Winter and Snow December 29, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: beach boys, bobsled, Christmas, Danica Patrick, ice racing, Laguna Seca, lil saint nick, luge, motorcycle, ski jump, snow, snowbird, snowmobile, winter, winter olympics
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Now that the holidays are behind us, the majority of the gearhead community is settling in to wait for spring. There are some who have the benefit of heated facilities to continue work on a project, and there are those who are just zealous enough to get out there and brave the elements for the sake of getting the next thing done.
Those who reside, vacation, or possibly “snowbird” to the southern reaches of North America can still enjoy a temperate climate that is warm enough through the winter to enjoy the outdoors. They can ride their motorcycles and drop the tops on their convertibles, if only for a few hours on a given day.
Then there are those gearhead souls who either by birth or choice, inhabit the upper reaches of the continent. Places where the temperatures plunge and the ground gets a regular blanket of that white stuff called snow. I have noticed during my life that snow has a profound effect on humans in many different ways. Here in central Virginia, snow is generally a once a year occurrence, anything more than that is considered a harsh winter. Mind you, we are only talking about a scant few inches when it does fall, and even then it rarely lasts more than one to three days max.
The forecast of three inches of snow in my area starts a level of madness and havoc, with people scurrying about in desperation to fill the gas tanks on their generators, and buying enough milk and bread to feed a small Eskimo tribe for a month. Last year we had about a six inch snowfall that lasted over a three to four day period, part of which was a Christmas shopping weekend.
When all was said and done, the Virginia State Police reported there had been over 3000 traffic accidents attributed to the inclement weather. Long story short, no matter if you own an all wheel drive, four wheel drive, cheap or fancy SUV equipped with all the right features such as ABS, traction control or stability control systems, it will still slide on snow and ice. The lack of respect for winter elements around here is astounding sometimes.
There is another kind of madness that is brought on by the flaky white stuff, and that is winter sports. Every four years the Winter Olympics is a showcase for an army of athletes who draw a very fine line between bold and just plain crazy. I can respect the adrenaline thrill of speed and power to be sure, and I can also truly respect the kind of athletic prowess it takes to generate these thrills from human strength combined with a total absence of the fear of gravity.
Ski jumpers immediately spring to mind as the epitome of this concept. If someone offered me an all-you-can-carry shopping spree through Fort Knox in exchange for strapping on some skis, blasting down a ramp as steep as many cliffs I’ve seen, only to be vaulted skyward at the end so that I could slowly watch my own demise approach a few hundred feet father down the same slope, I would be forced to ask if skydiving was an option instead. At least jumping out of perfectly good aircraft with a parachute suggests a level of survivability.
The contestants who ride the Luge are also a bunch who strikes me as slightly askew. Watching these people run and jump onto what looks like a sled made for a small child, and then racing down this track of glare ice carved out of mountain, begs the question in my mind of what would be an automotive equivalent? The only thing I can think of that comes close is asking Danica Patrick if she would strap me to the nose of her Indy car, and then let’s take a few hot laps around Laguna Seca raceway with some special emphasis on the dreaded “corkscrew turn”.
Being more in tune with actually driving a vehicle at speed, one would think that I would relate to those who pilot the bobsleds. Yet here again is a wild departure from anything remotely car-like. The driver of the bobsled has the singular responsibility of steering, while the contestant in the rear is the one who controls the brakes. What horror story addict came up with this arrangement? Did someone realize early on that if the driver actually feared for his life that he might slow down?…so the solution became giving the brakes to the man behind so he could feel somewhat secure in the knowledge that the driver would smack the ice wall first, therefore increasing the chances of his survival?
I won’t even begin to enter into the thinking of the four-man sled, which adds two more unfortunate souls purely as ballast. Tell me, how does it feel to be a human sandbag?
One only has to visit some of these locations where prolonged winters can drive gearheads to embark into edgy competitions of motorsports to see this type of madness slowly taking hold. The most glaring in my mind is snowmobiling, which for all purposes is a motorcycle for the ice and snow. For many years, this concept looked very appealing to me, that is until I began discussing the warnings with my wife’s cousin. At the time, he owned a cabin in northern Vermont, and he purchased himself a nice used snowmobile that he carried up from his home in Connecticut for some winter weekend fun.
He related to me the stories of the fierce cold at speed, and how some snow trails went across frozen lakes and rivers. He went on to explain how these areas are taken at full throttle, and if your buddy next to you suddenly drops out of sight, then don’t dare let off the gas, since this means you die too. I realize that driving fast cars has always had its own level of risk, but running off the track doesn’t usually mean throwing off the mortal coil.
Then one day I watched in amazement on television as two snowmobilers rocketed down an icy track which ended at a pond. This water was not frozen over, and the intrepid racers continued off the snow and across the water, with their machines skipping along like flat rocks shot from a cannon. One racer made it all the way across, while the other for some reason was not able to maintain enough speed to stay above the surface (can’t imagine why). While his machine quickly sunk, a small boat came and scooped him out of the freezing water before hypothermia set in. Isn’t it humiliating enough to lose your fine racing machine, but to then add threat of death to your bruised ego might be considered extreme. How would it be if the next winner of the Indy 500 got ice cold milk to drink, while the second and third place finishers got an ice bath that may or may not induce pneumonia? It certainly might raise the level of competition…then again it may impose a distinct desire to crash rather than finish second or third.
I’ve seen snowmobile round track racing, motorcycle ice racing, where the tires on the bikes wore huge spikes in order to give them traction. Woe be it unto the poor fool who has a wipeout and gets run over by others in the pack. The list of winter motorsports goes on, but the general feeling of going fast over the ice and snow to me is just this side of dancing with the devil. I’m sure that many would see motor racing in any form as having this quality, but to me throwing in the winter aspect ups the ante more than I care to play with. I tip my racing helmet with honor to those who do, but I still wonder if the more time you spend in cold and snow, if this is the lasting effect it has on just about any gearhead.
Each Christmas season I catch myself doing image searches online for a custom sleigh, done with a hot rod kind of theme. The Beach Boys classic Christmas tune, “Lil Saint Nick” is without doubt one of my all time holiday favorites, and any picture I can find that follows that is one I like to keep on file for future use.
This year I ran across a real gem, a snow going hot rod built by a guy named Lars Eric Lindberg of Sweden. Obviously, Sweden is one of those places endowed with a long and deep winter. Lars appears to be a true hot-rodder at heart, and must have been suffering from either cruising or drag racing withdrawals. The ‘snow monster” he has created is a winter hybrid of a snowmobile and an old fashioned Model “T”, or T-Bucket as they are often called. The wide back tires have been traded for a pair of Polaris tracks, covered by some slick looking custom fenders, and what looks like a dropped axle up front has been flipped over and rigged with set of skis in lieu of front tires. The crowning jewel is a blown Chevy 454 big-block, which, I’m sure, provides more than enough horsepower for anyone at first glance to call Lars’s hot rod a “deathtrap”. Granted, I would have chosen a Hemi instead, just for its visual impact alone as well as its threatening exhaust note.
This dedicated winter hot rod gives “dashing thru the snow at frightening speed” a whole new meaning, and is proof positive that gearhead is deep in the blood, no matter how cold it gets or how long winter lasts. If I ever wind up living in some area where winter comes heavy and stays for months, I shudder to think how it may mutate my car-guy habits, but Lars Lindberg is proof the hot-rodder will find a way to survive…without jumping off mountains.
