Or the most current from 2013 Baja 1000:

(2013 Baja 1000) I did not make the Check Point 3...

November 24, 2013 at 1:23pm

There is a blind man walking every day by the Casa Esperanza women’s shelter near Ensenada. He walks the rough gravel road with no cane and no guide. He walks his couple of miles using his memory of the road. The road did not change from the time he lost his eyesight. So he is walking his road day after day.

From the first time I went to Baja 1000 in 2011 and saw him, I could not get him out of my mind. I do not know why, but I just could not forget about his daily trips. I will try to be like him; not to complain and not to look for excuses, just to try to walk through the 200 miles I and Carlos drove in this year's Baja.

At 5 o'clock on Friday afternoon Carlos, I and our Mexican chase vehicle arrived at our designated place; about 200 miles from Ensenada and a few miles from Check Point 1. By that time Crusty and Romy had been in the car for about six hours, making their way from the start to our rendezvous point. The waiting began. Each minute I realized more and more how much I hated waiting for the car. When you drive, you never realize that there are others - your service crew, your team drivers, the friends following you on the internet, all hoping but helpless, just trying to push you forward by their wishes. I was now in such situation. Going around,mumbling my "come on, guys, where are you, come on" and helpless like everyone else. There is a lot to be said for the mental strength of the service crews whose race life consists of waiting, and waiting, and waiting for their car.

There was that other thing too. For the first time (knowing I would drive for over 10 hours) I purchased an external racing catheter. This "contraption" used by many racers consists of a condom-like part attached to a tube to allow for… let us say for continuous driving without interruptions.

I guess, the older you get the more benefit you derive from the catheter proudly named "Freedom". Those of you who know me might have also noticed that my legs are 4 feet long. So, when purchasing the catheter, an interesting discussion ensued about the properties of the catheter.  I am sure I specified the length of the tube as a point of interest, but “there is just one size” answer probably related to the other part. Only in the desert I realized that the tube is just about two inches short, ending straight above my shoe. Always a perfectionist, I was not happy with such a result, tossed the catheter and opted for a Depend diaper.

Then the night came. And then we saw the first Class 11 car, the second Class 11 car and finally our 1107 was here. There was only one thought on my mind: “I have to make Check Point 2 on time”.  We got into the car and drove away. And the whoops started: there were small whoops and long whoops, low whoops and tall whoops, the whoops full of silt and the rocky whoops, but always whoops.

I started slow, since I had not driven the bug for over a year. After a few miles we got into a deep silt with big rocks here and there. While avoiding a big rock, I made a mistake and went to the side where I immediately buried the car in the silt. We got out. The car’s wheels and the skidplate were buried in the silt. In front of us was a buggy buried the same way we were. They had given up. There was no way out. But I guess in Class11, when there is no way out, you try. And try. And try. Obsessed with the idea of getting the car out, we dug and dug. Then we put the Max Tracks under the rear wheels. Nothing. We buried the spike and used the winch. Nothing. We stepped on the spike. Nothing. We jacked up the rear and tried to drive. Nothing. By that time I could see beads of sweat all over Carlos’ face. I looked probably the same. But you try. Finally we jacked up the car, got the silt from below the skid plate, put the Max Tracks under the wheels, used a winch and drove off the jack. It worked. We were on our way to Check Point 2 again.

Over the time you get to the rhythm of the whoops – down on gas, up on gas, down on gas, up on gas…and then the distance between whoops changes and you have to adjust. And so it goes. We passed a few waiving spectators when Carlos shouted at me: “Paul, Paul, la chica (the girl).” Not knowing what he meant, I asked him: “Que chica (what girl)?” and found out that we have just passed our refueling point where our Chase 1 with Stuart and  Fiamma were waiting for us. Driving in the silt with no chance to stop we had to drive another mile or two, then turn and come back. Luckily, Fiamma and Stuart were still waiting. They used a refueling place set up by the trophy truck crew, whose trophy truck DNFed, but they were still willing to help the Class 11 car. We got refueled and discovered that we were missing a top suspension nut. They also wanted to change a banged rim, but I was worried sick about getting to the Check Point 2 on time. I was asking over and over: “How far is the Check Point 2? How much time do we have?” Finally I got the answer: “12 miles and 40 minutes”. I was happy, got into the car and drove away. 12 miles and 40 minutes…plenty of time. Then the rocks started. The big ones and the small, the sharp ones, the whoops with rocks, the rough road full of rocks. Carlos was great helping to navigate through the rock and shouting his right, left, derecho, izquierda and cuidado (watch out) to guide me through. But we also lost the driver’s side rear suspension there.

