Redlining It

Slower, Slightly Less Stupid

2006-06-03T01:37:00.000-05:00

Wow. People actually care about shit. This is truly amazing me. Well, maybe they care for the wrong reasons, but still...

I'm scraping together a bunch of really fine cars for the RaceLegal program. Kinda tough to get people to give you cars for free--we don't have any support from local government, even though the sheriff's office and the local PDs came out and said, "Give this dude money now."

-Mitsubishi EVO VIII RS (stripped-down EVO with all the goodies the regular one has, with the exception of the big rear wing; no A/C or stereo)
-Subaru WRX
-Honda Civic Si
-Acura RSX
-Dodge SRT4
-Ford Focus SVT (list price is $32k, but you can get them used for cheap)
-Mazda Miata
-Mini Cooper S-Works
-Toyota Celica

So yes...we have enough cars to keep it interesting. There are basic front-drivers for people getting started, a light little rear-drive roadster for when they get acquainted, and some real powerhouses for when they get a clue (namely, the EVO, the WRX, and the SVT). And, of course, there's always the run-what-ya-brung option. We'll be using the local track, which is a sort of semi-GT course, and which has a nice little technical autocross track in the middle so beginners can learn things. All the cars listed above will be restricted to that autocross track, to keep the speeds down and prevent people from wrecking the damn things. Dealerships donated them to help sell their products. I just went around and said that we were doing this, and named the models I wanted. I was offered a Chevy Cobalt SS, but those suck, and I'm not gonna attach my name to such a travesty of a car.

The new Skyline is coming along nicely, and I heard that the new owner of the old one loves it. Thus far, I've installed an adjustable suspension and gave it the stock settings. Why? Because the car already has an ideal handling personality, I just wanted to improve how those settings are applied. Better damping, things like that. The engine is still stock with the exception of a tuned ECU, straight-pipe exhaust with a racing silencer, and cold air intake. I'm going to rip it out and send it to an as-yet-undetermined shop to have the head ported and polished, and the weights balanced. I'm not sure if I want to bore the cylinders out any. I mean, the added torque would be lovely, but I'm not sure if I want to sacrifice the engine response (and I've recently rediscovered my love of drifting). Ditto for a larger turbo.

I also plan on upgrading the soundsystem. Touch-screen LCD head unit in the dash, 5.1 surround sound speaker setup, with two high-powered 10" subs in the trunk. I want to be able to thump hard enough to frighten lesser drivers, watch a movie in surround sound if I'm ever bored (and to merely have the ability to do that), and still have really great, accurate sound reproduction for when excessive bass is really inappropriate (like at work).

But yeah...right back down the same old path.

2 Fast, 2 Stupid

2006-05-31T01:44:00.000-05:00

I'm really getting pissed. I mean, really, really, really pissed.

This is ridiculous. I mean, I'd be laughing if it wasn't so dangerous. They're making another Fast and the Furious movie, this time subtitling it Tokyo Drift. There are so many things wrong with it it's embarassing.

First, they shot the scenes of Tokyo at--get this--Wilshire and Sunset Boulevard in LA. I can look at stills from the movie and pick out places I've gotten a lapdance or had dinner. Understandable, you can't shoot a movie in Tokyo because the damn place is never quiet, but come on.

Second, they've got a Lotus Elise drifting. Look, you all know how I love the Elise. For the price of a Corvette, you get out-of-this-world handling, perfect balance, and the ability to just not care how hard you're turning. But you don't drift with them--they grip too much to be silly.

Third, the main character chucks an RB26DETT from a Nissan into a 60s Ford Mustang fastback, along with the drivetrain, thus creating "the ultimate drift machine". For one thing, that's not bloody likely. For another, he ain't gonna do that overnight, alone, in his garage. That's some serious custom machining right there. I know they built one RB26DETT-powered Mustang for the movie, but that took them a few months, a lot of help, and a boatload of cash.

Fourth, all that this movie is going to do is encourage more young drivers to go out and drive irresponsibly on the street. Let me be perfectly clear...it's going to kill people. I'm not removing responsibility from the ones that are going to do it. You're always responsible for the way you drive on the street. Always. But I don't pass out loaded guns to random people on the street, either. To my mind, the people that made this movie--producers, director, studio, and actors--should be required to give a percentage of their profits to RaceLegal programs nationwide. They wanna make a mess, they should be required to clean it up.

Last, it mocks car culture. And it mocks street racing culture. I know I maintain that street racing isn't anywhere near as prolific as people think it is, but it's out there in some places. And it's a very vibrant, amazing culture with its own social codes, formalities, hierarchy, even music and clothes. And it didn't just appear overnight. It took a good sixty years to get to where it is today. Along the way, people dedicated their lives to it. This is something that consumes people as much as religion or anything else. And for Chrissake, I know people who died making it is what it is. If you're going to make a movie about it, you should at least be respectful of it. It's not glamorous. There's no money. There's not even very many women in bikinis or schoolgirl outfits hanging around. It's dirty, hard, dangerous, and everyone is always looking over their shoulder for the cops. Portray that side...it's just as compelling, believe me.

So what the hell?

In other news, I'm starting a RaceLegal program over here. I got a couple dealerships to supply various cars. No specifics on models yet, but semi-sporty econoboxes abound, nothing more expensive than a high school kid with a decent job and a passion for autosport couldn't save up and buy. Prices will be kept below $30k. It should be fun. And in a way, I owe it to the world. I made money being part of an industry that makes some of its living off of illegal street racing, so it's only right that I try to do my part. Street racing exists only because people have no legitimate place to race.

New Car!

2006-05-26T02:57:00.000-05:00

Just thought I'd pop in and make everyone envious. I know, I haven't been on in a while, it's summer, and I'm off from school. But anyways...

...the R34 GTR is gone. So long, good-bye. It was a nice car, but, well...I'm getting old. The new car is...drum roll please...

...a Nissan Skyline R34 M-spec Nur.

Subtle differences. The M-spec Nur is the baddest of all Skylines, short of the remarkable and semi-stupid Z-tune, which is just a used base R34 GTR made into a supercar by Nismo. The M/Nur, on the other hand, is just bad. The car oversteers and slides ridiculously easy. AWD? You bet, it's got the same ATTESA system as every other Skyline.

I considered leaving it stock. And then my bad judgement got the best of me. So I'm going to a truly bad-ass suspension, superlight flywheel, twin-plate clutch, slightly shorter final drive gear, race-type silencer and straight-line exhaust, a relatively small air-to-air aluminum intercooler, and a massively upgrades fuel system to keep the stock turbo happy while letting me turn up the maximum boost levels. I know I should probably bore out the cylinders for a little extra displacement, but that would reduce the responsivenes of the engine, which is the whole point of the build. Not so much to make boatloads more power (just a little extra torque), but to make an amazingly responsive engine and connect it to a serious street drift machine. Power-wise, with a little carbon-fiber and some "interior redecoration", I can easily compete with the fastest cars on the street around here so long as I have a highly motivated, pick-up-and-go engine and drivetrain.

The only thing I don't like about the car now is its tendency to dive and squat. Hence, the uber-suspension. I'll be dialing in some anti-dive and anti-squat, relocating some of the pickup points, and retaining relatively soft spring rates and dampers to maintain control, and to make a point: Ya'll solved your dive and squat issues with really stiff springs and dampers. I solved mine with a little geometry.

Snatching Defeat From the Jaws of Victory

2006-04-25T16:03:00.000-05:00

Eh. I can walk away from this one and feel good. It wasn't my fault in the slightest. It was my fault that I still finished as well as I did. Considering. And I had to lose sometime.

Around lap 15, I lost 3rd gear. Like, entirely. Gearbox just wouldn't shift into it. Felt like I was putting the car in neutral, and that's how the car behaved. The way this track is set up, most turns work out to exit at the top of second gear, which means that this was just a god-awful failure to have. Worst possible gear to lose. Actually, it forced me to completely change the way I drive.

I go slow-in and fast-out. Nice and safe, keeps me alive, keeps the car in one piece instead of many smaller pieces, keeps me in the game. And it gives me a lot of leeway when it comes to making a pass in mid-turn. Everyone drives slow-in and fast-out, unless they're crazy or really, really need to win.

With no third gear, and thus no way to go fast out, I had to barrel into turns in 4th gear, pop the car into neutral and just let it spin as I danced on the brakes and kept the engine revving with some light gas-work, and then abruptly put it back in gear after rev-matching it.

Yeeeee-haw!

The embarassing thing is, I still finished third. Only the M3 and the S4/RS6 took me. And the margin between us was .536 seconds, with just .274 seconds in between me and the M3. I beat the Corvette, which came in fourth, by 2.173 seconds.

Oh, and I'm way out in front in terms of championship points, which are worked out as a function of actual finishes, laps led, seconds above or below average, and average position over the course of a race. So it's very possible to win the thing even if you lead every lap, and then park 15 feet back from the finish line for ten minutes. Pathetic little championship points for a fake gold cup on a crappy podium made out of plywood and covered with a sheet.

In other words, the taste of victory distilled into pure state, without the big gold championship dish, the bikini-clad umbrella girls, the endorsements and the sponsors. Only two things...winning, and losing.

"...no, I mean you're ON FIRE..."

2006-04-10T00:05:00.000-05:00

Hey, at least we got the first crash out of the way.

Turned out to be a pretty good one, for me. It killed the Audi S4/RS6 and the Pontiac GTO, the only two guys in front of me. We went to yellow flag and I took the time to pit in, and was able to come out in the same position.

Here's what happened: The GTO's fat ass and massive torque likes to digest tires. Meanwhile, it's outsized engine likes to guzzle gas. They resolved the running-out-of-gas issue the only way they could, by cutting into the body and slapping in a bigger fuel cell. Cool! They learned math!

Problem: Gas has weight. Bigger fuel cell means more weight in the rear. Which is a good thing...they were able to launch harder out of turns. In the beginning, anyway. Race-grade gasoline weighs about 6.65 pounds a gallon (86-octane usually weighs about 6.216, and premium weighs around 6.35; it varies a little from refinery to refinery). Now, that translated to maybe 80-95 pounds of ballast in the rear. Unfortunately, when they retuned the suspension for the extra weight, they forgot about how that gas was going to gradually disappear.

Result: The GTO experienced massive tire-burning and unintentional throttle-on oversteer 15 laps after fueling. Around the time of the crash, he had basically no rubber left in the rear. "Bald" doesn't even begin to describe those tires..."scalped" is more like it.

So he did the natural thing and started braking earlier. Meanwhile, the Audi's driver was getting better behind the wheel, and he started making up time on the GTO. Eventually, they entered a sharp turn fairly close to one another, and when the GTO braked early...crunch.

Good night, intercooler. Good-night radiator. Good-night grille. Good-night intake. Good night, everything in front of the frame's nose.

The GTO, for its part, took the initial impact fairly well. The exhaust pipes crumpled up and twisted shut, which is a lethal hit...carbon monoxide will build up in the cockpit. Unfortunately, the GTO fishtailed and slid off the track and into a wall at a slight angle, which ripped the passenger-side wheel off.

Here's where the "fire" part comes in. I was a second or two back, with the Corvette, which was actually making a good showing. I hadn't gotten up to the point where I felt like really passing him, so we were kind of running side-by-side. I saw the crash, and the huge, hideous pile of Audi parts bouncing across the pavement, so I tapped the brakes and hung back in preparation for the yellow flag. The Corvette's driver dodged out in front of me and then noticed the enormous pile of debris.

One of the things I designed and built into the car was a little button that deploys two course mesh screens over the intakes. I figured, shit, both of them are right down at the front lip, it might be good to have a way to protect them while keeping them fully open during normal operation. My little button snaps the screens down in maybe a quarter of a second. I thumbed it just as I started braking.

The Corvette had no such trickery. What it did have was a big, open intake mounted on the hood. And as it roared through the debris field, it snorted a handful of Audi pieces.

But that's not where the fun stopped! The pieces ripped a big hole in the plumbing. And this hole occured after the Mass Airflow Sensor, which tells the ECU how much air is going into the engine so that the ECU can tell the injectors how much fuel to squirt into the cylinders.

The hole increased the mass of air going through the intake plumbing by virtue of giving it an unregulated opening to travel through before hitting the engine. The MAF saw all this air going down the tube and couldn't tell that most of it was getting sucked out through the hole. So it told the ECU, "Dude, there's a crapload of air coming in!"

The ECU replied, "Dude! I better tell those injectors to dump a crapload of fuel in!"

The intake valves, meanwhile, were weezing to let in a measly amount of air, while the MAF and the ECU clicked happily away in their own little world.

Now, when you get a whole crapload of fuel and not a lot of air, you end up with unburned fuel. Within the engine, this isn't too big a problem (unless you count detonation as a problem), since the fuel is mostly getting pushed out through the exhaust ports and into the headers.

All this fuel, which is travelling as a bunch of big, heavy droplets surrounded by a very fine mist, can only go so far before it hits something hot enough to ignite it.

This leads to giant-ass flames shooting out of the exhaust pipes. And the ignition of the bumper.

I clicked over to the driver's channel on the radio, which is kept open specifically for emergency events like this. The radio circuits we use were another little invention of mine. The driver's channel allows you to cut through all the bullshit--namely, your team and his team--and just talk to the guy. It plays through the left headphone, as opposed to everything else, which goes through the right. It's also encrypted, so we can use whatever language we see fit (everything else can be picked up by anyone with a VHF or even, sometimes, a clock radio).

