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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
One Lap 2001
George Samuels Captures the Thrill of Victory and the Agony of
Defeat in 2001
May 20, 2001
THE JOY OF ONE LAP
We were two, weary men in the autumn of our lives, searching, as men have done through the long, long years, for the Joy.
And the Joy seemed to be in short supply this year. Many of the older, more experienced competitors shared with one another a vague dissatisfaction. Often, they said that this would be their last year. Over and over, I heard the question, "Why are we doing this?" I always responded, "For the joy of it." They looked at me as though I were some poor, idiot child that an unkind fate had left on their doorstep. Rick Potter, my co-driver, was particularly quick to give me that look. I understood what he-and they--felt. This year seemed different. The pressure to win was higher. The light-hearted foolishness was less. Life seemed to be reduced to some humdrum sum: a number
totaling the worries and wounds. As we drove through many of the long dark nights, pondered, "How is it that we are come to this: that we cannot find the Joy?"
On Friday, May 4th, we had the great pleasure of seeing all the friends from last year, comparing notes and catching up with one another's doings. We added the required decals to our cars and ran them through tech inspection, then wandered through the parking lot looking to see what the New Year had brought us. There were wonders and delights. Dan Kary had returned with a wonder, a Renntech-built Mercedes with a reputed half-million dollar price tag. It had devices and techno-magic that most of us had never dreamed of, let alone actually possessed. Kary told us that it had produced 700 lb./ft. of torque at 2500 rpm on the dyno. It had a fully adjustable suspension that could be reconfigured on the fly from the driver's seat. It had aerodynamic devices that would have been more at home at Bonneville. It was an automotive technological shrine. Aaron Quine and Bill Hoskins, a pair of Lap Puppies, showed up with a delight, a Corvette GSR featuring the best of 1963 technology. It was a real, hairy-chested, balls-to-the-wall, we-are-not-constrained-by-common-sense sports car that delighted everyone with its sheer effrontery. No top, no windows, no creature comforts of any kind; it was just enough chassis to hold an engine and keep four wheels upright. I liked it.
The next day, we all went to the track at Watkins Glen, where Brock Yates proclaimed, "Let the games begin". They began with a single qualifying lap for each car. Rick was familiar with the Glen, but he had never driven his car on it with this new configuration. He set off on his qualifying lap. From the start/finish line, it appeared that he did very well, setting the sixth fastest time of the morning. However, he stepped from the car shaken and distraught. An oil leak had dumped lubricant on his left-rear tire and set the car sideways through the Carousel, a dangerous, high-speed turn. We searched for the source and cause of the leak, but could not find it. To add to the pressure, Rick was called to the starting grid almost immediately, due to his quick qualifying time. Rick was torn: another oil-aided loss of control could be fatal, but a DNS (Did Not Start) would end our One Lap effort before it started. He gathered up his courage and took the car on to the track. Tip-toeing around the track, he still managed to run 9th overall. When he pulled into the pits, we called Peter Farrell, our sponsor, and asked his advice. He suggested checking three things, one of which proved to be the problem. We fixed the car and made ready for the second event. Still driving conservatively, lest the problem re-surface, Rick finished in 7th place. We were 8th overall at the end of the day. Not a bad beginning--certainly not as bad as the vaunted Renntech ubervagen. In spite of having been clocked at 185 mph on the back straight (according to Brock Yates, Jr.), its techno-wonders had betrayed it. The paddle-shifter actuated transmission downshifted to first in the middle of turns with predictably unpleasant results. It was withdrawn from the event. The day hadn't ended badly, but it hadn't ended as well as we hoped. We were running third in class behind Dan Corcoran, Rick's hometown rival, and behind Dan Schlickenmeyer, who had surprised everyone by finishing first overall in his '95 Mustang - ahead of even last year's champions in their Viper.
There was No joy.
