~ Post contributions, comments or rebuttals to our guestbook, and advisories to our archive (...mind your manners, if you please) ~

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Table_of_Contents

~ With utmost impunity we embellish ourselves lamenting the Theory of Bureaucratic Behavior's ever-burgeoning hall of fame & shame ~

 

On Hiatus from the Excesses of Capitalism ~ (... a wonderful time for driving)

Annihiliation of a Perfectly Good Race Driver ~ (... it hurts to hve to watch)

Statistical Analysis: Open Wheel Racing, in its Final Hour ~ (...race bosses run amok)

Analysis: The Operation Safe Canyon Charade ~ (...revisited)

Analysis: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby ~ (...the "take it to the track" cliche)

Strange Brew: Oil Oligopolies Run Amok in California ~ (... Californians, getting the shaft)

Egg On Their Face: The Operation Safe Canyon Doublestandard ~ EXTRA-EXTRA!

Corvette Nights, Faux Cowboys & Pick-up Truck Dreams ~ (... another slice of American Pie)

The Confusion of Left & Right ~ (... Newsies, and their crony propaganda)

When was the last time Ford had an idea? ~ (... Retrograde mentality bites the dust)

Operation Safe Canyon Double Standard ~ (... How come Arnold wasn't busted?)

What This Country Needs is Another $30,000 Pussy Car ~ (...disequilibrium in the automobile industry)

Hybrid Externalities & Unwritten Laws ~ (...the DMV sucks)

Anticipating your 2005 World Driving Champion ~ (...Mid seasoned F1 Statistical Analysis)

Marital Advice: What to do when the 'ol Gal gets too fat! ~ (...she can really hoist a Maytag!)

Policy Analysis: The 2005 United States Grand Prix Fiasco ~ (...off with Max Mosley's Head!)

The Affirmative Action 500 ~ (...the end is near)

EXTRA-EXTRA: Intelligence Blunder in the Operation Safe Canyon Smokescreen! ~ EXTRA-EXTRA!

The Martha Stewart Por Le Meux-Mobile ~ (...A slice of American Pie!)

Los Angeles Metro's "Let's Make More Car Chases!" Conspiracy ~ (...Down with bureaucracy!)

Los Angeles Metro's "Let's Confiscate More Cars!" Shakedown ~ (...Another gripping eposide of Andy & Barney!)

Abuses Observed in "Operation Safe Canyons" Debacle ~ (...The Mr. Safe Canyon FUDmeister is coming to get you!)

PINK-SLIP ADVISORY: The "Operation Safe Canyons" Smokescreen ~ (...Los Angeles Metro, making a grab, for your car!)

Preliminary Analysis: Fortress Mulholland & The "Operation Safe Canyons" Cabal ~ (...the Sabretooth Tiger Analogy)

Local Newsies are Crawling Out, From Under the Woodwork! ~ (...Canyon Dragnet is Imminent!)

The Great Wall of Mulholland: "Operation Safe Canyons" Czar! ~ (...Hail, to the New Mulholland Raceway Czar!)

What started it all: The Ponch & John Sales Tax Subsidy: Vote NO on County Measure A! ~ (... down with blood sucking vultures!)

~ EXTRA-EXTRA! FORD PULLS OUT THE RUG ON FORMULA 1 ~ (... Again!)

~ Public Enemy Number One: The Contemporary SUV ~

~ Asleep at the Wheel: Just How Bad Things Really Are ~ (... The hybrid in yaw experience)

ADVISORY: ALL MITSUBISHI EVOLUTION VIII DRIVERS ~ (... SERVICE ADVISORY)

~ What are we supposed to do when the old gal gets fat? ~ (... Fat, overpriced sports cars, revisited)

~ The Mitsubishi "Spider" Debacle: Crosswalking SCCA Results to Vehicle Warranty Policy ~ (... Time to change your racing name!)

~ Open Letter to Redneck America ~ (... Down with Bureaucratic Insanity!)

~ Barney Fife! To the Rescue! Little Tujunga Advisory ~ (... Fair Warning: Big Brother is Upon Us)

~ Current State of Toyota F1's Five Year Plan ~ (... and other observations)

~ Monotheism Revisited: Case of Gianclaudio Regazzoni and Rubens Barrichello ~ (... Down with Montezemolo!)

~ Open Wheel Road Racing is Dead in America. Long live Open Wheel Road Racing! ~ (... Down with the IRL!)

~ SEFAC Ferrari: The Shrinking Violet of Contemporary Motorsport ~ (... Ferrari guys are whussies)

~ The Malibu Grand Prix Driving Experience of Yore ~ (... Down with SCCA!)

~ What do you do when the Old Gal Gets Fat? ~ (... Down with fat, overweight sports cars!)

~ California's Car Tax, Revisited ~ (... The Brainless Wonder, to the rescue!)

~ Analysis: The Juan Pablo Montoya Debacle at Williams ~ (... Aspiring driver's beware)

~ Bernie Gets Burned! ~ (... Subversion of Bernie Ecclestone by Big Tobacco)

~ The Sports Car is Dead... Long live the Sports Car ~ (... Karl Polyani lives!)

~ 21st Century McCarthyism in America ~ (...Tail-gunner Joe, revisited)

~ Tony George's War on Open-Wheel Road-Racing in America

~ The Carpet of Gold ~ (... George Junior is a punk)

~ Crony Capitalism & Crony Socialism ~ (...George Bailey is a chump)

~ Off-Duty Ass Clowns Flashing Badges ~

~ Catch-22 Revisited: The Angeles Forest Highway Conundrum ~

~ Ferrari: The Baby Who Never Grew Up ~

~ Dr. Albert Einstein's "Who Own's The Fish?" ~

~_The IMOC Dweeb ~

~_RIP: Epitaph to the Speedvision Debacle ~

~_Structure of Mulholland Raceway ~

~_Third Speedvision Debacle! ~ (...now we're banned, I think)

~_Mulholland Raceway Banned by Speedvision! ~ (...or so we thought)

~_Wry Tribute to Our Namesake ~

~_The First Speedvision Debacle ~ (...our first spat)

~_High Death Rate Vehicles ~

 

Table of Contents

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"War cannot be put on a certain allowance"

 

The Summer of 2008

 

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Been a good long while. Hasn't it? About a year since anyone's heard a peep out of us. In the span of one year, the whole world changed. Things aren't going particularly well in the world. Outlook is, at best, dim.

 

Been warning you guys about this, the last several years: "Build lightweight vehicles, or else..."

 

Four bux a gallon, that is not the deal. The deal was, cheap gas. The deal was, bend a few rules if we have to, just get that rednect Texas bum into the White House, any which way we can. In return, he's supposed to march into Iraq, quick and nonchalant, secure those oil fields, swipe that oil right out from under their noses, and make it flow unto us for our canyon driving folly.

 

He failed. Miserably.

 

Fact of the matter, our President George, bless his soul, doesn't know sick-um from suck-um. He is so drop dead stupid, with the might of the strongest military force in the history of western civilization, it took stupid George longer to get control in teeny-tiny third-world Iraq than it did Franklin Delano Roosevelt, mopping up a World War on two fronts.

 

So thorough, pragmatic and forward thinking was FDR, right down to a gnat's ass he had the post WW II aftermath conveived and articulated, Europe divvied-up like pumpkin pie two years before D-Day.

 

Alcoholic dimwit from Texas, every single policy George Jr. attempted to affect, from social security to national security, a monumental failure, running up deficits, spending like a druken sailor, screwing up our economy, the value of the United Sates Dollar gone by way of the Mexican Peso, prestige of the United Sates of America the laughing stock of western civilization, in a few months he goes home with but one success; his eight year tenure the only thing he managed to accomplish: The National Do Not Call List.

 

He bankrupted it. But for no good reason that Stupid George, the United States of America is, in affect, bankrupt.

 

We warned you about this guy. Imbeciles you keep electing to high office... You put him there. You did not listen. So, now you have to pay. Here we are, midsummer of 2008, stupid George's policies put you directly in your congressman's crosshairs of yet another 55 MPH national speed limit.

 

Clue you in on something: 55 MPH speed limit you are not going to like.

