The Magic of Le Mans

I remember being about 14 years old when I first found out about the 24 Hours of Le Mans. I happened to catch it on some TV sports channel, and I remember watching the Sauber team running their pair of silver Mercedes-Benz C9s to an overall win. The cars were unlike anything I'd ever seen before - they were sleek and swoopy and spacecraft-like, had a great engine sound, and fire blasted from the exhaust pipes on every shift. Best of all, there was a bunch of equally wild-looking cars racing, too.

At the first commercial break, I learned that I was watching an endurance race called the 24 heurs du Mans. The premise was simple: Drive as fast as you could through eight miles of the French countryside, then do it for 24 hours straight.

Ingrained in my memory is watching those silver Mercs streak along the track, then through the fast right-hander known as "Tetre Rouge" ("redhead"), then on to the 4-mile long straight, famously known as "Mulsanne". Imagine what an 800+hp car can do when you floor it for four miles! (Ed. note: during the late 1980s, the turbocharged Porsche 962s were reportedly hitting speeds in excess of 250mph.)

To a young car geek, it was all magical. As I got older, I read even more about the race, and fell in love with its rich racing history and tradition. Here are just a few:

- Until 1970, the race was started with the cars not placed on a grid, but parked along the pit wall. When the starting flag was waved, drivers would run across the front straight to their awaiting cars, start them up, and drive away with reckless abandon! During the last year of this type of start (1969), famous driver Jacky Ickx protested the unsafe start by casually strolling across the track to his car, where he took great care to fasten his safety belt. Although he was one of the last to start the race, he eventually won.

- In 1962, Ferrari brought their new for 1962 (and darling of the ball) Ferrari 250 GTO, driven by Mike Parkes. During an altercation with an Aston Martin, the GTO ended up in the sand trap at the end of the Mulsanne straight. The car ended up completing only 52 laps before it retired with overheating issues. When the car was restored in the early 1990s, sand was still found wedged in the nose.

- During the 1949 race, Luigi Chinetti won the race in a Ferrari 166MM after driving for over 23 1/2 hours straight (his co-driver became ill after being in the car only 20 minutes).

- Even non-race fans are familiar with the spraying of champagne by race winners. This was started by Dan Gurney when he won the 1967 race with AJ Foyt in a Ford GT40.

- The worst crash in motor racing history happened in 1955 when Mercedes-Benz brought one of their 300 SLRs to the race. Near the beginning of the front straight, the Mercedes-Benz collided with an Austin Healey. The impact broke the Merc's engine from the chassis, sending it skipping through the crowd, killing 86 spectators.

Victories, tragedies, and traditions alike, it made for 24 hours of drama that only a racing enthusiast would get into. These days, the cars are still very exotic, but both the track and the cars are much safer. Fortunately, this hasn't hurt the stories that are told during those 24 hours.

To this day, I still wake up early on a Saturday to catch the first several hours of the race. I get chills watching the field roll off the grid, and hear the engines come up to speed as they come out of the last of the Porsche curves and sweep onto the front straight. I'll watch through the night, catch a nap in the early hours of the morning, then am back up at 5am to watch the last four hours. What can I say? It's my Superbowl.

This year, the race is scheduled for June 11-12, starting at 9am EST (3pm French time) and is being shown by the Speed Channel here in the States. If you find yourself around a TV, give it a few laps, even if you've never watched another race, or are a dyed-in-the-wool NASCAR fan.

There is truly no greater spectacle in motorsports!

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Bench Racing, and Other Great Lies #6

Here's one from Christian's past that he's offered to share as part of the next great installment in the wildly-popular, Bench Racing, and Other Great Lies series.

We love to hear stories, whether they're true, or just a great lie. So click the "Contact" link in Christian's profile, and send 'em to us. We'll even help edit, and maybe exaggerate a lie or two ourselves!

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One day during my Sophomore year in high school, my friend, Steve, stopped me in the hall. "What are you doing after school? 'Cause I have my Dad's Trans Am today."

This was a rare treat for both of us. Steve's father was a company executive who owned a handful of interesting toys including a big block '68 Corvette convertible and this car, a 1983 Pontiac Trans Am with the Daytona Pace Car package. We immediately made plans to go for a drive after school.