We headed off to Wyoming, NY for the required stop at Brock Yates' Cannonball Pub. The trip was uneventful. When we arrived, though, we found that we had to wait until a designated time before we could get the sticker that proved we had been there. While everyone socialized, I found a highway patrolman and asked about routes and roads. He told me about an alternate route that would save considerable time in getting us to our next stop. Using that advice, as well, as information posted on the One Lap website regarding a shortcut through Canada, we saved about 100 miles. Others also took the Canadian shortcut, though at least one competitor had to take the longer U.S-only route, due to having a pistol in the car (Canadian border guards frown on such things). Rick and I made a mental note to avoid antagonizing that competitor throughout the remainder of the event. After passing through Canada, we stopped in Flint, MI for gasoline. The station was closed, but had credit card-only pumps available. As we worked in the little pool of light surrounding the gas pump, two people emerged from a nearby Taco Bell and began flitting through the darkness, observing the RX-7 from every angle. At last they stepped into the light. With bandy legs holding up barrel-like bodies with no discernible necks and sporting haircuts like those favoured by professional wrestlers and their fans (short in front with long, greasy curls cascading down their backs), they looked like round, hairy trolls. They approached shyly, and one, peering around the corner of a gas pump with eyes wide and bright in the red, argon light, said, "Awesome car, dude!" Thus began a flurry of questions about the car and One Lap. When they found out about the rotary engine and the modifications made by Peter Farrell, they asked to see the motor. They exclaimed over the polished aluminum and powder-coated pieces. They marvelled at the size of the turbo-charger. Their eyes sparkled and their grins grew broad, and I could see that
;
THEY had found the Joy.
We bade them good-bye and set off for Mid-Michigan Raceway, a dragstrip. Now, Rick and I are
roadracers. For us, the words, "drag race", bring to mind an image of men wearing women's running shoes. This was the first time I had ever been to a dragstrip, and, if I recall correctly, it was only Rick's second time. We were out of our element. However, the schedule called for a drag race, so drag we must. The first event was a straightforward race for elapsed time. Rick feared fouling the plugs, if he sat too long idling in the waiting line, so he dutifully turned the motor off every time the line came to a stop. What he didn't realize was that every time the key was turned on, the engine management system sent a spray of fuel into the engine to assist with cold starting. As a result, shortly after the launch, the car belched a huge cloud of black, unburned fuel, then coughed and lurched its way down the strip turning in only a 13.6 second ET. Our sponsor had told us to expect a time around 11.9 seconds, so we were disappointed with our performance. We called him, and he explained that repeatedly starting and shutting off the car was precisely the wrong thing to do. Too late, now; we just had to live with it. Next came the bracket races. It took a couple of explanations, before I understood this somewhat strange mode of racing. One announces a dial-in time, which, if exceeded, means that you lose. In a perfect world, this allows cars of disparate performance to compete fairly. For the One Lappers, it led to a number of odd-couple pairings. The Honda Death Car, a perennially popular backmarker, lined up with a Cobra--and won! When the Austin Mini Cooper pulled up to the lights next to a ZR-1 Corvette, the crowd came to its feet cheering and clapping their delight.
THEY had found the Joy.
Rick's performance improved with each bracket race as the fuel-fouled plugs cleaned themselves off. The good news was that he went faster. The bad news was that he "broke out" of his bracket and lost in the fourth round. We packed the car and headed for Michigan International Speedway, where we expected to do well. Rick had driven well in previous years and now had an additional 100 horsepower to use on the high-banked oval that was a key to the course. The car performed beautifully, pulling to 6000 rpm in 5th gear (about 165 mph), which was about 15 mph faster than last year. We finished fifth overall and began the long trip to Heartland Park, just outside Topeka, KS. As we passed through Illinois we worried about the guys in the Corvette GSR, since they had no top, and the forecast called for thunderstorms and tornados. We passed them, at one point, taking shelter beneath an overpass while we pressed onward through the rain. Luckily, the storm was from a narrow band of clouds and soon passed over them. As we ran down I-80, we were happy to have a radar detector, since we spotted some competitors pulled over--some more than once. We learned that some of them were able to get off with only a warning by pointing to the sticker for Ronald McDonald House (a One Lap sponsor) and saying that they were trying to raise money for the charity. Most, later contributed to the charity what the tickets would have cost. Arriving in Des Moines, IA, we made another required stop at Holm's Radiator, another event sponsor. They were incredibly nice people and had coffee, Krispy Kreme donuts and other treats for us. Since we were getting there about midnight or later, the coffee was gratefully accepted. Rick, being from Canada, had never before experienced Krispy Kremes. When he came down from the sugar high, he was grateful for them, too. The people at Holm's had the place lighted up as though for a midnight space shuttle launch. They videotaped the cars coming in, exclaimed over the unusual and exotic makes and models and cheered as each car did a burnout on its way to Kansas. I could see that;
THEY had found the Joy.