 

The 1970s, imposing the double nickle, we ultimately wound up consuming more fossil petroleum than we'd saved. 55 MPH speed limit imposed, fossil fuel consumption instead rose, precipitously. Driving a vehicle optimized for 73 miles per hour -- 73 miles per hour -- would have been significantly more efficient than driving a vehicle optimized for 55 mph -- 73 miles per hour (FYI: under a federallly mandated 55 mph national speed limit, the limit is 73 MPH; so long as you're not in a sports car, you can safely go 73 mph in a 55, no fear of being cited).

 

Been trying to tell you guys this, for years. Slowly killing ourselves, it is a dear price we're paying for fat, overweight vehicles and old technology. Any idiot can build a 600 horspower IC (e.g., internal combustion engine). Time to start building lightweight vehicles; time to find new ways of going fast.

 

Doesn't have to be this way. (1) Slashing average kerb weight 500 pounds, (2) providing corporate tax incentives for maintaining lightweight fleets, and (3) generous personal tax incentives for buying lightweight vehicles, we could otherwise raise the national limit to 85 MPH, and (...AND) simultaneously quarter aggregate demand for fossil petroleum, to 25% of current consumption. The 75% we'd save could be stockpiled and saved, for the petrochemical fertilizer necessary to maintain current agricultural production.

 

For your information, politicians don't impose upon you a 55 mph speed limit to save fuel. They do so, to punish you for being stupid; for making bad choices. Judging by all those SUVs you people bought, you deserve a 55 MPH speed limit; you people deserve politicians as stupid as you are; you deserve paying 20 bux a gallon for gas.

 

Says right there in the Proclamation of the Constipation, you've got the right to be stupid.

 

I was once stupid. Hook, line and sinker, sold down the river without a paddle, automotive journalists at R&T Magazine influenced me to buy the biggest piece of junk ever made by an automaker. Glowing reviews on the SVO Mustang, Road & Track Magazine journalists colluded with Ford Motor Company, in marketing arguably the worst, most poorly engineered performance vehicle ever out of Detroit.

 

Always breaking down. Not only did that mistake cost me. Dearly. It hurt me. Profoundly. Not one race did I ever win in that car. So much did that chassis flex, whensoever up on the lift, doors couldn't be closed.

 

Not so innocent times, yet journalists were universally renouned, their integrity. No one knew the extent to which they were perked, wined and dined, corrupted by automakers to salt and pepper their articles, cheat on road tests, gloss over defects, omit shortcomings in helping automakers differentiate or exaggerate claims. Today, there are no more automotive journalists... Glorified car salesmen. However indirectly they are perked, they are bought and paid for, on the payroll of the automobile oligopilies, paid to part you from your income, differentiate you down the river with no recourse, on a heavier, less efficient, more expensive car than you would otherwise buy.

 

I once believed in that fraternty of men... Men who I thought would never sin on their science.

 

Thumbing through my August issue of Road & Track Magazine, their writers are clueless! Terminal end of the IC's lifespan (e.g., internal combustion engine) here we are, looking stupid paying 5 bux a gallon for cheap watered-down gasoline, contemplating brave new alternative ways of going fast, and there's R&T magazine's best and brightest, stuck in a rut aggrandizing 600 horspower ICs (e.g., Internal Combustion) on the September cover of their magazine, as though Vipers, Corvettes, Porsches, Lamborghinis and million dollar driveway ornaments are, 2008, relevent? Noteworthy? Significant? Oblivious to the Honda Civic SI in their August 2008 issue, the number 1 best car a mindful enthusiast could possibly buy, as per glorified car salesmen at Road & Track Magazine is... the Chevrolet Cobalt?

 

R&T magazine editors proclaim the Cobalt to be one of the best "handling" cars they've ever driven?

 

On the subject of nonsense: How gasoline got to 146 bux a barrel had nothing to do with real supply or real demand. What they're doing with oil and real estate is kind of like eBay, sellers in colluion, pingponging the price up shrill bidding each other's stuff, ripping everybody off. Flight to quality: Having pingponged the price of homes up Enron style, wrecking the market for securitized debt in mortgage based equity, Wall Street's best and brightest money changers, in search of greener pastures, phase shifted diversified portfolios, pulling the rug out on real estate, moving their capital into commodities (e.g., oil furtures), pingponging the price you pay for cheap, watered-down gasoline to a price 5 times what it was 10 years ago. Masterful manipulation of mortgage based equities having doubled the price of a residential dwelling twice, from 1990 to 1999, in one consecutive decade, from 1998 to 2008, fat, lazy Wall Street money changers run amok, doubled the price of cheap, watered down gasoline nearly three times.

 

Funny thing happned: Pulling the rug out from under American homeowners, housing price crumbling, price of light sweet crude five times what it was ten years ago, divorce is down 18%. Destruction of wealth, people can't afford to drive, much less get divorced. Mutual dependence, a function of Wall Street money changers bent upon destruction of America's real wealth, unhappy couples are stuck, clinging together, unable to divvy up their assets.

 

Though I may be in great shape, financially, more than one driver in this group finds himself in dire financial straights.

 

Don't make the mistake thinking this is a recession. The party's over. This thing is a regression. In contraction to a sustainable level of output well below inflated levels Wall Street's money changers & Madison Avenue's master manipulators can otherwise balloon it, we're seeing sights we haven't seen since stagflation of the 1970s. Things are getting so bad, mom can't afford trips to the store. Spike in bicycle accidents, we're seeing kids running errands, shopping lists pinned to their clothing, peddling home from the supermarket, grocery bags suspended from their handle bars. We're seeing Ponch & John generating traffic ticket revenue, pulling over kids on bicycles, writing them citations! We're seeing young motirists stranded at gas stations and roadside, wallets empty, gas tank dry, abandoning their vehicles on the nation's highways, hitchhiking home.

 

Wonderful way for Ponch and John to confiscate vehicles. Huh? Pingpong the price of oil so high, young people run out of money and gas. Stranded roadside, penniless, wait for them to walk away, then send a wrecker by to scoop up their cars. What a terrific way for municipalities to generate revenue!

 

Gone out for a drive, lately? I highly recommend doing so. Very nice. At US$5.00 per gallon for cheap, watered-down gasoline, 50% of the idiots stuck home, their SUVs and HUMMERs cost prohibitive to joy ride, going for a drive in the two-seater is absolutely wonderful!

 

Ponch & John never anticipated 5 bux a gallon. With fewer drivers out there, they issue fewer citations, and there's less traffic ticket revenue to wet their beaks. Fewer accidents, price is plunging fast in autobody sector. Great time to do touch up on your go-fast Sunday driver, I cannot believe all the work I'm getting done, for 1200 bux.

 

It's a great time for driving...

 

Something perhaps you haven't noticed: Since gas went to 5 bux a gallon, the price you're paying for your car insurance hasn't changed? Has it? If anything, perhaps your premiums have increased? You've probably noticed, high price of gasoline, significantly fewer drivers on the nation's highways. Fewer drivers, the risk premium for your car insurance you're paying for is still based upon density and congestion of $1.00 per gallon gasoline?

 

You should be paying less for car insurance. By my estimate, we overpay for car insurance triple keystone our risk (e.g., 300%).

 

When gasoline price rises, by definition, people drive less ... significantly less. The price of gasoline five times what it used to be, more than halving our risk premium, insurance actuaries, sitting on their hands laughing at you, all the way to the bank, gouging you asunder, they still have you paying twice the risk premium, based upon one dollar per gallon gasoline. The price of oil this high, you should be paying less than half what you're paying for your car insurance. Not one stupid person in the policy community has had the wherewithal to call the automobile insurance industry to task, over this?

 

I'm the first one to notice?

 

Proof positive, the market does not self-equilibrate. There is no market-clearing tendency. Even the most obtuse of economist has no choice but conceed -- in the wealthiest nation on earth, with the highest number of homeless people -- there exists in excess to demand, a persistent aggregate oversupply of housing. There is no equlibrium. The market does not clear. Outcomes Pareto otpimal are coincidently disgusting. There is no method, just a preponderance of stochastic blow-backs from a offsetting, overlapping, self-defeating policy missteps.

