Chatter March 1990 P.S., I Love You!The Palm Springs Vintage Grand Prix is the big finale of the vintage race season. The stars come out to race too, like Denise McCluggage, Brian Redman, George Follmer, Parnelli Jones, and Bob Bondurant. There's lots of media, lots of spectators, and a bit more pressure. It's not the place you want to goof up -- too many witnesses. The course wound through the streets of downtown Palm Sprints, around the Wyndam Hotel. While I'm not crazy about walled, city courses -- they leave no margin for error -- it was an interesting, challenging course. But there were hazards like shallow concrete drainage dips, changes in pavement, manhole covers, and blowing, slippery sand. Surviving the course is a kind of victory in itself. I have occasionally won my class, but never had an overall win in my Bugeye. As I took my place on the pole, I realized I finally might have a chance. When the pre-grid workers gave us the five-minute sign, I put on my helmet and seatbelts. At the four-minute sign, there was the nagging thought that my doors were not closed properly, (my door flew open at the last race). I unstrapped, tested the doors (they were fine), restrapped. At two-minutes, I started the car. It sounded strong, especially considering that my mechanics had to pull the engine three times the day before practice. The grid marshall gave us the one-minute sign -- nearly blast-off... Uh, not yet. They gave us a "holding-one" signal. Should I turn off the engine and take a chance on being able to restart it? I revved teh engine so that the plugs wouldn't load up, but risked overheating the engine. When were they going to let us out on the track? It was the longest one-minute in pre-grid history. It gave me time to think about the race -- two much time. I began to realize how crazy it was to think about winning. In racing, anything can happen. Several people had already hit a wall. With this interminable holding-one, I could even run out of gas before I got on the track. I'd already begun to run out of nerve. When the pre-grid workers finally waved us onto the track, I prayed, "Just don't let me embarrass myself." I had friends in the crowd who had never seen me race before and I wanted to make a good impression. On the pace lap, the engine sounded mean -- I liked the way the roar reverberated off the concrete walls. It made my Sprite sound like a big V8. The Sprite's confidence began to increase my own. We got the green flag adn I out-accelerated the TR2 beside me, down-shifted, and set up for the first corner. I thought I had it made -- when I hit a dip and suddenly the car got very quiet and started slowing down. I jammed the accelerator to the floor, but nothing happened. There was no movement on the tach -- the car had died. As the Bugeye coasted to a complete stop, I moved over, out of the way, hoping that no one would hit me. Helplessly, I watched all fifteen of my competitors zoom past, imagining their thoughts, "Good, we move up a place." I couldn't believe it was happening -- I went from first to last in the space of a few seconds -- in front of all those people. It was racer's hell. My initial horror shifted to rage. "How could you do this to me?" I screamed at my silent Sprite as I tugged on the starter. Nothing. Is there a Heimlich maneuver for cars? Why didn't I get an Alfa? Or a Honda? I tugged again, screaming, cursing, cajoling -- all at the same time. Please start, you dear, damn, son of a... The Bugeye shuddered and roared maniacally back to life, like Frankenstein's monster receiving an electrical jolt. I revved the engine hard, just to show it who's boss -- It seemed to be saying, "I'm sorry I broke. I'll make it up to you." The car cornered hard. I could smell the tires, hear them squeal, and feel them stick. My pulse rate matched the engine's RPM. You've heard of driving in anger? The Bugeye and I were furious! We caught the Talbot midway through the esses and soon attached ourselves to the tailpipe of two other Bugeyes racing each other into Turn 6. We roared down the short straight and went into the hairpin together, a tight U-turn which begs for syncromesh into first gear. I took the inside, and passed my fellow Sprites. Two more down. I imagined the other drivers saying to themselves, "Where did she come from?" The Bugeye seemed to snarl a menacing, "We're baaack..." Was it possessed by the spirit of Nuvolari? Or James Dean? Three cars were midway down the half-mile straight. The Bugeye sputtered in each gear because the plugs had loaded up on pre-grid, and I was afraid the engine would stall again. I said to myself, like Scotty on Star Trek -- "She's breaking up, Jim. I canna hold her any longah." But the Bugeye didn't falter, and picked off two more cars. Nearing the breaking point for Turn 8, the car wanted to go for the next victim, but it felt a little unstable to me. Deciding not to get too greedy, I reined in the Bugeye and got the Alfa on