The Last Good Race

The Last Good Race

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The end of the year was in sight, and although I had won the previous race at Mission, I had to win the second to last race to have a chance at the G Production championship. Qualifying first would also net a few extra points – and the class was close enough that a few points would likely define the winner from the losers. I had yet to both win a race and qualify first, but I was going to try. The little green guy from Dagobah said: "There is no try. Do or do not." He had obviously not tried amateur racing. Budget racing, in my limited experience, can be a lot of try, but not always a lot of do.

Girlchief, Racerdog and myself were back at PIR. The racing year was coming to an end as autumn began. The sun was setting earlier and did not rise as high in the blue fall sky. The air was cooling. It had been a long, exhausting year, but there would be time to breathe and sleep during the long winter months. We drove down to Portland early Saturday morning, Racerdog sleeping comfortably behind the seats in preparation for a weekend of sleeping comfortably behind the seats.

I pulled out on track for a misty morning practice session, and from the first instant on track, I felt fast. I was comfortable, although I could tell that my tires were not as fresh as they had been six weeks before. The car fit like a tailored glove. Dave Karraker's violently yellow '02 was fast as well. A month previously, we had been within a tenth of a second of each other, and after a very close race and my last lap, desperate pass, he had pulled past me on the straight and beaten me handily.

In afternoon qualifying, however, I beat him – mostly because he had mechanical difficulties and only did two laps. The extra points for qualifying looked in hand.

Although, naturally, they were not. Sunday morning, it began to sprinkle as we started the qualifying session. My qualifying time from the day before had been good. I decided that it was unlikely that I would be faster, and it was entirely likely that a "moment" on the damp track could jeopardize my weekend. What was the chance that Dave would beat me on a damp track?

So, naturally, he did. By a full second.

Which meant that I started Sunday's race three rows behind him. Racing with Dave had taught me that his much greater experience would mean that he would only gain places on me in heavy traffic. Call it the fogey effect, but I had noticed it in other more "experienced" drivers: they found places to put a car that were not immediately obvious to the spring chickens such as myself. On the other hand, it appeared that I had licked my high RPM hesitation. While the race would be the acid test, there was no sign of the problem.

The hesitation had haunted me at the previous PIR race, and had been the difference between defeat and victory. The problem was noticeably worse towards the end of the race. It manifested as a striking hesitation, rather like a suddenly deployed parachute, at about 5000 rpms, and maintained until about 6000 – when the car leapt forward. My theory was that the fuel pump was overheating. The fuel pressure through the hot pump was reduced, but at six grand the car liked lean and would take off. The solution was to add five or six gallons of fuel. This meant racing with another 40 pounds of weight. Not a good thing as I was already 60 lbs. over weight, but with the hesitation cured, I hoped it would be a net positive.

When the green waved, Dave was gone. His four car lead grew to seven cars, then ten cars. I could see him, but he was out of reach. I wasn't going to give up. People were racing hard in a close championship. Maybe there would be a spin in front of him.

I was focused, and pushing as hard as I could. I was high up on the curbing on the last few corners each lap, and I was passing people, but I was being passed myself. I worked through a swarm of Rabbits and RX-7's. Suddenly, Dave was closer. I couldn't see why, but now he was only five cars. I pushed harder, staying close on the bumpers of a trio of hard-racing Rabbits. As we slid through turn 10 at close to a hundred miles an hour, they parted suddenly in front of me. A white Honda with a novice sticker was parked in the middle of the corner thirty feet in front of me.

Parked was an exaggeration, but the lapped car was going fifty miles an hour slower than I was. If I went to the outside, I was likely to keep going and end my season in the tirewall. The inside of the corner had a very, very steep curb to offer. I chose the inside, and drove over the curb. For a single General Lee moment, all I could see was blue sky. I was flying. It was terrifying and glorious. There was nothing but dirt under the airborne wheels of my car. Then I was landing and it was terrifying and violent. The corner workers pointed excitedly at me, and were laughing or possibly swearing. I had other things to worry about: the car was not settled, and the breaking zone ended about 13 inches in front of me. I pushed the stop pedal hard and cranked the wheel. The car wiggled, slowed, plowed, and then finally began to answer to the helm. The turn in was desperately late and the pavement far too narrow. But I hadn't stuffed my car. Dave was closer than he had been.

The next lap, on the complex of turns before the back straight, an over-eager Miata slewed sideways in front me. I was in a tight pack, and there was the thump of contact as I went wide and someone went wider to avoid the spun car. The bug-guts yellow 2002 had pulled ahead of me, but I was suddenly in clean air, and Dave was not. I stayed focused, and concentrated on putting in fast lap after fast lap, wringing everything I could out of my car. There was no sign of the hesitation, and slowly I gained as the race progressed. I wanted to win, I could taste it, but he was driving well.

There were only a few minutes left. Another lapped novice was just ahead of me on the straight, a little too far to pass in the breaking zone. I was dead behind entering the chicane, but he slowed much more than I expected and I nailed the brakes and wiggled. I considered getting out to push him around the corner, but decided that putting my belts back on might take too long. As we exited, I prepared to pass him, but was stymied by a yellow. I pulled back in line behind him. And almost tore out my steering wheel in frustration. In his inexperience, he was far slower than he needed to be during the yellow. Better safe than sorry, but 40 miles per hour would have been plenty safe on the empty track – 20 was a little too safe for my anxious tastes. Ahead, I could see my hard fought gains evaporating as the plague-yellow '02 pulled ahead even as the yellow flags were pulled in.

If Dave won the race, I would lose any chance at the championship. I couldn't accept that. My breathing slowed. My hands and shoulders relaxed. It was like I was asleep, dreaming. I wasn't thinking about racing anymore, or driving, or going fast. I wasn't trying. I was doing. Start / Finish displayed the 5 minute sign, but it didn't matter, I had as much time as I needed.

A lap was dreamed away, and Dave was closer. Another somnambulant lap and the Last Lap sign was out. Dave was still ahead, but much closer than he had been. I didn't try a risky pass. I stayed behind him. As we flew down Portland's long curving back straight, I was just off his bumper. We entered the last set of corners and I could see the white novice Honda parked just off the apex, almost exactly as it been 12 laps earlier. Dave went to the outside and had to pinch his line to avoid the dirt. I went to the inside and saw blue sky. Dave and I entered the last corner side-by-side, but I entered faster, and exited faster and I was ahead of him, and could see Start / Finish waving the checkered flag; my car did not hesitate, and in a few long breaths I had beaten Dave by a crisp blue fall moment.

That was a good race. If I could have foretold the future, I would have ended my season with the checkered.

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