 

And, this cheap, watered-down gasoline they're selling me, for 5 bux a gallon, is killing my engines.

 

Ten years ago, I was getting almost two hours track-time to the tank, in my Little Godzilla. Now, it's down to less than an hour and a half. For me, this is a dilemma. The type of driving I do, crusing range for me is imperative.

 

Ten years ago, 104 racing unleaded cost roughly 3 times what 93 octane was. Today, racing fuel is merely twice the going price of pump unleaded. Instead of the 5 bux a gallon for reformulated, watered-down alchohol laced 91 octane, I'm debating whether I should gas up the two seater, 104 racing undeaded for 8 bux a gallon. Doing so, at least I'd be getting real gasoline. Better gas mileage, too.

 

Last couple years or so, Operation Safe Canyon, a thinly veiled smokescreen designed to exploit a seemingly easy to differentiate cohort, in actuality, we're not so easy to differentiate. So much for the Operation Safe Canyon driver database. They couldn't pick us put of a crowd if they tried, much less exploit us. Not one of our people wound up in their canyon driver database. Ponch & John's silly vehicle confiscation ordinance, drivers in our group responded by melding into other drivers groups, leapfrogging cohort to cohort, keeping a low profile, staying out of trouble.

 

As have I.

 

It's going well for me. Poking around, seeing how the other half live, month and a half ago I chanced across something on the internet: US$2,500 dollars, winner take all romp, no holds barred through the local canyons here in Los Angeles Metro. Slick operation. Guys doing this one-off thing had an on-line pay, just put it on your credit card, show up for the drive, winner gets US$15,000 reversed to their card. Participation in excess of 6 cars, proceeds to be reversed to drivers who place and show. Only thing you know going in, what kind of car everyone's driving. Nothing else. Nobody knows, until post time, exactly where the race will be, or who they're racing against.

 

Sounds like my kind of drive!

 

Just sitting there in its place in the garage, seldom isn't my two-seater ready to rumble. Whole month of June I spent doing the intelletual work, deciding exactly how I was going to run this race. Conservative, I thought. Short cruising range of my car, I'd need to conserve fuel early on, pare down my risk, early on. Slipstream whenever possible. Go gingerly, in passing. Be efficient. Once out in front, in clean air, drop the hammer, build a sizable margin, and by the end of the drive, pare down my risk, stroke it home. Back of my mind thinking, all the while, these things never go down. They always fizz. One guy dropping out typically precipitates another guy droppong out, and then the whole thing crumbles, and one guys gets caught holding the bag.

 

But, no. We wound up with eight cars, solid.

 

Thought we had nine. Holding everybody up, meet young Kori (yeah, let's call him Kori) who turned up race day with an underage schoolmate, said he forgot his driver's license? Asked to produce his vehicle registration, he'd forgotten that, too? Signal indication, Ferris Bueller's Day Off revisited, probably his daddy's Porsche, expensive one at that. He didn't look a day over 18.

 

Eight out of nine's not bad.

 

"You knew the rules. If the name on your licence and registration doesn't match the name on the credit card, then you can't be here! You're little friend looks underage. If you two can't authenticate, then you're disqualified," woman named Anna taking names, checking everybody in, making sure everybody turns out to be who they said they are.

 

"I'm paid in as a muthafucker. So I'm driving. I don't have to show you fuckin squat. Bitch!" hip-hop influenced upperclass kid, with his pants down below his underware, trying his best to be like Snoop. This kind of thing doesn't go down real well this my microcosm.

 

Meet Stan: bushy, messed up hair, not the sharpest tool in the shed for a twenty-something, grease monkey kind of guy, pale, looks like he's a perpetual Night of the Living Dead sleepwalker who ate a little too much live flesh, driving an all-wheel-drive Mitsubishi Evolution. First reply to everything is always, "huh?" He needs you to say everything twice.

 

Contrast, meet Matt: slick fast-talking lawyer/CPA type in the E-Class AMG, too young to be balding, laughs never smiles, knowledgable indeed and smart, enough so never, in his natural life, to have turned a wrench. Nor will he, not ever.

 

Meet Doug, newest car on the grid, shallow archetypical permatanned BMW guy with the, USC license plate frame, the Rolex, the Guccis, wrapped up tastefully so in conspicuous consumption, five gets you ten his wife has a boob-job. Sweaty palms. Wearing sunglasses at night, he'll be someone I'll avoid like the plague. Nice gloves.

 

Next guy checking in, meet Mike. Several cars in tow, his fans coming with him to the rendezvous for morale support. Says he plays drums and has taken up automobile racing. I couldn't be sure it was the Z-51 suspension, or GM's Magnetic Selective Ride Control on that paddleshift Corvette of his. Where GM's Z51 suspension is far too harsh for the open road, its Magnetic Selective Ride Control in the hands of a determined driver makes any Corvette, in any degree of trim, a force to be reconed with on the open road. The lobger the run, the more a threat it poses. Were the Corvette's principle driving aides, (1) active suspension, (2) Magnetic Selective Ride Control, and (3) Magnasteer intertwined, to work in tandem with its ABS and an automatic camber adjustment system, the Corvette would be unbeatable on any surface, under any circumstance. As it is, thank my lucky stars GM's automatic damping system is heavy, less than eloquent, unsophisticated, with only two modes, and can't be optimized in tandem with any of the Corvette's other driver's aides. Staring down the front end of that Corvette, good news... looked like a factory alignment to me.

 

Meet Pete, affluent Dodge Viper guy cloaked in trademark Levis denim, archetypical Harley Davidson sticker on the back window, swares his Dodge is the best car he's ever owned. I don't know much about Vipers. But, its suspension didn't look right to me. I wondered to myself whether he has a Dodge Viper sticker on the back of his Harley.

 

Meet David, obnoxious Ph.D head shrinker (e.g., psychology) proclaiming superiority of his turbocharged, all-wheel-drive Audi; that no one has a chance, and "...don't be angry when I say 'I told you so'." Irritating guy to be around. How can his AWD Audi be 700 pounds heavier than my AWD Subaru station wagon? Underinflated bargain brand replacement radials; misaligned, pimp 'n hoe HRE boutique wheels; oversized tyres.

 

Meet Gene... I glanced down at his license while he signed in, and saw his DOB: October, 1936. Just a little past his sell-by date, that makes 12 presidents he's lived through, to include FDR's last three! Cute 20 year old in a 200 thousand dollar Porsche kicking Anna's maternal instincts into overdrive ensured speculation focused directly on the boy, old Gene slipped though the cracks. Anna failed to notice, the old guy's license had expired several years ago; vision correction required.

 

"Who am I to say?" my inner voice, "he could be wearing contact lenses," lieing to myself. I knew the old guy's not wearing contacts. "Perhaps he's had lasic; I hear wonderful things about that," secretly making excuses for the guy.

 

Butt ugly old neanderthal with a pockmarked face only a great-granddaughter could love, strangler's hands the envy of any serial killer, behemoth forearms, somewhat flabby bicepts, bold legged, short and stalky, only speaks when seldom spoken to, replies in guarded fragments or an inaudioable single syllablic utterance, old Gene is more bear than man. Old racing shoes from the early 1970s; old racing gloves from the mid-seventies; vintage Sabelt restrain system from the dark ages, for anyone worth their salt the active reading on this guy is crystal clear: Old Gene's been around the block af few times...

 

When this thing came up, no holds barred, US$2,500 per driver, winner take all, galvanized this old guy; stirred something deep within him to action, compelled him to dig deep inside, take this one last shot. Perhaps he dusted off his old racing shoes and his racing gloves... see if they still fit? Yes, indeed they do! Probably did a couple push ups, to see if he still could. And, yes indeed, he did a lot more than he thought he could! So, perhaps he wandered out to the garage, pulled the tarp off the car, reached for his toolbox, tinkered around with his induction, to see if it would start. By golly, perhaps yes, indeed it did!

 

And, it got him thinking, "...could I do this, just one more time, die trying?" Perhaps indeed, he most certainly could!