In Topeka, we only had time for two hours sleep, and then we were off to Heartland Park. Rick had seen this track once, two or three years before. Time had not been kind to it. With weathering and frost heave, the pavement was rough and, in some places, uneven. Rick and some other road racers found themselves thrown a foot-and-a-half to one side or the other, while trying to stay on the lines through turns. Corcoran, used to the rough-and-tumble of dirt tracks, had no problems. Sliding was a way of life for him. He did very well. Something had to be done. After conferring with Peter Farrell, we reset the shocks to their lowest setting in order to compensate for the bumpy track. This time, Rick took 9 seconds off his time and finished before Corcoran AND Schlickenmeyer in the Mustang. This fellow Schlickenmeyer was proving to be a tough nut to crack. As a former Top Gun fighter pilot, he had near-superhuman reflexes, and his car seemed constrained only by the street tires that all competitors were required to run. Every time the car revved, people stopped and stared. For car guys, the stare turned into a look of love as they listened to the ragged harmony between the motor's bass thrum and the supercharger's obbligato shriek. Fast, well prepared and wondrously driven, I might have hated the car, if I hadn't admired the ensemble so much. With 575 horsepower at the rear wheels, there appeared to be no way that we could catch, let alone, surpass a car that was so manifestly more powerful than our own. I offered the opinion that we would just have to settle on trying to beat Corcoran and hope that Schlickenmeyer would break. We loaded the car and headed for Texas Motorsports Ranch. The trip, for us, was uneventful. We learned later that some others (who shall remain nameless) had crossed Oklahoma with an average speed in excess of 100 mph from border to border. This is neither condoned nor encouraged by the One Lap organizers. Frankly, it's not even necessary in order to do well in the event, but you could see by their grins that THEY had found the Joy
The track appeared innocuous enough, but that was misleading. After soaking in three days of rain, there was enough moisture in the track surface to make it unpleasantly slick. When he first got on the track, Rick blipped the throttle in second gear and turned the car sideways. This didn't do much for his confidence. By contrast Corcoran, with his circle track/slide'em-when-you-can background, seemed to be right at home. Corcoran was proving to be a handful. He was having a wonderful year. (Darn it!) Wherever he drove, it seemed that he could do no wrong. While all the experienced road racers slipped and bitched (Reed Kryder's Z06 Corvette with its vaunted traction control technology fell to 20th place), Corcoran happily and quickly slid around the track with no apparent concern for the laws of physics. In the afternoon, the track dried out a bit, but we still only finished 9th overall. In recognition of the long journey ahead, Brock Yates had decreed that the afternoon event would start an hour sooner, allowing us to get on the road rather than sitting through a siesta lunch hour.
We had the pleasure of being visited by some RX-7 enthusiasts while in Texas. They delighted in the
traveling circus atmosphere of One Lap. One in particular, a young fellow with a red, 2nd-generation RX-7, confided that he had followed the One Lap for 15 years, reading everything that he could about it. When he found that we would be near him, he had made a special effort to come and visit. He said that he really wanted to run the One Lap, but he had a wife and small children and just couldn't do it at this time. He gazed at the wild and wonderful cars with a look of love on his face, and I could see deep in his eyes,
smoldering beneath the bills to be paid and the sacrifices to be made that;
HE had found the Joy.
Now began the longest night: 911.5 miles to Road Atlanta. Everyone was a little intimidated. In addition to the distance, there was the threat of more thunderstorms along the way and the possibility that we would have to run Road Atlanta in the rain. Rick and I passed Aaron Quine and Bill Hoskins, in the Corvette GSR, as we sped eastward on I-20. In spite of the hot, Texas sun and the potential problems, Aaron's apple-cheeked, country-boy face and Bill's
gray-rimmed, Santa's-elf countenance beamed with excitement and delight. Anyone could see that;
THEY had found the Joy.
