Gearing up for a dream
By: KRIS GOVE
The Coventry Courier
07/12/2002
LIME ROCK, Conn. – So I'm sitting in my room on the third floor of the Wake Robin Inn in western Connecticut, absorbing the air conditioning, and scanning the tree line for deer... or racecars.
It's dusk and the cool, dense air has begun flowing down into Lakeville from the southern end of the Berkshires. Co-owner Shaffin Shariff says that a lot of people come and stay for events at Lime Rock Park, a 1.53-mile road course racetrack about 10 minutes away from the town of Lime Rock. The track hosts numerous auto-racing events from SCCA (Sports Car Club of America), to stock cars, to historic racers, to go-karts. A lot of people come to watch, he said.
Others come to race.
That's why I'm here.
In the tower that Michelin built, there's a place located trackside, in the same building as the timing and scoring facility, called the Skip Barber Racing School and I'm here for class.
Champagne wishes, and double-clutching dreams
I had first heard about Skip Barber Racing back in high school, more than 10 years ago now. Then I had known only that there was a facility out in Arizona somewhere. The original plan was to pack up my life after graduation, shove it into the cavernous trunk of my ‘66 Buick Skylark, and make my way to the American West. Ultimately, I thought, I would end up in the winner's circle splashing my crew with the finest of champagnes.
College happens.
So do student loans.
Racing isn't a career for the light of pocketbook, said my instructor, Bruce MacInnes, two-time Pro Formula Ford Champion, among several other racing victories. He lived in his VW Bus (modified with a V8 Oldsmobile engine of course) for two years when he first started racing. He towed his racecar from track to track, eventually earning enough money to buy a home with a solid foundation.
Unfortunately, I shelved my plans of achieving automotive greatness when the loan bills poured in and rent came due.
To satisfy my need for all things speed, I resorted to watching auto racing on television. Back then there wasn't much to be had on network TV, save the Indianapolis 500, and a few NASCAR events here and there (NASCAR wasn't nearly as popular back then. Somehow it gained nationwide popularity roughly about the same time as country music. The latter screeches up my spine like hornets chasing a cat, but that's for another day). So far, my knowledge of racecar driving came only from televised commentary and Grand Turismo II, a racing video game.
When ESPN started airing obscure races from all over the globe, I knew I could further sustain my intense love for the sport. ESPN also aired IMSA (International Motor Sports Association) and SCCA races on a secluded track called Lime Rock Park. Like every other race nut, I, from afar, fell in love with the track and the cars that raced upon its twisty pavement.
Momentary laps of reason
When I first arrived at the Wake Robin, Shaffin informed me that he had upgraded my room to one in the main building. At that moment, I knew my stay there in northwestern Connecticut would be grand.
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The spread was nothing short of stately, and my room carried full cable: The Speed Channel and ESPN. After a brief rest, Shaffin and his friend Candy, in from Chicago for the month, offered me directions to the track. Knowing I was so close to a track that I had dreamed about driving on for the past decade plus, I couldn't just idle. I ventured out for a glimpse of the surreal.
Every curve of the two-lane blacktop between Lakeville and Lime Rock offered visitor's guide scenes; hazy farms, with red barns and silver silos, impossibly green pastures, rolling Berkshire hills, flowers placed at every grave.
Then, a sign.
Lime Rock Park in green and white. Skip Barber Racing School in red and black. I turned my VW Golf's steering wheel right off Route 112 and headed for the entrance, hoping for a glimpse.
There was nothing but a gate blocking the single lane entrance among lush forest.
Resigned to further suspense, I headed further south on 112, when in my periphery, a second entrance teased. I pulled up to the outfield gate, and stopped by another fence; I could see the tower and pit lane from my perspective...nothing else. No famous corners. No esses. No "no-name" straight. I had to wait.