Never in my life I wished for a race, any race, to be over. But this time you could hear me muttering: “These f---ing rocks will never end, these pieces of s--t will go for ever.” Then came about 3 miles of fast gravel. “I am a rally driver”, I thought, “I own this road”. Yep, but I did not own the two booby traps (one with a bit of a wooden construction) and a barbed wire across the road. Luckily, we saw them all in time and crawled slowly over each one of them.

So we made the Check Point 2 on time.

From there we drove on the asphalt road that slowly changed into a gravel road leading to Cocos Corner. Unfortunately, the graded road was full of little bumps. At 45-50 miles per hour with no rear suspension one has to keep the stomach muscles tight – no small feet for a lazy old man treating gym with the highest level of contempt. But the full moon was shining and the life was good. We got refueled by the chase manned by Chuck, Gill, and Toby, and drove into happy times ahead.

They say that ignorance is bliss. I believe it now. I also know why so many cars got pulled by their chase vehicles trough Calamajue. But I had never seen Calamajue before. So we entered the Calamajue river happily and blissfully. There was mud everywhere with streams 2-3 feet deep all over the place and tall grass and weeds so as to obscure your vision. If I ever end up in Hell, I know one thing; it will probably be called Calamajue. You could not step off the gas or you would get stuck in the mud, but at the same time you did not know what was coming. Sometimes it looked like there are two or three roads and you had to take your pick. And for that matter, take your pick quickly or you spend hours digging in the mud. Did I mention that it was quite slippery too? Of course, some did not make it through so you had to avoid these buried marvels of racing technology here and there.

We lost our way once but returned to the proper road and almost made it through the river. Almost. Coming out on a path about one and a half car wide, with high banks on each side, we saw braking lights. There was Class 5 buggy stopped in the middle of the road and no way around it. And no other road to get out either. Behind the Class 5 was a Raptor pulling another buggy through Calamajue. After a moment of confused desperation all of us moved the Class 5 a bit to the side.The Raptor and the buggy made it slowly around. I looked at the gap. We had to go with two wheels on the bank with our car leaning sharply against the Class 5 car. And we had to gun it. Otherwise we would not make the embankment and hit the Class 5. I was unsure and I was scared. So I went to the driver of the Class 5 and asked him to show us the way. He waved me off with that “f--k you” wave. I got nervous. This time it was not “you try and try and try”. We had to make it on the first try and at a relatively high speed. I asked Carlos to show me the way and stepped on the gas. We made it, and all I can say about my driving skills is: “sometimes you get lucky”.

So we were out of the river. Yes, there was a few miles of solid whoops, our auxiliary lights disintegrated and fell off, the alternator/cooling belt disintegrated too, as well as some other small stuff, but we drove on. The sun came up and I knew: we will not make Check Point 3 on time. I was just too damn slow.

If racing is an obsession, then the Baja racing, to me, is the most beautiful obsession I know. I wanted to keep the car in one piece but I damaged the suspension. I wanted to clear all the Check Points on time but I did not make the Check Point 3; and all of it in the best race I have ever run. But, like that blind man, I will keep the memory of the road forever.

Photo courtesy of Dennis Hollenbeck Chairez

Or another one from Baja 2011 with Garayzar racing:

2011 Baja 1000 – Una Buena Fiesta

December 7, 2011 at 8:34pm

The plane landed at 12:45 in the afternoon at the Linberg Field in San Diego. I got out. At the age of 53, I was about to carry out a dream of a 22-year-old kid. I was going to race in Baja 1000.

There was a short taxi driver holding the sign “Mr. Harti”. Obviously, the Hartl Bend fame has not reached Mexico yet.  I guess there is no way he would have misspelled Robby Gordon’s or Jesse James’ names, so maybe I should either learn how to drive or how to cheat on a movie star. Oh well, Harti is good enough for now.

