Years ago, when I was a national driver, campaigning my ol' Lotus Super 7 in SCCA's D-Production, I entered a race near Brainard, Minnesota, on a track titled Donnybrooke International. It was late in the season, always hot and humid, when the mosquitoes are abundant, obvious, loud, irritatingly bothersome, and leave a signature.
I had a good qualifying time, was on the pole-position on the pre-grid, sitting in a two-lane string of running cars rowed-up, anxiously awaiting to be allowed onto the course to begin our pace-lap
I was in the right-side driver's seat, engine running to warm all fluids. Actually, we were close to overheating. I was seated in a hot cockpit wearing insulated underclothes and full suit. There is no air passing through to my face nor the engine's radiator until the car is moving. The temp gauge was showing the tension in its reading. "Let's get going!", I said aloud in my helmet… to myself, but hoping somehow the starting marshal would hear and 'open the gates.'
I wear a Nomex balaclava under my helmet because I have longish hair and a mustache, the rules requiring covering it all with a 15-second, fire-resistant garment. The hood covers the entire head and face, even covers the nose, but leaves a small opening to see through. The hood is long enough to get tucked under the Nomex-suit's collar before it's drawn tight.
"Suiting-up" is a process that needs explaining: I'm able to put my long-underwear, socks, quilted suit and shoes on myself. I can also put my helmet on myself; ear-plugs are first, then the hood which gets tucked-in under the collar. Once the collar is closed and sealed, the helmet is set on. Before the two helmet straps are joined and tightened, the glasses need to be gently eased in through the small window-opening one sees through. The temple tips on my glasses are difficult to insert between a sweaty temple and the side of the cloth hood. It's a slow-going process, moving just a bit, one-side-at-a-time, and made more difficult as the opening of the hood is smaller than the opening of the helmet. It is surprisingly difficult to get both of the glass's arms back and in place, over your ears.
I required assistance to be belted-in and drawn tightly into the snug seat. I can't do it alone with a helmet on. The chin-protector doesn't allow me to look down. So, there I was, set and focused, the car feeling ready, both anxious to get moving.
Bruce, one of my crew members, was leaning into my side of the cockpit chatting over strategy and precautions (this is before in-car communication). A competitor's crew-member came over, tapped him on the shoulder, and said something to him. Bruce stood, walked around the back of the car and bent well down to look at something. He yelled across the cockpit at me, gesturing heavily for me to pull out of line! Even with the engine running, helmet, hood, ear-plugs in place, and loud-open exhaust, I heard him perfectly, barking out, "WE HAVE TO CHANGE A TIRE!". There was room to leave the grid. I think most of those around me were pleased I dropped out so early.
I drove directly to our paddock space where our trailer, parts and tools are kept for the weekend event. I am an old hand at knowing some rules of racing in SCCA. Racing British cars, I frequently dropped out to do some last-second changes or repairs, and learned I could join in late as the race hadn't yet started. I had qualified, so I knew I could enter the race whenever I wished, just so I was directed and led by the officials at the entrance to the track at the pit lane.
I liked my Lotus 7's handling best when using two differing brands of tires, Goodyear on the front and Firestone on the rear. This is one reason I never could get any sponsors. If I had used Goodyear on one side and Firestone on the other side, I might have had a chance in an advert. The crew-member had seen a patch of exposed cords on the L-rear tire, enough to warn us of it. What a blessing… a payback for driving/racing politely with others, anytime and always. The Goodyears never wore out, just got old and hard. The Firestones took the engine power and wore thin.
I was out of the car in a flash, off came my gloves, glasses, helmet, hood, but not ear-plugs, and dragged the jack over. I raised the car while Bruce found a wheel/tire and carried it over with tools in hand. The rest of the crew was setting up in the pits where Bruce would join them once I was on the pace lap. They weren't aware of this near-calamity. We could hear the rows of cars released onto the track without us. We torqued the wheel nuts, air-pressure filled to specs, then me vying to get one leg at-a-time into the snug cockpit, so as to begin the seat-belt process. So far, this might have been a 10-minute pit stop!
I weaseled my way into my seat, installed my hood, helmet, then began fighting getting my glasses wedged into place. Bruce had attached my seat, anti-sub, and shoulder-belts; everything cinched tightly. He then began coaxing me to get moving in hopes to catch up to the rear of the pack, my glasses still getting inched into place.
I was hurriedly directed to drive into the pit lane, but the marshal's decision came to not allow me onto the course. Instead of being allowed to catch the end of the race group, I had to wait for them to complete the 'pace-lap', passing us before I would be allowed to join the race.
The same marshal stood right in front of me, arm out with his fully-opened hand, fingers upright, his palm pointing right at me. Begrudgingly, I turned the engine off to not overheat, sat ready and waiting for the race group to appear; and eventually could hear them approaching the last turn, a way back from the startfinish. I started the engine. Me and my engine's temps were high by now. The scene was much like setting a tasty snack on the top of a dog's nose, commanding him, "NO!" I just stared blankly at my master's hand, waiting for a new command from it.
