Track Day
As we approach the first anniversary of FTTW, we'd like to bring some of the stuff from back in the day, things you might have missed and columns we loved.
This one is by a former and much missed writer, Bob, who covered all things cars in his Loud Pedal column.
I'm a road race guy, and for those of you who aren't familiar with motorsports, that doesn't mean Cannonball Run style ripping across the countryside on public roads killing innocent pedestrians. It means I race cars on a purpose built race track with curves. I turn left and right, not racing around in circles. This ain't NASCAR.
There are many of these purpose built race courses across the country located in areas that no one else wanted. Kinda like the way they build porno movie shops near the airport: the land wasn't worth anything anyhow with airplanes flying overhead all day long. Might as well build a race track there. No neighbors to bitch about the noise.
Back East, these courses are generally setup in The Middle of Nowhere farmland USA. There was one course that was pretty close to where I was living, and a group of friends and I would rent the track on a weekday to go out and have some fun. This is a "test and tune" day. People with real race cars could test out their cars, make changes and see if they work without having the pressure of an important race weekend. People with street cars could go out and run them as fast as possible without going to jail. Cars range from extremely aggressive all out race cars pulled in on a trailer to factory stock street cars with floormats and Motley Crue in the CD player.
The group was recruited on a "know someone" basis. In other words, I would organize the event, and told people I knew that were experienced. I felt, on a good day, that these people probably wouldn't do something that would kill me on the race course. Anyone else had to have someone vouch for them, kinda like the Mafia. When we had enough people, it cost about the same for the entire day as an expensive dinner for two.
That means, about ten people with a 2 mile long closed course for an ENTIRE DAY! Nothing to do but drive the car as hard as possible and try to show up your buddy. Everyone gets tired and needs a drink of water, so we were never all out there at the same time. It was fantastic.
So, I'm the HMFIC (Head Mother Fucker In Charge) at this particular event, booked it, took money, organized it all and run it. We're having our driver's meeting, first thing in the morning.
If you haven't hung out with racers, they tend to be...a little competitive. I had guys that worked in a machine shop. I had engineers. I had doctors. I had college students. They came from all over the map in terms of demographics but they all shared one thing: If they were racing, they'd knock their dear old grandmum down the stairs to get in front. Never look back.
For those with purpose-built race cars complete with roll cages and a trailer to tow the remains home, that's one thing, but lots of us were driving our regular street car, myself included. It was a mildly built street car; some suspension work, exhaust system and such, but with race tires.
I hold the driver's meeting before anyone drives. I lecture everyone about how we're here to have fun, don't fuck around, be careful, there's no money and no glory at stake, we're all buddies, and so on. I say "This is the car I have to drive to work tomorrow, so I can't afford to crash it. Don't fuck around. K?" I say that "This is my only car" thing like four times. I wave my arms. I say "Behave yourself kids." I give them The Look. (that Look your Mom gives you) They all nod and groan. "Yesssss Bob. Weeeeee'll be good. We prooooomise."
A good friend of mine asked if he could ride shotgun with me in my car for a few laps. He hadn't driven this course for a number of years and wanted a refresher.
It's a crisp morning, still a little bit of dew on the infield grass, sun warming things up. We both strap on our helmets, hop in my car and go. I'm the first one out. I work my way out of the pit lane, warm the car up a little. It's faster and harder than you'd drive on the street, but I'd say I'm at about 60% of the car's capabilities.
I work my way down to turn 3, an off camber (tilted) right hander that typically has the car sliding sideways, bouncing down the course, but I'm in pretty quietly, didn't build up much speed yet. It's planted pretty solid. Swing around and enter The Carosel. The Carosel is a big half-circle, a full 180 degrees. It's a "steady as she goes" kinda turn, you enter, set it, and just drive it around. Nothing fancy. 
The car slips and comes way out sideways, I (over)correct and it slides the other direction, and then I'm off in the wet grass, sliding sideways at speed on racing slicks, just along for the ride. WHUMP! I paste the car high up on the the tire wall at the edge of the course and a big wall of muddy water breaks over the windshield like a big brown surf wave. Ugh.
We're both ok, but my friend is covered in muck. (you keep the windows down when you're doing silly things like this to avoid breaking glass ) I'm stuck, back wheels off the ground. Nowhere to go.
So, to recap, I lecture The Boys about being nice and careful and I crash off the course, perched high on a wall of used tires, covered in mud at 8:30 in the morning after completing ONE HALF OF A LAP. AAAarrrgh. The Boys were amused. Very amused.
The good news, if there is any, is that a team of racers and a BMW 5 series with a tow rope was able to extract my trusty steed from its rubber and mud cocoon and I was able to drive the wheels off it for the rest of the day. It was muddy and it was bent, but it was mechanically sound. When you crash first thing, it makes you much more aggressive the rest of the day knowing you have little to lose.
At the end of the day, I called my wife and let her know I "bent the car". She didn't seem to respond. I said it was ok, and I would eat hamburgers and drink beer at a friends house for a while and then drive it home. She seemed strangely calm. I wasn't expecting this.
Upon arriving home, she took one look at the mangled muddy mess and shook her head. Apparently, she didn't understand "bent". A racer defines the terms as follows,
bent: ugly, but can be driven
broken: cannot be driven, call a tow truck.
Ahh well. It gave me a chance to learn body repair. For those of you who've never done body repair, it's dirty, stinky and in no way straightforward. Seems simple. Isn't.
I was working on software at the time and the people in my office figured out it was a weekend warrior after the car showed up on a Monday morning with race tires still on since I was too tired to change them back on Sunday night. 
When I see one on the road, I turn off the stereo and open the window. I explain to my son that this is what a motorcycle sounds like. He's two years old, so I figure it's time he learns. You might say I have a "problem". 
We walked out. He fired it. At idle there's a layer of dry clutch jingle and airbox gulping for air. The idle was like a serious of shots going off rather than a cooperation, like one cylinder wanted to get in line in front of the other and they were both pushing and shoving and elbows to see who fires first. He had the factory clutch cover but with no gasket, which made the clutch a little louder. If you've not experienced it, most Ducati bikes have a "dry clutch". This means that instead of being encased in a nice little sealed compartment of oil inside the engine cases, the clutch is just a basket with a bunch of dry plates rattling around in there. Because of the intense heat it generates, these plates have to fit loosely when it's cold because they expand quite a bit when heated up. I've heard the sound described as "shaking a bag of nickels" but I think it sounds a bit like rapping on a dinner plate with a butter knife. It's a clatter. It's metal on metal. Staccato. It goes in time with the engine's firing pulses, so it's like a ting ting ting ting kinda noise. Some people find it really annoying, while others wear it as a badge of honor. Either way, it's unique. 