Holidays November 20, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: after shave, auto show, Christmas, meguiars, Santa Claus, SEMA, Thanksgiving, wax
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I’m sure many of you out there have seen the old commercials for Intel entitled “Our people are not like your people”. I have sad news for the pitchmen over at Intel; we in the car community have known this probably before the personal computer was ever born.
With the holiday season now fully upon us, I cannot help but be reminded of how the car-guy’s holidays will differ greatly from mainstream America. Its not that we don’t want to participate in “everybody’s holidays”, but the fact remains that if we try and celebrate the “normal holidays” it tends to make things pretty busy when we try and include ours as well.
Most holidays find us simply taking some time out from our fervent hobby to spend time with our loved ones. This is handled in most cases with little complaint since we know our real priorities down inside. Some of us may go kicking and screaming mind you, but that can be traced to the boy that remains inside of us despite our advancing years. Those of us who have been so blessed with a significant other that willingly gives us room to play in our little world, deserves to get our time and attention when they do ask (and even when they don’t, and we just know better) At the end of the day we don’t want to spoil a good thing so we get on board.
The calendar holidays come almost once a month, and depending on your particular car-guy flavor, ours can roll around just about as often. The North American International Auto Show rolls out the red carpet in January, followed shortly thereafter by the Autorama. The Daytona 500 heralds the opening of the NASCAR season every February, and the list grows ever longer from there. The 12 hours of Sebring, Opening Day at Watkins Glen, The Drags at Raceway Park in historic Englishtown, NJ, The Indy 500, The Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise, The Hot Rod Power Tour, any Good Guys event, The brand loyal weekend of choice at Carlisle, PA, Speed Week at the Bonneville Salt Flats, Hot August Nights in Reno NV, SEMA in Las Vegas, and that barely scratches the surface. There will be literally hundreds of other local and nationally sanctioned events all over the country.
Unlike the calendar holidays, where each carries a certain theme, the car-guy days have one common thread. We always like to get together and show off, be it looks or speed or cheering for our favorite car and driver, each event can be quite unique but the core of our enjoyment always remains.
Now that Thanksgiving is upon us, the car-guy faces a time of transition. The cool, crisp fall days have given way to colder temperatures in most cases, and the play-toys have been carefully sheltered away in their garages or lovingly wrapped in their covers. Some will now begin upgrades and renovations in preparation for next spring, while others are strictly in hibernation.
This time of year also brings another holiday to perplex the car-guy, easily the most daunting of all the others, Christmas Day. This is the time of year when the car-guy is constantly asked; “What do you want for Christmas?”
As we all well know, the list of things we would love to find wrapped (or unwrapped for that matter) under the tree would easily stretch around the house. However we have learned through hard experience that these are things you just don’t ask for, as it’s about the rough equivalent of requesting your very own military fighter jet. Oh you can ask mind you, but be brutally prepared to be greeted with either a head scratching facsimile of your dream part or tool, or simply the next in a long line of various shaving products.
Let’s not be too hard on the poor unsuspecting family members though, since most of them would have an easier time understanding what we were talking about if we just spoke Greek to begin with. Here is another area where I thank my lucky stars for my beloved wife. She is a photographer, and as such is as picky about her equipment as I am about my automotive items. I learned pretty early on in our relationship that I was expressly forbidden to purchase anything camera related without her prior stamp of approval. Now this may seem like an undramatic way to shop for Christmas presents, but I can tell you the itch of waiting for your gift when you know it’s exactly what you wanted can be nerve racking all the same. Any poor schmuck who has ever waited to have a custom car built can tell you all about this level of agony.
Luckily over time I have discovered a list of things that are always worth getting. Jugs of Meguiar’s car wash, bottles of Hot Shine, shop rags and wax applicator pads never go out of style. Occasionally I run across an item that I point out with giddy boyhood glee, and my wife will oblige in the same fashion as her own camera equipment, by snapping it up for me and whisking it away until Christmas morning. This must be how Santa feels when Mrs. Claus picks his gift out.
None of this is put forth as any kind of complaint, but more as an acknowledgement the car-guy orbits in a different path from most. We as a group are okay with that because we are very glad to participate in both our holidays and yours. We are thankful we have a wonderful place where we can pursue this passionate hobby, and even more thankful we have family and friends who help us do so.
For these things alone we will happily accept all the after shave you give us by default. Especially since when we get finished working on our toys, we need to clean up before we can fix yours.
God Bless America…and the wives of car-guys.
Project Bonnie November 7, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: 3800 Series II, air ratchet, Bones, bonneville, Buick Grand National, car-guy, Enterprise, Firebird, gearhead, General Motors, Mr.Spock, Ottawa, Pontiac, star trek, trans am, War Chief
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If there is one thing a gearhead can’t resist it’s a project. No matter if its an old car that needs restoring, a decent car that is a prime candidate for a custom make over, or a perfectly good running car that begs (at least in our minds) to be modified.
"In the Beginning"
Modification, upgrading, improving efficiency, enhancing
appearance, and producing more power, are all well-used terms by the gearhead both seasoned and novice alike.
All we have to do is read or hear that some part of our car might be defective, prone to failure, or in need of regular maintenance and the flywheel in our brains takes a giant kick-start. We begin to scrutinize every nut and bolt that must be removed in order to perform this “needed” task and we pile on everything else we can “while we’re in there.” All in the name of the aforementioned goals while rationalizing each part or modification with “I wont have to do it later.”
Many of these rationales can easily be justified by cost savings, downtime, or potential roadside failure. All good excuses mind you,
but they ice over the pure truth that we just want to add and change all those little toys to make the car an extension of our personal expression.
Such was the case with my 2004 Pontiac Bonneville SLE, which is equipped with GM’s rock solid 3800 Series II engine. This stout V6 has been around for decades in various forms, and has powered some of the fastest factory hot rods The General has ever produced. You can mention the Buick Grand National in almost any car-guy conversation and adjectives like “wicked” and “giant killer” are sure to surface.
GM’s Pontiac Division produced many models of Firebird and Trans Am that are the stuff of muscle car legend, but the 1989 Turbo Trans Am boasted one of the most potent performance packages ever to roll off the showroom floor, and that car was powered by the venerable 3800 six-cylinder.
Over the past couple of decades, the auto manufacturers have experimented with plastics for various engine parts in an effort to save weight and lower costs. Today many vehicles make extensive use of plastics in the engine bay, but one of GM’s ill-fated uses was for intake manifold gasket frames. My Bonneville’s 3800 was so equipped with these gaskets, and to prevent coolant from leaking into the oil and sending my otherwise staid powerplant out to a permanent lunch, I made plans to upgrade to a superior gasket set.
You see how simple this begins? Lower intake manifold gaskets, but there are many parts that must be removed in order to replace said gaskets, and so the snowballing avalanche was set in motion. I began collecting parts in preparation for my grand project, and the thought of a gleaming, shiny engine bay showing off every detail of my handiwork danced in my brain. The pile of parts grew to staggering proportions, until the task itself began to be intimidating. I kept putting off the project (you see now it’s a project instead of a task) until Mother Nature could provide me with not just one sunny afternoon, but a string of two or three clear weather days.
Even after the Heavens and the calendar cooperated, I pulled the lower radiator hose to drain the cooling system with a level of trepidation, knowing the goal I wished to achieve still lay far ahead.
I must at this point give an enormous amount of both credit and blame to the online community of car enthusiasts I am a part of. This group of car owners is a tremendous and invaluable source of information and guidance when it comes to car repair. Whatever the problem you may be facing, you can bank that at least three other owners have already tackled a similar problem and happily share the dos and don’ts of getting the issue fixed. They are also quite guilty of filling your head with all manner of suggestions about what modifications they would perform were they in your shoes. As harmless as that may sound, the old adage about the power of suggestion has never delivered more mayhem than it does in the brain of a car-guy.
