playing catch up for the first full lap. Running lean, I think I'm
hanging with him better on the straights but can't get off the corners worth a damn. But I do catch up when he
lifts for T-1 on lap 2 and get next to him going thru 2. I take the dirty, off- camber MF outside line in T-3 where I
get by him, and I'm off to the races. He drops back quickly, due to overheating I find out later. And I end up cruising around short-shifting until I start imagining things, get bored lapping Miatas and pull in. Anyway, by the time I get back to my paddock, there's a bunch of new whuffo's asking questions like "whuffo you do
this" and "whuffo you do that????????" And as I push up my balaclava to look like a turban, I wave them
away while I kneel down facing Pacoima and thank the almighty Star for such a brilliant idea as marketing a spec car like this.
A couple of guys came by later to say they aren't totally clueless. One was an FM prodigal son from the '95-00
era, Francois Henley, who got more than a little nostalgic when he saw my car on track. Sportin' a big smile, he
recalled how Derry O. (Fireball 77) put him in the weeds a couple of times and how he would always come back to battle Derry and the kings of yore back
then. The look on his face said those were good times that he'd like to re-capture.
Maybe he forgot that Bill was taking over about then and probably scared him off. Right now he brings a Z-06
garage queen out to the track every so often, but finding out that the SF Region was alive and well and ready for his return gave him pause.
The other was a young Asian kid who said he was fascinated with formula cars and gathering all the input he could.
Deeply entrenched with the Porsche club maniacs, he must be a web addict because he knew a lot about me just from reading my posts on ApexSpeed. Whoa, that's a scary thought. Anyway, he could spout die hard doctrine of the standard
FM car better than I could. Looked like a gamer and one to take on the Monkey.
Oh yeah, more fresh meat for the General.
So, there I was, doing my part for the future of the class and earn my way into FM heaven. Question is: What have you done for Gary R. lately?
That's all the blather for this week. The Andy Rooney of FM racing, signing off……