Within minutes of the final bell ringing, Steve and I were jumping into the car like, well, two kids who borrowed Dad's cool car.

We cruised it to a local 7-Eleven where we eased it into a prime parking spot right in front of the door. The car was loaded to the hilt with all the goodies, including the aerodynamic wheel covers and a 5-speed, and the white paint made the wedge-shaped car look like the shark that it was.

We'd only been inside a couple minutes when we came back outside to find a large gentleman admiring the car. A few pleasantries were exchanged between him and Steve as I got into the car. As I did, I overheard the man say to Steve, "I see you have a dent in the rear quarter panel and a crack in the spoiler. I do bodywork, and would be happy to give you a price on the repair." Steve thought that sounded like a good idea, and agreed to pull around the side of the building to get a quote.

I almost smacked him when he got back in the car.

We pulled around the side of the building, parked between a dumpster and an old blue and tan '77 Thunderbird. Steve got out to talk to the man when another man got out of the Thunderbird and popped the trunk. I wished that Steve had left me with the keys, but I stayed in the car and locked my door.

What eventually made me get out of the car was several loud, metallic banging noises followed by the car shaking. This was caused by a slide hammer punching eight holes in the fender. For the next five minutes, I watched as Steve's eyes remained the size of dinner plates covered in a big heaping of panic. Before he could panic any further, plastic filler was made up and spread over the holes. "All it needs is paint," said the first man. "That'll be $300."

The scam had been set, and these guys had two naive 16-year-olds in their sights. Steve gulped hard, and took a step towards the man. "That's not right. You said you were going to give me an estimate. Not actually fix the car."

Unfortunately for Steve, the man took a step towards him, and the second guy (still holding the slide hammer in his hand) was glaring at me. "I don't know what you're talking about. You owe us $300, mother fucker. And you're going to give us that money, right now."

"I'll have to go to the ATM across the street," Steve said.

"That's good. We'll follow you over. Don't try anything stupid." And that's exactly what we did.

We got back into the cars, and Steve pulls the Pontiac to the driveway. "Hold on. TIGHT." We were about to try something stupid.

For the next ten minutes, the two cars bobbed and weaved through traffic on Route 202 in Delaware at high speed, cutting through neighborhoods, blowing through stop signs and red lights, all the time hoping we'd come across a police officer. If a bridge had been out, we'd have jumped it, Dukes of Hazzard style! Hal Needham couldn't have asked for a better car chase.

Eventually, we cut through a shopping center and barreled down a side road. We pulled into a neighborhood, and came to a screeching halt in the driveway of an elderly gentleman who was mowing his lawn. He must have thought we were crazy, but seeing the panic in our eyes and our shaking voices convinced him that we were telling the truth. He and his wife let us use the phone, and Steve called his father to explain everything.

Forty-five minutes later, Steve's father pulled up in the driveway, and escorted us back to school where my ride home was waiting.

I don't know if the car was ever repaired, but it took me years to not go into a blind panic every time I saw a blue '77 Thunderbird.

Photo from http://autopolis.wordpress.com

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Battle Scars

The other day, my daughter was looking at my hands. "Daddy, what's that?" she asked, with all the innocence of a six-year-old.

"It's a scar, honey."

"Oh. How did you get it?"

Instantly, my mind started re-living the pain of that day. I was replacing the belts on my father's old Bronco II, and I was wrestling with bolts that hadn't budged in years. Unable to get one free, I pulled out the 1/2" drive socket wrench, put it on the bolt, and pushed with all my might.

Just then, the wrench slipped off the bolt, and my hand went full-force past a bracket, gouging a knuckle on my right hand and removing 1 inch of flesh from my wrist.

I, then a man of 23, cried. People two towns over heard an obscenity carried by the wind. My foot later hurt from kicking the truck's bumper in anger.

Naturally, my daughter got the abridged version, but it got me thinking about all the various scars on my hands from all the years of working on cars. And that we, as vehicle enthusiasts, probably all have our share of wounds that come from our love of all things mechanical.

I have scars from cars. I have friends who have scars from motorcycle kick-starters that snapped back to rip open the calf on their right leg. I once met a man who lost most of his face from a motorcycle accident.

Are we stupid for wanting to continue our love of working on and caring for these machines? After all, we stay away from bees because they sting. Most people don't eat liver because of its taste. And we know not to jump from an airplane without a parachute.