After extensive reading and study of the how-to section of the website, or “techinfo” as it’s called, I moved forward with Project Bonnie armed with a level of confidence that can easily be described as dangerous, maybe not to life and limb, but definitely to my credit card and overall financial health.
If there is one thing a gearhead will do, he will find a way to move mountains in order to make a project happen, and when I consider how many shifts of overtime I’ve volunteered to work, sacrificing sleep to earn the funds to feed my automotive habit, I often wonder if there will ever be a car-guy rehab center formed someday.
The sound of a pneumatic power tool can be annoying to the unwilling ear, and I’m sure my neighbors grew tired of the howl produced by my air ratchet as the disassembly process went ever deeper. By the end of the first day there were carefully arranged piles of bolts and parts laid out on banquet tables borrowed from my wife’s art show display (covered in requisite thick brown paper to prevent stains of course)
Upon surveying what I had wrought, I was instantly reminded of two movie lines from Star Trek films. The first uttered by Captain Kirk as he watched the Enterprise burn in the atmosphere above, “My God, Bones, what have I done?”
The second delivered by Mr. Spock, “As a matter of cosmic history, it has always been easier to destroy than to create.”
"My God Bones..."
If you’ve ever had the feeling that you’ve bitten off more
than you could chew, this was definitely one of those times. Luckily for the car-guy, the desire to bolt on all those shiny new parts is a strong one, and it has the ability to trump any self-doubt we may encounter.
The next morning I began installing the first of those new
parts, a set of machined aluminum, high ratio, roller rocker arms. These little gemstones had been soaking in 10W30 oil overnight so their needle bearing pivots wouldn’t be dry when the engine restarts. As I bolted each piece in place there was a bittersweet moment knowing that once the valve covers were replaced, they would be completely hidden from view, and that was sad.
Now I know how every machinist feels, laboring away on parts that will do their job well but be done away from appreciating eyes.
"Ain't they purrty?"
Slowly but surely, each new part found its place under
Bonnie’s hood, and things started to look like an engine once more. Reassembly, when it involves painted and plated parts takes on a much more careful pace as air tools are eschewed in favor of wrenching the new pieces tenderly into place by hand. I use the term “tenderly” with some reserve since there will always be the stubborn part or bolt that requires more than a bit of persuasion to get into its proper place. Nowhere is this more evident than when it comes to installing the “modified part.”
I had purchased an aluminum airbox from ZZ Performance that
was designed originally to fit the Pontiac Grand Prix, but the website showed pictures of a finished installation on a Bonneville just like mine. The web page went on to say, “Easily installed on the Bonneville with slight modification.”
Now there isn’t a gearhead alive who doesn’t feel like he’s capable of a slight modification, so when the time arrived for this piece to go in, I looked forward to seeing it sitting in place with great delight. The first test fit revealed that some selective cutting of the box would be required, and this is where the two sides of the human brain go to war. The logical, fact-based side says that the part doesn’t fit directly, and it should be put back in its box and returned to the vendor. The artistic side counters with the foreknowledge that modification was a given, and that the other side should relax because this will be handled in professional manner.
Measurement and marking take place before the jigsaw is plugged in as the logical brain screams one last plea for sanity against cutting anything.
The first pass proves to be not enough, as does the second, until the third steps largely out of bounds as the creative brain is screaming at the logical side to shut the hell up. Finally the collective pieces are relocated to the used parts pile. You know the place, where the pack rat in each of us holds onto things with great certainty that they will be utilized someday, somehow, somewhere, the details of which are forever in limbo. In most cases, every part in this automotive misfit zone represents a lesson learned at some expense, and this one was no different.
The next major setback involved a direct replacement part, which was the fuel pump module. The fuel gauge on Bonnie had taken a mind of its own shortly after I purchased the car, and when I say a mind of its own, read that as wildly unreliable. When one witnesses a fuel gauge read full, drift down to half, and then spike back to full when no gas has been added to the tank, generally removes any confidence of accuracy.
General Motors in its infinite design wisdom chose to mount the fuel gauge sending unit directly onto the fuel pump module, which is immersed inside the fuel tank. At least someone realized that this part might have to be replaced someday, so a small, egg-shaped access panel resides under the trunk carpet. I assume this was done to make you appreciate that you don’t have to remove the entire rear suspension to get to the gas tank.
Once again, one of my fellow online owners produced a YouTube video on how to replace the fuel pump module. This goes to show that even with a small hand-held camera, the magic of editing can make anything look easy. There is a metal lock ring that holds the fuel pump in place, and after disconnecting the fuel lines (and spilling a fair amount of gas in the process) Video-man proceeded to tap the lock ring loose with a hammer and large screwdriver. The potential for a spark seemed far easier than Tom Hanks trying to create fire on a deserted beach in “Castaway,” or more to the point, it reminded me of the old Bugs Bunny cartoon where he tested artillery shells by thumping them with a hammer. No explosion meant the shell was marked as a dud.
Video-man also neglected to show how awkward it is to crawl into the trunk of the car. Now let’s be clear that Bonnie does indeed have a spacious cargo area, but my six-foot-three frame still found it to be rather tight quarters. Holding a plastic-coated dead-blow hammer in one hand and trying to angle an ash-hardwood dowel in the other as a striking tool proved much more difficult. The hardwood proved to be futile against the lock ring so I exited the trunk to find a better tool. I say “exited” but the process probably looked more like Bonnie was giving birth to me out of her trunk. It was not a graceful movement by any means.
Repeated attempts to budge the stubborn lock ring only added to my frustration level. This combined with nightmare images of my hair on fire while trying to exit the trunk like a newborn baby elephant finally sealed my decision that this was a job for younger and more flexible men at the local auto shop.
With the fuel lines reconnected, pump relay replaced, and battery hooked up, I braced for my moment of truth. I turned the key and the engine spun over and then sputtered to a quick stop. This was expected since the fuel system had to re-pressurize for the injectors to deliver a full fuel shot. A second twist of the key and the engine spun and growled to life, and I could not contain the smile on my face. No matter how many times you take a car apart, tinker with its inner workings, and put things back together, the moment that it starts and runs with healthy noise is a sweet reward all its own. It is a true feeling of accomplishment, and one that sings the joyful melody of horsepower.
"Finished...sans the airbox"
This feeling was quickly dispatched and replaced with one of peril as a billowing cloud of smoke rolled from the engine bay. A rapid
inspection put my fears to rest and replaced it with another moment of education. I had painted my new tubular front exhaust manifold with a special ceramic paint that claimed it would withstand 1500 degree heat. Don’t you believe it. Maybe the claim could be verified by saying ‘withstand’ meant that chips of paint remained intact as they bubbled and flaked off onto the ground below, all the while sending Indian-style smoke signals to neighboring tribes.
Then again, the Pontiac name hails from a legendary Ottawa War Chief, so maybe this was a rite of passage. Luckily, the smoldering stopped in about five minutes, and a quick test drive revealed that Bonnie the Ghosthawk was ready to spread her wings and sound her war cry once more.
"Ready to fly"
Right after I clean up the mess I’ve made in my garage.
The Right Tool for the Job September 25, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: automotive, drill, hammer, journalist, Peter Egan, Road & Track, saw, Side Glances, tools, wrench, writer
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For those of us who are still in the amateur or infant stage of our writing, there are those we look up to and savor the words they put to paper. For me, most of these “idols” are automotive journalists, and while some are new to the pages of the periodicals I subscribe to, there are others who rank as legends.