 

I'd seen him opt in for this thing a month and a half ago. One of the first ones. When he proclaimed his car to be a "RENAULT LE CAR," I thought to myself, did he honestly believe, opting into a hard core street race, we'd be as oblivous as we could be to the turbocharged mid-engined FiA homogation variant of the Renault? Self-defeating stunt he tried to pull ulimately proved more revealing than having been forthright and magnaminous. The Le Car stunt he pulled, as though thought no one would know, told me well in advance all I needed to know about the guy: Character flaw indicative of a Camaro/Mustang type guy, a journeyman driver who never ascended to a plateau sufficient to intellectualize anything, instead used car culture to stick his head in the sand, never grew or enriched hinself in any meaningful way. Though he might put up a valiant fight, show well for himself, final analysis, a 71 year old geriatric punk who will inevitably succumb, not to anyone else so much as his own lack for character?

 

I don't think he cared about the money... He spent a whole lot more than 2500 bux getting that car ready. Faded black Renault R5 Turbo II, looked freshly dusted off and washed, and hastily coaxed back to life, as though it had been sitting in his garage 20 years. Several years ago that car was parked 50 laps passed rebuild time; hastily dusted off for this occasion, brand new belts and hoses and clamps and fasterners staring up out of that engine bay, brand new Michellins, overinflated as though prepared for rain, that old guy must have spent a small fortune readying his "Le Car" for battle. Those brand new Michellins of his, intermediate rain should be a huge advantage for him.

 

Finally, meet yours truly, far more man than bear. Sentimental side of me, the old guy had me smiling. Soon enough, I most certainly wouldn't be. Supercharged mid-engined short-wheelbased vehicle optimized for 10/10ths canyon driving, I made my way to the 11:00 PM rendezvous, topped off with 104 racing unleaded, minus what it took getting me there. Unlike the old guy, I don't spend thousands getting my car ready before each run. Been around long enough to know, doing what I'm supposed to be doing as a hard-core 10/10ths canyon driver, time for preparation is immediately after each drive. So, in preparation, aside from tweaking alignment settings, I'm free to map the intellectual aspect of my objective (e.g., race strategy), no need for turning wrenches. Advantage I derive from this isn't insurmountable. But, it is significant. It still matters what I drive, and how I drive. It always will.

 

Rested, fresh and alert, I always nap 4 hours (in my car if need be) within an upcoming drive.

 

Conservative alignment settings, not quite maximum caster, -2.5^o right-front camber, -2.75^o degrees at my left-front, both rears -2.125^o thereabout, would likely run-out my SO3 Pole Position Bridgestones by the end of the drive. Monsoon season, lightning strikes over the high desert, anticipation of isolated thundershowers, no sense running my R-spec rubber. I rolled my Little Godzilla to the secret rendezvous on its street-radials, overinflated 5 degrees, shock settings dialed-in full soft. A wise investment for racing at sea level, I arrived armed with 104 racing unleaded, less than a full tank of it, not having trailered the vehicle there. No sense topping off completely until the route is disclosed.

 

So, now you know a litle more about me...

 

Subtile survey, walking around, squatting down in front of each car for a look-see, studying suspension geometry of my contemporaries, what appeared to the trained eye factory alignment specs on every the other vehicle, I was the only one having dialed-in competition driving alignment settings? Rain notwirhstanding, I 'd won this race before it ever started.

 

Squatting down for a look at the Viper... I don't know much about Vipers. But, Pete's alignment looked very wrong. Out the corner of my eye, old Gene doing likewise, squatting down in front of my Little Godzilla likely thinking to himself, "...ah, shit!" all that negative camber staring back at him, outside bottom edge of my contact patch you almost could slide in a piece of paper.

 

Trouble with the rich teenager, making himself a nuisance, whining about being sent home. I was concerned, who's to stop him from becoming obstinant, following along in spite of being disqualified? Andrew's idea, an ultimatum, threaten him to leave. My thoughts, he must assimilate, or he must be attrited. I made a B-line straight to Kori, snatched his car keys right out of his hand. Effort to snatch them back, my left hand found its place, palm side resting to the square of his chest, straight-armed, the other clinched, pointing my finger in his face, behave himself or else.

 

Tossed the keys over to Markus.

 

Scaring the shit out of him with the street-racing rules for idiots, 101, plainly stated, I elucidated matter-of-fact, he knew what he was getting into; showing up for this thing puts him passed the point of no return; entering a street race on false pretense, he forfeits car and proceeds; these things happen, everybody knows the drill, we tape him up, get a sock over his head, drop him in the desert, part out the Porsche, split the proceeds; that car has to disappear; can't just sell a black market GT3; worth eight times more in parts than it is, assembled, I know people who can slice 'n dice a glorified Volksvagen in two hours; two thousand bux for everyone, no questions asked...

 

"Ah, just send him home," from the peanut gallery.

 

I belabored, at what cost? On what basis? Likelihood he isn't insured, our seizing and liquidating that GT3 could ultimately prove beneficial to his parents. If, in fact they really are his parents. We do not do this to be mean; we have these rules for reasons; Ferris Bueller wanabe, uninsurable on his daddy's GT3, if he loops it into a bus stop, takes-out pedestrians, his parents' financial life as they know it is over, and he'll do 20 years hard-time. Tape him up, part out that Porsche, we'd be doing him a favor. He lied. It's a stolen car. And, you can't steal a stolen car. Not until he authenticates his relationship to that vehicle can he be allowed to leave. That car constitutes a nuisance. Street-racers's rules apply, we tape him and his friend up, and it is ours to dispose of as we see fit.

 

"Agreed?"

 

Nobody saying a word, panic swept across the boy's face. Silence. Uncertainty; specter I might really be serious. Half-wink in Matt's general direction to indicate otherwise, the only one disappointed I wasn't, the head-shrinker, he seemed to be liking what I was saying just a little too much.

 

"Squeeeeeel like a piggy..." in the boy's face as I walked back to my car. Looked over at

 

"And technically, the old guy lied through his teeth, too. He entered a Renault Le Car. Not the Turbocharged variant," Clarence Darrow-like Matt, "He should be disqualified, too."

 

"No. That is not the issue. A reasonable expectation should otherwise be inferred, by anyone in this thing, it ould otherwise be a tube-frame, heavi;ly modified Le Car, turbocharged variant notwithstanding," yours truly, making my point, "He is who he says he is. The car belongs to him. He's established the relationship of himself, to his Renault, consistent to the credit card he used to cover his entry. Every single one of us here thus far has, but for one person. If he's not who he says he is, then who is he? And, why is he here? And, how best we dispose of him, street-racer's rules apply..."

 

"STOP IT!" That was about it for Anna, enough of this, who swiftly intervened on Kori's behalf, ah he's just a dumb kid, cut him some slack, make this one exception, cooler heads should prevail, pay it forward, give him back his keys, do a good deed, its the right thing to do, how would you feel if your dumb kid snuck out in your GT3 while you were away on a business trip, and wouldn't you want that GT3 back in your garage, not a scratch?

 

Who could argue otherwise? Show of hands, nods to the affirmative all around making this one exception. One condition, not until the both of them pull their wallets.

 

Out they came. Wealthy, priviledged, upperclassed Stanford undergrad, home address an exclusive Encino enclave, home for the summer acting like a hip-hop rapper-jerk, joy-riding his daddy's Porsche. In actuality, his car a supercharged Mini Cooper, he and his schoolmates saw Hollywoord movies, and daydreamed of street-racing. He revealed he'd decided to write down Porsche GT3 on his on-line registration impulsively, thinking this thing would never really go down, anyway.

 

Understandable. I didn't think this thing was going to happen, either. No one did.

 

" SO, GO GET THE MINI. COME RIGHT BACK, THERE'S STILL TIME," from the peanut gallery. But, his friend explained, his parents took it away from him. Truth comes spilling out, back home for the summer, a man of age living at home, mommy putting him on restriction for not cutting-it, at Stanford? So, what's he do? Like a high school sophomore, the loser absconds with his daddy's GT3; enters it into a street-race. He couldn't get the keys to his Mini. But, his dad's GT3 he could.

 

How humiliating!