Rather, we tend to get up, brush ourselves off, and wipe the blood away with a greasy shop rag. Then we pick up the wrench, or get back on the motorcycle, and do it all again, knowing full well that there's a good chance we'll be injured again.

Face it. We're mechanical masochists.

Few things in life see this same kind of dedication. In a disposable world, where it's easier to "buy it new" rather than repair it, car and motorcycle enthusiasts continue to be the ones who will find it worthwhile to finish the job. After all, there's no better sense of accomplishment as when, after the job, you close the hood over a purring motor.

So take a look at your hands, and think about all the scars you see. It's even okay to ask friends about theirs. Or take the time to talk to the grizzled old mechanic - he probably has the best stories.

Don't be afraid to show off your mechanical scars. They're just tattoos of our passion.



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Monster Truck Rallies

I was recently talking with a friend of mine, and casually asked about her weekend.

"I went to see monster trucks," she replied with a smile. I thought for sure she was kidding, so I asked her to repeat it. "Yes, I'm serious!" she insisted.

Sure enough, Brighid and a friend found a deal on cheap seats at a monster truck show, and they had decided to take in a new adventure.

I still remember my introduction to monster trucks. It was around 1982, and my father and I stopped at a family friend's house. Seeing that I was bored, our friend handed me a magazine to leaf through. It was a cheap, mostly black-and-white photo-laden rag. But it was chock full of jacked up trucks, Jeeps, and even a '69 Mustang fastback that were ALL tearing through the mud on large tires.

I was hooked - and begged my parents to take me the next time a show was in town.

So the day of the show came (probably a "Sunday, SUNday, SunDAAAAAAY"), and the three of us headed to the Philadelphia Spectrum for an event full of mud and exhaust gasses.

Back then, monster trucks were still trucks. For the most part, they were still stock-bodied machines that had 4' of suspension travel, and a massively supercharged engine sticking out of the hood. They looked like a truck. They sounded mean. You could almost imagine the scary guy up the block building one in his backyard.

The evening consisted of tractor pulls, which were great for belching fire from exhaust manifolds and coating the first eight rows of spectators in a thick layer of mud. This, of course, just made you cheer louder.

Then during intermission, bulldozers started moving junkyard cars into lines in the center of the arena. They were mostly complete, and still had chrome, windows, headlights and such on them - just like the ones you'd see on the street.

The lights dimmed, and the one and only Bigfoot rolled out. It was just a truck - but to everyone there, the vehicle took on rock-star status.

With a roar from the engine, the truck accelerated forward towards the rows of cars. With a solid bounce, the front tires hit the first car, the truck reared back on its bumper, then came crashing down on that first car, flattening it to the fenders! Glass exploded for 15 feet, a hubcap flew off, and a metal roof became irreplaceable. Then, as if to prove the point that he was the greatest truck ever, Bigfoot drove down the row, smashing and crushing the cars underneath each of its 850 lb. tires.

The crowd roared, the driver waved, and for that moment, no one in the arena could have felt more American.

But the days of monster trucks have had to evolve with the times. Now that kids are used to video games, and short attention spans, and maybe even some loyalty to NASCAR, monster truck shows have evolved into races - not just blatant exhibitionism.

Even the trucks look generic. For safety reasons, the trucks are now essentially roll cages with big suspensions, and the engine resides behind the driver in the "truck bed" area. They've been given names of products and pro wrestlers, and even the long-standing fan favorite, Grave Digger, has been modernized to keep up with the competition.

Nevertheless, as long as there are people like Brighid who are interested in checking out a real piece of Americana, or just out looking for an unpretentious good time, Monster Trucks will remain a part of American culture.

Just be sure to bring earplugs and wear a mud-proof parka.

TRIVIA!!!
What vehicle is considered to be the first Monster Truck?

The "Lunar Dunar", built in the late 1960s by the father of SoCal Speed Shop's own Jimmy Shine.



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Car #2 - The LTD

My second car was one that I shared with my father for a few months. It was a two-tone silver 1984 Ford LTD sedan, and would have been considered a mid-size car by 1980s standards. It entered our family via my grandfather, who bought the car in the late '80s. And it was awful in every way possible.