One of my absolute favorite automotive writers is Peter Egan, who in his retiring years still contributes a monthly column to Road & Track magazine called “Side Glances.” This column has been a long standing pillar of Road & Track and has spawned two compilation books by the same name. I make every effort to never miss a column by Mr. Egan because over the years he has penned more than a few gemstones.
His works are not only rich with automotive experience, but his ability to tell a captivating story laced with a humorous tone are skills that I hope to emulate someday.
What follows is one of his masterworks, a list of tools commonly found in the automotive garage followed by his unique definitions. I am proud to pay homage to one of my automotive writing inspirations by having his words grace the humble pages of my blog.
For anyone who has ever known the agony and ecstasy of backyard automotive repair, this list will truly strike home.
Read and enjoy!
Hammer: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate expensive car parts not far from the object we are trying to hit.
Mechanic’s Knife: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on boxes containing convertible tops or tonneau covers.
Electric Hand Drill: Normally used for spinning steel Pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age, but it also works great for drilling rollbar mounting holes in the floor of a sports car just above the brake line that goes to the rear axle.
Hacksaw: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija board principle. It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes.
Vise-Grips: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand.
Oxyacetylene Torch: Used almost entirely for lighting those stale garage cigarettes you keep hidden in the back of the Whitworth socket drawer (What wife would think to look in there?) because you can never remember to buy lighter fluid for the Zippo lighter you got from the PX at Fort Campbell
Zippo Lighter: See oxyacetylene torch.
Whitworth Sockets: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for hiding six-month old Salems from the sort of person who would throw them away for no good reason.
Drill Press: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the chest and flings your beer across the room, splattering it against the Rolling Stones poster over the bench grinder.
Wire Wheel: Cleans rust off old bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say, “Django Reinhardt”.
Hydraulic Floor Jack: Used for lowering a Mustang to the ground after you have installed a set of Ford Motorsports lowered road springs, trapping the jack handle firmly under the front air dam.
Eight-Foot Long Douglas Fir 2X4: Used for levering a car upward off a hydraulic jack.
Tweezers: A tool for removing wood splinters.
Phone: Tool for calling your neighbor Chris to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack.
Snap-On Gasket Scraper: Theoretically useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for getting dog-doo off your boot.
E-Z Out Bolt and Stud Extractor: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes and is ten times harder than any known drill bit.
Timing Light: A stroboscopic instrument for illuminating grease buildup on crankshaft pulleys.
Two-Ton Hydraulic Engine Hoist: A handy tool for testing the tensile strength of ground straps and hydraulic clutch lines you may have forgotten to disconnect.
Craftsman 1/2 x 16-inch Screwdriver: A large motor mount prying tool that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end without the handle.
Battery Electrolyte Tester: A handy tool for transferring sulfuric acid from car battery to the inside of your toolbox after determining that your battery is dead as a doornail, just as you thought.
Aviation Metal Snips: See Hacksaw.
Trouble Light: The mechanic’s own tanning booth. Sometimes called a drop light, it is a good source of vitamin D, “the sunshine vitamin”, which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105-mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading.
Phillips Screwdriver: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and splash oil on your shirt; can also be used, as the name implies, to round off Phillips screw heads.
Air Compressor: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Chicago Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty suspension bolts last tightened 40 years ago by someone in Abingdon, Oxfordshire, and rounds them off.
Grease Gun: A messy tool for checking to see if your zerk fittings are still plugged with rust.
Legends September 15, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: America's Cup, Briggs Cunningham, Cadillac, Carroll Shelby, Chrysler, Cobra, Ford, Healy, hemi, Le Mans, legends, Viper
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The status of “legend” can be attained in many different ways in the automotive world. The tag can be hung on a car or an engine whose design is a timeless one, or it can go deeper to the person who created the object in question. Sometimes this process comes after years of diligence and hard work with a singular goal in mind, and then again, it can simply be the right person in the right place at the right time.
When it comes to cars and engines, the list of legends is very long and everyone has their favorites, but some remain as standouts despite the passage of time. Chrysler’s Hemi engine was an innovation in the beginning and it has never looked back. Despite being out of production for many years, the Hemi design continues to be the dominate force behind every Top Fuel and Funny Car racer that thunders down the quarter mile. While this is easily its most visible achievement, the Hemi’s roots and influence go far beyond.
Virtually everyone even mildly associated with automotive sport knows the name Carroll Shelby. His Cobra and Mustang cars have borne his name for decades and are some of the most coveted vehicles in the world. He has added his name and influence to cars for both Chrysler and his well known Fords. Yet, it was interesting to find that even legends like Carroll Shelby were inspired by those who came before him.
Many know that in his youth Shelby was a race car driver, but his promising career was cut short after only two seasons due to his bad heart. During this time, he was impressed by another racer and sportsman extraordinaire, Briggs Cunningham.
Cunningham truly had the blood of competition in his veins, racing not only cars but yachts as well. He was the skipper of the Columbia, which won the America’s Cup in 1958; quite a departure from auto racing but fiercely competitive nonetheless.
I must admit at this point a strange fascination with twelve meter yacht racing, as it certainly has to be one of the slowest forms of racing on the planet. Yet these graceful giants require a staggering level of teamwork, endurance, and skill to win a Cup race. There is something amazing about watching their hulls cut the waves, and with all of the spray and splashing one might think they were blasting through the water a frightful pace. In reality, you could probably ride a bicycle faster than they run at top speed. All of that aside, when they race an upwind leg and tack against each other for wind and position, they do so with the fury of a NASCAR pit stop, and I find myself wishing I could be pulling ropes or twisting cranks.
Back on point, Briggs Cunningham had a true passion for cars and racing. He was the first man to import a Ferrari into this country, one of the founding members of the Sports Car Club of America, as well as building various hybrid cars for racing. Cunningham may not have invented the concept of putting potent engines in lighter cars but he certainly excelled at it. He built such cars that he dubbed “Bu-Merc” and “Fordillac” and in 1950 was invited to mount a team for Le Mans. Luigi Chinetti was the man who sold the Ferrari to Cunningham and offered to put in a word for him to join Team Ferrari for the race.
Briggs already had a game plan in mind and put together the first all American effort for the 24 hour event. The Le Mans organizing committee shunned the idea of Cunningham’s hybrid hot rods, so Cadillac came forward with two Series 61 coupes, one of which he would re-body as a roadster with the help of engineers from Grumman aircraft. This purpose built creation was dubbed “Le Monstre” by the French and was the first American sports car to wear the white with blue racing stripe paint scheme which would later become Cunningham’s signature.
The Cadillacs finished 10th and 11th overall and were crowd favorites with their big, noisy engines. Cunningham was so encouraged that he set up shop in West Palm Beach, Florida and began working on prototype machines based on Healy roadsters. The initial testing went very well but late in 1950, Cadillac pulled its support to supply engines for Briggs new racing machines. Then came a pivotal moment, when Cunningham contacted an old college friend and arranged to replace the Cadillac engines with the new Chrysler Firepower Hemi V8.
Cunningham built two street prototypes called the C-1 and then prepped three cars for the 1951 race. The C-2R made a strong showing, clocking the fastest speed on the Mulsanne straight at 152mph and the fastest average lap speed of 99mph. The years that followed saw his potent C-4R contend for the podium at Le Mans, while it dominated sports car racing here in America.