 

"SCRAPE," like fingernails over the chalkboard, then "CRINKLE," the sound of bending metal, then "CRUNCH," front air dam and valence bending underneth, he launched daddy's 911 off the sidewalk Baja style, dragging the undercarriage off the kerb, as off onto the roadway we went, intent upon a somewhat more expenient retreat to anonymity than time it would have taken, meanering around to find the parking lot exit.

 

Good riddance. Dumb kid finally gone, organizers revealed the route. 10 minutes study-time before drawing grid slots. The line-up shook out as follows:

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Official Draw, Tentative Lineup

 

1. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution, $2,500.00

2. Doug; BMW 135i, $2,500.00

3. Yours Truly, $2,500.00

4. * * Kori: GT3 RS Porsche, $2,500.00

5. Mike; C6 Corvette (paddleshift), $2,500.00

6. Pete; Dodge Viper, $2,500.00

7. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II, $2,500.00

8. David; Audi RS-4, $2,500.00

9. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG, $2,500.00

 

 

* * Disqualified; would have lined-up 4th

_______________________________________________________________

 

Studying the route, concern sweeping across my face, doing my best to conceal, two issues weighing upon me, heavily: (1) Not nearly as long a run as I thought, proposed route too short a run, yet not long enough to ensure everyone one refueling stop, my cruising range for the proposed route was marginal. Twice the distance, everyone would have to refuel. As it was, everyone else easily could, except perhaps me, and the Gene in the Renault. To run the entire route on a ten gallon tank, not having to refuel, he and I would have to conserve fuel, early in the run.

 

Most importantly (2), it was to be a standing start. One look, all these mutts around me, cause for concern. Indeed.

 

The exception, drag racing, BMX and motorcycle racing, no form of organized motorsport in North America sanctions (much less tolerates) standing starts. Only in Europe. Though I've never participated in a sports car event with a standing start, per se, I am no stranger to it. Long before I ever stepped behind the wheel, as a boy competing in BMX, I was corn-fed standing starts. Every race I ever competed, until I graduated to sports cars, all were standing starts.

 

My very first road race, on bicycles as a third grader, each of us throwing in 50 cents, winner take all, was a standing start. I cruised to what should have been an easy victory, two older, stronger, better able riders having taken each other out, at the first turn. Three riders in that race off to the community hospital, two for stitches, one a concussion and a broken arm, our mothers were indeed displeased.

 

Older boys had taken each other out, I found my way into the lead. I circled the one lap, mile and a half long neighborhood circuit, down sidewalks, up and down hills, meandering through buildings at Meadows Elementary School we all attended, emerging from our school onto Hood Drive. To my surprise, when I thought I had this thig won, in second place my classmate Cynthia Donnelly, a neighbor girl from up the street, emerged, catching me up from behind! Making the left hand turn onto Montrose Drive, her and I pedalling side-by-side, the slope uphill to the finish line where the other children waited. She and I pedalled our bicycles, for everything we were worth, up that long hill. Two thirds way there, Cynthia exhaused. Last one pedalling, I snatched the 8 dollar purse. Quite a sum back in that day, enough for a double scoop at the 31 Flavors, BMX racing number plates, a two-speed hub and a skip-chain on my tricked-out Schwinn Sting-Ray road racer. Nicest one in town.

 

I tried my best not looking exhausted, crossing that finish line. Mistakes I made: I did not capitalize, early on; I did not conserve, early on. Prior to the race nothing occurred to me. I factored nothing. At that early stage in human development, a third grade boy is no match for a third grade girl. Cynthia was strong. I was anything but. I did not put that race away early enough; I nearly did not leave myself enough left over for the finish.

 

For every pecuniary reward, always a nonpecuniary one, the sound she made, her last ghasp, physically exhaused, her body quitting two-thirds way up the hill to the finish line, a race I'd have to win on character, I was amply rewarded, well beyond real value of 8 dollars. I learned from that. Many a victory since then I have notched, no good reason than laying back, not being stupid, being conservative at the start, knowing when to drop the hammer, and when not to. I know enough to know, with my tiny little car on a standing start with amateur drivers, if I'm not starting first, then I'm wise starting last.

 

I drew third grid slot.

 

A 3600 pound 1-series BMW lined-up second, a Viper and a Corvette, fourth and fifth? Sandwiched between cars 150% my kerb weight, time for a little horse trading.

 

I swapped my third position to that cocky guy Matt, on a handshake for $1,500.00 if he wins, places or shows; nothing if he doesn't. Sweet deal for a guy with a car that weighs 4200 lbs. That cinched up, time to walk over for a chitchat with Stan. He was having none of it. Offering him Matt's 1500 bux for his number one starting slot made him want it, all the more.

 

"I might have traded for third, but not for eighth. No way I'm starting last, dooood."

 

When Stan said that, I made a b-line straight back to Matt, "Same deal we made, if you can get Stan to swap you, first for third, before anyone turns a wheel you'll have moved from last to first, free. He just told me he'd swap, first for third, same deal." That got Matt thinking. I don't know about what. For some reason unbeknownst to me, that compelled Matt to make a b-line for an animated conversation with.. Pete? They looked very concerned, Pete hands in his pockets listening, Matt with open handed hand gentures, fingers stiff, reiterating something, Dave staring at them from afar, eyes narrow, wondering what they could be saying.

 

Soon enough, everybody was horse trading.

 

I overheard Stan, "25 hundred bux cash, now. Or, get outta my face!" to Gene, about ready to smack him before the old guy walked away. David and Doug paired up, well away from everyone else after a long chitchat, the both of them caught looking away when I discovered them staring at me, suspiciously. No idea what Gene did, whatever it was solidified Stan's resolve. No one on planet Earth would separate him from his number one slot.

 

The worst thing that could happen, starting at at the rear, would be that lightweight Renault on pole position. Gene starting 6th might be perfect, though... Perhaps I could conserve fuel, follow close behind, as he slices and dices through the heavier cars ahead. Right?

 

"RHEEEEEE-THHHUK-mmmm!" shreeking through the crisp evening air at the speed of sound, Gene having wandered back to the Renault, the first to spark ignition, to about 5 thousand revs, startling everyone, a nausiating smoke a prelude of things to come.

 

Anna and Andy driving off ahead of everyone to man their checkpoints, 20 minutes before the start, everyone caught up in politics, thought I'd slip away unbenownst to everyone for an up-and-back to the nearby gas station, last chance trip to the boy's room. Once there, watered down my 104 racing unleaded, topping off with 91 octane until it overflowed, running down the side, full as it could be. Pumping my gas, two female mooches stranded at the gas station wandered over.

 

The cuter one of the two: "Aaaa, scuze me, Mister? I'm fwum, aaaaa, San Woois Obispo. Aaaa, we're going to, aaaaa, Idlywild. But, aaaa, we didn't make it. We're kinda of out of gas. Can, aaaaaaa, if you could, aaaaaa, gimmy..." SNIP! Interrupted.

 

Too busy to listen to her drivel.

 

Seeing this a lot, lately, dumb kids just getting in the car for long journeys, lacking for math skill, overestimating their cruising range, just driving as far as they can until the tank runs out, winding up stranded far from home. Told her, pressed for time, if they need gas, then roll their car over before I'm done, and I'll top them off. If they're not here when I hang up the nozzle, then too bad. Question: How quick can two flat broke 23 year old girls gone wild push a front wheel drive Volkswagen Beetle convertible, for free gas? Answer: Faster than the speed of sound!

 

"Gotta go. Hang this up when you're through," and off I went.

 

"Thank you, sir! Thank you sooo much. Wow, I really like your car!" little girl voice more indicative of a 14 year old than a 23 year old woman.

 

Weights & measure issue, the 5 bux rung-up on the pump didn't equate to price posted on the sign. Time short, bigger fish to fry, I handed over the pump to one of the girls, 7/10ths a gallon already on it, sparked ignition, drove off, found my way back to the rendezvous in good time, final preparations, everybody settling in, lacing up their gloves, strapping in for business...

 

"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAP-UUUUM," everybody's chests cavitating, Pete making a solid first impression revving that 600 horsepower pushrod V-10 Viper to life.

 

"OOEEEEEEEAAAA-EWWWWW!" Matt's 507 horsepower 3 valve V-8 Benz, not to be outdone.