Back at the Inn, back in air-conditioned comfort, I tried to imagine the course mentally. Almost meditative, I tried to recall video clips of in-car footage of the track. Also, with a map, I tried to imagine all the turns in sequential order, along with the g-force and inertia effects rounding turns and plummeting down hills at speed. Nothing could prepare me for the real thing.
After a tailored breakfast in a dining room all to myself, with fresh fruits, juices and coffee, a crisp, complimentary New York Times, and birds atwitter, it was time to pack up and head to the track.
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Through the previously locked gate, I rolled my car slowly over the tree-lined route to the entrance of Lime Rock Park. A pace car sat at the entrance as if to say, "Yes, this is the right place. You made it!" A man also sat at the entrance with a release signed by all that entered.
Formula Dodge Race Cars growled underneath me on their way to the main straight as I drove over the one-lane wooden bridge extending over the track and into the park. Adrenaline shot into my veins like fuel injectors shoot high-octane blood into combustion chambers.
This wasn't television, an amusement park ride, or a video game. This was real. Real life. Real cars. Real hard walls.
On the other hand, from the very moment I saw the facility, heard from the instructors, and examined the equipment, I knew I was in good hands.
Although my class wasn't until 2 p.m. on July 1, I arrived early, hoping to catch a glimpse of other drivers moving through their classes. I'd watch their mistakes...and try to learn from them.
Behold the fiery beast
Engines rumbled, tires screeched, heat poured up from the track, and when it was time for a break, eyes smiled through helmet visors as the packs of Formula Dodges pulled into the pits.
Student racers, still strapped into their $40,000 machines, asked quick questions of their instructors, grabbed for water, re-started their 135 hp inline four-cylinder Dodge Neon engines, and waited for the green flag.
Normally, one wouldn't think of a Neon as the ideal racing machine. But take the engine out, mount it in a mid-steel space frame manufactured by Mondiale Cars of Northern Ireland, add some sticky Michelin Pilot XGT's, add a fiberglass body, cut the Neon's weight by more than half, and you got yourself something a lot speedier than your average four-banger grocery-getter.
Cut off the legs (and padding) of your office chair and mount it, along with a four-inch thick, five-point racing harness, about three inches off the ground, and suspend it with Penske coil-over shocks, and you got yourself and honest-to-goodness race car.
Speed tops out on the 16-valve engine at about 130 m.p.h., with 135hp@ 6,000 RPM and 134 ft./lbs. torque @ 5,200 RPM, with a 2.0 liter displacement. Not too shabby for a car about half the weight and twice the handling of the street-legal version.
The Red Mist
The Introduction to Racing Program at Skip Barber Racing starts with the signing of second release, and final payments.
The best way to run a race car driving school, Bruce MacInnes says, is this: "Have students sign two releases and pay up front." He's got a point.
During a delayed class start waiting for some student stragglers, MacInnes described the typical payment methods of students.
"East Coast students pay with plastic and come late," he said. "Midwest students pay with checks and come at dawn after they milk the chickens. And in Florida they come whenever they feel like it and pay with $20 bills."
The stragglers were from New York.
MacInnes has a racing and teaching career that spans more than a quarter century, and he has seen some pretty public figures in his classrooms. Michael Andretti, son of Mario, NASCAR racer Jerry Nadeau, and Tom Cruise, just to name a few, have all sat opposite MacInnes, as I have, as he taught us about The Red Mist.
MacInnes doesn't define The Red Mist as racing in the groove, or in the zone. It's not an euphoric high induced by too much carbon monoxide or visions of crowded trophy cases. Nope, The Red Mist is something much simpler than all of that. The Red Mist, MacInnes says, is "When you snap your visor down and become an idiot.
"Here we teach the Skip Barber sense of calm," he said, then made us all take a deep breath. "This is a no-brainer, you're going to have a good time," he said. "You're also going to forget everything I'm telling you, so drive the car like your street car." Another chuckle coursed through the track-side classroom.
"The gene pool has no lifeguard."