Carroll Shelby had just begun his short-lived racing career when Briggs Cunningham stepped out of building his own cars in 1955. However, the impact of Cunningham on sports car racing continued and obviously influenced Shelby to a great degree. When you look at Shelby’s first Cobra, a lightweight British sports car body with a screaming American V8 engine, the tip of the iceberg shows. The 427 Cobra comes full circle, with its hand built body and chassis, its bellowing Ford engine and its blue and white racing stripe paint scheme. Shelby also went on to tame Le Mans with his cars and American racing folklore to boot.
I take nothing away from Shelby; he has been a force in American automotive culture. However in retrospect, it seems as though Briggs Cunningham passed a torch that Shelby carried all the way to victory lane. You could even say that Shelby himself came full circle when he collaborated with Chrysler to bring us the Viper, born in the spirit of his Cobra sports car.
Now, when I look at all Shelby has given to the gearhead world, I catch myself wearing a slight grin as I gaze into the past to see his inspiration. Through the mists of time and history, I see an All American sportsman, a man respected by his peers and man who built the forerunner to the legendary Cobra. The Cunningham C-4R, a hand built, high performance machine that challenged the world…powered by a Chrysler Hemi.
Every legend has its inspiration.
Post 9/11 September 13, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: 9/11, Brooklyn, Chris Cooper, Gandhi, Manhattan, memorial, New York, Pennsylvania, Pentagon, Pierce Brosnan, Remember Me, Robert Pattinson, staten island, Twin Towers, world trade center
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“Nearly everything you do is of no importance, but it is very important that you do it.” – Mohandas Gandhi
The ten year anniversary of the terrorist attacks on our home soil brought an outpouring of emotion that is seldom seen in our time. Presidents, dignitaries, celebrities, and public figures of every stripe offered sincere words to try and define the scar that will forever remain on the heart of this country. As with almost any wound, the inflicting of pain and injury tends to be blindingly quick, but the healing process is a slow and agonizing struggle.
I saw so many images yesterday of individual people as they tried to find ways to cope with the loss that still lingers in their lives. So many names, and each one of them with a story all their own, stand as a testament to the ripple effect that such an event causes. While each of them might say if they were here, “I only did what I had to do,” or possibly, “I did all that I could,” the fact remains that each of their actions, no matter how small carried significance.
The Twin Towers themselves were made up of literally millions of parts, and while a rivet, or pipe, or cable might seem mundane on their own, they came together to create one of the great engineering marvels of our time. They stood like stately sentinels at the south end of Manhattan, and even when they were dealt a lethal blow, it seemed as though they held on with defiant resolve, buying every precious second possible before finally yielding and falling in on themselves.
Last night I watched a film on DVD entitled, “Remember Me,” and even though the story was punctuated by the attack on the Towers, it was a very human story.
Robert Pattinson and Pierce Brosnan portray a father and son whose relationship is strained to say the least. Brosnan is a wealthy business magnate who has provided amply for his family, but work has taken its toll on their quality time together.
In a parallel story, Chris Cooper plays a Brooklyn cop whose wife is murdered in a street robbery while their young daughter looked on in horror. Now the daughter is grown, and as a single father he fights the demons of coming to grips with her adulthood.
All of these story elements could have stood on their own, but when the tragedy of that day struck, all of the survivors were forever changed. While each dealt with the loss in different ways, the small traits that made each of them unique became different forms of inspiration.
From my personal experience, I had been dating my wife for about a year when 9/11 took place. We had met via the internet, and I had been traveling up to Staten Island to see her about once a month.
Over the course of that summer she had taken me into Manhattan on several occasions, and one of those jaunts included a visit to the World Trade Center. The courtyard area with its large sphere sculpture sat roughly between the Towers, and I felt incredibly insignificant at the feet of those mammoth structures. The place was a virtual beehive of activity, and yet its simplistic beauty was hard to describe. Was it just me, or was there an ironic feeling of calm serenity in the midst of these vertical cities?
I don’t use the term “vertical city” lightly in this context. While New York has a known population of eight million, I was astounded when she told me that each tower housed about eighteen thousand people, which is the rough equivalent of every man, woman, and child that makes up the small Virginia town I come from.
That visit to the Towers at the time felt like just another stop in a city filled with amazing sights. I have no pictures to commemorate what I saw that sunny afternoon, but to this day I cherish the memory of having seen the place in all of its magnificent glory. I also have no doubt that when I travel back to New York to visit the 9/11 Memorial, I will attempt to seek out that very spot I stood a decade ago, and close my eyes and remember it like it was.
I was fortunate that I did not lose a loved one on that fateful day, but I have seen the after effect on my wife and her daughter. I walked the eerie silent streets with them when Lower Manhattan was re-opened to the public. I stood with them in awestruck disbelief as we looked out over the image of destruction unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
I saw the tears of desperation on the faces of everyone we passed or stood beside, and the hushed sobs of people holding onto one another whispered on every breeze.
The days that followed saw a change in perception of almost every facet of everyday life, and some remain with us to this day, but the one thing that has sadly disappeared was the incredible outpouring of kindness and effort that rose from the ashes. People put aside race, ethnicity, and creed to labor side by side for the benefit of their fellow man, and the feeling of unity that it brought was powerful and moving.
So many people, so many hands, with no regard to individual motivation, performed all manner of small tasks, and together they made an enormous impact.
In my subsequent visits to New York over the last ten years, I have watched the place I once stood transform from something horrific to something poignant and beautiful, and it took many hands and hearts to make that a reality. If there is one thing that New York excels at, its constant rebirth, and preserving what was old while making it new once more.
I could even say the same of my wife as I have watched her find ways to heal her own wounds. Be it her pictures, her writing, or her quilts, and while each might seem small and unimportant to some, it was very important that she do them.
None of us can know how many people we touch in our lives, or what small words or acts of kindness may leave a lasting impression, but for the people in New York, the soldiers in The Pentagon, and a lonely field in rural Pennsylvania, there is no such thing as unimportant.
BMWs and Minivans September 7, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: Autobahn, Bimmer, BMW, Capital Beltway, cell phones, Cross Bronx Expressway, driver's license, F-22, Germany, insurance, law enforcement, Los Angeles Freeway, minivan, Nurburgring, speeding, tailgating, ultimate driving machine
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Since the earliest days of powered machinery, and most likely before that, young people have had a penchant for undertaking feats of daring. Virtually all of us have some memory of our youth that we recall as “doing something stupid,” or at least that’s how we refer to those events now.
In the automotive world, young men take a hard rap from insurance companies for being a high risk, yet few of them would agree that the assessment is fair. The raw numbers show that young males are more likely to be involved in an accident than any other age group or gender by a wide margin, but at least we have the excuse that they are young and inexperienced. Combine this with the fact that young men still equate an adrenaline rush with excitement as opposed to a fear of death, and the results become clearer.
We have a greater ratio of cars to people than any other civilized country on the face of the Earth, the most extensive road system by far, and without a doubt, the most pitiful excuse for a driver training program bar none. Virtually every other country with an extensive transportation system requires its drivers to be trained in stages, thereby taking several years to achieve full capability. While some might argue that we have a graduated system, I don’t think six months of training and then several years of 11pm to 5am curfew qualifies as intense conditional training. This state-by-state list shows just how prominent this practice is.
Pilots are required to complete a ground school, or classroom phase, before moving on to flight instruction. After a set number of hours in the air, the student pilot must prove capable to navigate, with or without visual cues, practice ditch scenarios, pre-flight their aircraft, and log a set number of hours solo before they can be rated to carry a passenger. All of this in order to get certified to fly a single engine light aircraft. If they wish to fly any larger or more complex aircraft, they must be trained further, checked out, and then rated to fly said airplane.
