Okay – the story.
On Thursday, September 4th, Kate dropped me off at my sister Tracy’s house in Madison. I was able to book a direct flight out of Madison to Denver for a lot less money than a flight with stops out of Milwaukee. The downside was the flight left Madison at 5:45 in the morning – an hour of the day I usually don’t see unless I’m coming around to it from the backside of the previous day. You know you’ve arrived for a flight too early in the day when the Starbucks kiosk isn’t open yet. Tracy, thank you for getting up at oh-god thirty to see me off.
The upside to a ridiculously early flight is that with the time change, I arrived in Denver at 7:00 AM, leaving plenty of travel time to get to Salina and pick up the car from Wayno and Gus.
It was misty and raining when I landed in Denver, and within 2 minutes of stepping out to the passenger loading line, Nick rolled up with his beautifully patinaed (is that a word? It should be) 1963 Chevy C-10 short bed.
350, Turbo-Hydro, bench seat? I’ve admitted to my romanticism before, but I can’t think of any better way to roll to Wendover than in a well preserved rat rod.
And roll, this thing does. I was worried about coming down out of Vale with only drum brakes, but this was as competent a vintage driver as I’ve ever encountered. Nick let me take a shift behind the wheel, and it was a sheer delight to drive.
Of course, vintage tin brings vintage complications. The squeaky windshield wiper motor was made silent with a proper application of WD-40, and who cares if the speedometer cable broke before we conquered the Continental divide? One less clicking sound to worry about. Windows down, no radio - stereo exhaust tips are all you really need.
But there is a stretch on I-70 in Eastern Utah – one we were both aware of – that goes for what should be an illegal distance without services.
We should have stopped in Green River.
14 miles east of the Salina exit, the Chevy stuttered. I’ll take the blame on this one – we had pulled off about 38 miles out of Salina where a sign indicated fuel available 12 miles off the interstate – a half-hour diversion I made the wrong decision on. “We’ll make it”, I said.
And we almost did! It’s pretty much downhill into Salina, with the exception of an area that flattens out as you approach Gooseberry Road. And that’s where the Chevy came to a complete standstill, after coasting for 7 miles – right into a cell-phone service free valley.
We were able to thumb a ride into Salina, where I contacted Wayno – who was delighted to hear from us – probably not so much to see us, but to be able to endlessly rib me for my inability to understand time/distance/fuel consumption formulas. Indeed, every call I received from him last weekend contained some reference to fuel. He brought us a gas can and got us back to where we needed to be – an escort to the Rodge Mahal.
Nick was enamored with the nickel tour – Wayne’s place is a research library and museum to land speed racing, and there could be no finer or better read curator.
Wayne had intended to compete at World of Speed, but his insistence on moving forward on the fuel injection set-up put him behind the curve. That said, Gary Lowstetter was well along with the wiring, and the wiring work on Wayno’s tank is flawless. It may be a Flathead, but the fuel injection and ignition are completely modern. This is yet another aspect of this sport that I find so fascinating – technology blending in a way that a Ford Flathead would look right at home in a Formula 1 chassis. Once this system is sorted, I’m pretty certain Wayno will be trading in his pith helmet for a red hat.
The Dodge, trailer and Midget were stored over at Gus’ place, so we went over, checked the air in the tires, and were off to Wendover. Gus and Tom had already taken off. I want to say Nick and I arrived at the Rainbow about 10:30 that night. For me, it had been a long day.
Fordboy had already flown into SLC earlier in the day, rented a car, and took a drive out to Lands End. He didn’t cross the pond to get to the salt – Fordboy rule # 1 being “STOP DOING STUPID SH*T”. The new Kia rental was spared the potential hazards a dip in the brine can have on a car, and the impact on a credit card a salt covered rental vehicle can impart.
Despite my lack of sleep, I was awake at 5:30 on Saturday. I let Nick sleep – Mark was over at the Knight’s Inn, likely awake, but I needed to provision up. A trip to Smiths, and there was Pork Pie, doing the same. I beat him to one of the last bags of ice – I was told more was available, but this was a competition weekend, and given the bad luck we all had during August, I was leaving nothing to chance.
A quick trip to the Pilot station for gas and coffee and a return to the hotel found Mark parked and ready to ride in. I got Nick, handed him coffee, and we were on our way.
I’m aware that Lands End can be a mess at times, but nothing prepared me for the mess we wound up driving through to get to the salt. There were spots at least 8” deep, if not deeper, and the process of dragging a VERY LOW riding trailer with a VERY HEAVILY LADEN Dodge Magnum becomes a test of patience, strategy and will. There were islands of salt that we attempted to use as we pulled through about a half mile of brine, and there were times I thought for certain we’d be waterlogged and in need of a tow. We did make it, but the Dodge is going up on Craig’s List as soon as I get it cleaned. It will never be the same, and I’m not that curious as to its future, nor am I willing to invest in it any further. Nick’s t ruck fared much better, but those drums are going to need attention this week.
Arrival put all of us to work setting up a pit, which Mark finished while Nick and I attended the drivers meeting. They started out by asking who were the first timers to the World of Speed. A number of hands went up – many I’m sure being folks who had been skunked at Speedweek. Then they asked who’d been coming out to the salt for 10 years or more. I raised my hand – as did a number of people. Then they asked who had been coming out for 20 years. My first trip to Bonneville was ’94, so my hand went up again. Then they asked 30 – 40 – 50 years. That’s when I realized I’m still VERY MUCH a greenhorn.