I was to run Baja with a Mexican Garayzar Racing of Gustavo Garayzar. After settling in my hotel, I called Gustavo to find out when I would be able to try the car and go pre-running the course. Deep down in me, there is a great optimist who wants to believe that the day comes when a car, any car, is ready three days before the race. Yet, the world of racing has its unbending five minutes to start rule as in: “We are almost finished and everything might be OK, let me just check this.” And thus Gustavo advised me to enjoy the scenery of Ensenada for Monday. Then for Tuesday. And then for Wednesday. On Thursday we went to the technical inspection and the car was ready. Yes, five minutes before the inspection like the rule dictates.

I think that there are two approaches to Baja 1000, and, perhaps, to racing in general. One, (no offense, Mr. Schwartz) follows the “Let us go to work” approach. I venture to believe that the car is ready a full month before Baja. And the plan is executed to all the minute details. Anybody who makes an error, or comes more that three seconds late, is blindfolded and passed on to a firing squad.

The second approach is the “Let us have a Fiesta” approach. The car gets done too, but the five minutes to start rule fully applies. Also, anybody caught without beer in his hand is blindfolded and passed on to the firing squad.

Even though I realized that driving only about two miles with the car in the streets of Ensenada and not pre-running at all might put a crimp into my driving style, I also realized that I have no driving style to speak of. So I decided to go with the flow and enjoy the “Baja Fiesta.” In the end, the car was amazingly well prepared, the main hoop into which I constantly banged my head was padded by a beautiful Mexican scarf and a duct tape, and we passed the technical inspection. The sun came down, we made the last adjustments to the car, and the beer was passed around. Then the adjustments were finished, the beer cans squashed, and we were ready.

The next day was the race. I have previously raced in ice racing, rallies, hill climbs, circuits and off-roads, but never in a race like this. This was, to borrow Tom Cochrane’s expression, a big league. A big league mixed with a huge Fiesta. There were Trophy trucks with their 800 hp engines and 32 inches of suspension travel, there were women falling out of their tight dresses, huge crowds of spectators everywhere, beer and tequila and more beer. And then there were three Class 11 cars: stock, almost no modification allowed pre-1972 VW bugs. Suddenly, everybody was telling me what to do and not to do. And I just wanted to go. Go slow to give the car to the next driver.

In our last race, the 24 hours with Desert Dingos, I had the fastest time from all the Class 11 cars. I saved the team about 15 minutes. I also ripped out the shock mount which took the mechanics about 1.5-2 hours to fix.



For sure I did not want to repeat the same story here. Go slow to give the car to the next driver, go slow to give the car to the next driver…

While the motorcycles were already racing, at 11:30 the first Trophy Truck saw the green flag.  We had 2 more hours and it was time to start worrying. In my mind I went though a bunch of little rules: Do not turn sharp on the tarmac because the differential may not like it; shift slowly, as the tranny may be more pleased; do not overrev the engine if you do not want to see the wrath of rest of the team, etc.   Then the race was stopped for an hour or two due to a car crash unrelated to the race. Awesome! More time to worry.

Finally, we were at the start. The 1101 starting 30 seconds before us disappeared in the streets of Ensenada and we saw the green flag. Slowly getting the feeling for the car, I drove through the streets and down to the river bed. There was a huge water and mud puddle   and coming to it I saw the 1101 stuck in the left side of the puddle. I was also told that the right side should be safer. So I aimed at the spectators to make them back off and drove through the right hand side trying to keep two wheels on the sloped concrete retainer wall. As soon as I entered the puddle, I could not see anything. But I was ready, for I put five tear-offs on my helmet visor prior to the race.

Well, I was almost ready. I ripped the five tear-offs in one quick swoop and was blinded by another assortment of water, mud, and possibly some dead fish. Now was the time to panic but for one reason or another I kept the steering wheel straight (as I saw the track going straight before I was blinded) and shouted at my co-driver Armando: “Where do I go?” Armando, who was able to clean his visor quickly, guided me to the left. We missed the bridge pillars quite nicely and I cleaned my visor. There was some brightness to my visor again, and there was some brightness to my life – we were leading Class 11. (See here Start).

In a few moments I was passed by 1101 and a while later by 1149. I did not worry much; I just wanted to give the car to Gustavo about 100 miles later. A few miles later we had to stop, as our radio was not functioning. Our chase crew fixed the radio and also changed the rear tire that lost its fight with the rocky terrain, gave up, and went flat.(See here Getting passed).