By stark contrast, in this country you can receive a driver’s license in any state, and then be set loose to buy and drive anything from the smallest economy car to the most behemoth four-wheel drive, one-ton payload truck sitting on any given dealer’s lot. This whole scenario is fraught with potential disaster, even with the factor of male youth taken away. I often wonder how many people who announce, “I’m a good driver,” would be willing to climb aboard an aircraft with a pilot who had an equal amount of flying experience.
This brings me to my first major rant, and its one that I didn’t come by lightly. In the many thousands of miles I have logged traveling across this country, there are two phenomena I have witnessed more times than I can count, and that alone is what makes them frightening.
I have come to expect erratic or unpredictable driving habits from young men in modified cars, and to me, they are reason enough to institute better driver training so that more of them might survive to see thirty years old. It is for this very reason that both the Navy and Air Force have high intensity combat flight training, because statistics have clearly shown that if the pilot can complete his first ten missions, his survivability rate more than doubles. Many will argue that combat is a very different situation, but I submit that anyone who has driven the Capital Beltway, the Los Angeles Freeway, or the Cross-Bronx Expressway has equally risked their lives.
Before I go any further, I will offer my apologies to members of the Bimmer Faithful everywhere. I know there are many enthusiasts that have devoted substantial time and money to hone their skills under the best conditions possible. Many who have made the pilgrimage to the The Nurburgring in Germany to test those skills on one of the most demanding and legendary race courses in the world, but with all of those responsible owners excused, there remains a huge faction of BMW owners that are danger on wheels.
BMW has long used the tagline of, “The Ultimate Driving Machine,” and it may very well be just that, but I believe that phrase should be followed with a warning label, “Just because you can afford the ultimate driving machine, does not make you the ultimate driver.”
I have been witness to more displays of rampant lane changing, aggressive tailgating, and blatant, reckless speeding than any other make of automobile. The vast majority of these drivers are not teenage boys, so that excuse is out the window, and while they may think they are displaying superior skill by diving through traffic, all they are doing is endangering themselves and many others.
There are more than a few models available at the BMW dealership that qualify as potent performance machines, several with 400 or more horsepower, but for the same reason the Air Force doesn’t start a pilot out on an F-22 Raptor, such a car should not be sold to an insufficiently trained driver. His simple license is not nearly enough credential to constitute such a risk.
I’m sure there are those at this point that would question my credentials, but even with my 30-plus years of driving performance oriented cars, I am still objective enough to recognize when I am out of my element, and the places where it is acceptable to push my limits.
All of my experience aside, if levels of driver rating were instituted today, I would be more than happy to submit myself for whatever testing was required. More to the point, I would be ready to accept the level of license I was qualified to hold, and if additional training would be required I would gladly step in line.
The second phenomenon I have too often witnessed is the unhinged woman in a mini-van yammering away on her cell phone. This deadly trifecta is an absolute contradiction to every law aimed at automobile safety.
The mini-van itself is wonderful creation, and the whole time my kids were growing up I kept one in our driveway. Even after they were grown I found the mini-van to be capable hauler that didn’t break your wallet at the gas pump. I’ve carried all manner of people and things over the years, but one thing is certain, the mini-van is no sports car. A top-heavy vehicle like this is dangerous when pushed at speed, which makes it all the more astounding when I am passed on the interstate by one like I’m backing up.
If my cruise speed is 70-74mph, then being passed at such a pace dictates a speed of 85 or above, combine this with abrupt lane changes, sans any kind of signal I might add, and a one-handed driver on a cell phone at the wheel, and I pray for any children who might be strapped inside.
Federally mandated crash testing doesn’t come close to those kinds of speeds, so the possibility of fatalities is almost certain. This kind of pace would be bad enough with a trained, alert driver, but under the aforementioned circumstances it becomes downright perilous.
I recall reading a few years ago about the state of Montana doing away with their unrestricted daytime speed limits. The magazine article included a statement by a mother of three, who said she routinely cruised her minivan at 100mph highway speeds so her kids could make it to their various activities. She lamented that if the speed limit were lowered, they would never make it in time for the events on their list. I submit that anyone who routinely cruises at 100mph is shooting craps with their very lives, not to mention the lives of their children.
Many would argue that the Germans do so everyday on the Autobahn, but they neglect to note such details as a four year driver training program, supreme road maintenance, traffic offenses that include eating while driving, much less talking on a cell phone. Let’s also not forget traffic fines based on your income and a rigid lane discipline rarely observed in this country. For a more detailed list of Autobahn laws and enforcement click here.
Besides the tougher driving laws, you can read about how much more is involved to get a driver’s license in Germany in this article.
In the racing world, teams of technicians spend countless hours of testing to make every precaution possible for the benefit of the driver’s safety. Suspension adjustments and tire changes, as well as a host of other tuning variables can be tweaked before or during a race for the given conditions of the day. Our daily road-going cars are an exercise in averages as engineers try to build a car that will perform in weather conditions ranging from the Arizona heat to the fierce cold of North Dakota. They strive to find handling that works on the smooth highway to the rocky, rut-filled country back roads. To have any such expectation that such a vehicle is prepared for the kind of high speed assault more suited to a dedicated racing machine is a level of over-confidence that brushes close to hubris.
When I see these people pulled to the side of the road by law enforcement, I used to think what poor souls they were, but now I see it as a second chance before a deadly encounter with fate. One thing is certain, if you roll the dice often enough, sooner or later they will come up snake eyes. Unfortunately in the automotive realm, paying the house when you lose has an incredibly steep price tag, one that includes everything you ever wanted to do.
The Lawn War; Fire Down Below August 8, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Uncategorized.Tags: asphalt, beekeeper, bleach, grass, hair spray, lawn, mower, weeds, yellow jackets
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The never-ending cycle of the seasons always brings with it some manner of work to be done in the yard. Some see this as a wonderful pastime or hobby, while others, like me, view it as pure and absolute work.
It’s no secret that I have no love for yard work as a whole, but the spring and summer bring grass cutting into the mix, and that ranks with cleaning gutters and shoveling snow on the ‘please kill me now’ scale. The two latter choices are generally once a year in my part of the country but ‘mowing the weeds’ comes all too often for my liking.
I have often considered moving into one of those row housing complexes to rid myself of yard work altogether, but then I would have to give up my driveway and garage, and that will never do. If anything, the newly paved asphalt driveway I had installed this spring was a monumental achievement in the ongoing lawn war.
In a previous blog post entitled, “The Un-Lawn War,” I expounded on the efforts I’d made to purge my gravel drive of dandelions and other pesky weeds. Now with a shimmering layer of black asphalt from the garage to the street, a vast area has been rendered weed free. While further maintenance will surely be needed in the future, for now I can relish one summer without spraying or burning the rocks.
The harsh lesson to be learned here is that one victory does not win a war, as I found my enemy had turned to mercenary tactics. Two summers ago, I unknowingly ran across a small hole in my front yard that housed a nest of yellow jackets. Needless to say, the sound of the mower raised their ire and I jumped, shouted, and slapped myself like some kind of demented masochist until I drenched my entire body with the garden hose. Only the neighbors know what they thought of the whole display, but none of them have ever questioned me about the incident. I can only assume they think it prudent to keep their distance.
What happened later that night probably didn’t improve their perception of me as I returned to the front yard at sunset and filled the hole with gasoline. A squeeze of the trigger on the candle lighter set off a gas-soaked length of twine and the bonfire cast its flickering light skyward. I stood idly by with the garden hose in hand, obviously in no hurry to extinguish the blaze. Little did I know this was harbinger of things to come.