Me: "Danny, ah, you're on fire."
Danny (Corvette): "I know, the car's dialed in today. What about keeping the channel clear?"
Me: "No, goddammit, I mean you've got some flames coming from the exhaust and your bumper's starting to go. Get it on the grass and kill the engine, for fuck's sake."

Luckily, it had rained the night before, so he didn't have to stop on the side of the tarmac. The grass was wet enough that it didn't light up.

We went to yellow for 5 laps and then raced the final 15. The M3 came damn close to acing me, and I thought the EVO was going to win until its tortured center differential finally gave out on lap 34. No matter...another win for better driving and the simple front-engine/rear-drive layout.

Hooray to Me for Not Dying!

2006-04-02T04:26:00.000-05:00

Well...that was fun. Deeply unsatisfying, but fun.

My little plan to draft the leader by the third or fourth lap failed miserably. I wound up entering the last straight (which is a really, really long one...we're talking Fuji's straight long) with three guys in front of me: The M3, the GTO, the Audi, and the G35. Not because I was turning crappy times, but because I underestimated their ability to block me. And really, not their ability as much as their aggressiveness in doing so. I mean, they were reckless about it. Bloody amateurs.

But here's the magic of such a situation: If you exit the final turn, a hairpin, just right, you can slipstream the tail car, the M3. Everyone has big fat-assed GT wings on their car, so the envelope for doing that is just enormous. From there, I screamed past the poor bastard and slipped into the GTO's air pocket, and then repeated the process with the M3 and the G35. I hit the drivetrain's top speed about halfway through, levelled the throttle, and just ran away.

From there, I built up my lead to what I consider to be healthy breathing room, about five and a half seconds. I suppose I could have worked up a wider margin, but I was trying hard to conserve both my tires and my fuel so I wouldn't have to pit in and get caught in the middle of the pack while the leaders ran away from me. The closest four cars pitted in on Lap 25, and that allowed me to turn in a burning-hot lap before popping in myself. My Pit Crew of Spectacular Talent managed to fuck up pretty badly, which completely killed my lead (I figure that I should have been out of there eight and a half seconds earlier...okay, so it wasn't a total fuck up, but it was a bad pit), and that forced me to nose out onto the track behind the G35, with the Audi S4 in a comfortable lead.

You remember. The Money Pit Audi S4. Turns out they bought a truly skilled pit crew in addition to the titanium-forged everything and all those RS6 parts.

But it was cool. I was back in the lead by Lap 30, and feeling very comfortable by 35. By the time 40 rolled around, I'd forgotten it was a race. Split time? Seven seconds. Not a whole lot, but it was only a 40-lap race, and I'm always willing to take a one-second lead over a ten-second lead that disappears when I break a gear, blow a damper, or burn out my l-s differential in the final lap. Also, I don't know if we have the money to buy a new differential if this one breaks. And I'm almost certain my boss isn't going to buy us a new engine if we kill this one before the season is over.

Enter victory lap, champaign, obligatory girls hired off a website for an escort service. You know, I kinda miss the ultra-annoying ass-kissing Japanese umbrella girls. At least they were, well, professionally sleazy. If I had my way, the winner would just get a beer. Fake-ass trophies are just dumb, and it's pretty silly to have a couple glammed-up girls do photo-op kisses on the cheek when so many women are involved with autosports now, and so many drivers are married.

Still, it felt good. I found that I still hate that flame-retardent gel. Stuff is still cold as shit. It was 75 today, and I was shivering out on the tarmac. The Nomex undergarmet still itches and scratches, and the car is still hot as hell. On the plus side, my legs can take two hours of 1g+ turns, which I was kinda worried about. And it was actually pretty refreshing to have a crowd just give a little cheer, as opposed to the unadulterated adoration the Japanese lavish on their drivers. I dunno...it just seems so much more sincere when they only give you a little, and no more or less than everyone else. I mean, I always just look at anything I hear from the grandstands as the spectators showing their appreciation for my gift of dragging my ass out of bed at four in the morning so I can have my ears drilled on by an unmuffled exhaust by nine.

Yeah. I was up at 4 AM Saturday, and it is now 6 AM Sunday. I have not slept in 26 hours. Well, only 25. Daylight Savings Time.

Lisa was very cool about everything. She was worried, but only the natural kind of worried. Not hyperventilating. I had already sat her down and talked with her about it. I'm going to tell you all the same thing I told her. Racing--and by which I mean, racing professionally--is like crossing the street. Every time you do it, you're putting your life in the occasionally-buttery fingers of complete strangers and, worse, random chance. You're trusting that they're going to be safe, skilled, and responsible drivers. And you're trusting that you've taken as much of the process out of the realm of random chance as you possibly can. A guy crossing the street looks both ways. I inspect my car, from top to bottom and inside to out, no less than a dozen times myself, in addition to all the other people that look at it.

And yeah, racing's dangerous as hell. And I hear some people get hit by geriatric Cadillac drivers while they're crossing the street.

First real race after the accident. Next stop? Hit a more serious circuit after this rather short season is up. I've got a professional vendetta against Toyota and TRD Sports. And yeah...returning to "real racing" means I lose my fucked-up-driver money. Oh, well. Some things are worth it. Revenge is one. Racing's the other.

Great Weather, a Cool Second Job, and an Upcoming Race

2006-03-31T01:25:00.000-06:00

My God, this weather is spectacular. It's 60 every day, bright and sunny. Absolutely gorgeous. Real ragtop weather. The sin of it is, I don't have one, but the Skyline is nice with the windows down. I'm wondering if I can get a sunroof installed.

I got an interesting call the other day. The State Police were looking for a guy to teach their people how to drive cars very fast on the highway while keeping reasonably safe. In particular, they want someone that can show them how to handle the powerful pursuit cars. Here in America, state police typically use Camaros--big, beefy coupes with V8 engines. These babies wear Z28 bodies (the low-power version style, the Z28's engine "only" makes 260-some-odd hp) but pack secretly-modified SS engines and trick suspensions. Basically, I think it amounts to an ECU reflash combined with an OEM performance intake and exhaust. But they're seriously powerful, and can travel in excess of 180mph.

Problem is, very few recruits have ever driven a car that powerful, and even fewer have ever crossed the trible-digit line.

So, after my delightful little attempted carjacking incident--I'm still laughing at that poor bastard that thought he could rip me for the CLK--they flipped back through the Rolodex and dialed my number. I've got the Class A international license, which basically means I'm permitted to race JGTC, DTM, and extreme rally events like Dakar, I've graduated from half a dozen racing schools and two advanced street driving schools, and I like to think of myself as pretty good behind the wheel of anything with four rubbers. To their mind, that makes me uniquely suited to teaching the basics of driving really goddamn fast. Also, they saw me put that CLK sideways at 170 and slide it around a semi in maniacal attempts to toss the carjacker around the CLK's cockpit.

Long story short, they interviewed me, conducted a background check, and offered me the job the day after the interview (part of which involved me intentionally putting a Camaro pursuit car into a spin, rotating it 1080 degrees/three times all the way around, and then magically breaking the spin, pulling a hairpin, and stopping). Naturally, I took it. The money's good, it's fun, and I'm doing my civic duty. Also, the cars are not half bad. The guys are a lot of fun, too.

But...I got that bloody race Saturday. The 350Z-R is set and prepped, fully dialed-in, and I already turned five or six really hot laps in the thing. I'm certain I can finish in the top five, and I think I stand a good chance of winning. Better than even. I'm going to intentionally throw the qualifying laps so I can start three or four cars back from pole (I'm qualifying dead last, so I'll know exactly what time I need). I like that position because it'll let me draft and pass on the first two laps and then draft the leader on the final straight by Lap 3, which should put enough space in between me and him that he won't be able to draft me on Lap 4. After that, it's just a matter of maintaining the split time, not pushing the car too hard, and pitting in a lap after my nearest competitor, using the one-lap gap to squeeze one more really strong run to open enough space so that I don't lose the lead.

And yeah, I know it's dumb to be printing my strategy on the internet, but what's it going to change? Not like the competition is professional, and thus likely to know how to keep me from doing all that.

350Z-R Hits the Track

2006-03-18T02:51:00.000-06:00

wwWe have racecar! It is complete! And that last sound you just heard was money going down the drain!

Okay, so the project hemorrhaged cash like you wouldn't believe. We're waaaay over budget, but that's how projects intended to design and build a racecar off of a streetcar go. And really, the cash overages didn't come from parts or fabrication, they came from manpower expenses. These guys just worked slower than shit putting the thing together. This does not bode well for my chances of actually winning a race, as I'll have to pick a pit crew from among them. Believe me, if it were strictly my choice, I'd pick up the phone and have half a dozen wrench-spinning engineers from the Rally America Championship and American Le Mans here in three days. And most of them would work for free because they like spinning wrenches.

The 350Z-R is our dealership's entry into a little local race series they put together, basically to show what you can do with the standard sports car from each manufacturer. I'm driving for the Nissan team that my boss is fielding, even though I work in his non-moneymaking ultra-luxury/sport boutique thing. The other cars are as follows. The cars I fear are in bold, but not necessarily because of their capabilities bone-stock. They've just been built up to be evil:

Mitsubishi EVO VIII RS
Subaru WRX STi
Pontiac GTO
Dodge Charger
Ford Mustang GT
Infiniti G35 Coupe
Mazda RX8
Audi S4
Volkswagon R34 (I know, I thought they'd be smart enough to run a GTi)
BMW M3
Mercedes-Benz of some damn kind
Chevrolet Corvette C6
Chrysler SRT8 (based on the 300M)
Cadillac CTS-V
Volvo S40 T5 (otherwise known as "fresh meat")
Saab 9-3 Turbo

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm driving a 350Z in a field with an M3 and a Vette, and I'm worried about the S4, G35, Mustang, and GTO. Well, the Z can easily handle any stock Vette, and that team blew so much money buying themselves a Vette that they didn't have anything left over for nice things like non-leaf spring suspensions. Also, they're not particularly gifted, engineering-wise. They'd be better off trying to win with a truly badass Cobalt SS, and you know how much I hate the Cobalt SS.

The WRX is a badass car, but the Suby guy just didn't feel like hucking that much money into it. We're running a race series to market our cars' capabilities...and you sell one of the dominant tuner cars...but you don't feel like trying...

The Dodge Charger has a fat ass. Enormous power, fat ass. It's not even going to kill people in the straights it's so fucking heavy. It's gonna suck the whole time. And they're gonna have to sell pieces of trim to keep the thing in tires.

The R32 is not what you want to use for a serious racecar. Let's just leave it at that.

The M3 should win, but their driver blows ass.

The Mercedes...ah, well, I fear no Mercedes other than the SL65 AMG and the SLR McLaren.

The SRT8, well...fat ass means crappy handling. And it's not getting enough gas mileage. These are 40-lap races, about 2 miles a pop, and that equals 80 miles at a time. They're running a car that normally gets only 17 or 18 mpg, max, tuning it, and then running it balls to the wall. That means maybe 10 mpg. Now factor in a 12-gallon fuel cell. And combine that with the fact that they don't have my amazing "knowledge of how to keep the fuel pickup submerged in a turn". Ha ha! No gas for you! Every time they do try to turn hard at the end of the race, the engine will cough and sputter. And that reminds me...these cars are reaching peak cornering g-loads of 1.5g. I think that might be enough to pull all the oil away fromthe pickup! Ha ha! Kiss my 7.5-quart fully-baffled oil pan, asswipes!

The CTS-V could be fearsome, but there's not enough aftermarket support to make it so, and they didn't have the money or the talent to custom fabricate a whole bunch of stuff.

Volvo S40 T5...gets the "good try`er" award for showing up. It's just not a sports car, no matter how much Volvo tries to tell people it is.

Saab 9-3 Turbo...due to reliability issues caused by trying to increase the boost while retaining stock internals, I predict that they might be able to finish a race if the driver remembers to not try to win. Trying to win will likely result in melted pistons.

And now...the things I'm afraid of and why.

Any EVO is dangerous, and a super-tuned EVO VIII RS is downright deadly. The RS, for those of you not familiar with how the old Diamond Star labels their cars here, is a stripped-down model that features all the mechanical badness of the EVO lineup. No giant rear wing, no A/C, no stereo (A/C and stereo available if you get the $1500 Urban Warrior package). But you get a center differential and the ability to power out of a slide. This particular example has been completely shelled, and had its engine completely reworked with forged internals and a larger turbo. It's wearing killer tires wrapped around ultralight wheels, and the drivetrain's been overhauled. Also, I hear they had a voodoo witchdoctor tune the dampers really nice.

Under any other circumstances, I don't worry about Pontiac GTOs. Those of you in the UK know them as Monaro XVRs. The GTO is a mid-size sedan fitted with an enormous engine. We're talking a 6-liter with a redline of 6500RPM, making 400hp stock, without resorting to forced induction. I don't even want to think about its torque production. The one I'm going to face has some big, evil supercharger banging around under the hood, so it's very possible it's making a solid 550-600hp. Yes, that's more power than a Z06 Corvette. Like all the other cars, it's got no interior other than bare metal. The hood and rear decklid are carbon fiber, and the glass has been replaced with a lightweight polycarbonate substitute. Race-weight flywheel, twin-plate clutch, carbon driveshaft, and shortened final drive gear complement the big-power engine. This car could reach 170mph when it rolled out of the factory. Now...well, that's another thing I don't want to think about. I can definately beat the hell out of it in the turns and corners, but it's going to own all whenever it's in a straight.