Then he told us we were all crazy. The crazy leading the crazy. I wouldn't have it any other way. The two biggest problems that new drivers face, other than The Red Mist, are not driving fast enough and pedal snapping. The Neon in front of you (a Dodge Neon pace car heads up each pack of four racers) is twice as heavy and has half the handling than the Formula Dodge, MacInnes said. "You should be right behind it. That's the only way to get the full experience."
Pedal snapping gets drivers into trouble. Racing requires a keen sense of balance between throttle, braking, and steering. According to our instructor, every move we make in the car should be smooth. Don't snap on the brakes, he says, or jump on the throttle, or jerk the wheel one way or the other.
Everything smooth
If you're not smooth with the controls, MacInnes says that you'll encounter, at very high speed, one of the many of Skip Barber's highly developed acronyms: the FGR (Friggin' Guard Rail).
"These cars don't have the DF of the past," he said. DF stands for Detroit Float, after the heavy iron Detroit pumped out in the 1970s. "They're like little tuning forks."
At that very moment in the class, a Formula Dodge outside zoomed downed the straight. "Did you hear that?" MacInnes quizzed the class. "That car's gonna spin in Turn Two."
Sure enough, as it rounded Turn One and headed for Two, the car spun out. Though the driver was lucky enough to stop short of the FGR, she kicked up plumes of dirt and well-manicured lawn, earning her the nickname "Dusty" when she pulled into the pits. "I am the Yoda of racing," MacInnes said.
The lntro to Racing class offers 90 minutes of instruction, and 90 minutes of act ual track time. Drivers follow the pace car, usually in groups of four, and switch leaders on the front straight at every lap.
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MacInnes offered another acronym for shy drivers. "If you're the leader and there's a lot of space between you and the Neon, and the guys on the side of the track are frantically waving their arms at you, then you need to get WFO...or Wide Friggin' Open on the throttle."
With more intense instruction including discussion on load transfer, contact patches (the part of the tire that maintains contact with the track), under- and oversteer, and blipping the throttle (the process of clutching in, goosing the gas, downshifting, and clutching out to match engine and transmission speeds to avoid locking the rear wheels momentarily, which would cause the car to spin), MacInnes sent his new students to suit up and meet the other instructors in pit lane for instructions on how to get into the car. In case you haven't guessed, there are no doors on the Formula Dodge. MacInnes' said this as we suited up: "Trust yourself and trust the car. You can do it."
Who knew it would feel so good to slither into a black jumpsuit on the hottest day of the year?
In a moment of utter elation, and despite the extreme heat and humidity, I pulled my jumpsuit on, pausing for effect – and smiled WFO.
By the graces of Racing Gods everywhere, I somehow found myself getting ready to become part of a race car. Years in the making, with every step closer to the track, the vision materialized from dreamland fantasy to adrenalized reality. Downstairs, we gathered around the car, with Fiberglas panels removed, so we could all see just how we would fit into the car. Then it was time.
Time to jump the wall.
An instructor called out names and matched them with car numbers. One by one, like billiard balls, we all fell into the pockets of our cars. Holding onto the sides as instructed, I slid my legs straight under the eight-inch steering wheel and steel framework of my car. I pulled my arms in last, through the narrow opening in the cockpit. With the help instructors and another company official, I strapped myself in and realized that the two front tires were only about three feet from my face, not hidden by stamped steel fenders, a fire wall, or engine bay. The car is a mid-engine racecar, which means that it sits directly behind the driver, just like Indy cars. Gulp. Once lashed tightly in my steel cocoon with helmet planted firmly on skull, I heard the phrase of the day.
"Okay, start'em up!"
Officials made their way behind the wall as two instructors took the wheel of the two Neon pace cars. In neutral, I pushed the dash-mounted start button and the car grumbled into life, firing off latent power. The car shook with a demonic presence. As drivers revved their engines in anticipation, I put my visor down, avoiding The Red Mist. I was ready to go, somewhat fearful, but never cocky. Third in line, when the pace car's brake lights went out, I put my Number 16 in gear and started rolling.
