(Borrowing the title of John Thornley's book on MG racing history, I
don't think he'll mind much...)
Well, this is it. I only need to buy a couple of air filters and
a grease cartridge and we're on our way. For those of you who
haven't been over at my house during the past couple of weeks, I'm
going to be competing in a Sports Car Club of America Regional race
at Laguna Seca Raceway this Sunday, September 1. This will be my
first actual race, as well as my first time on track since driver's
school in March.
We've made some serious changes to the E Production MGB in the last
few weeks. It now has a 4.3:1 rear end, welded and mounted in the
early rear axle which weighs some 40 lb less than the later one I had
been running previously. (The driver weighs some 20 pounds less than
in driver's school too, which can't hurt.) I will also be running on
slicks, to which I'm looking forward immensely. Minor changes include
custom high-flow air filters courtesy of Dan Dasaro, properly fitting
brake pads courtesy of Sam Sjogren, and a sump full of RedLine oil.
For the past few days I've been reminded of a scene from, of all things,
the Muppet Movie. Kermit, Fozzie, and friends are crossing the country
telling everyone they see that they're off to Hollywood to seek fame and
fortune. They encounter Big Bird and ask him if he wants to join them.
"Oh no," he says cheerily. "I'm on my way to New York City to become
famous in public television." Nevermind their dream, Big Bird has his
own and he's going to make good on it.
For the last few days, I've been hearing Carroll Spinney's voice (the
Muppeteer who does Big Bird) saying, "I'm on my way to Laguna Seca to
race Production Category sports cars with the SCCA." This particular dream
dates back to the Sixties, to hot summer afternoons on the splintery
wooden bleachers at Vaca Valley Raceway, to the trees and the tan military
huts at Cotati, to the smog and sun of Riverside; to Mulholland Drive,
Sepulveda Boulevard and Topanga Canyon in the Seventies; to chalky cone-
filled parking lots and the annual Pilgrimage of Despair, the Monterey
Historics, in the Eighties.
The Nineties are looking quite different and just the same. It's still
British roadsters on a golden California racetrack, but this time the car
stands still and the universe moves around me -- a fitting metaphor for
the single-minded selfishness required to become a racing driver. I'm going
out there with the ghosts of Dick Seaman, George Eyston, Tazio Nuvolari
for crying out loud, riding over my shoulder, the octagon familiar to
them as to me as I add, if not a chapter then at least another footnote
to MG's long competition history.
Or so I dream. Yet racing is 50% dreams, 40% vanity, and 10% luck at
its core. The dreams motivate you, the vanity drives you to improve,
and the luck carries you -- or, like riding a California curl, a blue-
white tube that slithers you toward the beach with the inexorable power
of wind and tide, moon and sky, slams you under the surface. Here's
hoping that my burnt offerings of midnight oil, my libations of Castrol
and sweat and not a little blood will propitiate the appropriate gods
and goddesses, and that I'll report the success or failure of this, the
latent apex of my automotive obsession, on Tuesday.
Be seeing you.
--Scott "If it be not now, yet it will come: The readiness is all" Fisher
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