The next stop was in Ojos Negros, about 35 miles from the start. As we expected to start earlier and did not put on the light bar, we were to stop there and get the car ready for the dark. Coming to the Ojos, Gustavo asked me over the radio how I felt and whether I wanted to continue. I did not understand why, but obviously I was ready to go. As we arrived to Ojos, I understood. Apparently we were 50 minutes behind the leading 1149 and Gustavo was probably afraid that we will loose too much time. He urged me to speed it up a bit and I obliged.



The rest was fun. We passed 1101 somewhere (probably broken down), and judging from the 6 miles distance between us and 1149 about 45 minutes after I gave the car to Gustavo, either 1149 stopped somewhere for a while or we started to gain on them. Or not. Who knows? But we brought the car in one piece. Armando was elated. He did not have to get out of the car. I did not carry out my promise to him, specifying that when (not if) we get stuck in the middle of the mud pool, I stay in and he gets out to push all the way through the puddle. I think he might like me now.



The only problem was that my visor was fogging almost all the time; I had to keep it open most of the time with the resulting accumulation of sand in my eyes. As I got out of the car, I felt…I do not know really how I felt. I only know that I was thinking of my wife and Jim who did so much for me to run this awesome race. And I was thankful that the Garayzar Racing team took such a risk on me. It would be nice and sappy to end this by saying that after fulfilling my 30-year-old dream I cried so much that all the sand from my eyes was washed out. Sorry, I had to use bottled water and some eye drops. And it took two days to really feel that my eyes belong to me and not to the desert.

Gustavo and Wicho ran the difficult Summit climb and headed for Soldana when they found out that the front shock was broken. Possibly during my run, a rock bounced of the inner part of the fender and cracked the elbow running from the shock to the reservoir tube. They changed the shock and drove to mile 206 – Pit 2 where Felix and Silva took over for the most difficult section of the race - the south loop close to San Felipe, full of silt and whoops. The loop was about 250 miles. After getting stuck and having problems with the alternator and driving in the loop for more than 10 hours, Martin and Gustavo went to relieve them at mile 400.  It was 2:30 p.m., the race cut-off time was 10:15 p.m. and there was another 300 miles to go. There was no chance to finish in allotted time. The race was over for 1148.

Yep, and the life went on and I abandoned this blog. But not racing.Finally, we won 2013 Canadian two wheel drive championship. And also run some desert races.

Like this one:

Chasing the dust (a very personal view of USA 500)

July 20, 2011 at 12:31am

 

On January 29, 2010 I and Chuck finished 3rd in the Snow Rally, and the day later 4th in the Drift Rally. Since then, I have DNS or DNF every gravel rally or off-road I entered. You may say a hundred times: ”It does not matter”, but it does; it does get into your head.

This past weekend I flew to Las Vegas and then drove to Reno (way cheaper that direct flight to Reno) to take part in the inaugural off-road Master Pull USA 500 miles with Desert Dingos in Class 11 – a slightly modified 1969 VW Beetle.

I met with Jim on Thursday and the day proceeded as expected – I found out that the 4 feet of my legs, comprising a substantial part of my 6’6’’ body, stand no chance to fit under the steering wheel. There was no chance I could touch the braking pedal, and since I usually do not claim that braking is overrated, I felt we had a problem. The next day Jim secured a very small steering wheel and we bought a quick release that fit the steering column. This solution obviously provided two benefits:
1/ We always had two steering wheels in the car. A very useful approach to racing driven by the idea that more spares is better than less.
2/ A small steering wheel in a car without the power steering leads to a beautiful workout for your shoulder muscles and biceps. Those of you who know my feeble body type and my generally avoidance driven approach to exercising might certainly consider this as a huge benefit.
Not to speak that it looked cool and the look is always 50% of the success.

The Friday also developed as expected, since we worked on the car up until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, found out (among other things) that the GPS was burned out and the replacement GPS was totally useless. But the real men and the woman of the team don’t eat quiche, or drive according to GPS, or for that matter pre-run. Hoping that all of the little turn pointing arrows will survive the race so one can stay on the course is always more exciting, isn’t it?

After the refreshing 3 hours of sleep we met on Saturday at 6:00 for a team meeting and then moved to the start. The course looked like a balloon with a stick – the “stick” led from Start/Finish to Pit 1 (i.e. service area 1) and then we were to drive the “balloon”  (with Pit 1 , 2 and 3), three times and then back to the Start/Finish.