This is Part One of a two-part series on Kristian Gove's recent experience driving a Formula Dodge Racecar at Skip Barber Racing School in Lakeville, Connecticut. Take to the track next week as Gove courses through the second half of the three-hour Introduction to Racing Program. For more information on the racing school, call 800-221-1131, or visit Skip Barber's web site at www.skipbarber.com. Skip Barber has numerous programs for racers of all levels.
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Gearing up for a dream – Part 2
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By: KRIS GOVE
The Coventry Courier
07/19/2002
LIME ROCK, Conn. – Slowly rolling down pit lane in a formula racecar is kind of the same feeling as leaving the dock in a boat, or the safety of the gate when the plane starts its taxi. There was no turning back.
Down pit lane, the pace car's hazard lights flashed as if shooting massive doses of excitement into already electrified nerves. Engines rumbled and heat poured off them like invisible uphill waterfalls. The sun sautéed the track and the smell of hot tar swirled around our heads, mixing with the aroma of melting tires, boiling gasoline, and scorching exhaust.
Newly learned procedures and elementary questions coursed through my head, which felt as though it were already at speed. Was I actually in the car, or this yet another dream? Was my seat belt on? Tightly enough to prevent me from taking full breaths? Did I buckle my helmet properly? Visor down? Clothes on? Last will and testament filed?
Hazards flashing still flashing, the pace car stopped at the end of pit lane to allow for those left behind, due to nerves or stalling, to catch up to the pack. During those few moments, Yoda MacInnes seemed to appear before me, floating and cross-legged, just off the nose of my car. This is a no-brainer, you're gonna have a good time, he said with ghostly echoes: Skip Barber has pirated the best guys from all over the world...No pedal snapping...We dyno every shock absorber...We know you're gonna forget all of this, so just drive it like your street car...The gene pool has no lifeguard...Car drive fast you will, mmmm?...Remember the Skip Barber sense of calm, calm, calm...
The pace car lights blinked out and I jumped on the gas.
Finally out on the track at Lime Rock, still reserved for sure, it felt as though I had driven this track before. The force was strong with this one. The car enveloped me and we became one. The fiberglass body of my Number 16 fused with my skin. The engine strapped itself to my back for power, cylinders pumping harmoniously with my heart, and the front wheels turned as if the steering components were linked to my eyes. I simply looked where I wanted to go and the car followed.
Into Big Bend (turns one and two), where Dusty spun out earlier, I saw what MacInnes had called the "Archaeology of Racing". Sweeping skid marks stretching across the track, a strip of grass-less dirt right next to the pavement where outside tires had fallen off the track, and slight imperfections in the tire wall were all indications that prior students (and racers) succumbed to physics. One of the biggest mistakes new racers make, MacInnes said, is overcompensating for their mistakes in the first place.
Once the racer initially realizes the mistake, usually they pedal snap or yank the wheel to compensate, thereby sending them into a plume of dirt and dust, or crunching an expensive car into the wall. If you make a mistake, he said, get out of it slowly. Slight movements and calm action work best. Calm movements at 90 mph four inches off the ground? I didn't think it was possible either.
I think, therefore I drive
The class of racers I found myself driving with sounded more like a jury than a troop of potential racecar drivers. A lawyer, a father and son team, a lead-footed soccer mom, two HVAC technicians, a computer consultant, someone in publishing sales, the girlfriend of a motorcycle racer, and a reporter, among others. The first 10 laps served as a warm-up period for us to get used to the car and the track. Around Big Bend, we shifted up to third using a tiny shifter that, to an outsider, would appear as if we were not shifting at all. We drove through the esses, upshifted to fourth for the No-Name Straight, up the Uphill, over the back straight, around the sweeping West Bend, down under the bridge into the Diving Turn, and back onto the Main Straight.