This past week the intense summer heat has forced me to tackle the lawn in sections. While part of me has no sorrow about walking away from a half done lawn, the misery remains that I must return that much sooner to get it completed.
I had risen early on my day off since my wife had to leave for work, and I thought getting finished before the heat of the day set in was a good game plan. As I mowed the section between the houses, I suddenly felt a stabbing pain at the base of my buttocks. The buzzing around my head soon let me know my testy insect foes had returned, albeit in a more discreet location.
Some might say that insects act purely on instinct, and if that is the case then the instincts of the yellow jacket are ruthless indeed. I was wearing long pants at the time, so to venture past the long legs of my six-foot-three-inch frame and continue north to the base of my buttocks takes concentrated effort…or simple vindictive anger. It wasn’t until I went inside to the bathroom and shucked down my underwear that I realized they were inside my pants. Where they buzzed away to I have no clue since I was busy protecting other tender areas of my anatomy.
Later that day, I took a slow, cautious surveillance tour of my front yard to gather valuable intel to mount my counter-strike. I soon found the lawns’ cohorts had been rather busy in my absence as I discovered three more additional holes where scouts came and left with regularity. The simple gasoline torch tactic began to appear like I would need to napalm the entire front yard. This plan has the significant downside of possibly burning down my home, so another strategy needed to be employed.
I was still convinced chemical warfare was the best plan of attack, and at the suggestion of one of my co-workers, I returned with two gallons of bleach. I dispensed the first gallon into three smaller holes nearby in an effort to thwart any secondary means of escape. I emptied the second gallon directly down the front door of the nest as my wife stood by with the garden hose at the ready. Just as the bleach jug was almost empty, an errant scout latched on to her index finger and began stinging with a vengeance.
We made a hasty retreat to the kitchen, and despite her flailing her hands wildly, the tenacious bug held fast until we reached the sink where he flew up to the ceiling light. Thoughts stormed through my head as I calculated the best way to eliminate this intruder, since there was no way he was being left to his own devices. I considered torching him at close range with the candle lighter but there was a chance he could fly away too fast. (Scorching the kitchen light wasn’t going to be good either)
I thought about the kitchen sink spray hose, but there was no guarantee that would take him down. Maybe the spray bottle of 409 cleaner? Possibly, but still not potent enough for my taste. I stepped away for a moment to check on my wife, and as she was spreading salve on her finger in the bathroom, I spied my weapon of choice; a gleaming red can of Aqua Net Super Hold hair spray.
One intense shot of this sticky goo at close range and he was instantly grounded, left to wiggle madly in the bottom of the sink. A nearby kitchen utensil delivered his death blow like Thors’ hammer as I plotted the demise of his colony.
As of this writing, the final tactic remains unknown, but a beekeeper suit is on order and should be in my possession in a matter of days. Once equipped with my dedicated armor so-to-speak, I will forge into my front lawn with impunity. The image of a white-clad, mesh-faced grim reaper will be the last many of his kind will ever see. I will come with hoses, bottles and shovels if need be, and woe be unto any of his like that will venture onto my turf in the future.
I may hate cutting grass, but I do reserve the right to do so with sting-free underwear.
Around The Clock June 14, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: 24 Hours of LeMans, A.J.Foyt, Arnage, Audi, Circuit de La Sarthe, Dan Gurney, Dunlop Bridge, Formula One, France, Germany, Graham Hill, Jackie Icyx, Karl Benz, McLaren, Monaco Grand Prix, Mulsanne, Paris, Peugeot, Phil Hill, Porsche, Tom Kristensen
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Man has probably raced in competition since the dawn of time, and no matter if it was on foot, horseback, or chariot, speed and distance have always been the major factors. The invention of the automobile brought about a new form of racing seemingly from the moment the second car was ever produced.
While history credits Karl Benz of Germany with the invention of the first automobile in 1885, it was in nearby France that auto racing was born. In 1894, a scant nine years following the creation of the horseless carriage, the first recorded organized auto race was held from Paris to Rouen, and the sport has grown with ferocity ever since.
It is somehow poetic that the past five years have seen a German/ French rivalry at the oldest endurance racing event in the world. In the countryside just south of the city of Le Mans lies the Circuit de La Sarthe (so named for the nearby Sarthe River) where since 1923, men and their machines have competed in the Grand Prix of Endurance and Performance, or more widely known as The 24 Hours of Le Mans.
This year marks the 79th running of the event (there was a ten year hiatus during the two World Wars that ravaged Europe) but through it all the French have held fast to their love of auto racing, and since 2008, French automaker Peugeot has sought the top step of the podium at their homeland event. A zenith they have not reached since 1993.
Porsche is easily the most dominant marque to ever compete at Le Mans with sixteen victories to their credit, but their German counterpart Audi is rapidly closing the gap. The 2011 running was win number ten for Audi despite losing two of their three cars early on, and the lone survivor held off three Peugeot challengers just seconds behind. When you consider the factors of day, night, temperature, rain, and driver changes, those feats become all the more amazing.
This legendary race fires my senses and imagination like no other, simply because of its monumental scope. There are other forms of racing that tax the limits of man and machine, but most of those are cross-country or rallye-type events. The 24 Hours of Le Mans stands tall as a road racing challenge that forces a balancing act among unpredictable variables both human and mechanical.
Each car must have three drivers, and no driver may remain in the car longer than four hours at a time. Consider the fact that most drivers run roughly three hours for any other major event and then are not back in the car for days, whereas at Le Mans they will have to be rested, sharp, and ready to drive again in six hours.
The race does not stop for weather conditions, so wind, overcast skies, glaring sunlight, and driving rain must all be dealt with not only by the driver but by the engineer as well. Tire selection for the given conditions is absolutely critical if the car is to maintain competitive speeds.
While each of the four classes of cars that are on the circuit simultaneously varies in power, speed, and driver skill, they all must be able to finish the race on an allotted amount of fuel. Make the engine too thirsty in the quest for power and risk running out of fuel by the end of the day. It is in this arena where Audi has changed the face of competition at Le Mans.
In 2005, Audi turned loose an innovative beast like no other, the mighty R10 TDI. The gasoline powered R8 that preceded the R10 had already won the event four times, but now this direct-injected, turbocharged diesel pounded its opponents into submission like Thors’ hammer. The R10 was such a game changer that manufacturers like Peugeot were motivated to produce diesel performance engines in order to remain contenders. The past few years have raised the question if a gasoline car will ever win Le Mans again.
The R10 TDI and the Peugeot 908 are only the latest in a long list of pioneer efforts that have stormed the asphalt at La Sarthe. Windshield wipers, better headlights, disc brakes, aerodynamic body designs, and engine/ transmission durability have all seen their test beds at Le Mans.
Even the celebration of victory has its birthplace on the podium here as Dan Gurney was the first driver to shake a bottle of champagne and spray the crowd in celebration. These and many others are the images that have created memories and legends in the French countryside.
The list of driver’s names that have stood on the top step and hoisted the trophy reads like a hall of fame; Tazio Nuvolari, Phil Hill, A.J. Foyt, Bruce McLaren, and the incredible Jackie Icyx, who until the domination of Audi stood alone with six 24 Hour victories. Today however, one driver stands above all others with an almost unbelievable eight wins; the phenomenal Danish Audi driver Tom Kristensen, who is now referred to as “Mr. Le Mans.”