The Ford Mustang GT isn't really a super-serious performance car off the lot, but it's easily made into one. 300hp, a crapload of torque, all mated to a silly and outdated live axle. This particular example is twin-charged--that is to say, it features a supercharger and a turbo. The super means it starts making boost as soon as the driver, who happens to be a guy I know and respect, hits the gas coming out of a corner. When the RPMs climb too high and the super starts becoming inefficient (since it drains a little horsepower by virtue of being driven by an engine pulley), the turbo starts hitting its stride and really begins wheezing air into the engine. And at midrange, forget it. Both blowers are screaming and the whole thing just drips power. Suspension and rubber selections are good, the drivetrain mods are decent, and the balance of everything else, combined with all that damn power, means that the GT is a competitor.

Infiniti's G35 Coupe is a low-power, rear-drive version of the Nissan Skyline. As such, it's a solid car, even if it does have a fat ass and has been hijacked by Pimp My Ride wannabes. This car is just balanced: turbo'd, race suspension, superb drivetrain modifications, sticky rubber, decent driver. I don't think it's going to win any races outright, but I think it's going to be near the top for all of them, so it might win in the points. It's going to be an annoying presence in my rearview the entire season, and that kinda pisses me off.

I know, I know, I'm afraid of an Audi S4 of all things. The S4 really isn't much to talk about...it's a good car, but it's not great for its price or market segment. What frightens me about this one is the sheer weight of all the money that got poured into it. Huge segments of the suspension came off of a crashed RS6 and found their way into this monster, along with powertrain and drivetrain components. Aftermarket? We don't need no stinkin` aftermarket. These fuckers just custom-fabricated...umm, I think they custom-fabbed everything they couldn't pull off the RS6. Everything they couldn't make themselves, they had someone else make up. Their driver is okay, and with such massive funding, I think he could easily win. What this car amounts to is the representation of the old maxim "speed costs money". I know, for a fact, that it can out-turn, out-accelerate, and out-run the 350Z-R without even really trying. Whether the driver can out-turn, out-accelerate, and out-run me is still up in the air. If he figures out how to get a hold on the thing, it's over.

First race is in two weeks.

Germany! Again!

2006-03-06T03:59:00.000-06:00

Nurburgring has not changed a bit since I left it. Which is just fine. I got two runs in on it yesterday, another three scheduled today. The Car--which is about all I can say about it, a la Non-Disclosure Agreement--is very, very nice. I can say that they've got it too dialed in. One of the reasons why the Ring is so great for testing a production car is that it rewards a smoothness, forgiveness, and stability. Set something up like a racer, with super-stiff spring rates, non-flexing antiroll bars, and ultra-low ride heights, and the Ring will promptly throw your ass off.

Which is why I rolled the damn prototype into the grass twice on its inaugural run. Super-stiff, so finely balanced it went sideways with too little effort, with very curious tires that had amazing grip but absolutely no progressive breakaway whatsoever. One minute, everything is fine. The next, the car is perpendicular to the road. Not really my fault...this usually happened at the tail end of a downhill turn that had a bump in it, and I finally figured out that it was because the crappy suspension was bottoming out.

But, that's all fixed now. I can turn an 8:49 lap with the thing, which is not half-bad (a JGTC car can run an 8:00 most of the time, and my personal record is 7:49). Also, I can keep it on the road the whole length of the track, which is also good. We're gonna play around with this some more, and then I have to do a meeting, followed by another car for testing and another damn meeting before flying back home to return to school. Thank God Lisa's with me...the problem is that we run into all these people that, you know, know me, and then I have to figure out a way to stealthily explain that me and her are in a slightly more involved relationship than "I'm screwing her at the moment".

350Z-R Assembly Complete

2006-02-15T01:12:00.000-06:00

Valentine's Day was nice. Dinner out in nice clothes, the whole bit. No stupid Vermont Teddy Bear or Pajamagram for me. Those are gay, and intended for socially inept men trying to show that they're sensitive. Flowers, dinner, earrings, and a nice little something off the racks of Victoria's works just fine. I can get away with this because Lisa knows I am not sensitive. Also, I do not have a feminine side. I have a masculine side and a more masculine side.

The 350Z semi-race car--I've taken to calling it that because it's driveable on the street, although saying that is like saying a Corvette has off-road capability--is assembled. The engine will run...kinda. It'll run enough to get it out of the garage and onto a trailer so we can get it to a dyno. Basically, you have to keep the revs between 1750 and 2500. Otherwise, it dies. We have to figure out a fuel map that works.

But first, we have to get the suspension set-up. Right now, one wheel is actually lifted up off the floor of the garage because of the way the car's weight settled and how badly the ride heights were set. This is not all that bad; before, a brake fluid line snapped and it looked like the Z had lifted its leg to take a leak.

When all that's done, we need to run it on the track and get baseline "this is what the car likes" settings for everything--the adjustable clutch-type limited-slip differential, the 16-way adjustable suspension, downforce (front splitters and rear wing are adjustable), ECU map, timing, and probably a few things that I'm forgetting. Then we need to individually play around with each setting to see how it affects performance, so we know how to tune it for each track.

That'll take a solid week. Easily. And it'll be a pain in the ass because I'll be working with guys who are just sort of mechanics. In a professional team, the pit crew is made up of engineers who happen to know how to spin a wrench. Every single man is an expert in his particular field. I can pull into pit road and scream "r-camber +3, tire -2, ride +10, r-down +10, f-down -5", and everyone instantly knows that I want .3-degrees more camber in the back, two slots down the tire chart for lower-grip longer-life tires, a ride height increase of 1", ten more pounds of downforce in the rear (at 100mph), and five less pounds of downforce up front.

I cannot do this with my Moron Mechanic Pit Crew. Yes, I like and respect these guys, but I have to wonder about their competency when I walk in to find the car pissing brake fluid with one tire up off the ground.

In other news, I've got a gig for spring break. There is a certain car which I will be driving at Nurburgring Nordschleiffe for a certain company. Said car is a preproduction example. And if I read the nondisclosure agreement correctly, that's about all I can say. Oh, wait...it's a sports car! No, they want racecar drivers to push minivans to their limit on Germany's God Track. I'm not allowed to say anything about engine size or type, power, drivetrain layout, styling, price, target market segment, or even how it performs on the track. To anyone.

Oh, and I'm working on another big list category for the page: performance bargains. I would try and list some new cars, but everything out there today is kinda outclassed by what you can get used for the same money. Examples: a Dodge SRT-4 offers the most power you can get for less than $25k, but for $25k, you can also get a clean 1993 Acura NSX. The new Mazda Miata retails for $20-$23k, but you can get a second-generation Toyota Supra for the same amount of money, and still have enough left over for a turbo, a wicked set of tires, and a big brake kit.

Open Road

2006-02-12T02:47:00.000-06:00

Today, just a song for a friend. "Open Road Song", by Eve 6.

Tonight I feel ambitious and so does my foot
As it sinks on the pedal
I press it to the floor

I don't need a girl, don't need a friend
Cuz my friend lonesome's unconditional
We're flying forever bored

And for a moment
I love everything that I see and think and feel
I love my broken sideview mirror

Cuz it's so perfect, I'm so perfect
You're so perfect
You're not here
I hear the change in gears
My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road
This is an open road song

The night is beckoning
Although I have nowhere to go but home
Feels good to be alone

With every turn comes a new frame of mind
If I could frame my mind
Where would it hang?

My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road
My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road
My pile shakes as I hit eighty on the open road
This is an open road song

I crack a window and feel the cool air cleanse my every pore
As I pour my poor heart out
To a radio song that's patent and willing to listen
My volume drowns it out

Yeah, but that's okay
Cuz I sound better than him anyway, any day
Yeah, my voice is sweet as salt
I search for comfort and I find it
Where I've found it many times before
Times before can be forgotten

Aye, many a long, long night spent doing that. Including my stupid, 4-AM 185mph speeding ticket in Tokyo. Yes, I was pulled over doing 185. No, they were unable to clock me or even get a radar number. But they knew I was going damn fast, and I happily told them that I was doing 185 when they incorrectly guessed 150. If I got it up to 185, I wanted the goddamn credit for it. I think I may have set a speeding ticket record in Tokyo, if not Japan, and I spent a few hours in jail.

Car Spotlight: Ford GT

2006-01-22T02:08:00.000-06:00

Since the Ford GT--or rather, the sale of two of them--has just recently brought me some rather high times, I thought I'd spend a post talking about this extraordinary machine. Forgive me if any of this stuff is wrong (although I really, really doubt it is), I'm doing it all off the top of my head from my sales pitches about the car. And I'm half-baked. I am, however, absolutely certain that all the numbers are right.

The GT is one of those cars that has an inexcapable presence anywhere it's encountered, be it parked at the curb, cruising the street, screaming down an open highway, or shredding a track. The low, sleek, aggressive form demands both attention and immediate respect. In fact, the original GT, which was built in the 60s, was named the GT40 because its roof stood a meager 40 inches above the road surface. The most recent incarnation, although visually almost identical, is actually 44.3" high. Detractors of the GT's retro styling fault it for being such a slavish copy of the original. On the other hand, its fans counter that the original body was so far ahead of its time that it can find its place in the 21st century alongside its major rivals: the Lamborghini Gallardo and Murcielago, the Ferrari F430, Saleen S7, and Dodge Viper (both SRT-10 and the slightly older GTS). Updates to the outward appearance include modernized headlights and optional stripes and "Ford GT" detailing along the side skirts which were not available on the vintage model.

At the heart of Ford's supercar is a supercharged all-aluminum V8 displacing 5.4L and making 500-hp @ 6000RPM. Torque peaks out significantly earlier, with 500-lb-ft arriving at 4500RPM. It runs a reasonable 8.4:1 compression ratio and makes 90-hp per liter. Each cylinder is fed by two massive injectors running off of an 18-gallon tank. With such an enormous engine seated in the car, weight is a concern. However, the GT's midengine layout and relatively low engine mounting point keep it well-balanced, giving it as much stability as a 500-hp rear-drive car can have on the street and retaining its racing capabilities. Weight distribution front-to-rear is 43-57, making it far more manageable than even the rear-engine Porsches and granting it a wonderfully neutral handling balance, avoiding the classic GT40's tendency to understeer at the limit. The drivetrain is a relatively simple affair, with a 6-speed manual transaxle running a final drive ratio of 3.36:1.

The next feature of the GT is its rollcage, a relative oddity even in the high-end supercar segment. Of course, in a car this powerful and quick-handling, a rollcage isn't an so much an option for safety or chassis rigidity as it is a useful tool for prolonging one's life. Unlike many supercar 'cages, the GT's never makes the cockpit feel cramped or claustrophobic, and entry and egress through the vertical-open doors is effortless despite the low stance.

The exterior continues the race-inspired character of the car with a great innovation in body design. The body panels are finely fit and precision-made to the same standards as the panels found on high-level professional racecars. For the average owner, this means little other than a guarantee of the fit and finish expected of a $170+k automobile. However, the track enthusiast or moneyed canyon carver can appreciate the ease with which damaged body panels can be replaced with no fuss or tweaking. The replacement will, in fact, fit identically to the damaged panel, requiring only the necessary repaint to complete an undetectable repair. Compare this to the fiberglass-bodied Corvettes of the 90s and today, which tend to crack and fragment on impact, leaving enormous gaping holes which typically required a great deal of body shop time to fix and ensure proper fit of the new panels.

The suspension is, of course, composed of double-wishbones front and back. The steering ratio is relatively slow, with a lock-to-lock turn count of 2.7 (compare this to the 2.3 turns an EVO takes). Of course, in a car with a 200mph top end, slow steering has its advantages. And if you're planning on travelling at legal-in-Deutchland speeds, you'll be glad to know that the GT features enormous brakes to stop the madness: 14" in front and 13.2" in rear, run from a vacuum power assisted system.

On the city streets, the GT is purely an ornamental ride. However, unlike other pretty machines, the only jewelry this beast wears is its pornstar performance. This comes in handy the moment you get on the highway; it's very, very difficult to have the nerve not to get out o the way of a GT. Of course, given the presence this car has, it's usually wise to keep the speed reasonable. Cops follow this baby like Anna Nicole Smith after an elderly oil magnate. At idle and lazy cruising speed, the engine maintains a low, throaty growl that rapidly becomes a deafening roar once the throttle opens up and the tires begin to shriek. And that sound never gets old; most times, you'll wonder why they bothered putting in a stereo.

Given the far-reaching performance envelope of the Ford GT, the only safe place to find its limit is at the track. But if you're feeling adventurous, it performs well on mountain passes and winding blacktop. A good rule of thumb is to take the posted speed limit for the turn, double that number, and add 5mph, assuming you're a pretty good driver.

The GT is what it is: a racecar made for the street. It lacks the amentities of the more luxurious cars in its price category, but it more than makes up for that in sheer performance. And in terms of performance-related comfort, it certainly fits the bill. The racing seats are comfortable, supportive, and fit most drivers, while the racing harnesses hold the driver and one passenger in place without leving bruises. When masses of traffic prevent the car from stretching its legs, the six-speaker sound system steps up to keep you entertained. Dollar for dollar, it isn't the biggest bang for your buck. That title is held by the C6 Corvette. Instead, the Ford GT is simply the biggest bang.

Hubris

2006-01-08T01:40:00.000-06:00

I went to work the day after the thing. No big deal, really. It's like having your car come close to spinning out, but not actually losing it altogether and hitting a wall: Sure, it was a bit of a fright, but it's over and everything's fine, so it's best if I just get back to business.