Once on the Main Straight, the pace driver would pop in right turn signal and the lead car would pull over slightly, and go to the back of the pack, allowing the next car to get a chance up front. During the first 10 laps no one really drove fast, including myself. No matter who or how much someone tells you that the car is safe and it handles in such a way, there's no way to truly find out until one drives it for themselves. That's what the first 10 laps were for and the second 10 were for building confidence. Drivers use the third and final set to eliminate or suppress any remaining fear. Coincidentally, the last 10 laps also served to sink the seed of racing addiction.
Some racers had trouble keeping up with the pace car. At times I did myself, but most of the time, remembering MacInnes saying that no fun would be had a mile behind the pace, I tried to keep close. As my own confidence grew, once behind the pace car (at the end of the pack, confidence wanes because the racers in front don't know what they're doing either and could stop abruptly, or make you follow their own mistakes), I found that I ran quicker. Once in the lead, I closed my 50-foot gap to 25, 10, then so close on the Uphill, I could see underneath the Neon.
Once the pace driver sees that the leader closes in, he goes faster, and every time that happened, I tried to follow. The only dilemma with that system is that, while the pace car speeds up, the last car in the line gets further back, and the pace must slow to re-attach the last car in line to the rest of the group.
Reverse every instinct. Well, half of them. But not that one!
On American roads drivers (those law-abiding ones anyway) drive on the right side of the road, slow down going up hills because they can't see potential hazards, and slow on steep hills with sharp turns at the bottom in order to maintain control. On a racetrack, take all that and toss it over the pit wall and into the trash. For new racers, that takes a little courage and the ability to absolutely trust the corner workers strategically placed around the track.
There's only one line on a racetrack that means anything, and it isn't double yellow. It's called The Racing Line, and sometimes that line appears, at first, to defy logic. Imagine putting yourself in the smallest car you can think of, an MG or a Miata, take it up to about 60 mph on a narrow two-lane road, drive in the left lane while accelerating up a short, steep, turning hill when you have no idea what the hell is on the other side. Then hope for the best. That's the Uphill at Lime Rock Park.
Once your heart settles at least halfway back into your chest, gun the car down the back straight and accelerate through a sweeping right-hander, down a steeper hill than the first, accelerating the whole time. At the bottom of that hill, make a sharp right onto the Main Straight, and floor the throttle.
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The biggest advantage is gravity. At any given time, there is only so much tire on the track. Racers call this the contact patch. When the hill turns flat again, the gravity and inertia effects essentially double the contact patch. The bigger the patch, the better the grip. This is how the driver is able to keep the car on the track with spiraling into fiery oblivion.
At 90 mph on the straight, remember now that top speed is 130, the Formula Dodge feels as though it'll actually lift off the ground. RPMs rise rapidly, the chassis hums, the crowd (in my head) cheers, then regrettably, the right blinker on the Neon started flashing. I pulled over and slowed, waiting for the rest of the pack to take my place. But there was only one other car, the rest had spun somewhere on the track. More lead laps for me. This happened on a few occasions, and once, when racing down the Main Straight, my mirrors were empty.
After the second group of racers passed ours, we collected our spinouts, then headed into the pits for a rest and for the crew to give a once-over to the cars that had spun. Engines silent, there was no time for unbuckling of seatbelts, or a sip of water, and the only fresh air came through the nudged-open visor. Who knew a humid breeze on a square inch of hot face could feel so refreshing?
I found myself ready to go in about half the time as everyone else (well, I really never wanted to pit in the first place). For some, this was just a three-hour adventure, for me it was freshman year at Skip Barber University. Push-button start and out we go again, rolling faster now, more confident. Most of the fear had leaked out of the reserve tank by the second set. However, fear almost leaked out onto my seat when I found I had waited too long to brake at the end of the Main Straight, and trying to smoothly compensate for my mistake (new driver too late he is), the rear of the car experienced a little fishtailing turbulence and threatened me with a spin. Apparently I stayed WFO (Wide Friggin' Open) for far too long. Panic I didn't. Stayed on the track I did.