Despite Kristensens’ achievement, I would be remiss to not mention driving legend Graham Hill, the only man to ever conquer the Triple Crown of Motorsports. To win the Indianapolis 500, the Monaco Grand Prix, and with it the Formula One Championship, and then prevail at Le Mans is a monumental feat, and most likely why it has never been repeated.
The 24 Hours of Le Mans has broken its share of hearts, taught its hard lessons, and bestowed its sweet laurels like no other racing event in the history of the automobile. It pays fervent homage to the nation it calls home, and for almost a century has captured the dreams and visions of both drivers and racing fans alike. Someday I hope to make the pilgrimage to the straights of Mulsanne, to the grassy woods of Arnage, and to stroll the walkway of the famed Dunlop Bridge. Like Ulrich Baretsky, chief engineer of engine design for Audi, I savor the chance to climb to the uppermost tier of the grandstands and watch the sunrise, set to the music of horsepower and speed.
Le Mans, pouvez vous de phase pour toujours!
Print the Legend June 1, 2011
Posted by tobthebat in Car Guy Thoughts.Tags: Armani, Aventador, Batman, Batmobile, Beetle, bonneville, Bruce Wayne, Cobra, convertible, Countach, Dal, Dick Grayson, Ferrari, Firebird, Grand Prix, Green Lantern, John Wayne, Kyle Petty, Lamborghini, Pontiac, Sebring, Shelby, superhero, trans am, Viper, VW
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The famed movie line from the John Wayne western, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”
Following in the footsteps of a legend is always a daunting task, and many times the unfortunate one who follows finds it very hard to escape the shadow of the predecessor. This has been evident many times over in the automotive world, mostly in the sport of racing.
Neither Dale Earnhardt Jr. nor Kyle Petty were ever able to surpass the mystique of their fathers, and the same can be said of certain cars themselves. The new Lamborghini Aventador is an impressive piece of automotive engineering and in the areas of performance and build quality is most likely the finest car the company has yet to produce, but try as it may it will never stun the world like the Countach of years gone by. The Countach was such an outrageous car against virtually anything of its day, that it was the equivalent of setting a rampaging shark loose in an otherwise docile aquarium.
The original 427 Shelby Cobra was a similar beast. The aluminum bodied snake was so lightening quick and raw, bare-bones powerful compared to everything in America’s showrooms, I’m sure many looked on the car as maniacal death trap. While there have been powerful two-seat roadsters since then, most notably the Dodge Viper, none has come close to the potent aura created by Carroll Shelby’s Ferrari-killer.
On a much lesser and more personal level, I have recently been experiencing something of a similar phenomenon. Regular readers of this blog have seen much mention of my last car, a 2001 Pontiac Grand Prix GT, which I owned for longer than any other car I ever bought. Six years might be normal for some people, but for me it was a record by a wide margin. The Grand Prix fulfilled a couple of car-guy dreams for me, and the first of those was the desire for another Trans Am. I shopped long and hard to replace the car I so briefly owned in my youth but found them to be less than useful vehicles for everyday driving. The GP offered all the sporting flavor of the T/A in a more accommodating package. The aftermarket was rich with performance and appearance goodies for the GP, and I set about giving the car a T/A-esque kind of look.
I had also long yearned for something close to the Batmobile (in a fantasy kind of way) and the black color of the GP lent itself well to that image. The more menacing its appearance became, the closer it crept to making that fantasy real, or at least as close as it was ever going to get in my world.
These reasons probably combined to make me keep the car as long as I did, and had it not been for unfortunate circumstances with my son’s automotive needs, I might still have the car, and most likely would be busy transforming it into some kind of hellish, barely streetable monster. The car had already reached the point where my wife preferred not to ride in it, and if I’m truthful, it was getting pretty unforgiving on my back as well, but car-guys rarely let such things impede their quest for more performance.
If we are also truthful, car-guys are creatures of ego, and as our cars are expressions of ourselves, we savor the compliments, long staring looks, and thumbs up we get from other people. All of the hours of scrubbing and polishing, the attention to detail, and the sweat to make it shine are all made worthwhile when we admire our handiwork, but even more so when others do the same. This is the essence of the cruise-in, the show n’ shine, and the weekend car show, all are part and parcel of what we do best…show off.
I find that my Sebring convertible gets many looks and compliments, but I have also noted that they are somewhat generic because an open top car always gets noticed…mostly by people who don’t own one, or those who are working and simply wish to be outside when the weather is nice. I honestly think the car could be shocking neon green and the reaction would be no different if the top is down. Any other question I get regarding the car usually revolves around why someone like me (meaning I am male) would want such a car.
I generally respond by saying, “At least it doesn’t have a dashboard flower vase like a VW Beetle.” So much for generic opinion.
The area where my ego has to adjust is with the car I purchased to replace the Grand Prix, a 2004 Pontiac Bonneville SLE. I have always loved the looks of the last generation Bonneville from the moment I laid eyes on one at the Virginia Auto Show. I admired how the people at Pontiac were bold enough to give their top-line sedan many of the same sporting treatments that were found on the smaller coupes and sports cars. Many of the same styling cues found on the legendary Firebird are present on the Bonnie, the bulging fenders, the aero skirting, the exhaust cut-outs in the rear bumper, and that wonderful cockpit-like dash surrounding the driver seat. The Bonneville is loaded with plenty of toys, so it never felt like a step down to me when I bought the car, but you’d never know it from the comments I get these days.
Oddly enough, the Bonneville seems to be just this side of invisible. Usually when one gets a new ride, people who know you ask about “the new wheels,” but not so in this case. More often than not the conversation goes something like…
“Hey, did you get a new car?”
“Yeah I did”
“Didn’t you used to have that black car?”
“Yeah I did”
“Man, that was a nice car!”
After which they turn and go their merry way. No mention or question concerning the Bonneville at all. I realize the car is painted white, but I’ve never thought of it as plain vanilla, so pedestrian, so non-descript as to not even be noticed.
My wife often referred to my Grand Prix as my “superhero costume,” so I guess if you compare Batman’s outfit with just about any other clothing, even a custom fit, three piece Armani is just another suit.
I can’t decide if it’s ironic or poetic that things have worked out this way. In the comic book world, Bruce Wayne eventually gave up his cape and cowl to Dick Grayson. My son’s favorite comic character, Green Lantern, inherited his powers when the ring was passed to him by an alien hero. So was it a kind of destiny that my son would now be the owner of my automotive “superhero costume?”
A couple of things have become certain; he is already experiencing the same effect the car had on me, with many people complimenting him about the looks. He has also taken a major step up in how well he is caring for the car, and to me, that is a welcome sight.
Is he doing it out of respect for me or because the comments are feeding his automotive ego as well? No matter the reason, I’m simply glad to see him taking a greater interest in the care and maintenance of the GP.
Watching him drive away in the GP that first time was a hard thing for me to deal with, but I took solace in how much I liked the Bonneville. It’s been about six months now since I brought Bonnie home, and I still enjoy driving her as much as I did that first day.
The GP didn’t reach its present state of modification overnight, and while I don’t have plans for any kind of grand makeover for Bonnie, I’m already underway with giving her my personal touch. Honestly, I really love the way the car looks as is, which was a large part of its initial appeal, but my goal now is to “make it my own” without spoiling that original beauty.
Maybe it was destiny that things have worked out this way, since a scant few months after I bought the car I find that I’m going to become a grandparent. So maybe getting a sporting sedan was in the cards all along, and for what I may lose in ego I think I’ll make up for it in personal satisfaction. If it turns out that my slightly modified Bonneville isn’t the attention magnet the GP used to be, then I guess I’ll just have to “print the legend.”