In other news, my boss has elevated me to Golden God status. Not for refusing to miss any work, but for selling not one, but two Ford GTs to the same customer. I took him on a test drive at the track, which is pretty much the only place the GT is really going to make its full presence known with any kind of safety whatsoever. Since the car is really a street-legal racecar, it makes sense to let a racecar driver handle it for a little bit. It also gave me a chance to get the tires warmed up to prevent annoying little handling quirks that come with cold tires. Then he got a chance to play with it, and said he'd take it after three laps. Yes, the GT is really that good. Of course, at $175k a pop, they'd better be that good.

We were going over the paperwork in my office when he spied a little model I'd made of the current GT in the now-optional Gulf Le Mans racecar livery, baby-blue and orange (a very attractive combo, actually). He asked about it, and I said that you can get them like that, but we'd have to order it. Then he asked if the GT was legal for track races, which it is; it competes in the Sports Car Club of America Touring Class (SCCA, the governing body for most track and rally races here in the States), on the same level as Dodge Vipers and Saleen S7s, and that it's competitive with those cars. Although, to say it's competitive with the current Viper SRT-10 is a disservice to the Ford, which will simply blow the Snake out of the water every time.

And just like that, he said he'd like one in the Le Mans trim. Boom. Another $180k down the tubes. The extra five grand covers the fancy paint and the order charges and the nice rims. At this point, it's already a grand slam, $355k in sales, maybe fifty grand in profits for us, and a certain four-digit cut for me.

But we talked for a little bit while I did even more paperwork and I ended up hooking him up with a friend of mine who does truly superb graphics work, who's going to perfectly recreate the sponsor decals from the old Le Mans car and apply it to this one. That's maybe $2500 for my buddy, who's going to owe me one for the business. And anothe buddy will owe me when he gets the in-car electronics work on the street GT.

To even things out, I talked to the boss and dropped five grand off the deal for friendship's sake (and repeat business is a wonderful thing). Then I placed a call to a nice woman at Ford that I met in Japan and had a quick fling with to see if she could get me the Le Mans GT in a hurry, which she could.

Now my New Best Friend in the Whole Wide World has a GT for the street and a GT for the track, I have two favors in my pocket, and another contribution to the Engagement Ring Fund. Yeah, I'm still thinking about that.

People Are Stupid

2006-01-05T01:32:00.000-06:00

Very interesting day. I got my ass carjacked. Not the Skyline, but a tuned Mercedes-Benz CLK we had got on a trade-in. No, he didn't get away with the car. Because he was stupid.

He came in for a test drive at the track, and I didn't like the looks of him. So I tossed a GPS in the trunk and took a panic button. We get out to the highway, with my driving, and he turns to me and threatens to "cut me".

Now, I was scared shitless. But 90% of the time I was driving GT, I was scared shitless, too.

First, I told him I was HIV+ (I'm not; condoms rule!). He was trying to figure out whether I was telling the truth or not when I noticed he was not wearing his seatbelt. I elbowed myself in the side a couple of times to get the panic button working (hoping my boss would actually call the cops), and decided that I didn't really want to crash the Mercedes.

I did decide, however, that since this particular Mercedes was capable of 1.0g lateral grip and had a top speed hovering around 210 mph, that I was perfectly cool with tossing that son of a bitch around the inside of the car like salt in a salt shaker.

So I kicked it up to 170 and weaved through traffic. Then we had a conversation.

Carjacker: "Slow down, dammit, I'll fucking cut you."
Me: "Who's gonna drive the car?"
Carjacker: "For fuck's sake, slow down, you're gonna get us killed."
Me: "No, I'm not. Well...you, maybe. Me, I'm wearing my seatbelt, asswipe. Seatbelts save lives."

All the while, I've got "Hand of Blood" by Bullet For My Valentine on the CD player. It's metal, and it's amazing to drive to. I was feeling it.

I slowed it to 100 and started powersliding through turns. 100mph powerslides are really fun, but if you screw up, you die. Once the traffic cleared, I floored the gas and let the seven-speed automatic do its magic. 200mph on the highway! On an American highway! That was done mostly to attract the attention of law enforcement.

And it did. A State Police pursuit car--they use trick Camaros with Z28 bodies and serious badness under the hood--popped out and tried to follow us. Problem is, they top out around 170 or so, so I had to slow down to let the cop catch up. And I had to slow down some more to make sure he didn't kill himself--I can do shit like 200mph because I know how to do it, he might not, really. He nosed up behind me, and my passenger brought the knife all the way out and pointed it at me neck.

So I tapped the brakes and dropped back alongside the trooper, so he could see the knife, and thus know not to shoot me. I jetted away from him again, signalled for and took the next exit, and hooked a hard left. The g-forces pushed the carjacker against the door and caused him to drop the knife. I slammed on the brakes, got the car stopped, and proceeded to use my left hand to grab the keys, unbuckle my seatbelt, and open my door, while using my right hand to punch him in the face as many times as I could. Then I dived out of the car and got clear.

Two black eyes and a broken nose. That's what you get for picking the absolute worst guy to carjack. The cops were nice enough to give me a ride back to do my little statement. Those Camaros are really cramped inside, but they look fun to drive. Especially if you get to use the lights and siren. The cop asked me where I learned to drive like that, and laughed when I told him.

Lisa picked me up at the trooper's barracks. She even surprised me by bringing the Skyline. I didn't think I'd be in a mood to drive again, but...hot damn, I was! Skylines and pretty girls will do that to a guy.

My boss wanted to know only two things: One, was his lead seller okay to come to work tomorrow? Two, was the car okay? The car was fine, I just managed to smoke all the tires off. Not an enormous problem.

In other news, the Skyline now features a bumpin` soundsystem and a GT-style wing. I forgot how much I love downforce. I'm also going to slip on some tasteful carbon-fiber front splitters. I don't want to disrupt the R34's clean lines too much. The soundsystem install is kinda rough...just a box enclosure and concealed wiring. In summer, I'll replace all the interior upholstery, redo the dashboard and all the seats, and do a really nice integrated enclosure to house the subs and the amps, probably featuring either a coating of black-gloss fiberglass or carbon-fiber weave. And I'll remove the rear seats and cover an area back there with smooth black plastic for use as a cargo area.

Goddamn stupid people. I need a beer.

Skyline Part II, et al

2005-12-31T03:47:00.000-06:00

And so, I've begun my work ruining this terriffic car. No, seriously, it's getting better.

I'm holding off on the interior work because I'd like to save that for when it's warmer. And because I don't want to blow a bunch of money on nice upholstery and then fuck it up with ice and snow and salt and sand and shit. And because my upholstery guy swears there's no way he can fit me in (the bastard, with all the business I send him, he'd better fucking comp me some free suede when this is over).

And so...engine stuff! I'm basically doing what I can do in the parking garage and have done for free by people who owe me for business. First off...head work. I had it ported and polished, and the block got blueprinted. This is fairly expensive stuff (although not for me), but it improves flow in the engine and makes power without making the engine work any harder. And it bumps my redline up 1000RPM. I also got a 30-, 45-, and 60-degree on the intake and exhaust valve seats. Along with a race camshaft, and a whole bunch of other really sexy internals too numerous to mention. I also had the engine painted and chromed to make it look pretty, although I had to pay for that shit.

I also swapped out the two small turbos for one larger one. It's still appropriately-sized for the engine, so I'm not dealing with big-time turbo lag. Custom intake and exhaust manifolds (the exhaust is really trick). I decided to leave the compression ratio the same. ECU is now handled by an aftermarket AEM computer with independent ignition control, also by AEM. And, of course, the mandatory fat-assed injectors, ultralow-impedence spark plug wiring, and race-grade plugs. Swapped the battery for an Optima. Bigger fuel pump. Enormous air-to-air intercooler that sits under the radiator, fed through the bumper. Exhuast plumbing got chopped out entirely, and I've got a straight twin-pipe in there now with a better catalytic converter and sexy mufflers (courtesy of Magnaflow, they sound awesome). 4.8-inch connecting rods that are superbly balanced (we're talking 1, maybe 2 grams here). Race crankshaft that lets me do nice things like rev to 8000RPM. Two oil coolers.

Laughing gas...yeah, I added NoS. Sue me. It'll lower the intake temperatures a good 70 degrees and give me an assload of power. Because this isn't some dragstrip slut, I'm only using a 50-shot, direct injection. And a pair of 2-liter bottles, with sprayers so I can purge the system. NoS is expensive, though, so I've got it on a steering wheel trigger.

End result? The engine that was making 276-hp is now cranking out 400hp, if I'm to believe the dyno numbers, which can be faulted if the dyno operator is devious or a dipshit, or both. But I looked over his shoulder and I'm fairly certain he was working it right. I still have to play around with a few things, but I'll take 400 horses. There's really not too much more I can do, really. Lord knows what it's pushing when I tip off the nitrous, though.

Brakes! Big, fat-assed Brembos. 14.3" up front and 13.9" in back. The absolute largest brakes I could possibly fit while still clearing the wheel. Forged from titanium, two-piece rotors, six pistons in front, four in back. Cross-drilled and slotted, too. They're actually the exact same brakes used in Nissan's R34 Z-tune, which had a goal of 1.8g's of deceleration force on R-compound tires. I had to monkey with the ABS to make the damn things worthwhile.

Drivetrain...the usual. A clutch beefy enough to handle this shit, superlight flywheel. Carbon driveshaft that weighs 18 pounds. Short-throw shift kit.

Swapped out the tires for BF Goodrich gForce KDWs. I would have gone with KDs (the dry-only version of the KDW), but I need to drive this puppy every day.

I did put an A-pillar guage pod in, to hold oil temperature, turbo pressure, and intake temperature guages. Along with an oversized tachometer with a programable shift-point indicator on the dash. And cleaner-looking blue-background guages for the in-dash displays.

Suspension...blah, blah, blah, race-type coil-overs, courtesy of HKS, along with stifferanti-roll bars.

Got all this done over the course of about two weeks, in stages, so I could drive it an evaluate the changes in between. When I took Lisa's dad for a ride, I'd had the suspenion stuff done, so the handling he was cursing at me about was the result of the coil-overs and not the natural Skyline ability, which is still pretty amazing thanks to the ATTESA all-wheel drive system.

Best thing yet, I got all this crap done before Lisa's folks left. So me and pops there were able to go out for another ride.

I found a loser with a Lamborghini Gallardo. Pops thought I was crazy. I didn't want to race the guy (why race a Gallardo on the street when I can pick up the phone and race a Murcielago on the track?), but he revved his engine at me. What was I going to do? Had to defend my manufacturer.

I beat him off the line with a 6500RPM launch. And then I beat him for the next mile or so, at which point I couldn't see him in my rearview, despite the obscene lime green paint. A couple miles down the road, he roared past me in a pitiful display of suck. Didn't matter by then, I'd already proved my point. Pops turned to me and said, "Hey, you're not so bad after all."

Lisa and I waved them off this morning...well, yesterday morning, and she jumped me the second we got the door closed. I love that girl. Then I had to go to work and sell cars to make money. We got a shipment in, various cars pieced together from a number of manufacturers to make a nice little surprise. Three Porsche Cayman S's, a Viper SRT10, a Mercedes CLK, and another Aston Martin DB9 (which I always love getting), this time in British Racing Green. All in all, not a bad day. I hadn't gotten a chance to drive the Cayman S, and they're sublime.

And now...time for New Year's...champagne and cuddling on the couch. Life is pretty good.

I Suck

2005-12-25T02:31:00.000-06:00

Kill me. Right now. Please. I'll pay you five thousand dollars if you just blow my brains out.

Surprise! Lisa's parents decided that they'd show up for Christmas! To see the happy couple! And maybe get rid of me once and for all by driving me off a goddamn cliff!

Lisa and I were positively bouncing around the apartment when they showed up. We hadn't wrapped their presents. I had to go through the boxes and figure out which one had the lingerie in it so we didn't open that in front of them. Then there was the rushed, whispered conversation we had as to whether we'd left two ounces of marijuana out on the desk in the study. It turns out we--and by we, I mean, she--did. As messy and disorganized as I tend to be, I usually put my drugs and drug paraphanelia away.

We get the stuff from the guy that does the valet parking for the basement lot. Very good guy. He also keeps us in whatever alcoholic beverages we'd like. His cut is 10% on the pot, 5% on the booze. He's quick, clean, and discrete. Once a week, I take Lisa's car out to get washed, and when I bring it back, I actually have him park it. That's his cue to leave whatever was on our little shopping list in the glove box, where his cut and the money for next week is waiting. In this way, I never have to tell him to get me booze or pot, and he never has to ask for money. It keeps everyone covered.

Oh, yes, we had to smuggle all our alcohol to the bedroom. Champagne, mostly, plus some beer. Only to find that they brought a couple bottles of bubbly. I felt like telling them, "Hey, I got better stuff that this tucked under the comforter cover!"

And then there was the cars. Her parents are...well, car-tarded ("car" plus "retarded" equals "car-tarded". Her dad heard that I'd got some new hot ride, and then he saw the Skyline. He looked at it like I'd just told him I bought a cherry `92 EK Civic. Did not get it at all.

