This is a story of great financial loss, a tale of broken dreams, shattered expectations and complete stupidity. That's right, it's a story about a racecar. My racecar. I'm grateful to have owned only one.
Truth is, after all these years, I still blame Roger Penske and Paul Tracy for the whole thing.
Spring 1993. I'd been living in Los Angeles a little more than a year. Paul Tracy, driving for Roger Penske, had just won his first IndyCar race at Long Beach. I liked Paul. He was aggressive. He drove the car like he hated it. Like he stole it. I liked that. What can I say, I'm originally from New Jersey. You got a problem with that?
At the time, Paul was 24 years old--only one year older than me. But I wasn't driving for Roger at Indianapolis. I was sitting at a desk. I obviously had some catching up to do. I needed to get myself a racecar.
I immediately joined the Sports Car Club of America and began to search for just the right ride. The fact I was living in a one-bedroom apartment with no garage, and owned no trailer, tow vehicle or tools certainly should have deterred me. It didn't. I figured I could scrape together about $2,000 if I took a cash advance on a credit card. More than enough for a decent car, I recall thinking at that time.
I remember looking at open-wheelers like Volkswagen-powered Formula Vees, showroom stock racers and a few classics like Bugeye Sprites and Porsche 914s. But they were all beyond my mechanical know-how and financial means. The ones in my price range were missing engines, suspensions and other small details.
Months went by. It was becoming clear an entire racecar could not be had for my measly $2,000. Then the phone rang. It was the friend of a friend. He had a 1978 Volkswagen Scirocco racecar he wanted to unload. He said it was complete, had a 1.5-liter engine that ran fine and had a logbook. He said it was legal for ITB (Improved Touring B class), and it could be competitive on a local level. He said he would even throw in a trailer and spare parts, which included an extra set of wheels and tires. He wanted $1,500.
Right then, I should have hung up the phone. And I did. But first I said I'd take it. I'd come up Saturday and pick it up.
Early that Saturday, I packed up a borrowed Ford pickup with my then-girlfriend and headed north to Santa Rosa, Calif., a sleepy wine town just beyond San Francisco. Stupid me. I actually thought I could drive the seven hours there, make the deal, hitch up and tow home the same day. Stupid me.
When we arrived at the guy's house, the car, which wore an odd red, orange and yellow paint scheme, was in the driveway sitting on a very small, slate-gray, single-axle trailer. The trailer had no suspension, brakes or working lights. It looked like it had been built from scrap. The car just fit between its wheelwells.
I remember my girlfriend being obviously disgusted by the car's appearance. The gutted interior was infested with spiders. I handed over the money as if it was a privilege to be the next owner of this grand machine. Unbelievably, I didn't even ask to hear it run.
We hitched up, loaded the spare parts, which added up to a pair of worn struts and a coffee can full of bits and bolts, and headed south. I now owned a racecar. What I was going to do with it when I got it back to Los Angeles was still uncertain. Hey, one step at a time, right?
The drive home was long. It got dark. I got tired. Midnight passed with hours to go. I remember the trailer getting a bit wobbly above 65 mph, but it basically towed straight. We stopped every 50 miles or so to check the hitch and trailer. My girlfriend slept with her head against the truck's side glass. With just 30 miles to go, I remember thinking we were just about home.
That's when things got really bad.
The trailer's hitch disintegrated, and the trailer detached from the truck. I thought we were dead. I remember screaming at a pitch only dogs could hear. "Oh God, we're losing the car!" The single-axle trailer, riding on the safety chains, flailed about like Michael Flatley's feet, yanking the truck all over the road. I fought for control. I believe I almost shit my pants.
Using all three lanes of the freeway, I somehow gathered it up, slowed us and pulled it all over to the shoulder of the, thankfully, empty 405 freeway.
When we stopped, I could feel the car hitting the truck as the trailer swung on the safety chains, which had kept the car and trailer from tumbling down the road. I was sure my new racecar was toast.
Incredibly, the Scirocco's rear bumper and the bumper of the pickup aligned perfectly. No damage. But the trailer's hitch was dust. To free the truck, I unhooked the safety chains and left the dark car and trailer on the dark shoulder. At the nearest pay phone I called the Auto Club for a tow. I asked for a flatbed so the car and trailer could be hauled off as a unit.
For five hours, we waited. First on the shoulder parked behind the car and trailer with our flashers going. But, after two near misses from drunks unable to keep it between the lines, we pulled off the nearest exit. After three hours, I remember thinking I should just abandon the whole thing. There was no registration or tags or identification on the car that linked it to me. But, I wanted to go racing.