 

"___________," inaudiable, the BMW and the Audi, quiet as a mouse.

 

"zzzzzzzz-SSSSHAAaaaaah-faazzzz," tracheotomylike nature of the 290 horsepower turbocharged Mitsubishi, to a somewhat lesser extent than the old Renault.

 

"Uuuuuuuuuuuaaaaa-oooooooooh," the heavily baffled 400 HP Corvette, with GM's artificially engineered rumble guaranteed not to freighten the grandchildren or startle livestock in its appeal geared to retired prostitutes and night club strippers.

 

"Ba-BLAM-BLAAAAAM! noo-noo-noo-noo-noo..." my Little Godzilla.

 

Pulling away from the rendezvous, making our way to the starting spot on Little Tujunga, sorting out the order, Stan in his Mitsubishi, a little slow on the human response cycle, carved aggressively by everyone to assume his position at the front. As we came single-file, he late braked Doug into the left turn pocket. Stopping at the traffic signal across from he gas station where I just was. Yet another disappointment, out my driver-side window, painfully evident, the girls didn't hang up the pump.

 

No good deed ever goes unpunished.

 

I wanted to believe in them. Lack for character, a nation of petty scoundels who never miss an opportunity for a free ride, handing off the nozzle to someone else who, in-turn, handed it to someone else who, in-turn, handed it to someone else who, in-turn... the gift that keeps on giving. Cars stacking up at that station, two lines going single file aimed at the one pump I'd used minutes ago, people arguing, the girls I'd done a good deed for were thoughtful enough to post a handwritten sign, with a big smiley face: FREE GAS :)

 

"911, WHAT IS YOU'RE EMERGENCY?" trademark indifference.

 

"The #### station, corner of #### and ####, in ####, one of the pumps is pumping free gas! Everybody's going berserk, arguing, fighting over that pump, people cutting in line, better get control while you still can, or people are going to start getting hurt!" Need a fast response from Ponch and John, say the word "control."

 

I don't mind eating 60 bux helping two dumb girls stay one step ahead of Los Angeles rape gangs. Sorry, population of the greater Los Angeles Metropolitan statistical area could drown in a tsunami, for all I care.

 

Oh, perhaps you disagree. You think I should have to suck it up? I should have to pay for every drop of your fuel? Right? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, just enough time for a quick call number on the back of the gas card they give you, to call in a lost or stolen card lost, and yes, the several thousand dollar write-off would be cheerfully credited back to my account, gushing corporation style apology for the slightest inconvenience, and would I participate in a survey after the call has ended?

 

"Noooo. Sorry. Perhaps another time. Gotta go," click.

 

Stan slowing everybody down up ahead. Everyone crawling to a stop, single-file, your gap to the car ahead as much or as little as you like. Ready for the standing start, go as soon the car in front of you goes, lined-up on Little Tujunga Canyon, we launched from the following order:

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Revised Starting Order

Official Line-up, Final

 

1. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution

2. Doug; BMW 135i

3. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG

4. Mike; C6 Corvette (paddleshift)

5. Pete; Dodge Viper

6. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II

7. David; Audi RS-4

8. Yours Truly (3)

 

9. ** Kori: GT3 RS Porsche

 

** Entry scratched; disqualified; did not start

(3.) Third qualifying slot to Matt for consideration

_______________________________________________________________

 

GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! And, off we went!

 

Starting behind the all-wheel-drive Audi, a lesson in traction, its 4 wheels pulling impressively, I gave away about one second hesistation after he went hammer down, before I released the clutch. Down Little Tujunga our train of cars accelerated away, great start for David, Gene, and Doug!

 

Lousy start for Matt! How could he possibly be so slow, off the line?

 

Banging up through the gears, Stan's Mitshbishi coming under attack from a quick off the line Doug, in his brand spanking new BMW, the two of them well away, drew a sizable gap, thanks to slow starting Matt bottling up the rest of us, behind him. I'm sure that fast starting BMW was as much a surprise to Stan it was to me. Throw a blanket over slow starting Matt in the big Benz, Mike in the Corvette, Pete'e Viper, Gene's Renault, and David's Audi, separated by less than a half second. A slight gap back to me, laying back, surveying intently from behind.

 

I wondered if perhaps he was fumbling around with the electronics of that Merc, trying to find sport mode? Something like that? A little slow on the human response cycle? Matt in that great big Benz was off to a very slow start.

 

But, not old Gene. My vantage point rear of the pack, about two seconds from Dave's Audi I could see, dropping throttle on his nimble Renault, indicative of mixing C-Stov and T-stov, old Gene off the line like a rocket, zigzagged around the Viper, drew alongside Mike over the double yellow, pinning the Corvette behind the Merc before Matt crossed the double stripe to apex a fast left hand jink, slifing in front of Gene, leaving the Corvette high side the Renault, stranded. Ex post apex, Mike had no choice but lift.

 

The old guy, from sixth to fourth, up the exhaust pipe of the overcautious Matt!

 

Vacuum created behind the fast starting Renault sucked David's quick starting Audi, right to the bumper (or lack thereof) of Pete's Viper. Going gingerly, that Renault buzzing around him, hacking and sawing behind the lumbering Benz, next bend, a flat-out right hander with a small dip at the apex. Seeing the little Renault come door-handle to door-handle, Matt became apprehensive, and checked-up on his throttle.

 

Smoke from old Gene in the old Renault, throttling off momentarily before the apex, I could see black smoke out the back. Then, hammer down, foot flat, back on the throttle, wisps of white smoke out the back of that Renault, Gene took Matt around the high side!

 

The old guy now third, driving the race of his life!

 

Seeing Gene coming out of nowhere, buzzing around him so fast, startled Matt, who tapped his brakes right at the apex of that hyperfast bend, havoc immediately ensured behind him! As Mike in the Corvette having to throttle off to account for Matt, as Pete in Mike's slipstream went down on his brakes, so did David in his "superior in every way" Audi, even harder on his! Subsequent accordian affect, no one person's fault, like scrambling eggs in a hot skillet, the three cars simultaneously touched.

 

They seemed to fold into each other.

 

Off they went, dissappearing into a plume, once spotless machines onto the soft shoulder, dust cloud enveloping them. I shot through, foot flat, third gear winding out, sights set on Matt's Mercedes a hundred yards ahead. Quick peep out of my rear view mirror. I could see the Corvette's four taillights. The Audi looked to have gotten away ahead of the Corvette, which had been nerfed backward. No sign of Pete's Viper. What I could see, they looked to be scrubbing off a lot of speed as they collectied themselves.

 

Fortuitously expending little energy, eighth to 4th I went, conserving fuel, time to settle down to the task at hand, sizing up the others from behind, reel them in, find my way around them.

 

A look up ahead, Doug's BMW found its way around Stan's Mitsubishi. Drawing ahead several car lengths, Stan began falling into the clutches of Gene's Renault. A sizable gap behind the Renault to Matt, having droped back for no apparent reason, to over 200 yards behind. Me swiftly closing in, I noticed moisture hitting my windshield the closer I got to the Benz, ahead. Sure enough, you could see Matt busying himself, his windshild wipers on.

 

"How come he's putting fluid to his windshield?" I wondered.

 

I found my way to Matt's rear bumper, late braked him into the next second gear bend. Once by, I spied a glance out the mirrors, and there was Matt, perfectly content allowing me by, still busying himself the task of putting fluid to his windshield.

 

"Oh, big mistake! Why's he letting me by?!" Made no sense.

 

Gene hopelessly stuck, hacking and sawing at the wheel, bottled up behind Stan's Mitsubishi, can't find a way by, I had an easy time of it reducing the gap to the Renault, ahead. The closer I got, the more drops strated hitting hit my windshield again. But, not water. This time, it was oil. Following behind the Renault, my windshield became saturated. Tiny oil droplets ran sideways across the glass to the pillars, around and down my side windows, I inevitably discovered why Matt was so content, dropping back.

 

My little car has nowhere near capacity as the washer reservior on an E-class Benz. Dough in the BMW about to disappear, I had to find a way by the Renault before running out of washer fluid.