For his part, he drives a brand-new Pontiac GTO. Complete with the 6.0L ass-kicking V8. But the engine is all there is to that car. Enormous power...but it's heavy, and it's designed to be able to go real fast without sacrificing ride quality and shit like that. Top speed is actually around 160-170mph, depending on the conditions, air pressure and temperature, and the individual car in question. Oh, it's fast. But other than that, it's nothing special. It'll be in the little dealer race series, and now that I've driven it, I'm scared. With a good suspension and tires, and a stripped interior, it has the potential to be a serious competitor. But I think that the new Mustang can kick its ass if given half the chance. And a big-power 350Z can certainly do it.

So I took him for a ride in the Skyline. He can't drive stick, so that cut him off from a chance to destroy my baby. I was doing okay on the anger-control front, until he said, "So what's the big deal about this thing?"

Then I lost it. And prompty powerslid around a corner. Kicked it a full 90, lined up on the turn, and then let the tires grab and rocket through. There was a time I was leaning forward to look around him so I could see where the car was going. I followed that up with a tear-ass ride through a back road with lots of nice slopes and no traffic. Speed limit said 30, but it felt more like a 65 to me. And I had it up to 75 for most of the turns, 80-85 on straights. The car responded beautifully. Barely even needed to be told what to do. But I can get it a little bit better, a little faster, a little more connected, so I will. GTC cars spoiled me. Now I'm not happy unless I have total feedback.

But yes...this is just wonderful. Now we have to hold off on the hot, dirty, passionate, and loud sex until we can push these bastards out the door.

Sentimentality

2005-12-21T03:08:00.000-06:00

Oh, Christmas...sucks.

Okay, so there is some holiday cheer that appeals to me. For one, the holiday cheer that involves people buying cars to give to their loved ones (I'm making out like a bandit). For another...I just like the apartment a little more now. Big tree, lights, the whole she-bang. A Christmas cocktail party. Lisa's cute sweaters. Laying in bed next to her with the gas fireplace going...

...okay, so maybe I'm getting a little sentimental in my old age.

Although...old age? Maybe note quite yet. I'm twenty. I've got the better part of my career in front of me (whether it's in the law, autosport, or auto sales). My legs are doing pretty good, there's times they feel just like they used to nowadays. My back hasn't really bothered me in weeks. I've still got another sixty years in me at least. One day I'll have a kid, or kids. For now, I've got a very pretty live-in girlfriend, a pretty good job, and a nice place to live. Things are not that bad.

On the other hand, her folks despise me. For "corrupting" their daughter, or some such nonsense. I think I'm doing okay by her. As for the supposed immorality of living together before marriage (and by natural extension of logic, sleeping together), well, welcome to the 21st century.

My parents still aren't on the best of terms with me, and that kills me a little. They're a little warmer now that I'm going to school (and on a three-year plan, to boot), but we're still not cozy. They think I threw away something when I went off for that year, year and a half. And they still think of me as just being a car salesman. Never mind the fact that I'm not one of those poor schmucks trying to live on a commission (I'm salaried, because when you get to this kind of selling, you need a real goddamned professional, and real professionals work on salaries). And never mind the fact that I'm dealing in Astons and Jags and Lotuses and high-end Mercedes and BMWs, that the cheapest things I work with are fifty-thousand-dollar automobiles, not goddamn used Kias.

And then there's my half-brothers and half-sister. They're good kids. I still fucking hate their dad (when I said "my parents" before, I meant my mom and step-dad). And their mom is a dipshit. But that's not their fault.

I have to drive out after Christmas to visit them. Joey, the oldest at 13, is my own personal fan club. Kid lives and breathes cars and racing and the culture. He's got a couple of my posters up on his wall (yes, I have posters), and a little model of my car, just like the other model I have on my desk at work. Not old enough to drive yet, but he can tell you anything you want to know about any car worth knowing about. I got him a little remote-controlled car. No, not a little kids' one. This one is powered by a weed-whacker engine and was built buy a guy I know for me. It's a Subaru WRX STi, scaled so the engine fits under the hood. Very, very fast. My buddy gave me a demonstration run with it. It's sufficiently cool. Hell, it's even all-wheel drive.

Elizabeth, 11, is a different deal. The precise antithesis of me. Likes to paint and draw and all that jazz. And she's pretty damn good. And that's not "pretty damn good for her age". Per her Christmas wishes as she told them to me, I scoped out a professional art supply house and got her a whole pile of professional-grade brushes, paper, paints, pencils, pastels, so on and so forth, ad nauseum. Stuff her parents can't get her because they live out in the middle of nowhere.

Then there's Thomas Jr, at 9. He's my shining star of retribution, everything that his dad hates: As big a car guy as Joey's growing up to be, Tommy makes him look like a pink-pantied college co-ed with a Mazda 626. He builds models of cars. Very good at it. Does real nice work with paint, even sands off the lines where they cut the plastic body panels. I got him a couple models to do, ones he was looking for: 1992 Toyota Supra, Shelby Mustang GT350R, C6 Corvette, and (my personal favorite, I love this kid) a Lotus Elise and Esprit V8.

All the money totals up the same, and everything is exactly what they asked for. Except for Joey, who's too macho to come out and ask.

As for Lisa...well, she's kinda easy. Jeweler's had a very nice necklace. And I eyed up the engagement rings while I was there. Toss in a nice Coach handbag, a pair of Coach leather gloves, a new bathrobe and slippers, and we're there. And, of course, the obligatory every-damn-chance-I-get run to Victoria's Secret.

I figure, I'll take Christmas with Lisa, go down a couple days later to visit the kids, and while I'm doing that, figure out if I want to propose. Hey, this is a great plan!

Outnumbered...Never Outgunned

2005-12-20T03:45:00.000-06:00

Okay, whaddya want first? The new car, or my impeccable logic?

Too bad, you're getting the car first. The Nissan Skyline R34 GTR V-Spec II is...sublime. That's the only way I can describe it. My EVO was faster, but it was faster because I was kicking a good 400-hp out of an engine that made 276-hp when it was stock. The Skyline is still making its base 276 out of a turbo'd V6.

That engine is the lovely RB26DETT. The "26" there means that it displaces 2.6 liters, and the "TT" means "twin-turbo". It cranks out 276-hp and 289-lb-ft of torque, which provides ample motivation for the car. It also has one of the world's best all-wheel drive systems, which gives it amazing handling out of the box, along with superb control. It's not a light car, but it doesn't have to be. It's good anyway.

And sweet mother of God, is it good. Plenty quick enough for everyday driving, and pretty fast for track work, too. Easy to control through city streets, and quite comfortable on the highway. I have yet to really flog it somewhere, but that'll come soon enough. It's a perfectly balanced car...while it doesn't really own any one category, it does pretty well in all of them. And here's the great part...I'm getting 36mpg right now. I won't once I start playing with it, but for now, envy me. And what do I really want to do to it?

1. More power. It's quick now, but I was spoiled by the EVO and its ridiculous power. The RB26DETT can easily produce 565-hp, as was shown by this year's Sport Compact Car magazine's Ultimate Street Car...so why not make 565-hp? That guy was able to do it and have a car that passed all the emissions tests and was still driveable on the street. In fact, it was his daily driver, and he picked up groceries with it. My plan is to add power by lowering the 8.5:1 compression ratio just a smidge, slapping on one big turbo instead of two little ones (it's easier to control one turbo than it is to control two), do some work on the engine's internals, replace the stock intake and exhausts, remap the ECU a little, chuck on a superlight flywheel, and give the clutch a re-do. I probably won't make more than 500-hp without blowing a lot of money on custom engine work, but I can easily settle for 450.

2. Better handling. Yes, I know the hahndling is really goddamn good. I don't care. And I don't care about how bad the ride is, so long as I can turn tighter than everyone else and look good doing it. And that means a Nismo R-tune setup front and rear, stiffer anti-roll bars, strut tower bar, removing the minimal backseat, replacing the hood with painted carbon fiber, and chucking on a set of R-compound tires.

3. Brakes. When you're making big power, you need big, beefy brakes mated with your big, sticky tires. I think a set of oversized, cross-drilled and slotted brakes from StopTech should do nicely. Maybe 13" up front, 11.5" in back. Or more if I can squeeze them in behind the Konig Theory rims. Oh, and a careful replacement of the brake lines with steel braided ones, because broken brake lines suck ass.

4. Sound. I'm sorry, but the stock sound system just isn't up to my personal preferences. I'm going to tear the whole thing out. First off, bass. I was thinking something along the lines of a single 1000-watt Rockford Fosgate amplifier driving two 10" Kenwood Tsunami subs. And then another 300-watt or so RF amp driving a 12" Tsunami. For the part of the system that makes actual sound and not just vibration, I'll hit Kenwood again for a six-speaker set of two-ways supplmented by another amp, 450-500 watts. And everything will be nicely controlled by a Kenwood head unit and onboard hard drive. I'll need to replace the battery with a performance one from Optima, and slap in at least one capacitator. The amps will be turned low most of the time, because big power sounds better even when you're not using it (and I'm not just making that up, it's true), because the system isn't trying as hard to produce the same level of sound. But when I've got to lower myself to the level of some dumb f*ck with two 12s in his Firebird, I'll have the ability to shake my mirrors...and his.

5. Seats. I hate them. I'll call Recaro and get that straightened out.

But yes...I'm going to put all that sound crap in the trunk. When I remove the back seat, I'll make it all nice and pretty with some carpeting and then use that as my cargo area.

Now! On to why I had to buy a car that had been shipped here from Japan for some other guy!

Enthusiasts--and by "enthusiasts" I mean people who like pushing their cars in any manner of motorsport, not people who watch Pimp My Ride--are not the majority of car buyers (surprise!). I would be deeply surprised if we even made up 10% of the total car-buying population...and bear in mind that even if we're buying a car, we may not be able to afford a sport model, or our wives might make us buy a minivan. Although in all fairness, women are deeply involved in motorsports, too, and they're pretty damn good at it. They just tend to be sensible instead of stupid.

As such, the overwhelming majority of cars that are introduced are not going to be sporty at all. Or even semi-capable. A few might accidentally be designed well enough that they're worth modifying and tuning. Cars like the 1992 Nissan Sentra come to mind when I think about that. Or the 1992-2000 Honda Civic (not the new ones, which are fat and slow and expensive).

Then there are the ones that are good cars, but hampered by the legal department and the bean counters. In this group, I place lovely little things like the Acura RSX Type-S. Great little car, but in Japan (where it's sold as the Honda Integra and comes available in the R-type race package), it's got all kinds of extra goodies. It did bring the K20 engine here to America, but for the most part, it's being held back.

Then there are the magical few good cars. In this list, I place the Mitsubishi EVO, the Subaru WRX STi, the Chevrolet Corvette, the Honda S2000, and a few others. Some--namely, the EVO and the WRX--are really more built for the professional racers. See, in Group N rally, you can only change a few minor things about the cars before you race them, mostly safety and maintenance things. In fact, they have restrictors on the intakes so the cars they race are slower than they were in the showroom. But in the EVO and the WRX, there are all kinds of little performance goodies that never get used in the stock ECU configuration but make a difference in rally. Other cars, like the Corvette, are built because everyone wants one and they've got a tradition to continue. So they accidentally build a decent car.

But for the most part, manufacturers focus on cars that offer a comfortable ride (brick-like handling), good gas economy (glacial acceleration), nice seats (extra weight), and LCD screens for the kiddies (stupidity). And enthusiasts have to put up with them.

The Edge

2005-12-19T00:56:00.000-06:00

Doing some thinking lately. And a little drinking...and smoking...and screwing. Consuming life, you might call it, and all of its finer points, things that tend to give me that pleasant chemical cocktail. Yes, thought, reflection, and debauchery: perfect together.

I was talking to a buddy of mine who had the same deal I did: Race, crash, figure out how to operate legs again, get back in a damn car. And another one who got pretty f*cked up in another extreme sport and never went again.

Here's what I've figured out about myself. The guy that went back to racing did it for accomplishment. He wants to win the championships, take home the Driver of the Year Awards, and all that nonsense. Everything is second to that, and until he succeeds, his life is pretty much driven by that. If he never reaches his end goal, his life will be empty.

I am not him. Trophies are dandy, winning championships is cool, but what does that prove? That you and your car were the best that year. Greater drivers came before you, and greater drivers will follow you. Inevitably, there will be better cars than yours. So all that success is really only a temporary thing, and temporary things don't matter.

What I do, the racing, the pushing, and all of that...it's about standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down, and letting the wind blow you just a little bit. Losing your footing for an instant before stepping back. It's about finding that edge, putting yourself in a position where one false move spells the difference between life and whatever comes next. It's about finding out if being on the edge scares you, because if you're scared, it means you really enjoy your life, and value it and everything that comes with it: The nice apartment, the good job, the pretty girlfriend, the fast car.