But that's not completely fair. After all, it was built on the Fox-bodied Mustang chassis, had a torquey V6, and actually was available with a 302 Ford V8. So it probably did have a small amount of potential.

But ours was riding on tires that fit the criteria of "black and round", so it always handled badly. In the dry, it would go from slight understeer to snap oversteer once the tires let go. In the rain and snow, it would just oversteer constantly. You could almost pretend you were Ken Block, if not for the fact you were constantly waiting for a hard impact to stop the skid.

One night, I was going over a metal bridge in the rain. I suppose I gave it too much gas, and the car swapped ends. I stopped on the opposite shoulder with a line of cars staring at me. As it turned out, I did it right in front of a family friend. It got back to my father, yet somehow I was able to convince him that they were mistaken, being blinded by the evening rain. To this day, I think he knew the truth, but secretly took mercy on me.

Of all the LTD's non-safety features, one of the more amusing ones was the horn button. Somehow, the plastic tabs holding it to the steering wheel had broken, and it had a tendency to fall off into your lap while turning. This, of course, added to the adventure since you were suddenly distracted and surprised mid-corner which, as stated before, would then turn into sudden, hair-raising oversteer.

Even the headliner was against you. The adhesive had dry rotted early on, and the back of it hung down to the lower 1/3 of the back window. We would roll it up and pin it, but nothing worked. It would still block out the rear view behind you which would make you move your head in an attempt to see around it. This distraction would, again, force you into snap oversteer.

Then there were the seats. The stock front ones seemed as if they were designed by La-Z-Boy, and the rear seat was like a sofa. Many years ago, my grandfather had actually paid for custom seat covers for it, made from heavy-duty clear plastic. This was great because it made for easy clean-up, but also made an awesome facsimile of passing gas when you'd rub skin across it. This, in turn, would make everyone laugh (including the driver), and the car would go into snap oversteer.

A mechanic friend of mine once saw the car, and commented, "Geez, I guess transportation isn't a real priority in your house, is it?" Nope, no it wasn't.

But the car did what it was required to do and, complain as I might, there was a certain sense of cool-cruiser to the car. I'd put it in "Drive" and roll through town. I'd put down the windows, hang an elbow out, crank up George Thorogood, and look for adventure. Unfortunately for my boyish ego, I think the only girl that I ever attracted with this car was my prom date.

Eventually, I moved on to another car of my own, and the LTD was sold to a woman who, like us, didn't hold transportation as a high priority. To this day, I still wonder if she survived after the first episode of snap oversteer.

(photo courtesy of Motorcar Portfolio)

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Now THIS is a hot rod

Summer's winding down here on the East Coast, and with it goes one of my favorite Saturday night activities - the local cruise night.

It's a great, impromptu little show that has cars rumbling in around 5pm or so, and wraps up when everyone gets tired or cold. A lot of the cars belong to the usual gathering of locals, but when the weather's warmer, more exotic machinery shows up which makes for a must-see event at the drop of a hat. I've seen a number of REALLY interesting cars - a Boss 429 Mustang, Max-Wedge Mopars, Top Flite Corvettes, the only Yenko Corvair convertible, custom Panteras, even the occasional gaggle of GT40s and Vipers.

When it comes to custom cars, I'm a bit picky; an afficionado of loving details, and champion of, well, just getting it right. I suppose it's easy for me to stand there, looking at someone's pride and joy, and scoff at the details ("huh, if you'd have spent another $1,000 to do wet sanding, you'd have a show stopper...") when I don't have a car of my own. So yes, I'm a hypocrite. But I like to think my hypocracy means I can appreciate cars that much more when they're done right.

As a result, I tend to be the one guy who stops and looks at the odd car that everyone else walks past, or I happen to notice the details that everyone else misses. So while everyone else is staring the paint off of a tubbed '69 Camaro or yet another shoebox Chevy, you'll probably find me laying on the ground admiring the period-correct Halibrand quick-change rear differential on a vintage-style hot rod painted in black primer. The looks I get are priceless.

Recently, I found another diamond in the rough.

This one was parked between two modern pickups and a rogue minivan. Given it's parking spot, I assume the owner had no intention of showing it off that evening. But if I'd have had a trophy in my hand, I'd have awarded it "Best of Show". Scratch that - "Best of Summer".