 

Stan's Mitsubishi a mobile chicane, bottling up Gene, myself and Matt to such extent, the trailing Audi and Corvette were no doubt making up lost ground, from significant distance behind. Stuck behind an erratically driven Mitsubishi, the 1-series BMW streaking away, it was as though Stan was slowly petering out, already, fatigue at the wheel not six miles into the drive.

 

Gene made a lunge. That seemed to wake up Stan. Pressure forced Stan in his Mitsubishi to start getting with the program. By midsegement across Little Tujunga, we'd almost caught up Doug in the 1-series BMW. Just over midway through the first intermediate, first through fifth, it was Doug's BMW plus nothing on Stan's Evo, plus nothing on Gene's smoking Renault, blowing oil all over me, plus a small gap to Matt's Benz.

 

Five cars seperated by less than a second, status quo was untennable. Something had to give. I tried a run, testing Gene. Having non of it, he slammed the door, and the two of us lost significant time to Stan. Seeing Gene and I having come very close, inches from touching, overcautious Matt immediately dropped back some 35 yards, opting to stay well away from me. I suspect he was secretly thinking, if he played his cards right, lie in wait, drivers ahead might have a fortuitous coming together, and perhaps he'd steel the bacon.

 

Not quite.

 

I tucked in behind the Renault, adoped a passive wait and see attitude, to let Gene erase that 5 second gap to Stan's Mitshuishi. Having seen Doug directly ahead, slowly falling into the clutches of his Mitsubishi, Stan got impatient, a little excited, made a premature lunge at Doug. Having none of it, early-apexing the turn to protect his position, the BMW and the Mitsubishi touched! Neat little piroette, around the BMW went, Stan in the Evo nerfing him off.

 

Stan to first! Gene to second! Yours truly, third!

 

Quick recovery, Doug resumed in the gap behind me, bottling up the overcautious Matt! Gene tried but failed to capitalize, taking advantage of the sleepy, laxidazical Stan. Nonetheless, the Renault going sixth to second cut a nice swath, 8th to 3rd, for me. Stan, Gene and I drew away from Doug and Matt in their overweight German sedans, as David and Mike began closing distance on them from well behind. A tight, technical first segment, nearly thousand pounds heavier, in close quarters of little Tujunga, the lighter albeit volumetric Corvette could make no impression whatsoever upon the more compact, albeit hopelessly overweight two-ton Audi.

 

And, that's how we finished the first intermediate, courtesy of hardworking Markus:

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Station 1, Markus

Sand Canyon @ Hwy 14

 

1. Stanley; Mitsubishi Evolution; (first arrival; right-corner heavily creased; right-headlight busted!)

2. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (right behind leader; car smoking!)

3. Yours Truly (right behind the Renault; oil all over that car!)

4. Douglas; BMW 135 (left-rear quarterpanel damage; minus 30 seconds to leader!)

5. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (minus 45.0 seconds from leader; oil saturated windsheld)

6. David; Audi RS-4 (damage to front-left; minus 40 seconds to the Mercedes)

7. Mike: C6 Corvette (damage to rear; minus 50 seconds; reports Pete is a DNF)

 

Station 1 Unaccounted for, per Markus:

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; DNF

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; DNS

_______________________________________________________________

 

Sequential constraint, as we simultaneously stopped for windshield stamps increased the distance between the first three cars prviously nose to tail, putting an additional 5 second lag between cars once seperated by none. To my surprise, that I'd erased 5 seconds to Gene faster than he could erase the distance to Stan, by definition, I must be faster than either, in some certain way.

 

Soon enough, there we were, right back on each other's bumpers, Stan blocking Gene. No way by.

 

Down the long straightaway before entering Bouquet Canyon, the Renault's superior acceleration, slipstreaming by the Evo, from 40 to 120 MPH, around Gene went!

 

The Septugenerian, 71 years old Gene, the oldest guy ever to turn a wheel in anger, from sixth on the grid to first, every pass on merit, leads the rally! The Renault began drawing away from the Mitsubishi, young Stan no match for Gene!

 

No match for either of the other under acceleration, some 40 yards I fell back on that straightaway, I was most eager to make up in the endless menagerie of sweepers ahead, where gear ratios of my lightweight, supercharged mid engined vehicle are perfect. Gene began drawing away from Stan, as I was still bottled up behind him. Studying the Mitsubishi Evolution ahead skating, Stan's shock settings must have been full firm.

 

"What the hell were you thinking?" I'd dialed-in my Konis full soft.

 

Matt, David and Mike, superior top end speed of their vehicles overwhelmed wayward Doug, who had suddenly found himelf grinding enamel, having gone first to last, in the span of first half the second intermediate, thus far.

 

Stuck behind Stan, I though, take the pressure off; see what happens. I dropped back some 25 yards... Sure enough, he'd slowed, substantially.

 

"SURPRISE!" I pounced, caught Stan in the Mitsubishi, napping! Back on the throttle, hard, I erased the gap, made a move, taking him high side, over the stripe! "GOOD MORNING, STAN!" Somehow, he'd finally awaken, but to find himself right in the middle of a sports car race!?

 

At the restaurant, around I went! Authoritatively.

 

Out the mirror I was surprised to see, only one headlight on Stan's Evo. Significant handicap, Bouquet at night is impossible to drive fast, with conventional headlights, much less only one. If Stan wasn't able to hang on behind me, drive in my headlights, if somehow he lost touch, his race would be a foregone conclusion.

 

Finally, open road in front of me, time to reel in the Renault. Forward on the stik, once around Stan, up came my 130 watt highlites, illuminating the road ahead for us both. Right up my tailpipe, the Mitsubishi gave chase in hope of hanging on. Following behind, a pace averaging 15 MPH faster than he was driving before, I don't believe Stan had ever gone so fast. First few turns, he hung in there. As Bouquet Canyon Road appears to open up, into a straightaway... Well, that particular part, it doesn't.

 

No! It's a second gear turn!

 

Hammer down, throttle buried, around Stan went, thinking he could retake his second place. Stupid thing to do. Driving with just one headlight, substantial damage to his right front, what he needed to do was be conservative; follow, not lead. Just as I'd bared down hard on the brakes for the late-apex second gear sweeper, around went Stan, his throttle buried!

 

"AHHHHHHHHHHH, GOD DAMNED SON OF A..." I couldn't hear him. But, I sware I could feel him, swaring to himself, grinding enamel, as off he went. Car swapping ends, rear of the Mitsubishi stepping out, he nerfed the back end into the barrier, ever so gently, lucky it was a right-hander.

 

The two mid-engined, short wheelbase vehicles lead! Thanks to sleepy Stan, Doug would no longer be last place.

 

Next several miles, I slowly reeled in the Renault. Washer fluid sump bone dry, back on Gene's tail for another perscription dose of oil. Thank my lucky stars: Rain! On come my wipers.

 

Seven miles studying Gene, strengths and weaknesses of the turbocharged Renault was a real treat. So much lag to factor, watching Gene throttling down in anticipation exactly where to apply torque ahead of where his turbocharger would finally spool up, he was never all that far off. Plain to see, he was no stranger to his Renault. But, he'd far from mastered it, as I have mine.

 

Not an easy car to drive. For either of us.

 

I studied the old guy, glued to his bumber several miles, freewheeling in to each turn, flames out the tilpipe from throttling off, letting the back end creep out, then throttling up blowing oil, tagging his downshift ahead of the the apex, throttle buried, hacking and sawing at the wheel to maximize exit speed from the apex into the straightaway, then hard on the brakes approaching the next sweeper, like a sprint car driver, throttle off, tossing it in, slow-in fast-out, getting his clutching done early, tagging his downshift well ahead of the apex, throttling the turbocharger back up, awaiting and anticipating the correct moment ahead of the apex, to drop the clutch. Disrupt him from his routine, he'll swallow a poison pill, slow everything down, make the both of us pay.

 

That is old Gene's driving style.

 

Half mile dirt ovals, you can be unidimentional. Canyon's you cannot. Everytime I thought to try him, test his resolve, draw alongside in a braking area, he'd anticiapte. Ralf Schumacher syndrome, driving in his rear view mirrors oblivous to the race, he knew what I was thinking, and alter his style, fast-in slow-out, trail braking, which would slow the both of us down, substantially, precious seconds lost to those behind, not merely in response to attempts at a pass, mind you, but for no good reason than pulling-out for clean air, old Gene would counter-maneuver, swerving in front, then brake testing me.