After the last car passed, that same stern hand was swung down, and became the gesture of encouragement, as in slapping a horse to get it moving! I was finally released onto the track and joined the race without warming tires or brakes, never a prudent thing to do. I was instantly dabbling with 'back-markers', knowing the leaders had a clear track and were likely pulling away.
Donnybrooke is a two-event course. The unusually wide main-straight doubles as a quarter mile drag-strip. The narrower 'road course' carries on beyond and wends its 10 corner-stations back to start-finish, situated part-way up the strip. It becomes a 3.1-mile-long race course, known to be a 'high-speed' track with no elevation changes. Like all of the corners, turn 9 is taken very fast, another right-hander. But it's the only one having an enormous, bridge-supporting concrete bunker on the outside, where one JUST manages the turn or slams directly into that behemoth, threatening stoppage of life. We were not up to speed, yet… my tires still not up to race-heat and I was still tangling with the slower cars of the group.
Just before turn 9 is a concrete strip crossing the otherwise asphalt surface. There is quite a bump separating the two differing surfaces. It jars lighter cars like my Lotus Seven, causing it to become unsettled, just when you'd like not to experience any disruption. That wall comes at you quickly. The speeds are high, you're tense and your heart is already in your throat. The tightest grip on the wheel is applied while preparing for the bounce and landing to hopefully find enough traction to make the turn.
This is where and when I detected my helmet was loose… it wasn't buckled! "JEEESSUS!"
It's impossible to buckle while wearing gloves. Working a steering wheel ensures the inability to drop what you're doing to try and find two straps flailing in the wind, let alone try and finagle them through a floppy, complex buckle.
Every station had 'corner-workers', looking at every vehicle as it passes, on the look-out for oil loss, loose wheels, or loose helmets on idiot drivers. "Let's see what happens, maybe it will stay with me." I wore a 'full-face' helmet, having a small window to see through and a chin protector below that.
I moved along to the start-finish, passing where I could, and saw the great distance I was from the leaders. The wide drag-strip was filled with attempts to pass others; and I moved through and passed many before reaching start-finish, then finally able to open up and build some real speed, passing easily. The car and I tend to work best together under duress unusual events brought on… like starting from the rear. It was working at its best, felt 'hooked-up' like a stallion with its eyes seeing where it ought to be, its mind and all of its abilities focused, unaware of my plaguing distraction.
It turns out there is suction produced over a helmet. Enough so it has an upward lifting ability, but only at high speeds. Reminder, it's a high-speed track!
On the highest-speed sections of the course, I was able to find a helmet strap to pull down using my left hand; but it tilted the window. I struggled to see out as it countered the angle my head was leaning in the turn. Assisting in keeping the helmet in place was 'puffingup' my cheeks, finding the additional size of my head and face offered a bit more friction. I played tuba in and professionally out of high school. Puffing cheeks were a specialty. I now had to breathe through my nostrils to keep the large amount of air in my swelled face. My glasses also helped me feel the helmet probably would not come off, but tugged against them stuffed in and on my face, causing further difficulty in seeing out the narrow helmet window.
Every time I approached station 9, that bump would have the jouncing ability to change my helmet's position. Both hands had to be on the steering wheel, my cheeks puffed to their max, and my chin-guard buried downward against my upper-chest was all I could offer. Many times the jarring would trigger enough lift of the helmet that my inflated cheeks kept the newly repositioned helmet raised just enough to keep me from seeing out fully. Leaving the chin-guard in full view. Toward the end of the race, I found occasionally catching the right-side strap and pulling when the bump was struck, worked… then both hands back on the wheel just in time.
I had a passing thought over my biggest accomplishments in life, hoping to uncover something to make my head swell, like when I was valedictorian… but I never was. So my attempt at 'heady-thoughts' combined with this foolish outing I was in further deflated my cranium.
I was certain the corner workers could see my antics; they must see what I was fighting. I wear brightorangecolored gloves so signals can easily be gestured and seen. I thought they must see both orange hands are not on the wheel. We never made eye contact, and I didn't dare attempt to look to a side. Following close behind another car produced the least lift, but pulling to a side to pass was THE WORST … The airturbulence brought jostling and bobbing of my hat. I never knew where the helmet would shift and I would have to grasp for a strap in a panic. It was as if there were springs between the top of my head and helmet.
I passed first place on the 2nd to last lap. Amazingly, I finished first! "Another Bohemian Club Finish", we would call it! My routine of pushing down on my helmet between corner workers, where they couldn't see me holding a strap, and puffing my cheeks all came to make the day.
My pit crew was ecstatic, totally unaware of the antics I was facing and working with. They were just watching, offering pitsignals showing my advancement, coaxing me on, cheering, all the while pleasantly unknowing. What an idiot I was that day! What a fool! What a stupid outing! A couple days later, I was wondering why my cheek muscles were aching so, I had to think back… then laughed at myself! Squeaked through yet another amazing outing… I haven't played my tuba in years!