There was a song a while ago, on a game called Streets of SimCity from Maxis. It was called "Czar", and it was awesome:

Get out of my way
Cuz I'm havin` a bad day
The car's in the driveway
But I'm walkin` sideways
Goin` somewhere, and I'm gonna be first
In front of me, you're gonna get hurt
I don't know you, I couldn't care less
This lane is mine
Don't gimme the road, cuz I'll take it
If I don't get the right of way, I'll make it
Right on red
You're dead
I'm drivin`, that's all you need to know
Can't stop crossing the line
Nothin` in front, who cares what's behind?
Fill it up, check the oil
Eat my dust and like it, little man

I'm here, I'm there
I'm everywhere
I'm on the ground and in the air
There's no tomorrow, just today
If you make me late, you're gonna pay
I pop my clutch, I strip my gears
There's not a thought between my ears
You crash and burn, you scream and shout
You're in my sights, I take you out
I'm in my car, behind the wheel
My engine smokes, my tires squeal
I'm your worst nightmare come to life:
No home, no bills, no kids no wife
You're the czar when you got a kickass car

I melt the streets, I own the road
I set you up and then I unload
I take a drag and swig some booze
Say your prayers, no time to lose
Up in front, to the end I go
I walk the line and spread some woe
So pack your bags and split the scene
It's only me and my machine
I pop my clutch and strip my gears
There's not a thought between my ears
You crash and burn, you scream and shout
You're in my sights, I take you out
I'm in my car, behind the wheel
My engine smokes, my tires squeal
I'm your worst nightmare come to life:
No home, no bills, no kids, no wife
You're the czar when you got a kickass car

The guy that found himself on the edge, tumbled over it, and then never came back was not meant truly meant to seek that particular position. It's better for him now that he's given up: He's back in the place he belongs, with all the other people who value their lives too much to find out if they really do like being alive.

On the other hand, I tumbled over the edge, and I'm going back the next chance I get. And the day I stop being afraid of that edge is the day that my life just isn't worth living.

I do what I do for the same reason people ride roller coasters: To be afraid for a few minutes. The difference is, in the back of their minds, they know they're safe. Roller coasters are very safe machines. A car doing 180 mph isn't very safe at all, no matter how well it's engineered.

Back to that thing about temporary things being worthless...yes, I know I'm jumping around a little, I've had a couple fingers of scotch and I tend to do that. Right now, Lisa and I are just living together. It doesn't matter how close we are, at least not to me. The relationship is still in the "transitory" column.

The problem is, I love this girl to death. And not "I love her ass" or "I love that thing she does" or "I love the way she looks at me". I fucking love her. She's the only person that could tell me to stop racing that I would listen to. My parents already have. A few friends already have. A few professors have told me that it would be a collossal waste of intellect if they had to hose my mind out of a car. While that last one is good for an ego stroke, it has very little effect.

But Lisa...that's a different story.

Which is why I'm considering moving our relationship into the "permanent" column. There's a very nice engagement ring down at the jeweler's.

In my next post, I'll give my first impressions of the Nissan Skyline R34 GT-R V-Spec II, and give everyone a reason why 90% of the cars on the road suck ass.

Skyline

2005-12-14T00:59:00.000-06:00

So I'm thinking about getting a new car. Yes, I mean selling the EVO and buying a different car. I love my EVO. But I like other cars better. Lamborghini Gallardos, for one. But I can't afford a damn Gallardo.

However, a Nissan Skyline R34 GT-R V-Spec II is well within my grasp, assuming I sell my finely-tuned EVO. For those of you who have not poked your heads out of the ADM in a few years, this is an R34 GT-R V-Spec II:

Now, the one I might buy (I say might because I'm not yet sure; the EVO is quite a good car, and not as bad on the insurance, although it lacks the instant rep of the Skyline's JDM-only status) is black instead of this queer silver sparkly metalflake. And It's got really nice Konig "Theory" rims that I am so totally keeping. They're not as good as my O-Z ultralight forged racing rims that the EVO wears, but they're a lot prettier, and really...how often am I in a situation where the weight of my damn rims makes a difference? Accelerating 1 pound of wheel weight is like accelerating 1.5 pounds of chassis weight, plus the added funny suspension things heavy rims do. But the Konigs really aren't that much heavier. I'd much rather blow some cash on a superlight flywheel, because accelerating 1 pound of flywheel is like accelerating 30 pounds of car, and sometimes a lot worse.

But yes...I have a buyer lined up for the EVO, I just have to say the word and sign the pink slips. And then I'll have to race every asshole with a Civic Si, but it'll be fun. And I can easily develop 500-hp out of the Skyline's V6, although I'll settle for a lot less because I have to deal with unpleasant things like driving in the rain and snow. And really, I like the Skyline's handling and kickass AWD system a lot better than the EVO's (although the EVO is really quite nice).

Really, the Skyline I've got planned in my head just says something...specifically, "I am a driver and I have purchased the pinnacle of Japanese performance." And once I get her all nice and tuned, she'll be an amazing car. Skylines aer tough to beat stock. One that's been modified to hell and back is just ferocious with the right driver. Not because it's the best at anything, but because it does everything so damn well when it's stock. All the numbers are really quite respectable off the shelf. Add some power, tune the suspension, buy some sticky rubber, work on the drivetrain a little, and you've got a very capable beast that can go toe-to-toe with a Porsche, Ferrari, Lambo, or Masserati under any circumstances and still be comfortable to drive. Perhaps not a Carrera GT, but any other Porsche.

I, on the other hand, will sacrifice a little driveability and go for the Carrera GT's jugular.

It's general image, too. I sell Porsches and Ferraris and Jags and such. I've got to drive something at least as exotic and capable. Sure, I could probly get a Vette and get something with more horsepower off the shelf. But having a Skyline demonstrates a well-rounded concept of what a good car needs to do. It's not just power: It's handling, braking, and style.

Fuck it, I'm getting the damn thing

My First Rambling Manifesto

2005-11-25T02:02:00.000-06:00

Well, Thanksgiving was nice. I did all the cooking. Lisa, for all her various wonders, cannot cook, but I'm more than willing to overlook that little fault.

You know what makes enormous Thanksgiving dinners for two very easy? A six-burner range. Mine is a Bosch. Very, very nice. And yeah, the six burners were all running at once, with the oven going. And the plate-warmer under the oven, too, because I like putting my hot food on hot plates and in hot bowls and serving dishes. My feast included:

-turkey, big motherfucker

-steamed carrots, string beans, and corn that cooked with butter

-Lisa's mashed potatos (I hate them, she loves them, I cook them anyway)

-cheese and broccoli casserole (again, for her alone, her mom does that dish and she loves it, so I devised her recipe and then made it better)

-my godlike stuffing

-homemade cranberry sauce

-gravy (also purely for her, I don't care for it)

-thirteen-inch apple pie

-big goddamn chocolate cake

-homemade ice cream

I was busy cutting and slicing and dicing and such for two hours the day before, followed up by eight hours of cooking on the big day. We're gonna have leftovers for weeks. She kept telling me it was perfectly alright if I just wanted to make reservations someplace, seeing as how I cook every other night (save when we just go "fuck it" and go out to eat or get some Chinese), too, but to hell with that.

My legs are back to bothering me. Mostly it's the cold. I'm down to using my damn cane every time I go out, and sometimes around the house. I hate using the damn thing...it's not that I'm ashamed of it. Hell, I practically got my legs ripped off, and here I am walking around and running when it's warm. And I can still drive better than half you pussies (joking about the "pussies" part, but I can). So if I need a cane to help me out when it's fucking ten degrees and windy, I'm gonna use it. It's not an old man cane, it's just a straight shaft of dark wood with an ivory ball at the top. No hook part. Semi-stylish. I've got another very low-key one for when the ivory is gonna look stupid.

No, what pisses me off about having to use it is that, even though I can walk and run and drive and swim just fine, here I am gimping around with a damn cane. Like a fucking cripple that never could get that whole physical therapy thing down. Shit, I spent how many months screaming at the top of my lungs lifting a damn five-pound weight on my leg? And now it looks like I was too big a pussy to go through with it.

For the record, it's the left one that gives me problems. Both ache, but the left one really fucking hurts. Here's a picture of the right one when they were done putting it back together (kinda). The skin and meat has been moved back into place and buttoned up (literally). The left one is so bad I damn near dry-heaved when I saw it.

Woo-whee! You can really see the pain. Frankly, this one would be really way too bad to show if the knee guys hadn't yet finished up. See, my kneecap on that side was...well, it had taken functionality-inhibiting damage, as the pit records may say about something like a broken shock. In this picture, they've pretty much gotten the knee as "fixed" as they're gonna get it for now. They actually had removed the joint itself, or rather, scraped out the splinters that were left of it. Then they went in and replaced it with a funny little mix of Kevlar, Teflon, and carbon-fiber that's both experimental and is supposed to last forever, no replacements.

Holy shit! My car had the same stuff in it!

That big rip up the side of my leg was caused by the shinbone coming out. It broke off at both ends and went right out. Man, when I finally realized what had happened (when I was in the car still), that shit hurt! The one on the left was a little less gruesome immediately. The pics I have of it in the OR are just horrible, but it takes a few seconds to realize exactly what's wrong. It didn't seem so bad in the car, but there was a lot more really major damage there. The fractures on the right one were all pretty much clean (save for the knee, but modern science is just wonderful). The left was just the worst kinds of breaks imaginable.

My back is kinda fucked-up, too, but that's really no big deal. Just have to remember how to pick stuff up right and I'm fine.

But for now I'm just kind've gimping around a little more than the usual. They were right about the knee replacement (nice...experimental surgery performed with literally no consent!). It doesn't bother me a bit, and actually works a little better than my natural one, which is slightly fucked-up. Story of my body..slightly fucked-up.

Back to school again tomorrow. Actually, at about 12:15, I have to be in class. And here it is, 2 AM, and I'm on this goddamn thing. Not looking forward to it. Mostly because I'm a year older than everyone else, which makes me look stupid (at a peak score of 1400 on the SATs, and once a perfect-800 on verbal, I am most certainly not). Also because of the endless snickering about me limping around. I elected not to make my past occupation widely known. I'd rather not attract the attention. Oh, sure, it leaked out. I told a girl to stop by my place of employment during my lunch hour and I'd help her with her damn history paper (I am a God of History and Political Science and she is actually a really nice girl who helped me when I dropped a book once). And, of course, I was too stupid to realize that perhaps, if I wanted to keep my background quiet, I should perhaps take down all the pictures and the giant fucking poster.

So she found out and it didn't occur to me to ask her to shut up because she never said anything about it until she stopped by again a week later, and by then, she'd already told like six people. And, of course, Lisa caught some chick making a passing gimp-reference to me in the bathroom, so everyone in the bathroom at the time found out. And my Creative Writing teacher found out because I told him and expected him to be bright enough to realize that I would appreciate discretion, especially after I said, "I'd really appreciate some confidentiality about this." But he's some California fruitcake who believes we should be proud of everything anbd share everything abour ourselves or some such bullshit, so it got out. So now that entire class knows.

All in all, though, I think it's been kept to about sixty people in a college of several thousand, and a social network of perhaps 200 (counting the people who are merely classmates I recognize by face and face alone). 100 in classes and 100 people I know.

The 350Z street-tuned racecar is coming along very well. It's been fully stripped, and the engine is out so we can play with it a little more easily. The current line we're being told is that the two requirements are street-legality and GT500-series rules. That means 500hp, 500lb-ft of torque, and all the associated JGTC-GT500 rules. All the other teams are scrambling to find out what GT500 rules are (a few don't even know about the 500/500 power limits and that should be very funny when the time comes). Luckily, I was racing in the GT500 class, so I know the entire sixty-page book front-to-back.

In other news, I've solidified my place in that little Europa tour, driving the Aston Martin DB9 coupe. It should be fun. I've also got another guy probing me to see if I want to be in next year's Gumball Rally across Europe. For those of you who don't know, the Gumball Rally is a tarmac rally across all of Europe on public roads which haven't been closed. Theoretically, it's illegal. The event organizers discourage everyone from calling it a "race", and even though someone finishes first, the "winner's" name isn't published anyone. it's sort of just for kicks and giggles between these little companies that sort of just exist to race and build racecars and have lots of fun.

Crash Response

2005-11-25T00:47:00.000-06:00

I was taking a little trip down memory lane today. Flipping through all my racing stuff and--more importantly--going through all the stuff relating to the crash, the first time I'd ever taken a look at any of it. For example, I knew they were considering amputating my legs, but I didn't know just how close they were to doing it.

But anyways, I thought I'd give a fairly in-depth and experienced account of exactly what the emergency response to a crash with very severe injuries is. Because it's really amazing, and those guys are the reason I'm alive. Hats off to them, they're amazing. I'm going to go through an incident roughly similar to my own.

1. One-car crash occurs, severe injuries, life-threatening.
Our hypothetical crash occurs in one of the track's more remote areas, far away from the main spectator areas, and also far away from the medical area. Let's call it a high-speed impact with a wall in a full-on racecar, with rollcage and all that jazz. The driver is fully strapped in, and he's wearing a Head And Neck System (HANS). HANS saves lives. It uses bungee cord-like straps to secure the driver's head to a brace on his shoulders, or the rollacage itself. The straps are connected to his helmet. Without the HANS, the head is unsecured. With the torso strapped in tight, the head rotates in a full arc forward in a crash, exerting tremendous g-forces on his head and neck, which wither snap his neck or cause a deadly fracture at the base of the skull, where the spine is attached. HANS keeps the head from spinning and transfers the load to the middle of the skull, which can take it.
However, the crash is so severe that the crumple zones on the car are overwhelmed. After the front crumple zone, the next thing to absorb the impact is the driver's feet and legs. In our example, his legs would be severely broken, the injury being equivalent to jumping off a seven-story building and landing on one's feet. Also, his internal organs would bounce around the inside of his chest. The spleen is ruptured, the lungs are partially collapsed, and the kidneys take a beating. And even with the HANS, he's likely to suffer a severe concussion.
The immediate problem is the legs. Bones are broken and flesh is mangled, and all that is likely to tear open the femoral arteries, which are about the diameter of a quarter. This leads to enormous blood loss and can kill quickly. Even if it doesn't, it'll give him brain damage. The concussion could potentially kill, and the damage to the chest organs can kill, in addition to internal bleeding that goes along with both injuries. But the main problem is the legs, with those big arteries pouring blood. Bythe time he gets to the on-site medical area, he could easily have already lost 70% of his blood supply.
For reference, g-forces have also caused his eyes, ears, and nose to begin bleeding, but that's no big deal, really.