1934 Ford three-window coupe. Painted in vintage-style dark blue lacquer, with '50s style flames. Chopped top. No fenders, no running boards, no hood, no hood sides. Turned metal firewall. Vintage style 5-spoke Americans painted flat grey on the rear, with an old set of chromed wheels in the front. To top it all off, it had an old V8, with dual carbs and a 6-71 blower backed up with a true 4-speed manual. The 4" side pipes weren't period-correct, but still worked with the look of the car.

If it'd had the Halibrand quick-change, I probably would have teared up a bit.

I never found the owner, but it was obvious that whoever built this car, well, just got it. It was the kind of car I've always dreamed of having in my garage. Something to scare Mercedes-Benz owners, and my mother-in-law, too. This car had a mean attitude, and looked to have the equipment to back it up.

For ten minutes of my life, I never lusted after a car more than I did that one. I could envision myself driving it like a 16-year-old with Dad's car. Every traffic light would invite a smokey burnout, followed by a full-throttle run with the supercharger's belt squealing to keep up with the crankshaft. People would think it was Don Garlits driving through town. I'd plan a trip to Bonneville just so I could get some proper salt encrusted on the chassis. I'd drive the tires off the darn thing - no sitting around at a car show!

But therein lies my dilemma. Because really, if I actually owned a car like this, I'd probably miss out on some really great cars at the car show.

Who the heck is this guy?

While I'd like to be modest, and say, "Here's a little bit about me," in actuality, it'll be a bit more than that. You see, I've had many great automotive influences in my life that have helped mold me into the car geek that I am today. You'll hear about several of these great folks in coming posts, but just know that there's been some wonderful people who have allowed me to pick their brain, and enjoy gleaning whatever I could from them and their cars.

Growing up, my interest in cars consisted of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. And wow, did I have a million of them. Literally. In fact, I still have a bunch somewhere in storage. They're all chipped up, some have bent axles, but they've all seen many thousands of pretend road miles. Even today, I still look into that box, and I find cars like the pink Lamborghini Countach, or the red Ferrari 308 GTB (which was a long-time favorite) and can still remember running them around my parents' coffee table. "Don't chip the table!" my mother would scream. Sorry, Mom. It was my 5-year-old's need for speed.

I always enjoyed looking at the occasional car magazine, but what made me a true car guy was the day (around age 10) I got a ride in a custom Hugger Orange 1976 Corvette that belonged to one of my mother's co-workers. It was bright orange, with brown leather interior. And it was LOUD with a 4-speed, and a lumpy cam-induced idle. I sat in that low-slung car, barely able to see out of it (that pit of an interior that is the Mako Shark '68-'82 Corvettes...), and it was life-changing. My body pinned to the back of the seat as we charged through the countryside at full-bore. It was the coolest thing ever!

Over the years, I'd get rides in a lot of cool cars, and every one of them left an indelible impression on me. From the truly great, to the truly awful, each one would get my own brand of car reviewing. In my head, I sounded like Brock Yates!

Eventually, someone planted the seed in my mind that actual people designed the cars that I had always loved. What? You mean I could do that??? And many, many pages of notebook paper and miles of pencil lead later, I'd created my own study-hall portfolio. I still remember my first "design study" - variations on the first generation Ford Taurus. I'd developed a whole series that ranged from sport coupes, to a Ranchero, to a targa-topped wagon. But supercars were the most fun to draw.

Sometime around 1993, a family friend, Don Layton, introduced me to the world of hot rods. I was amazed what could be done to existing cars using parts from other cars. The paint, the stance, the sound - it was all new and exciting to me. Don took me to my first real hot rod show in Ocean City, NJ, and introduced me to yet another automotive influence - Egon Necelis. Egon and I hit it off well, and shared another wonderful chapter in a young man's car life.

Since then, I've gone from getting rides in cars, to being able to drive them. And from having to bum rides to car shows, to being able to get myself there. I ended up doing a series of articles and show coverage for a web site called Speedoptions.com (which is now out of business). The pay wasn't much, but it was cool to finally see my work in print, and the feedback I'd get from the readers.

I still subject every car I drive to a car review. I suppose it's still that 5-year-old in me that enjoys running the cars around the coffee table - driving them the way they should be.

And enjoying every minute of it.