By 6 a.m., we had not seen one Highway Patrol officer pass by the entire night. Then, finally, the flatbed truck arrived. The driver was nice. He asked me where I wanted him to haul it. I stood there like a deer in headlights. That was an excellent question. I had no garage. Most commercial garages weren't open at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning, and I certainly couldn't have him dump it in the street in front of my apartment. He offered to store it for me until Monday. He said I should call him
Monday morning and tell him where to bring it. I could pay him then.
We got home, with no racecar, just as the sun came up.
Monday, I called and arranged for a local tow-hitch place to fix the trailer. They said it would cost $600. So much for my budget. I don't remember the cost of the tow, but I do remember breaking into a sweat as I added it all up in my head.
With the trailer fixed, I borrowed another truck and towed the car down to VW Specialties in Huntington Beach, Calif. Ron Wood, the owner of the place, agreed to go through the car--you know, make sure it was safe, make sure it would pass tech inspection, clean out all the spiders, etc. I also asked him to move the seat to my liking. He said he would have it ready for a regional SCCA event in Holtville, Calif., a few hours east of San Diego. The race was on the weekend of February 5, about eight weeks away. It would be my first.
Wood went through the car but couldn't give it a test drive because it wasn't street legal. When I picked it up Friday afternoon, ready for the long tow to Holtville, its engine started easily and seemed to run okay. It was loud. Sounded like a wood chipper eating metal pipe. I remember driving it around Wood's parking lot to be sure the clutch and transmission were operating. They were. I thanked Wood, was handed the bill, broke into a sweat, paid it and headed south.
Holtville is way out in the desert. It's the kind of place you go to kill yourself. Practically on the Mexican border, its landscape is an inviting mix of doublewides, tumbleweeds and border-patrol checkpoints.
It took forever to get there. Still not trusting the trailer, which was without registration or lights, I took it easy and arrived late. The track, which turned out to be an old airstrip, was locked up, forcing me to grab a hotel room (cha-ching) back by the highway. I parked the truck and trailer in the hotel lot with doubts the racecar would still be there in the morning. It was. In retrospect, I wouldn't have stolen it either.
With some fiddling, I got the car unloaded and through tech inspection. I remember having to work a little duct tape magic on the headlights to satisfy the inspectors. They also made me tape up a crude number two on the driver's door for the timekeepers.
Practice went OK, but the car soon began to cut out above 3000 rpm. It just wouldn't rev. I opened the hood, looked around, played with the carburetor linkage. I even asked a couple of guys with tools for help, but the problem persisted. Also, the car had absolutely no suspension travel. It felt like the shocks and struts had seized. Despite these problems, I qualified second behind the only other car in my class, another Scirocco.
With hours to kill before the race, I checked the tire pressures twice very carefully and retired to the truck to read a magazine. Just as drivers were called to the grid, I remember thinking I should put some gas in the car. This, of course, caused the rubber gas-filler line to leak, which, of course, doused me and the car's right rear tire in gasoline.
I should've torched the thing right then. Instead, I tried to duct tape the hose. Big mistake. Now my hands were sticky as well as covered in gasoline.
"Two minutes," called the course marshal.
This was unbelievable. After all this, I was going to miss my first race because a $1 hose decided now was the time to take a leak. Just as
I was about to light the match and roast a few marshmallows, a fellow racer walked over and handed me his pocketknife. With it I shortened the hose, cutting off the damaged section,reattached it and filled the car with gas.
Thank God for sportsmanship.
Stinking of high test, I suited up, strapped in and made it to the grid with seconds to spare.
My first race. I'll never forget it. The pace laps. The green flag. The absolute frustration and embarrassment of finishing dead last. With the engine unwilling to rev more than 3000 rpm, I was lapped by the leaders about 10 times. Guys were flying by me left and right. I literally drove around by myself. Slowly. It was almost as fun as sock shopping.
But, get this: Because there were only two cars in my class, I'm able to boast that I finished second in my very first race. I even have the trophy to prove it.
The next day, I towed home and stuffed the car and trailer in some outdoor boat storage place in Marina Del Rey. A few weeks later, it was back at VW Specialties. They agreed to yank the engine and ship it up to some shop in Oregon for a rebuild. Oregon. And don't ask me why I continued to spend money I didn't have on that car.
Soon, it all came to a head. I couldn't afford to pay the engine shop, I owed back rent on the storage space, and I had worn out my truck-borrowing privileges with all my buddies.
By the end of summer, I awoke from the dream of becoming a racecar driver. I told the engine shop in Oregon to keep the engine and sold the car to Wood for the cost of my back storage rent. It was like $200. I remember being a little sad when he hauled it away. I never did see it again.
You have to wonder how Roger and Paul sleep at night. You think they'd call to apologize.