Admittedly, when the second set ended, I was glad to take on some ice-cold water that the crew had had sitting in a giant, ice-filled cooler all day in pit lane. It was the kind of thirst that when the sip came, I felt it coat my throat and splash into my stomach. Again, though, as the others chatted and asked questions, I just wanted to go back out and learn by doing.
During the third set I found myself getting quite comfortable with the car, even getting cautiously aggressive at times. Following the pace car closer and closer, I tried to mimic the driver's line including when to brake, when not to, when to steer, and when to steer by using the brakes in conjunction with the 8-inch steering wheel. When we pulled into the pits for the last time, I found myself both exhilarated by the experience, and saddened at the realization that it had just ended.
Smiles stretched across all of our faces though, as we methodically (some of us surgically) removed ourselves from our cars, now silent and resting. I think everyone exhaled at once. Everyone had survived. The crew accounted for us all and no one frowned with disappointment. Giddy, like sugar-filled schoolchildren, we reluctantly left our machines in pit lane and made our way to the Michelin Tower's timing and scoring room. There, our pace car drivers, instructors, and mechanics presented us each with a graduation certificate emblazoned with our names and a large image of the Formula Dodge we drove.
Shopping for speed
Top speed for the day was 90 mph. I want to beat that and I could by attending any one of Skip Barber's other racing classes. As school literature attests, the $525 to $675 (depending on track) Introduction to Racing Program could be and has been the stepping off point for professional racing careers. NASCAR Champion Jeff Gordon and CART Champion Michael Andretti both have attended classes at Skip Barber.
After graduating the Introduction to Racing Program, racers can then move onto the Three-Day Racing School, which includes introduction to the cars, slalom sessions, braking and down shifting techniques, and mastering the art of double clutching and heel-toe down shifting. That's just Day One. The following sessions include race theory, lapping sessions, along with learning passing and drafting techniques.
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Graduates of the three-day program can participate in advanced activities that can ultimately land them in the Skip Barber Race Series using a formula Reynard chassis with the heftier Dodge Intrepid engine and Michelin slicks. Graduates can also apply for Regional SCCA Competition Licenses.
Skip Barber also has a unique scholarship program for racers. According to the web site, the goal is, "To elevate young talent to the higher ranks of racing, Skip Barber has formed an alliance with Championship Auto Racing Teams (CART) and developed the $1.3 million Barber-CART Scholarship ladder. The tiered system identifies and promotes deserving racers based on talent rather than financial advantages. Scholarship winners receive both financial and coaching assistance.
"Since 1983, Skip Barber has trained over one-third of all Indianapolis 500 competitors. Similarly, over one-fourth of the current Winston Cup field has spent time in a Skip Barber program...[Barber] trained drivers have won every major U.S. auto racing championship."
Not a bad record. By taking the Introduction to Racing Program, I became one of 16,000 students on 22 tracks nationwide that attends the school annually.
The sun sets over Lime Rock
As the sun began its descent behind the Berkshires, and the shadows grew long over the track, I packed my gear back into my VW Golf Wolfsburg Edition and started pulling away, when I remembered something else that Master Yoda MacInnes said. In the middle of class, he said, "No matter what you drove in here today, and I don't care if you think it's the best handling car in the world, it's going to feel like you're driving a garbage truck when you leave here."
When I turned the wheel to head back over the bridge, the slight turn I had given the wheel didn't do anything and I almost crashed into the center rail. When I put it in reverse to straighten out and try again, I swear I heard a beep-beep-beep warning tone coming from the rear-end.
On the wobbly, three-hour ride home, I also heard cheering crowds, the popping of champagne corks, and the tinny sound of pennies tossed into a coffee can for my sophomore year at Skip Barber Racing School.
©The Coventry Courier 2007