Door to Door

Door to Door

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In my not-so-unbiased opinion, the best racing in the world happens on tracks where no one is watching, where the drivers are slow and the cars are slower. . It also, inarguably, happens when I'm the one doing the racing. I can say this objectively, because racing in Conference is definitely more fun than watching Formula 1 on TV; although a snaggle-toothed Hobbesian narration is hard to beat.

The middle of August was extremely busy for Girlchief and I as we were hard at work on the Multiple Sclerosis benefit event at my sponsor, Carpenter Creek Winery (shameless plug: check out their new wines at www.carpentercreek.com; I'm super excited about the blended reds, but I'm not an alcoholic! I'm not!). There was no time to work on the car. It spent more time on the trailer than in the garage, a pumpkin-colored eyesore in an otherwise drab neighborhood. At the same time, I mulled my upcoming race in Portland. As I had missed the triple-points weekend of Spokane, I was now behind in race standings – but with some good finishes and a bit of luck, I could still pull ahead and win the championship.

After an early morning tow south, we crawled into the misty paddock with twenty minutes to spare, waved at Jeff and Judge Peneck, and found a spot with the Dirt Cheap Racing crowd. Registered and teched, car unloaded, wheel torque checked, safety equipment on and it was time to drive. I felt comfortable on the track, despite a few sideways glances at the paint on the walls where I'd crashed in the June 6th monsoon. I brought my speed up much more quickly than I usually do in practice sessions. I was sliding into Turn 3, countersteering, then lifting a bit to get the car to hook-up. I was brushing the brakes at the end of the back straight, riding up high on the left-hand FIA curbing, and then using the steeper right-hand curbing to help rotate the car into the Turn 12 breaking zone. The car was fast. I felt fast.

I passed the smarmy yellow '02 of Dave Karraker. Then he passed me. Then I passed him. Then he passed me. I drove faster, he drove faster. Our cars, both BMW 4-cylinders, seemed to be well matched. Our line and turn-in points were identical. The session checkered waved.

The weather had turned rainy earlier than usual this summer, and it was unclear what race-day weather was going to be like. Sunday qualifying could well be wet, so I decided to treat Saturday afternoon like it was my only qualifying chance.

I drove the wheels off the race car. Towards the end of the session, I started to feel the slight hesitation on the straight that had haunted me at Pacific Raceways. All the same, I felt like I had put in some very fast, clean laps, without traffic. I braked later, got on the gas earlier, entered corners hotter, rotated the car more, and tried to find the line between fast and over-driven. The car fit like a tailored glove.

I had qualified about 1.5 seconds faster than I had ever driven at PIR. But Dave's mellow yellow 2002 was .002 seconds faster. Two-thousandths of a second is a bee’s sneeze at start-finish. Weather permitting; I was going to find some more speed the next morning.

The next morning, the weather was permitting. I focused. I imagined taking corners faster. I swallowed my common sense. I spoke in tongues. I drove the fastest lap I ever had at PIR. I was over a second faster than I had been the day before.

So was Dave. He was five-hundredths of a second faster than me. My 1:37.602 against his 1:37.557.

No biggy. He'd be starting right in front of me; I'd get him at the start of the race. Five hundredths is a bee's fart.

That was the theory. When the green flag waved, forty drivers buried the go-pedal, and tried not to hit each other. Dave showed his superior experience and slipped into spaces I couldn't see, gaining half-a-dozen spots on me. For every place I gained, I'd lose one to a Rabbit or RX-7 engaged in their own close race. Dave's lead quickly grew as the pack spread out through the first few laps. I wasn't going to catch him if his lead continued to grow like that. Not a chance. My car still had the slight hesitation on the straight between about 5000 and 6000 rpms. It wasn't more than a tenth of a second per lap, but I was worried it would get worse.

Then his pace began to fall off. He was having brake problems – his brake lights were going on too early for the corners. Slowly, I worked past counter-steering RX-7s and wheel-lifting Rabbits, one car at a time. It wasn't easy. They were engaged in their own close races, and I didn't have the power to pass them on the straights. Lap after lap passed, valuable time dropping behind me.

Then there was nothing in front of me but the '02. It took a lap to close the distance, and my first try was an inside pass in the breaking zone for the chicane. I stayed on the brakes a little too late, and the car over-rotated. Sloppy and slow, and he re-passed me and gained 20 yards. I took a deep breath and focused and went to the inside for turn 4. He closed the door on me, and I tried again in 8.

Our side-view mirrors were inches apart as we slid through the corner at the edge of adhesion. We were dead even with each other. Almost every corner we were door-to-door, scrabbling for any traction, any advantage.

When I would try to pass, Dave would leave me exactly enough room to fit my car, and nothing more. I gained a bit in the breaking zones, but our corner entry speeds and lines were almost identical and every time we'd hit the straight-away my car would hesitate and he'd gain a bit on me. I found speed in corners where I'd never known it could be, but I couldn't outpace Dave. He might lead for a corner or two, then we'd be door-to-door, then I'd be ahead momentarily.

The hesitation on the straight was getting worse, until it was so bad that Dave was gaining 3 or 4 car lengths on me. I'd pass him on the last corner, Turn 12, and then the mellow-yellow 2002 would blow by me like I was a highway cone. I swear I saw him wave once or twice. I'd start to make up the distance in the chicane breaking zone, and then we'd be door-to-door through the entire back section and through the back straight. I might have half a car length on him going into the 10-11-12 complex at the end of the back straight and manage to squeak past him. Once I tried to pass him on the outside in Turn 10. Bad plan. Pavement disappears very quickly at 100 mph. But he gave me the space I needed to recover (if not pass).

There may have been other cars racing with us, but I don't remember them. In my gas-tinged, sun-addled haze, all I remember is the sinking desperation I'd have every time he'd pass me and the sudden ecstasy as I found a way to pass him.

I missed the 5 Minute warning, but saw the LL placard displayed. I hoped against hope that this lap I could stay ahead of him on the straight. Maybe he'd over rotate in turn 12 and wouldn't be able to catch me before the start. Or something. Maybe.

We raced mirror almost touching mirror, sticky-hot tires scrubbing sideways through the corners, noise and heat and wind, the last yards of the race disappearing in one great rush. He led me in turn 10 and 11, but I slipped inside in Turn 12, and was ahead of him on the exit. But there was nothing I could do. My car gasped and hesitated, he made no mistakes, and as we passed Start / Finish, he was three car lengths ahead of me.

It was a great race. Greater in the telling, perhaps, if I had won – but it was still a great race. In line for the scales, Dave and I rehashed the race, lied about how fast we'd be if only… and congratulated each other on a race well-driven. Girlchief and Racerdog hadn't yet made it back from where they had watched the race, and Dave gave me an ice-cold water bottle. It went down like ambrosia.

That's what racing is supposed to be like.

The following weekend, I won at Mission, BC, having lead every lap except one. I beat my competition by half a lap – but I drove poorly, and wasn't challenged. It wasn't half the fun. Racerdog disagreed. She liked the bacon the snack-truck lady kept sneaking her when Girlchief wasn't looking.