the next straight. No sense crashing on the first lap -- that would be teh only thing that could eclipse the embarrassment of stalling in the first turn. I came up on a silver Mark II Sprite entering Turn 1, and we battled side by side through the esses. My older, Mark I bugeye ultimately passed the newer/old Mark II. The Bugeye next came up on George Myer's big red Cadillac-engined Allard in the hairpin. His fenders were taller than my whole car. Smoke poured off his spinning right rear tire as he pitched around the corner, accelerated, and disappeared down the straight. The Bugeye caught the Morgan of veteran Anatoly Arutunoff and tailed him down the straight. Nearing start/finish, we came up on a white MGB far over on the right and as I was just about to gun between the Morgan and the MG, the straight narrowed down to two lanes. I backed off and tucked behind Toly's faster Morgan, passing the MG into Turn 1. Following Toly through the esses, I received a passing lesson as he feinted right, then left, sneaking around the big Allard into the last righthand ess. The Allard left teh door open, so following the Morgan's lead, I got by, too. Nudging inside of the Morgan coming out of Turn 6, the Bugeye won the drag race down the short straight, but went into the hairpin too hot, almost kissing the wall. It brought to mind the Skip Barber axiom, "A squealing tire is a happy tire." -- but my tires were actually shrieking. (As was I at that time.) At the end of the long straight, I came up on the red TR2 that had started next to me on the grid. Frantically waving yellow flags greeted us, so we backed off and tiptoed around a sideways Jag that was blocking most of Turn 1. I followed the Triumph through the esses, passing it on the short straight, and overtook a Lotus 7 on the long straight. The Lotus pressured me for the next few laps until I could completely shake him. I began to feel like a hunter, prowling for horsepower. Who was next? I spied the dark blue Cooper Monaco on the start/finish straight. We diced through the esses, and I eventually got around him on the outside. I wasn't crazy about bonzaing the trickier turns, but the Bugeye seemed to be saying, "Pucn it, wimp." My anxiety was exorcised by a combination of success and desperation. Had the Cooper been in the lead? Could be -- it had been formidable in practice. I wasn't sure how many more laps the race would go, or exactly how many cars I had passed, fourteen or fifteen. I went one lap without seeing anyone and wondered if I was in first. Now I hoped that the race would be over immediately. But on the next lap, as I swung through the esses, I caught sight of a massive red beast of an Allard, disappearing into Turn 6. I didn't remember two Allards on pre-grid, so I figured it was the one that I had already passed. But as I got closer to it, I realized that it was teh V8 Cadillac-powered Allard of Duncan Emmons. It was Palm Springs 1988 all over again -- my nemesis that time was Jim Degnan in his big red Cad Allard. I had stayed right on his bumper throughout the whole race, but I couldn't get around him. Would history repeat itself? I realized that I was only second. Now I desperately hoped there would be enough laps to get him. The Bugeye caught the mammoth Allard midway through the esses, but as Emmons expertly drifted through the turns, I realized it was going to be a real challenge. He was good. The only hope was that he would have brake fade or brain fade. That, or the Bugeye and I were going to have to run the race of our lives. (Which we did -- the Bugeye's race times fell by seven seconds off of qualifying times.) I was on Emmons' bumper by the hairpin. He had to slow so much for the turn, that I had to brake to avoid plowing into him. I pulled inside of him turning onto the loooong half mile straight and the drag race was on. I floored it, but the Allard pulled away like I was on four flat tires -- I thought my engine had died again. The Allard literally vanished from sight, leaving behind a traiil of tire smoke. It must have looked like Road Runner leaving Wile E. Coyote in the dust. I would have laughed myself if it hadn't been so completely demoralizing. Oh, what I wouldn't give for a nitrous bottle. Or a lasso. I caught up to him quicker the next lap and was stuck on his bumper by the last ess turn. I came abreast of him in Turn 6, but he easily pulled away down the short straight. I caught him again and was right on his tail coming out of the hairpin, coughing from the smoke pouring off his right riear tire. I tucked into position right behind the Allard to draft him down the straight -- but he floored it and pulled away so far ahead of me, I couldn't even see him. It was a classic battle of horsepower versus chutzpah -- like Spud Webb versus Manut Bole. But this time, by the end of the long straight, I was a little bit closer than the previous lap. I caught the Allard by Turn 1 and dogged him through the esses -- the image of an annoying little biplane buzzing around King Kong came to mind. Emmons and I tried to psyche each other out -- I'd stick my nose inside him on corners, and he'd swing wide and kick sand in my path. We were going at it hammer and tongs, but his hammer was twice as big as mine (not to mention those tongs). There was a cloud of gray, Allard brake smoke at the end of the straight. It looked fairly recent, so I could tell I wasn't too far behind him. Turning onto the start/finish straight, I got caught behind a white Jag that we were lapping. The Allard pulled five car lengths on me -- we're talking long, Allard lengths, not Bugeye car lengths. There was no way I could catch him. As I passed start/finish, the official held out one finger -- this would be the last lap. Just one more lap -- didn't he realize I needed more time to beat the Allard? It was heartbreaking after all that work. I felt like I had let the Bugeye down -- maybe it could have caught him if it was in other, more capable hands. But if I charged, I could possibly catch the Allard and tuck up on his bumper at the finsh. Even that would be a partial victory. I could pretend, "Just one more lap and we would have had him." The Allard was steady and fast like a freight train, while the Bugeye kept chugging along like the "Little Engine that Could" -- "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." The Bugeye went through Turn 1 faster than ever before and shot into the esses, just slightly over the ragged edge. The Allard was now one turn ahead. The Bugeye kept charging, and made up the distance, somehow catching the Allard right before the last ess turn. Maybe he wasn't aware that I'd gotten so close, because he stayed right (on the line), leaving open a whole wide, beautiful lane beside his left flank. Was I dreaming? There was a strange sensation of time standing still -- it was now or never. The Bugeye slid off the line and I mashed the throttle down. In those milliseconds beween committing to the pas and establishing position, I expected the Allard to swing over and shut the door on me. But I had momentum and -- got him! I thought I could hear the Mormon Tabernacle choir singing "The Hallelujah Chorus." I didn't get too cocky though -- three Sprite sucking straights lay ahead. I knew the Bugeye could outbrake the Allard as well as go through the corners faster -- if I didn't make a mistake. But I also knew that the Allard could easily power past the Bugeye and all efforts would be wasted. And there was always the chance that the car could stall again. I rounded Turn 6, onto a sizeable straight, expecting to hear the rumbling of the mighty Allard next to me. Luckily, a back marker was in the left lane, so there was no way the Allard could get alongside as I squeezed past the lapped car. I didn't dare look back to see how close the Allard was, but stormed through the hairpin and gunned through the gear changes. When the Sprite was safely into fourth, I looked in the mirror and saw the Allard lumbering around the hairpin. He was about to charge. I hunched in the seat and kept my foot down. I could hear the Cadillac engine's roar getting louder and closer, and expected to see the Allard's tailpipe any time. I reluctantly peeped in the mirror shortly before I needed to brake for the last turn. The Allard was two car lengths back (Bugeye car lengths, not Allard car lengths), and growing larger in the mirror as it bore down on me. The Bugeye needed to nail the last turn perfectly, or it would have to drag the Allard to the finish line -- guess which car would win that contest? I hit the turn fast, shook a little going over the bump, but drifted out smoothly. One block ahead of me was the start/finish line. I was as relieved to see that waving checkered flag as a drowning person spying a lifesaver. Now I welcomed a view in the mirror -- the Allard was safely behind me. As I went around for my cool down lap, I saw, but couldn't hear spectators jumping up, clapping, and cheering. Back in the pits, even strangers complimented me on the "great race," but I just felt that I lucked out and was still embarrassed about what had happened at the beginning. Some even asked me if I'd parked it in the first turn on purpose, just to make the race dramatic. I wish I was that confident. The next day, a fellow racer greeted me with, "Wow. You boyfriend sure had a great race yesterday." I told him hat he hadn't raced. The other racer looked confused and said, "But I saw your yellow Bugeye out there..." and then he stopped, turning red with the realization of his mistake. I wondered if other people assumed it wasn't me driving the car. I laughed. "I'd never let him drive my car that way." Lynn Mills is a professional writer as well as accomplished race driver. She races her Sprite with Team Yellow out of North Hollywood, CA. Her byline is often seen in Victory Lane magazine and she is Editor of the VARA's Vintage Voice. |