Bob and Emme drove from the Start to Pit 2; apparently there were some great blind crests with 2 storey drop offs on the other side to keep their adrenalin flowing and the only problem was their overwhelming urge to pee that obscured the enjoyment of some of the drop-offs in the hills. Now, since that car was on brand new shocks, I just do not know what were they complaining about?

At Pit 2 Richad took over and I co-drove with him to Pit 3 and then Pit 1. The course was still awaiting being ripped to shreds by the Trophy Trucks and others, the shocks were new, the sun was shining, Richad drove like a madman and life was great. Before Pit 3 we started to see the dust of Bob Messer who was in the first position at that time. According to Messer, his crew in Pit 3 told him that we were gaining on him. His response? “Catch me if you can.” So Richard obliged. When he finally saw the Messer’s car, Richard speeded up and had his eyes only for the closing distance between us and Messer. But so did Messer. We drove quite a few miles with the distance sometimes shortening, sometimes lengthening, and both guys very aware of each another. Then Messer lost front wheel and we gave him a nice wave through the window as we passed him. Richard turned to me and said: “We are FIRST”. Since I am an accountant, I just retorted: “It is a long race”. Ten miles later Gary with the Green Bugger waved at us as he passed us. We came to the Pit 1 in good shape, except for the rear wheel rim that was heavily bent. The BFH (big f. hammer) shaped it back and it was up to me to destroy the car.

I drove with Crusty as my co-driver from Pit 1 to Pit 3. All my experience in off-roads was based on co-driving for David Hendrickson in Snore 250 and pre-running in Yerington last year for Messer’s team. As a rally driver, the speed on the straights did not faze me and neither did the turns. But that is about it. I had no idea how to drive the whoops (series of “waves” on the road), did not know what was the proper speed over the huge potholes, had a vague idea about driving through the silt beds (deep powdery sand), etc., etc. Luckily for me, Crusty did and it helped. Up until we saw a steep hill in front of us with a slight leveling off in the middle of this hill.

The Class 11 cars do not have an excess of power, so I decided to “gun it” uphill.  And so we launched, flew over the flat part and………..nose dove into the next incline. The car threw two buckets of gravel into our faces and stopped. That was one of my lowest points in the last two years. Not only I had another DNF, I was causing DNF for all others on the team. For a few second I felt only one thing – huge desperation. But desperation does not help. Chuck taught me that when I hit the overplow at Perce Neige Rally and ended up in a huge snow bank. He was out shoveling the snow madly in a few seconds. Emily taught me that when I destroyed the second gear at Tall Pines Rally and she turned to me and said: “Do you still have the first and third? Go.” Alexei taught me that when he was finishing the stage with a ziploc bag in his hand, but always finished the last note before filling the bag up.

So we jumped out to asses the damage. The front was visibly hurt, but the axle, steering and all the other “useful” stuff seemed to be OK. Crusty, with a bit of my help, removed the bumper, fender and the front skid plate. That took us quite a while as some of these items decided to change their shape in an unexpected way. We jumped back and the car drove as well as before! Every emotional low has its own opposite high and this was my high. We drove on, blew a tire between Pit 2 and 3 but brought the car to Pit 3.

There was just one small problem: The cage cross tube underneath the steering wheel was not designed for 6’6” people. Also the tube was made from significantly harder material than my knees. The constant banging of my knees into the cage was slowly reshaping them into something as bumpy as the road in front of us. The last 10 miles I ground my teeth and had to slow down. But we did bring it to Pit 3.

At Pit 3 Emme took over as a driver and Richard as a co-driver. In her own words:

“With a class 11, stock VW and 500 race miles, just finishing is an accomplishment.  This was my first time in the car and it wasn't mine, so after a 10 miles of going a bit hot and doing a couple dumb things, I settled down.  We lost a fan belt but were able to change it quickly.  My mantra was, "Just get it back to pit 2 to hand the car off.  Pit 2, pit 2, pit 2".  After about 30 miles I changed it to, "Pit 1, pit 1...just get it to pit 1."  Baby steps and all.

