Lance and Fernando and Me

Sunday was hot with a breeze so humid it made you think you were sitting in a sauna next to a dryer vent. I was surprised to learn that yesterday's official temperature was only 99 degrees. Hot weather is great for traction, since the tires get hot enough to melt and get really sticky. The drawback is that heat is bad for horsepower, engines, brakes, and drivers.

The morning practice went smoothly, with no big problems. The brakes were locking a bit entering some corners, but a small adjustment to the brake bias* cured it. Good thing, too -- I wanted to play around with the bias a little more, but the adjusting knob must have fallen off right after I adjusted it!

Remembering the minimum weight issue from June, I took the car to Impound after practice and ran it across the scales. My official weight: 1184 pounds, 34 pounds over the minimum. The car probably had a couple more gallons of fuel in it than when it was last weighed. At approximately 6 pounds per gallon, a gallon and a half of fuel would account for the 9 pound difference over last month. I decided to leave the extra weight in the car -- at least until I saw how qualifying would turn out.

Since I had the luxury of an in-car lap timer and a crew (my mother, my father, and my friend and personal trainer Amy Stecker), I instructed them to show me Pete Wood's lap times. My theory was that if I could compare our times, I would know if I needed to drive harder, remove weight from the car, or just relax and enjoy the drive. I went out behind Art Jahn's VW-powered sports racer, a fendered car built on a formula car chassis. My plan was to try to follow him for as long as possible, since the bodywork on his car creates a big draft, and that would give me quite a boost -- like being pulled along by a vacuum cleaner.

I almost stayed behind Art for one lap. At the end of that first lap, my on-board timer showed 1:20, which I later found out would have been almost good enough for the pole position. But since the car really wasn't warmed up yet (neither was the driver), I stayed out and tried to go faster. As I edged the car down through the 1:19s, my father showed me the pit board reading 1:21, 1:22, 1:20. Pete turned a best lap of 1:20.2, while my best was a 1:19.2.

I would start fifth on the grid, in front of all of the more modern Formula Fords, two Formula A cars (one running a 2-liter Alfa Romeo twincam engine, and one running a 1600cc Lotus twincam engine), and of course the other 4 Club Formula Fords. Frank Reimann qualified his yellow Formula Ford between Pete and me, which meant that Pete would line up directly behind me on the pace lap. That was a bit of luck for me, since it is much easier to defend your position against a car starting directly behind you than against a car starting next to you.

The rest of the morning was spent checking over the car and getting it ready for the race. I debated taking some weight out of the car, but with a one second per lap advantage over Pete, I decided to leave it in. We spent the lunch break trying to keep cool, moving as little as possible, and drinking as much water and Gatorade as we could stand.

Pushing the car to the false grid before the race, getting buckled in, and waiting for the start of the pace lap are probably the longest, most exciting, nervous, nerve-wracking, tense, intense fifteen minutes in a race driver's life. I could write 1000 words describing why, but the opening montage in the movie Grand Prix and the race start sequence in the movie Le Mans capture the mood effectively. Waiting on the false grid, with all the revving engines around you, all you can hear is the pounding of your heart, the sound of your own engine, and the sudden shriek of the grid workers' whistles as they count down the last five minutes before the pace lap.

I poured some ice water down the neck of my driver's suit just before we left for the pace lap. The cars line up for the pace lap in two-by-two formation behind the pace car, then spread out single-file again as the pace lap rolls off to weave back and forth to scrub their tires, wiping off any gravel and trying to bring the rubber up to optimum temperature. The corner workers give a thumbs-up as the field passes, and wave to the drivers they know. Coming into the last turn, the pace car slows enough to let the cars get back into a tight two-by-two formation. We crawl side by side through the last turn and watch the pace car dart into the pit lane. Our attention shifts to the starter on the bridge overlooking the start/finish line. He waves the green flag, and as soon as the drivers catch the first glimpse of green, all drivers slam the throttles wide open, jockeying for position and trying to stay in front and maybe move up a spot or two before the first corner.

Pete got a little bit of a jump on me, though I'm not sure how. I heard a loud pop when I hit the gas pedal, which may have been my carburetor clearing itself out (clearing its throat, you might say). That could have delayed my acceleration for just a hundredth of a second, which could have given Pete just a bit more speed. Maybe he saw the flag a hair sooner or reacted to it a hundredth of a second earlier than I did... Whatever the cause, I saw him trying to come up between the two rows of cars. He wasn't gaining ground on me very quickly, but it was enough to worry me. I edged just a bit to the middle to take a slightly defensive line into corner 1. He stuck behind me for the first lap as I tried to keep up with the faster cars in front of us. After about five laps, my father held up the pit board with "+06" on it -- I had already built up a lead of six seconds.

Apparently Pete got into a struggle with a sports racer, which slowed him down considerably. I watched the pit signals climb (+10, +11, +13, +16) and tried to take it easy and save the car. After about twenty minutes, I realized that the car was likely to last longer than I was. The heat was starting to make me feel sick, and my flesh felt like it was cooking -- literally simmering. I had to force myself to concentrate on driving so that I wouldn't be able to think about how I felt.

I made it to the end of the race and took my victory lap. I felt pretty good when I got out of the car, but after sitting down for a few minutes, I realized I was getting dizzy and weak. Amy and my father carried me to the medical building to get checked out and cooled down. After several cold, wet towels and a couple of bottles of PowerAde, I was able to get my legs under me again. Before I left their air-conditioning to go back out into the blast furnace outside, the paramedics scolded me for wearing a black driver's suit on such a hot, sunny day.

The CFF points after this weekend:

1. John Haydon - 125
2. Pete Wood - 105
3. Michael Schindlbeck - 53
4. Denis Downs - 33
5. Scott Reif - 33
6. Larry Noble - 17
7. Jon Borkowski - 16
8. Paul Schindlbeck - 16
9. Dick Plank - 11
10. Bob Fleming - 8

Next up: I don't know yet! There is an SCCA Regional race at the new Autobahn Country Club track in Joliet next weekend. I may try to get some track time there in preparation for the MC race there in October. Otherwise, the SCCA Double Regional (East-West Challenge) race at Road America is next month. I'll post when I decide.

*Most race cars are able to adjust the bias, or ratio of braking force on the front wheels vs. the force on the rear wheels. When the brakes are applied hard -- as in a race car -- the wheels slow down but the rest of the car wants to continue forward. This shifts the weight of the car off of the rear wheels and onto the front wheels. This gives the front wheels more traction than the rears, which means the front brakes can do more braking than the rears. If you adjust the bias too much to the front wheels, the brakes will overpower the tires, and lock the front wheels.