As it turned out, the trip across half the continent on I-20 was almost painless. Long, yes, but without incident. We stopped someplace in Alabama for gas. When I went inside, the clerk drawled, "You guys in some kinda rally or something?" I said, "Something like that." He replied, "Well, the Corvette's an hour aheada y'all." I thanked him for the information and told him a little about the One Lap. He seemed a little dubious and quite determined not to appear to be the bumpkin before this Yankee. No Joy. As Rick and I were pulling out, Jerry Churchill's fire-engine-red Viper with the gold-mesh wheels and the high wing pulled in. I saw the clerk grinning from ear-to-ear with his neck stretched to an almost unnatural degree to see over the counter and out the door and knew;
HE had found the Joy.
Road Atlanta, where Gene Felber met us with Starbucks coffee and chocolate chip cookies, turned out to be a turning point. Rick had only four laps experience on the track (from a previous One Lap), and we proved that experience beats technology when Greg Stasiowski, in a car configured like ours was last year, beat Rick by 1.2 seconds in the morning event. This was one more setback for Rick. We had a vastly more powerful car than the previous year, but we weren't doing all that much better. He was tense and irritable--unhappy with himself, in particular, and, it seemed, life, in general. He and other experienced Lap Dogs talked of how little they enjoyed this and of not doing it any more.
A One Lap moment: Another driver who knew Road Atlanta heard Rick complaining of his lack of experience and offered to show him a better line on the crucial last turn onto the main straightaway. Doing so threw away what little advantage that driver had over Rick, but that's the way One Lappers are. In the afternoon, Rick drove Road Atlanta better and faster than ever before. Although Corcoran had beat him by a substantial margin in the morning, the afternoon times were too close for my amateur fumbling with mechanical stopwatches. Rick had to know if we had finally pulled ahead. He urged me to go and ask the official timer, who is normally not to be bothered. Knowing how on-edge Rick was, I acceded to his wish. The timer was pleasant and quickly gave me Rick's time - 5:14.674. He searched for a moment to find Corcoran's time, and then started chuckling. 5:14.673! .001 second. One-thousandth of a second! I stalked up the hill muttering imprecations to myself. One-thousandth of a second! Less than an eyeblink. One-thousandth of a second! Less than a heartbeat! One-thousandth of a second! Less than a hiccup, for Christ's Sake!! Rick had been watching me walk away from the timer and pounced on me wanting to know what I had learned. I told him. His eyes grew wide. He turned his head this way and that as though trying to understand some arcane mystery. And then, he began to laugh. "One-thousandth of a second!" he shouted and snickered. "JUST one-thousandth of a second!" I assured him and cackled. We laughed like madmen for the better part of 15 or 20 minutes and in mock-solemnly agreed that this was a sign from the Almighty regarding the inflated importance of what we were doing...and felt much better for it. Then, perspective restored, we packed the car, thanked Gene for the coffee and cookies, and made our way to Danville, VA to await the morning and Virginia International Raceway.
Rick awakened at 4:30 a.m. for no particular reason, and I awoke a short time later. We were in good spirits and decided to spend our extra time washing the car, since the track wasn't open, yet. When we finally arrived at VIR, I dropped Rick off at the south course, so that he could walk the track. With that .001-second finish, Corcoran was ahead of us in points. I went to the north course paddock and began unloading our shiny, clean car. Suddenly, another shiny, clean car pulled in beside me. It was Howard LaFever, affectionately known to his fellow Lap Dogs as "Beaver" LaFever, due to his avocation. While the rest of us concentrated on getting from track to track in the minimum time, so that we could maximize sleep, Beaver searched out and visited topless bars along the way. He made a point of collecting a souvenir from each and meticulously noting the time and place in his logbook. Beaver's car was shiny and clean, because, instead of washing it at 6:30 a.m., as Rick and I had done, he had found a topless car wash on the way to the track. In light of the previous day's revelation, this difference in approach and similarity in result seemed entirely appropriate. And as he talked fondly about the "girl with the lovely D's", Beaver had CLEARLY;
Found the Joy.