2. Track rescue workers arrive.
These guys get there fast. Even before the crash has, technically, occurred, they're rolling. They're never more than two minutes away. They ride out in four-wheel drive pickups that let them cut across the grass and dirt easily, and they come prepared to fight fires, cut and bend the car to remove the driver, provide whatever first aid is immediately necessary, and then move him to the medical area where the heavy-hitters reside.
In our crash, let's say the car has crushed in to the point where the driver is pinned, and that it's caught fire.
Even in two minutes, the fire won't spread far. Not even the paint will burn on most of these cars. Fuel is contained in a fire-proof cell. The only things on the car that even can burn are: the straps securing the driver, various hoses and belts in the engine compartment (even some of those are flame-proof), brake and transmission fluids, and the tires. Even the fuel lines are fire-proof, but if heated up enough, they will explode or burst.
The first thing they do is fight the fire. Goal one is to fight it away from the driver. He's wearing a Nomex body suit that's flame-retardent and heat-resistant, and the exterior suit functions much the same, and he's coated from head to toe in a flame-retardent, heat-resistant gel underneath all that. Even his hair is covered in it. But it's all only resistant. He can't hold out forever. The next goal is to extinguish the fire completely, but that's second to the next thing they do.
Next, they cut the car apart to remove the driver using very powerful electric saws. They may also bend it, if it's too tough to cut, but cutting is much quicker. These guys can do that in twenty seconds or so no matter how bad the thing has deformed. In our case, they have to cut away the roll cage and a few body panels, and this takes them fifteen seconds.
Third, they do the first aid stuff. The driver is first checked for spinal cord injuries before they move him, and then he's immediately secured to a backboard. The nature of the apparent injuries is called in to the track doctors and the local trauma center. In our case, an attempt is made to staunch the loss of blood from the legs, and IVs are set to try and pour fluid into him.
About a minute and a half after they get to the car, the driver is in the back of a truck screaming towards the medical area.

3. At the medical area.
There's really not much to do here, but goddamn, it's done right. Already present are a very fine collection of full doctors. There's usually at least one neurosurgeon present. In our case, a further examination is made, and any new information is passed along to the trauma center. Two doctors dig into each leg at the same time, finding and clamping off the femoral arteries. The driver's medical file has already been pulled out and faxed to the trauma center, along with his baseline vitals and other basic information (like blood type and such).

4. Exiting.
No matter how close that trauma center is, the trip is made by a helicopter that was waiting at the track before any cars ever got there and started spinning its rotors as soon as the crash happened. At the hospital, the operating room is standing by, with doctors in scrubs, literally poised over the table waiting to go and knowing exactly what has to be done. A few of the track doctors get on the helo with the driver. The rest stay behind in case there's another crash.

5. Lift-off.
Exactly seven minutes after the impact, the driver is in the air.

Come on...

2005-11-20T03:40:00.000-06:00

And now, as a twin to my last post, it's the Jack Award you don't want your car to get. It's the Wastes of Metal Award, given to cars that are, you guessed it, collassal wastes of metal.

Chevrolet Cobalt...Only a little better than the Cavalier it replaced, the fact that they bothered to make a supercharged SS version is just hilarious.

Ford Fiesta "We Will Rock You" Special Edition...What the hell? It's a Ford Fiesta sold in Europe to commemorate the rock group Queen. Look, they were a good band! They gave us "Bohemian Rhapsody"! Don't insult them by naming a Fiesta after them! And by the way, all its got is a different interior and rims. Nowhere on the car does it mention anything about Queen.

Scion xA and xB...They shoulda called them BoxA and BoxB. Possibly uglier than the Aztek. And with the crappy suspensions Toyota threw on them, combined with the wimpy 86-hp (claimed, and that number will go down further when the new, more-accurate SAE measurement standards are apoted) and you have a car with not a single redeemable quality.

Chevrolet Monte Carlo...The Monte Carlo was a great car. You could get one with a Northstar V8 and own people. Now you have a shitty, underpowered waste of metal that handles like a brick and has such long gears a stock Ford Focus can beat the hell out of it.

Ford Thunderbird...Oh my God! It just...sucks so badly! Awful handling, no power. Styling is acceptable for some, but....goddamn, it sucks!

Buick Lacrosse...They insulted everything I stand for with this car and the way they marketed it. It's not sporty. It's not agile. It's a goddamn cheap Buick. Frankly, I'm not going to buy a car that Tiger Woods endorses. Golf is the slowest goddamn game in the world. Follow me?

Chevrolet SSR...This amazing hybrid car-truck combines the handling and speed of a pickup with the off-road capability and hauling capacity of a small car! Wait, isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Yeah, but unfortunately, Chevy got a little confused when they built this horrid creature. It should have been aborted.

Dodge Neon SRT-4...Okay. So it does give you an assload of power. But any time you try and use that power, the crappy suspension, chassis, and drivetrain comebine to make sure you just spin your tires. The chassis and frame might as well have been made out of Play-Doh. Nice try, but frankly, you also hear "nice try" at the Special Olympics, which is where the designers of this thing belong. But, in their defense, they were stuck using the Neon chassis, so they were kinda working against, you know, reality.

Honda Element...Make it stop. Please, make it stop. Designed to appeal to my generation, it ended up being a toy for old farts. However, in some ways, I have to salute the Element. It took one for the team and kept old farts out of cars that don't suck, leaving them available for young people who can properly enjoy a sports car.

Hummer, all models...For the love of fuck, get the hell out of my goddamn way! I'm trying to move, and you're spending sixteen seconds just getting that pile of shit up to 60.

Hyundai, all models...Hyundai should be required by law to print a disclaimer on all their cars: "WARNING: Before purchasing, ask yourself this...has your life really gotten this awful?"

Kia, Suzuki...See Hyundai.

Mitsubishi Eclipse...This car makes the list because of that obnoxious "all cars bow down" commercial they did. Now, every day, I have to beat the shit out of some fuck and his new Eclipse with my EVO VIII MR. Guess what, shithead...I've got four hundred ponies to play around with, a hundred more than stock, and my car doesn't have a fat ass like yours.

Nissan Altima...This actually isn't a bad car, but anytime anyone floors it in one in winter on the highway, a giant cloud of water and foul-smelling exhaust shoots out and fucks up my nice new wash and wax. And you know what? I still run them down and embarass them.

Pontiac GTO...All I can say is, they smeared the name of a perfectly respectable vintage muscle car.

All Saabs...Driven by yuppy, democratic, pussy assholes who want to regulate the speed limit by doing fucking sixty in the left lane. Fuckers. If I were a lesser driver in a lesser car, they might slow me up. Instead, by the time they realize that I've dodged into the center lane, they're wondering why my car is still getting farther away even though they're flooring it to catch up.

All Saturns, the ION Redline in particular...Now the fuckers are smearing my name! Goddammit! The 1896 Daimler Motor Carriage had better handling, and that fucker was steered by a tiller.

Subaru B9 Tribeca...Holy hell! What crack pipe were they smoking?

Subaru Baja, Forester, Legacy, and Outback...I am sorry. Your car is not sporty. It has no all-weather capability not found on any other basic car. If you wanted sporty with all-weather capability, you should have gotten a WRX or WRX Wagon, preferably in STi trim.

All Hybrid-Electrics with the Exception of the Awesome Honda Accord Hybrid, Which Is Faster Than the Regular One...Guys...your gas mileage is only like 30mpg most of the time. Get a goddamn VW Golf TDI! And more importantly, get the fuck out of the left lane. These goddamn things don't even belong on the highway.

Dave's Best Damn Cars Picks

2005-11-14T00:37:00.000-06:00

I'm doing this as a public service. I have taste in automobiles, the rest of the world doesn't. Want proof? I hear somebody bought a Pontiac Aztek. Oh, and Scion is selling thousands of xA's and xB's, along with ubercrappy tC's. And California dumbasses are buying up Insights and Priuses by the boatload. Every day on my way to work and/or school, I have to dodge the fat, slow moving asses of Hummer H2s and now H3s, with their goddamn 4mpg and 12-second 0-60 times. For fuck's sake, my car can do the 1/4-mile and then some in 12 seconds.

Believe me, if all car choices were left up to me, things would not suck as bad as they do now.

So here's what I'm going to do...I'm gonna invent little useful categories for cars and announce a winner, and maybe some runners-up if they really deserve to get mentioned. But if the 1st-place car just owns them, I'm not even gonna bother mentioning the others.

Econobox

Winner...Ford Focus...There's really very little competition on this one. In terms of price, performance, and comfort, this one is tough to beat. For my money, I like the 2003 Focus ZX5 five-door hatch with the 2.3L 16-valve DOHC ZETEC engine. It just rocks.

Runner-up...Mazda3...A little more expensive, a few random extras. It's based on the same chassis and drivetrain as the Focus, so there's no surprise. If you watch Pimp My Ride, you'll like the Mazda3 a little better. If you actually know something about cars, you'll like the Focus.

Affordable Sports Car (must cost less than $30k and actually interest me)

Winner...Ford Mustang GT...it squeaks in just under the $30k mark. Handling is acceptable, and the power is ridiculous (300-hp or thereabouts; I'm not talking about claimed hp, but what you can actually expect). Styling is either love-it or hate-it. Frankly, when I'm paying only $100 for every 1-hp, I don't care what it looks like.

Runners-Up (and quite a few, not in any particular order)

Nissan 350Z...also just barely makes it. Slower than the GT, a little more agile, a little smaller, only has a V6, but makes about the same power.

Mazda MX-5 (Miata)...simply unbeatable in terms of handling for the dollar. They're big enough now that ordinary people can fit in them. The only problem is that they're hard to live with. You really want more space for day-to-day stuff. They're quicker than they were before, but the 350Z will just own them in a straight line.

Mitsubishi EVO VIII RS...a stripped-down EVO. No big rear deck spoiler, no A/C, no CD (although a stereo and A/C are available if you spring for the $1k "Urban Jungle" package), but you get two differentials and a center helical differential, and that means performance out the wazoo.

Acura RSX Type-S...it brought the K20 engine to the US. That's all I have to say. Agile, quick, only $23k. Downside? It could use a double-wishbone suspension at both ends, and I hate FWD under all conditions.

Mazda RX8...could use a touch more power, but "RX" means "kickass handling".

Volvo S40 T5...This is probably 2nd place. A little heavy, but as a sports car serving as a daily driver, it's unrivaled.

Rich Boy Toy, 2nd Car, Must Cost Less Than $60k

Winner...Lotus Elise...coming in at $45k, the Lotus Elise offers insane handling, audacious styling, and a little speed. Best part? Great gas mileage. Low weight and the same engine that powers the Toyota Camry. Plus, it's at the very bottom of the price spectrum. With the money you save buying this little baby, you can get a $4000 kit from ForceFed that gives you 426hp off of a stock 145hp and increases grip to 1.1g from a stock 1.01g. Gas mileage will stop being so awesome, but who cares? You'll have the same power-to-weight ratio as a McLaren, with better handling, and you won't have to spend a million dollars. Downsides? Aside from the one-year waiting list (I shit you not), "It's really itsy-bitsy" as Lisa would say.

Runner-up...The new C6 Corvette. Pretty agile, pretty powerful, fairly stylish. The only downside is that you look like a bunch of other people driving it. You're never gonna get that with the Elise, which is a unique, individual car.

Expensive But Sorta Within Reach...$100,000-$200,000

I'm not going to do a first place, because each car is amazing in its own way.

Ford GT...Simply put, this vehicle is a racecar sold to the general public. And at around $160,000, it better be. A little cramped, but the performance is outstanding and you're always going to look like a true badass.

BMW M5...It's an M5. That's all you really have to say.

Aston Martin DB9...Style. Speed. Power. Control. The ability to carry around four of your friends and their luggage and still beat the shit out of anything on the road. And the ability to do all of that in the snow, in absolute comfort. The capability to do the shifting yourself or let the car do it for you and not sacrifice performance.

Very Bad Things

2005-11-05T01:04:00.000-06:00

Ooh, got a look at the 350Z we're going to use for our little endeavor. Gorgeous car...white now, but the eventual plan is to paint it black. I'm spinning a wrench working on it, just for fun. We got it two days ago, and it's already stripped: No exhaust, engine is out, no suspension, transmission is out stock bumpers and side skirts are off.

We're going with a small, high-efficiency (and thus, no-lag) turbocharger to bring power up to 420hp to start. Edelbrock headers, and custom intake and exhaust manifolds, along with a race cam, piggyback ECU, 4-pound flywheel, and triple-plate clutch will round things out nicely. Other than the camshaft, all the other internals will remain stock to maintain reliability. NISMO (NISsan MOtorsports, Nissan's in-house race and tuning department) is sending us a really trick suspension, better than even the one that comes on the R-Tune package (which lists for $45k, plus labor, counting car). Tateyabashi Cockpit is getting tapped for the cleanest, best-proportioned 350Z bodykit on the market. Carbon Fiber Creations is fabbing us up a rear trunk lid and GT-style wing combo that weighs only 14 pounds, along with a hood that only weighs 5. O-Z is sending us one of their ultralight rim sets. Tires will be BFGoodrich T/A gForce KDs. Brakes will be 13" up front, 11.5" rear, from StopTech. Cross-drilled, slotted rotors.