Tech came next – a short line on Saturday, then over for fuel.
The lines were backed up, and the issue was that there was only one ambulance available for the meet on Saturday. An accident earlier had sent one racer to the hospital, and normally, there are multiple ambulances available. The Air Show at Wendover field had tied up one, and we were all in a holding pattern until one could be made available.
There were two tracks, the short course for rookies, 130 and 150 mph club members, and slower cars. I started heading over to the short course when Gus and Tom happened by and reminded me that the long course was actually a combination course. This is where knowing the smart kids comes into play – we headed straight over to the shorter line.
And we waited there – as did everybody – I’ve often said it’s both the fastest sport on earth, as well as the slowest – until we were about 8 vehicles back. Nick said, “Time to get you suited up”.
About this time, the wind started picking up. I’ve been through this drill before - if it gets too breezy, the track gets closed down. I waited until the last minutes before I actually got into the car – SF15 suits are a little on the warm side in an enclosed car – but things continued to move, and next thing I know, Monte’s checking my seat belts.
I question the timing slip at this point - it indicates a wind speed from the northeast at 14 mph. That would have been a headwind. I was certainly not fighting a headwind – I’m certain if wind was involved, it was a 14 mph tail wind from the southwest.
This year, we planned to do a push start. The Midget simply has no torque below 6k, and after studying last year’s runs, it was clear that if I wasn’t winding hard in 4th by the 1 marker, it would be a huge struggle to push it between the 1 and the two for an average through the 3 that would be anywhere close to where I needed to be.
I instructed Nick to evenly but assertively push the Midget to 30 mph, at which point, I buried the gas and sidestepped the clutch in 1st. The rear lost traction, I gathered it up, and just wound it as tight as I could in first, second and third.
That strategy seemed to work. At the one mile, I was just .700 off of the record, by the quarter, I was at 125, and pulled out after the three at 126.684.
Impound bound!
This is where Fordboy’s rule # 2 came into play – “If it’s working, DON’T F*CK WITH IT”. We checked the plugs, checked the valve lash, put a can over the exhaust pipe, and Mark planned a jet change in the morning. Other than steaks at the Rainbow, that was it.
Just as well – after 2 days with about 9 hours of sleep, and a parade to attend at 8:00 AM the next day, I doubt I would have been up for much else.
Got to impound, Mark assessed the temp and adjusted altitude, then screwed in a richer set of jets. Nick hooked up the oil pan heaters to the sump and the diff, and at 8:00, we rolled over to the starting line.
The backup run – 118.397, had three things going against it.
1. The Midget prefers thinner air. Despite what few airflow tricks that can be done with the car, the thinner air has always been a speed bonus for this body package, regardless of any advantage a denser air charge provides for the engine.
2. The track had deteriorated. Let’s face it, the longer course takes a real beating by more powerful cars in the first three miles, it was rutted by this time, and it was loose. I had a very difficult time keeping it between the fence posts.
3. I was tired, and not on my game. I struggled to keep it straight, I didn’t push as hard at the start, and I short-shifted on the 2-3. I was 7 mph slower at the 2, and 8 mph slower at the three. The consistency between those two figures indicates I lost the edge in the first mile – because it was still pulling at three.
Nevertheless, it was sufficient for the record.
As we waited for certification – the engine pumped spot on – we discussed what we were going to do.
It wasn’t likely we were going to see another 126 run. I was short slept and I wasn’t comfortable with the way the car was handling, the wind had clearly switched to a headwind, and we had achieved everything we had hoped to do. On top of that, we were leaving with nothing broken on the car.
By striking the tents early, I walked away with saleable components I can sell off to help build the K-engine. Mark’s engine component selections and corrections have proven reliable, but the design is 62 years old. I wasn’t interested in finding out where the weak link might be.
The car needs further suspension development to be safe at 125+, and with the potential of a DOHC 4 valve under the hood, I expect that speed to become a repeatable number. The platform is solid, so starting from scratch is an option I don't need to explore. Refinement is the obvious direction.
There’s more – it’ll dribble out over the next few days – but suffice to say that we’re all really pleased with the outcome.
I’m working down the list of Thank-You notes, but collectively, to all of you who have read this mind-bogglingly long series of posts, to all who have chimed in and let me know I’m right/wrong/crazy/brilliant/stupid/drunk/goofy/etc., thank you. This is an ongoing education process for me, and for anybody who wants to figure it out with me.
The first e-mail I sent out today was to Martin McGlone, the owner of the Abarth that held the Bonneville record for 22 year. We met last year, and while he had mixed thoughts about his car potentially losing the record, he encouraged me to make it happen. He was also here last month for the rain-out.
He was in the room directly below us at the Rainbow, and I took him down an Old Speckled Hen. We talked Sprites for about an hour. He’s in the process of rebuilding the Abarth for the 100th Anniversary Targa Florio event, which will hopefully occur in 2016.
Part of the heritage of Martin’s car, which was an Abarth factory team racer in 1963 and debuted at the Targa Florio, will be a 22 year reign as a Bonneville Class champion.
That’s pedigree, and that’s one vintage racer I’m going to be keeping an eye out for.
I took the picture of “The Highlander” down from my dart board today.
I think I’m just going to paint “125” on it . . .
Topic: Milwaukee Midget (Read 3275375 times)