About 20 miles into it, I got nerfed by a truck.  Nerfing is when someone comes up behind you and gives you a little tap to say, "GTFO of my way!!!"  The problem with nerfing a class 11 is that we run stock deck lids.  So you nerf us, you run the risk of killing our alternator and we are out of the race.  VORRA explicitly said at the driver's meeting that there was no nerfing class 11, but this guy did it anyway.  I knew he was there, but I couldn't get over quickly enough I guess.  When I did, I overestimated our clearance and high centered on a rock.  Richard showed me how to use just the starter to get out of trouble, and we were off again!
The last 10 miles of so of my leg were the absolute most challenging.  I had run it earlier in the day with Bob, and it was rough but no too bad.  By the time I got around to it, all the big guys had been through and we had 4 or 5 miles of silt.  Powder fine silt.  Deep silt.  Crazy silt.  Silt in the dark.  Silt coming into the car.  Silt coming into my helmet since our Parker pumper was broken and I had to keep my face shield cracked so it wouldn't fog.  Silt going into my eyes and up my nose. “So much for her quote and back to my experiences.

I was supposed to be moved to Pit 1 for driving the last leg to the Finish. After a little over 200 miles in the car, first as a co-driver and then as a driver, I was bushed. Yet, Richard, who has diabetes was not in the best shape and Bob asked me whether I could co-drive instead of Richard for the 60 miles from Pit 2 to Pit 3 after Emme comes back. One more leg? Sure, but no more.

Emme, a very intelligent driver, brought the car back in one piece, and we jumped in. Messer broke down and was fixing his car somewhere in the desert. Green Bugger’s rear part of the cage disintegrated and one of the shocks broke off – they were limping into the Pit for a welding job. And we were leading. Bob drove accordingly – fast, but with enough safety margin to bring the car to Pit 1. The shocks were getting bad, the car disintegrated a bit and the road was shredded by the trucks; the potholes getting more brutal, the silt beds getting deeper and more treacherous. In one of these silt beds, while avoiding a stuck buggy, we got stuck as well. As the shovel was nowhere to be found (probably jumped out of the car at one point or another), we just turned into a couple of voles to burrow out our car and then get it going with the help of our jack.

A couple of miles later the yellow light went on. This usually means that the alternator belt (which also runs the cooling fan), is broken. Bob checked the engine, but the belt was still on the pulley. However, a few seconds later he realized that the pulley broke off from the shaft – a consequence of the nerfing by the truck mentioned by Emme. We were cooked; or better, if we drove on we would have been cooked. While I was standing there, trying to hypnotize the pulley to grow back into one piece again, Bob pulled out the J.B. Weld and glued the pulley together. We waited until the weld hardened and then started the engine. The yellow light came on again. Bummer.

We checked it again and found nothing wrong. Started again and the yellow light stayed off. So Bob drove on, driving in low revs and relatively slowly to keep the car going. All the time we were calling Pit 1107 and Chase 1107 to let them know where we were and what was happening. Our Rugged Radio was awesome (see here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cl4pnoq7oc&feature=player_embedded). However we were unable to get anybody and only later we found that our little beetle shed the antenna somewhere along the way, together with two cameras that now also dream their happy dreams in the high desert.

Did I mention that along the way we passed Pit 3 and I was told we go on? Or, maybe, I was told before and only misunderstood. The Pit 3 to Pit 1 was brutal – look at Emme’s description and multiply it for all the trucks that already came through three times and the shocks that were more or less gone. Bob was complaining about his back, I was complaining about my knees, so I say we fit well together.

Yes, there was a huge beautiful yellowish Harvest Moon with thousands of stars in the clear sky. And I felt cold, and banged up and tired and old and started to see the damn Ontario trees along the road. I do not know if, or how much better Bob felt. This was high desert at about 5,000 – 6,000 feet and the nights are freezing. As a matter of fact, I recalled Connor’s recollection of the cold nights at the Dakar Rally and started to understand him maybe a bit more.

Finally we came to Pit 1 thinking that we might not have enough time to finish before the cut off time at 5:30 am. There was nobody to expect us. We went to Baja Pits to get the gas. They called our guys. I asked at the check point what time it was. “A bit after four”. We had 35 miles and perhaps an hour? I turned to Bob and asked him: “Can you  drive to the Finish?” He said “Yeah”. I said: “I you can do it, so can I. We won’t switch, we have no time to let the other guys in and then come 5 minutes or so late.” Bob just put in the first and drove.