Rick was relaxed and ready. He no longer had the tension and stress of previous days. He left for the grid with a smile on his face. It was as though he had been transformed. There was no drama, no errors--just cool precision and unbelievable speed. He returned from the track with the look of one who has achieved Nirvana, and said, "That was the best run I have ever made in all the One Laps I've done. Everything was just right. I could retire, now, and be happy." And I knew that HE had finally;
Found the Joy.
After the first few days of struggling to keep Corcoran in sight, Rick now surpassed him without thought. We were now tied in points. Rick, though, had no concern about trying to go fast, so he went faster than ever. When he forgot about competing, he competed more successfully than ever. In the afternoon, he finished 3rd overall, a new high, and we were ahead of Corcoran. We packed and left for Watkins Glen.
The next morning, we arrived at the track, and Rick was, again, relaxed. Like some Oriental warrior/priest, he had reached a state of balance and readiness. He had been moved to the first run group in recognition of his speed and constancy. As he pulled to the start line, we had another reminder from the Almighty, as the flagman called out, "Is that little Toyota the last one?" A barrage of "Mazda" yells corrected his misapprehension, and he apologized by saying, "All those Japanese cars look alike." With that affirmation of our real importance in the world, Rick was once again ready to do what he does best. He flew around the track faster than he had ever gone before and was second only to the Viper of Ron Adee. Relaxed and smiling, he waited patiently for the rest of the One-Lappers to finish. We changed the rear brake pads. No stress, no strain. In the second session, everything changed. Rick's car was close to overheating, so he slowed down and stayed gentle. Corcoran could no longer catch us in the points as long as the car continued to run. All we had to do was survive to take second in class and fifth overall. Schlickenmeyer was out of reach. Since Rick's change of attitude, he had been reeling Schlickenmeyer in, but there weren't enough events left to catch him. Then Schlickenmeyer's car sounded very, very sick. His time for that event was down by 33 seconds. Suddenly, we had taken first in class! We had it in the bag! Schlickenmeyer's motor had blown a gasket. Run without coolant, the sparkplugs were welded into the head. All Rick had to do was motor sedately through the last event. A cakewalk! However, Rick didn't want to win that way. He took to the track as though inspired. Blistering through lap after lap, he beat his own best time by 4 seconds; leaving the GT/2 class in the dust and moving up to fourth place overall. Why? Why would he do such a thing? Because he could. Because it was fun. Because, as the corner workers all gave him a thumbs-up and grinned and cheered to see the little car dance through the turns like Baryshnikov on
wheels;
THEY and HE shared the Joy.
Unofficially, we had won. However, it wasn't over until the presentation of trophies and awards the next morning. The roll call of names and prizes made its predictable way through all the teams that had run so long and well. Rick and I dutifully made our way, twice, to the front: once for winning fourth place overall and once for winning first place in the GT/2 class. We smiled and acknowledged the cheers and congratulations of our friends. After all the trophies were given out, there were a number of awards to be given. Some were serious, some tongue-in-cheek. We laughed when Steve Weber won an award for having been so delighted that his Mini could be clocked at 84.6 mph that he asked the Highway Patrol Trooper to pose with the car for a picture. We clapped when Bill Arnold was recognized for having helped other competitors with his technical expertise and the loan of his tools. We admired Jeremy Keppler, who, after scattering his rocker arms to the four corners of the earth due to a missed shift, found the parts at one place and the expertise at another to get the car back on the road and show up at VIR without missing an event. We rejoiced that Aaron Quine and Bill Hoskins received the Cannonball Baker award for having survived their topless journey through broiling sun and blinding rain.
And as I looked at all the kind and happy people around me reveling in good will and comradeship, I felt something bright and wonderful wash through me, and I knew that I had, within
myself;
Found the Joy.
George Samuels
For More Information Contact:
R.G.Potter Consulting Services Inc.
1591 Grousewood Lane
Tel: 613-541-0271
FAX: 613-541-3927
Internet:
info@rgpotter.com
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