 

Like an old USAC guy.

 

Really slowing me down, I had to find a way by. Timed my pass a place I know quite well, where I could feint a late-braking maneuver, get my breaking done early instead, dupe him into going fast-in slow-out, hard on his brakes a place he doesn't have to, trick him into early apexing, slip inside him ex post apex, catch him on the wrong side of the double yellow, then race him side-by side to the blind rise that follows. Slow in-fast out late apexing a late apex sweeper, I'd have draw a prefect line, slip underneth under acceleration, tricking him into understeering the Renault, ex post apex.

 

I set him up, initially drawing alongside the Renault, as if to late brake him, but instead I braked hard, abruptly, getting my braking done early, then got back on the throttle, flat out, all the way through the third gear sweeper.

 

Duping Gene into go fast-in slow-out, early apexing a late apex turn, my Little Godzilla drew alongside under yaw. Accelerating beside the understeering Renault, inching ahead by a nose just as the Renault's KKK turbocharger spooled up, I'd pinned him wrong side of the double yellow. From the apex we emerged, side-by-side, blind rise just ahead, me correct side of the double yellow, the two of us door-handle-to-door-handle, Devil may care, test of character approaching the crest... Does the road continue straight? Does it veer left? Or right? Is someone coming the other way?

 

You never know...

 

Side-by-side, both of us flat-out as we crested the rise, that wonderful lightness of feeling, butterflies let loose deep in our souls, partial weightlessness at great speed as our suspensions momentarily unloaded, I toggled on my highlights as I nosed ahead, stayed hammer down into the throttle and waited as the road would inevitably veer. Hard into the next bend, me on the inside line a place the old guy would have no choice but ceed or die. A wise man afteral, off the throttle, Gene lifted! Two mid-engined cars swap position!

 

"Good riddance old man!" smiling.

 

The downhill stretch eastbound, along the south side of Bouquet reservior, into the braking zone for the left, to the checkpoint at Spunky Canyon for a my second stamp, the Renault aloof in my mirrors some 35 yards behind, and not too far off, Matt, David and Mike behind, making good time behind.

 

And, sleepy wayward Stan, from first to last, duely recorded courtesy of luckless Andrew, who arrived at Station 2 just in the nick of time:

_______________________________________________________________

 

Station 2, Andrew

Spunky Canyon & Bouquet:

 

1. Yours Truly (first arrival; windshield saturated in oil)

2. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (minus 5 seconds from leader, car smoking)

3. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (a minute behind leader; reports Renault blowing oil)

4. David; Audi RS-4 (minus 1 minute to leader; minor damage to front)

5. Mike: C6 Corvette (minus 1 minute to leader; nerf marks to rear facia)

6. Douglas; BMW 135 (minus 3 minutes to leader; substantial damage to left-rear quarterpanel)

7. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution; minus (over 4 minutes to leader; damage to left-rear & right-front; busted headlight)

 

Station 2 Unaccounted for, per Andrew:

 

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; DNF

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; Disqualified

_______________________________________________________________

 

As I pulled away from the 2nd checkpoint, banging up through my gears across the northside of Bouquet Reservoir, up Spunky Canyon, wringing my supercharged powerplant for everything it was worth, about 5 seconds back old Gene gave chase. Time to see if he was up to the task.

 

Hill climb to the summit of Spunky Canyon Road, if I couldn't manage to increase the margin to the trailing Renault, then I'd have problems on the downhill segment to Green Valley.

 

Once over the summit, Spunky Canyon frequently sanded, is never clean, and requires considerable restraint. My car is not good there. The Renault, so much better than my car on irregular, dirt laden asphalt, I needed to draw an advantage along the stretch by Bouquet Reservior, and up the hillclimb to the summit, get old Gene as far behind me as humanly possible. Going downhill, into the Green Valley conurbation, he would make up considerable ground.

 

If he didn't have me by Green Valley, then he'd never likely see me, again.

 

Up the hill we went!

 

Tight switchbacks on the spunky canyon hillclimb, the turbocharged mid-engined Renault lost touch with the supercharged, mid-engined vehicle ahead. Over the summit, the Renault lost touch completely, that was the last I'd see of Old Gene. Tipeetoeing the downhill into Green Valley, every apex sanded, just getting through there without shunting the car into the Armco, I didn't think I was going particularly fast. I must have been. No sooner than I arrived in Green Valley, sure enough, I could see the Renault's headlights in my mirrors far away, more than 100 yards or so behind. By the time I'd reached Lake Hughes Rd at Muntz Canyon Road, my gap looked to have increased, to a half mile.

 

Downhill segment to Green Valley, David in his AWD Audi moved around Matt for third place. Stan's battered AWD Misubishi found its way around the BMW, and closed a three minute gap to Dave's Audi and Mike'd Corvette, to almost nothing.

 

Once through Green Valley, ished I could have been there to see it, Matt's AMG Benz powered back in front of the Audi on the hillclimb up San Francisquito, to Lake Hughes.

 

Extreme southwesternmost corner of my secret test track, Pine Canyon, constitutes my personal stomping grounds. Lake Hughes to Three Points is extremly fast, extremly dangerous. Terminal velocity maintained over blind crests, the car takes to the air, lauching skyward on several occasions. Last chance, if you don't have me by Lake Hughes, then color me gone.

 

Pine Canyon to Three Points, is harrowing. I'm fast through there.

 

Dropping back, old Gene succumbed to fatigue. From Lake Hughes, a 20 MPH discrepancy at their terminal velocities, Matt demoted the Renault to third before Three Points, about 155 MPH. Same stretch of road, trailing a half minute behind the Renault, Mike in the Corvette took 4th place from David, the two of them later speculated, the Corvette about 165 MPH.

 

Order at the final checkpoint, courtesy of Anna (nice going, Anna!):

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Station 3, Anna

Three Points:

 

1. Yours Truly (an insurmountable lead; oil all over that car!)

2. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (several minutes behind!)

3. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (5 seconds behind Matt; smoking oil!)

4. Michael: C6 Corvette (about 30 seconds behind the Renault; rear-end bashed up!)

5. David; Audi RS-4 (about 30 seconds behind Mike; front-end smashed-in)

6. Stanley; Mitsubishi Evolution (right behind Dave; looks like a demolition derby!)

7. Douglas; BMW 135 (a minute behind the Evo; fender bashed-up!)

 

Station 3 Unaccounted for, per Anna:

 

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; what happened to Pete?

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; Disqualified

_______________________________________________________________

 

Open stretch of Hwy 138 and Interstate 5, grand turismos behind me with terminal velocities at least 155 MPH, if I had to stop for fuel in Frazier Park, my race would be run. Old Gene slowly fading, I dropped the hammer. A 190 MPH Corvette lurking somewhere back there, highly motivated guy behind the wheel with something to prove, I'd have to hustle my Little Godzilla from Three Points through Gorman and Frazier Park, to Mil Potrero not stopping...

 

Not for anything...

 

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEE," my 5th gear, 7,700 RPMs, blowing triple digits across Hwy 138, throttle buried, jiggling my ankle, my right foot going numb, transition to northbound Interstate 5, back up to my humble terminal velocity, at most 140 at most I blew through Gorman like a cool breeze. CHP patrol car, other side of the freeway going the other way, didn't much seem to care. Off the freeway, buzzing through Frazier Park never once stopping, an eye to my fuel meter the whole time, watching the dial slowly creeping clockwise.

 

Surprisingly few vehciles on the nation's highway, tonight.

 

I initially opted to start last, stay well away from vehicles heavier than my kerb weight, drive a conservative pace, pare down my betas, conserve fuel, overtaking just two occasions on merit (e.g., the Mitsubishi and the Renault). Everyone else I passed, was a consequence of their mistakes. Albeit saturated in Renault 30 weight, my car was one of three (e.g., Gene's Renault; Matt's Mercedes) to have finished unscathed, not a blemish to the sheet metal. I made one signi