The last leg was the University of Driving for me as a co-driver. Bob knew that we had no time. If we blew the tire we would not finish on time. If we ripped the pulley we would not finish on time. But if we drove slowly we would certainly not finish on time. He drove the hell out of the car.

And then I could see the Finish and was very happy about it. We crossed the finish line 20 minutes before the cut off time. No more DNFs.

The end of hiatus

After leaving the old country we ended up in Canada with no money, no friends and no racing car :-). So I went to hiatus for 25 years. I even lived 10 years without any car whatsoever. Finally, in 2007, I started to look around for a cheap form of racing again. And I found it - ice racing. What can be more appropriate if one lives in Canada and freezes his but every winter anyway?

I bought a car for $500 that was "fully prepared" for the 2008 season of ice racing.

I guess, the German cars were meant for me. After the East German Trabant I upgraded to 1984 VW Rabbit. The car might have been "fully prepared", but what I did not realize, was that it was prepared for the 2006 season, when the owner stopped racing. As the car was stored for about two years, it did what any older car must do - invisibly deteriorated.

I remember the first year of my ice racing quite vividly. Yes, there is nothing more exhilarating than to try to change a brake line in -20C (-4F). It would help so much if the car still had the brake bleeder... Exhilarating? Yes, probably for the onlookers.

Most of the time I lost my will to live when I came to my car on Saturday morning before the races and saw this:

Oh, have I mentioned that the car was impossible to start as soon as the weather made you to put on a light sweater?

Yet, this twisted approach to ice racing had one big advantage. I got to know everyone very quickly, begging for advice and borrowing spare parts. I have to say that the ice racers are a great bunch of guys and they have always helped me.

I felt like the car gave me a sign in the fourth race of the season. All the remnants of oil, gas (and I do not know what else) stored in the exhaust pipe for the last two years, got heated, blew, and the car bellowed a huge cloud of smoke. The spectators were rolling in the snow laughing. See it for yourself from the car behind me:

The car was slowly shedding the rotten parts, and I was hoping I might spend some time racing instead of fixing it. Unfortunately, it was not so simple. I was fixing the car every week for the rest of the six-week-long season. Surprisingly enough, I was able to race in between the repairs

and stuff it into a snow bank here and there (see the car at the back):

At the end of the season I ended up 7th in the class (out of 22) and 28th overall (out of 82). I have to admit, that (a bit altered) Ernest Hemingway's quote describes my driving perfectly: "I have tried to drive the best I could. Sometimes, I had good luck and drove better than I could."

One day I looked into our garden and saw:

And the season was over.

It all started in the early eightees...

In the late 1970s and early 1980s the great rally drivers were moving from two-wheel drive cars to the all-wheel drive cars and the "monster class" - group B appeared in the World Rally Championship. I was lucky enough to see Walter Rohl, Sandro Munari and some other great rally drivers of that time.

No wonder then, that I started to rally as well. Living in a communist country at that time, my answer to Group B car was racing Trabant :-). Obviously it was a proper answer; so let us just to compare these beasts:

Audi Quatro - 2,150 ccm, 300 HP

Trabant - 595 ccm (two stroke) 30-35 HP (fully "prepped" for rally)

But you might enjoy the sound as well:

Audi Quatro and similar B group cars:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozntieZs8Bg

Trabant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCeQ3tDznUI&feature=related

Yet Trabant was a lot of fun
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snEuERpUjhw

and the group of people racing them was amazing. These were the guys who usually did not have money to buy anything more expensive, but quite a few of them knew how to race. There were about 40 Trabants in the class and the battles were fierce at the top.

I rallied the Trabant for about 4 years. Here are some of my pictures:


One of the drivers I admired the most was Ari Vatanen. He was / is well known for his aggressive driving style--winning, but also crashing out, in a spectacular way. So, in no time, I was a master of a series of spectacular car rollovers. The wins, though, missed me...

In 1984 I and my wife left the country without advising the comrades about our intentions. Some of my friends still claim that it must have been because I drove the Trabant, and the four years just drove me to insanity, but to them I would say: "It was noisy, it smelled of the burn oil, it was cold, it was slow, it might even be called ugly...but it was my 'first love'. And you never forget her :-)."

Video clips

A couple of videos:

2009 Tall Pines on-board:



the same one (later part) from the outside:



another Tall Pines:




2009 BDC



2009 I do not know where...