All told, she'll probably make 500-hp or so, maybe 450-lb-ft of torque on the super-octane race gas. In other words, the same power as the GT500 car I was driving professionally. The only difference is that she'll weigh twice as much, won't be anywhere near as aerodynamic, and won't be able to pull 2.5g turns.

Anyways, I gotta go to sleep. Lisa is demanding I hold her.

2005-10-30T01:13:00.000-06:00

Still bumping along, slowly but surely. School is going exceptionately well; neither one of us has gotten anything under an A so far. I'm trying to hurry along so I can graduate in 3 years, thus saving myself a ton of money and getting into law school a year earlier.

Sold ten cars in five days this week. It all went so quick that I barely spent any time selling or hanging around, nothing but paperwork and yelling at the maintenance guys to clean the damn things up.

I came home with a $2000 check Friday, part of it actually earned, the rest a token of appreciation from the boss for being the greatest and most talented salesman the world has ever seen. Hell, I think I must've made him a good $10k these past two weeks alone, after my cut and all the expenses.

Now, one thing about coming home with a bunch of money and two hundred bucks' worth of weed in my pocket, it puts me in a helluva mood, and it makes Lisa a little frisky.

Anyways, the local ring of dealerships is putting together a little expositional circuit of races on local tracks. The cars are exceptionally limited...they'll be street-legal, following the same rules as the Production class in the Rally America Series: Suspension geometry must remain unchanged, no remounting of the engine, stock engine only, car must be the same in profile, limiters on the turbo intake and wastegate, so on and so forth.

As a Nissan/Infiniti dealer, we've got two very strong cars: the Nissan 350Z and the Infiniti G35 coupe. I'm leaving out Americanized Skylines because another rule is that the car be USDM. And yes...the Nissan Sentra SE-R Spec V is a very good car, with some great value and power for the money, but it would just be outclassed in a series that includes the Chevrolet Camaro SS and C6 Corvette, the Dodge Magnum, Viper, and Charger, the Chrysler Crossfire SRT-6 and the 300C, the Honda S2000, the Ford Mustang GT and the GT40.

I was thinking the 350Z. For one, the G35 doesn't need any help selling. Second, the 350Z is powered by a V6 with huge aftermarket support. We could strip out the sound insulation, pop in a roll cage, and then get it up to 400-hp with just a Vortech supercharger, a Nismo intake and exhaust, and a reflashed ECU. Pop in a Nismo racing suspenion and we're there. Pull out the back seat and leave the interior stock.

The series will be under a power-to-weight regulation, so really, the winners will be the ones who have the best handling and the best driver. I think tht I've probably got the 'best driver' part wrapped up, the tricky part is getting the horsepower maxed. Of course, we can build it to make incredible power and then de-tune it, so that the horsepower is actually limited by retarded fuel and air at peak, giving us a big flat power and torque curve while extending engine life and fuel economy. The supercharger means we make big power as soon as I hit the gas, even down at the bottom of the powerband.

Lisa is fine with it; I asked her in bed one night (not before, during, or after sex) and she kissed my chest, hugged me a little tighter, and told me that she was okay with whatever I wanted to do, that it was my life, and that she trusted me. For my part, I shut up. I wanted to tell her that it was her life, too, but that would have been presumptuous. It's unspoken anyway.

Am I cool with it? I guess. These cars will probably peak out at 170mph max, which is about what a JGTC car does through wide turns (they have top speeds of 200mph or thereabouts, with long gears). The driving will be very cautious, since there isn't a nearly unlimited budget for repairs. No bumping, either, because of the damage thing and because everyone will be too scared to.

A couple punks with ghetto booty-ass rides, big pavement-scraping body kits with less than half of the budget dedicated to going fast and even less to turning tight (the rest of the money was spent making the cars look stupid) tried to race me in my EVO MR today. Poor bastards. They got owned, largely because they did not know what kind of a car they were fucking with, and partly because they did not know what kind of a driver they were fucking with. I ripped away from them, going from 60 to 90 in one second, tearing away at 110 mph, slipping the tail out sideways around a loose highway turn for style.

Racing, I decided at that point, feels very good. And winning is more addictive than heroine.

The Life

2005-10-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

We do okay now.

We're not rich. Not quite as much money now as there was back when I was racing. But I do have what's left of my contract money coming (they're required to pay me until my contract expires, along with a stipend paid to me for the rest of my life for the permanent injuries I suffered). The insurance company also gave me a nice check. I also work at a car dealership, mostly selling Nissans and Infinitis. I specialize in sports cars, naturally, primarily the Nissan 350Z and the Infiniti G35 coupe.

I move two or three cars a week. Call it anywhere from $40,000 to $120,000 worth of automobiles. In addition to a nice hourly wage, I get a 1% commission on each sale. At thirty hours, with a minimum $40k in sales, I bring home $700 a week. Or $2800 a month. Or $33,600 a year. Minimum. In a good week, I can snag $1500. It all depends on the commission. That's why I love selling sports cars...the people that come in already want one very badly, and they all cost so much.

And so, in this way, I support Lisa in the kind of life a girl like her deserves. She has the clothes she wants, the manicures and pedicures, the hair stylist, a few nice pieces of jewelry, a gorgeous negligee she wears to bed every night, and some very cute lingirie for when we're feeling frisky. She has a very nice car, a 1998 BMW M3, which she picked out herself. Silver, in absolutely mint condition. I had to teach her how to drive a stick, but she wields that car nicely.

As for me, well...I don't suffer. Nice suits for work...I go tieless, usually black suit pants and a black suit jacket, dress shirt from Van Heusan or DKNY. A pair of black leather dress shoes and black sunglasses tucked in a pocket and I look sharp enough to be selling sports cars. I drive a slightly nicer car, a Mitsubishi EVO VIII MR. A little less luxury, a little more driver's tool.

We live okay. We own our apartment, in a building with two doormen and two reserved parking spaces for every apartment. Three bedrooms. One we use as an office/study, another one is set aside as a guest bedroom. The master bedroom is enormous, with a big, wide fireplace and a four-poster bed. The master bathroom has a glass-enclosed shower big enough for two (although four or five could get in without bumping elbows, but all we have the taste for is two), and a similarly-sized jacuzzi tub. A spacious and well-equipped kitchen. Large living room for entertaining.

And my neighbors are all convinced I'm a drug dealer.

Her parents, who once loved me, are now a little uneasy. They don't like us living together. I take something of a rough and arrogant stance on the whole thing: When they're paying her tuition, room, and board, they can dictate her living arrangements. And until that time, don't glare at me because I'm screwing your daughter. Be glad that someone that loves her is doing it.

But yes...life is good. The food is good. The pot is good. The sex is good. No reason at all to want anything more.

It's just that, holy-fucking-Christ, I want to race. More than anything. Every now and then, I get a guy that comes in to the dealership and is really kinda wishy-washy about just what kind of performance you get for the money with one car or another, usually a car that's very pricey and very, very worth it, in my expert opinion. So I get the guy in whatever car he's looking at and drive down to a track just outside of town, and for fifteen minutes, I just beat on the poor car. Full 90-degree powerslides, hot laps and time attacks. A demonstration of the car's 0-100 acceleration followed up by an immediate display of brake torque when I show off the 100-0. Cap it all off with a slick burnout.

I usually sell the car that day.

It's slightly dishonest, of course. A professional driver can make a motherfucking Camry look good.

But back to the point...there's a race in Europe this summer. Not a GT-style thing, just a bunch of stock big-dollar sports cars making a tour. Starts in the United Kingdom, jumps to France, meanders into Germany, slides down into the Swiss Alps, creeps into Italy, and screams into Sicily for one final country road battle. It's all based on times, arranged in such a way that the cars are very unlikely to ever see each other except at the finish line. The races are mostly on specially-closed public roads, with the exception of Cirque de la Sarthe in France, where they run Le Mans every year. It also runs on Nuburgring (better known as Nuremburg) in Germany, which is technically a public toll road with no speed limit. I have two offers; one to drive a BMW M5, and the other to drive an Aston Martin DB9 coupe. I like the Aston a little better.

The pay for this hell ride is fifty grand. Winning doubles it to $100k. Lisa can't argue with the money, and she always wanted to see Europe, she says. This gives us plenty of time, four days in each place to spend together, and the races, including preparation time and practice runs, only takes a day. What's more, all transportation is taken care of in the form of the DB9.

What she can argue with me about is me getting hurt again. But this is entirely different circumstances. No car-to-car contact, no 170 mph JGTC speeds, none of that bullshit. Very simple, safe, easy road racing.

The only danger is the ever-present danger in racing. Driving a car, any car, at the outside edges of its performance envelope requires you to make thousands of tiny decisions a second, and if your desire to win overloads even one of those decisions, you'll crash and maybe die. Not to mention the fact that while you're making those decisions, you're calculating the forces and physics necessary to make the proper judgements.

And if at any point you find yourself thinking, "Hey, I'm doing it, I'm actually racing" or "No one could have strung those corners together the way I just did, I am the shit" you'll crash into a tree.

It's a fine edge, razor thin, and one I still hold. I was among the most skilled drivers the world has ever seen. The modern GT driver is exceeded in reaction times and precision only by the modern Indy car driver and Group C driver (Group C is the most Open of all the Open Classes; these things don't even look like cars, they're the supercars at Le Mans that have bubble canopies and cockpits and shit). Hell, by and large, GT, Indy, and Group C drivers are the most intelligent, trained, and talented athletes in the world. Think about it...at 170mph, we drive our cars inches apart. Even NASCAR can't boast that. There's no communication between cars. We just know the fastest line through a turn, and since we all follow it, no one touches. It's amazing, and when you're doing it, it's terrifying.

And that's why I need to get back out there...to prove I still have it. To prove I'm physically able to race, because plenty of people told me I never would, and everyone else said I'd never be able to, just not to my face. Either because I'd lose that edge mentally, or because I wouldn't be able to walk, much less drive a fast car.

For the record, I have no problem walking without my cane, I just choose to use it once in a while when my legs do act up. And also for the record, I ran a mile this morning.

The doctors told me I'd never walk unassisted again.

Part 3: Life

2005-09-29T00:14:00.000-05:00

On to happier times. Like now.

As I'm writing this, Lisa is asleep in bed, across the room. I can see her. Blonde hair, green eyes. Beautiful, creamy skin. My height minus a couple inches. Slim form, slender. I can lose myself kissing her neck. Sweet, innocent, nice. One of those just genuinely nice people.

I've got no idea what she's doing with me.

We met in the hospital. She was stuck in bed with a very low-grade back injury, and she'd fallen asleep and dropped her book. I was out on my twice-a-day shuffle around the place, using my IV tree like a sort of cane. No, more like a walker. I spotted her trying to reach the book--Bright Lights, Big City, a great novel, one of my personal favorites--and so I shuffled in, got my slippered foot underneath the book, and then lifted it up to the point where she could reach it. Said good-bye and you're-welcome and continued shuffling.

I got lonely the next day, so I went and visited her. And so it began. Visited every day. Met her folks. When she got out, she came and visited me. Brought me real food. Kissed me good-bye on my forhead. Wore pretty clothes so I knew that there were still nice things in the world, somewhere beyond all the misery and pain and IV drips and Japanese nurses and their annoying habit of always trying to help you use your damn bedpan even when you'd already told them you could do it yourself, even when you'd gotten to the point where you could make it to the little bathroom and use the toilet there without help.

I'd like to state, for the record, that never before have I had so many women trying to touch my penis, and it's the first time I've ever turned down a pretty girl that wanted to do that.

I got rolled out of the hospital in a wheelchair, dressed in one of my nicer black suits with a crimson shirt, and once I was outside, I stood up with my cane and started walking.

Lisa was waiting there for me.

Unfortunately, so were the Toyota jackasses trying to garner PR. About how they cared so much for me and wanted me to get better. There were cameras. I had my shot.

In Japanese, I said, "If you cared so much about me, why'd you fire me?"

Back in English, like I was some kind of simp that never picked up spoken Japanese: "You cannot drive."

A friend of mine was there with the pukes, and he had his 350Z with him. Very nice car, makes about 450hp of of a 275 base hp rating. I borrowed the keys, got in, and peeled out of where he'd parked it. Screamed around the corner in a nice drift, circled the block that way, and screched to a halt in front of the cameras. To be honest, I was surprised that I was able to do that. It hurt like hell. But it was good for the cameras.

I left in a nice car with a driver. And Lisa, of course.

Skip ahead through some more time. Things progressed. Her dad worked in the Tokyo headquarters of some US corporation, so she stayed with them. Once she spent the night with me at my hotel room.

We are very much together. We have an apartment here. We go to the same college. We sleep in the same bed every night. I'm discovering my skills as a cook. I'm playing my role very neatly. I'm doing my best to be a good man.

But I want to drive again. I miss it. Most of all, I want to go out and whup the shit out of the guy they got to replace me. It's about honor and ego and all the other good things I used to cherish so much. I know some people that would give me the chance.

Lisa is what keeps me from going out again. She deserves a normal life instead of one spent either missing me, hating me, or following me around foreign countries. It just wouldn't be fair to her. She would let me do it in a heartbeat, but I just can't stand to be anything but the kind of guy I know I'm not for her.

She makes me better than that. The way she makes me feel...her head resting on my bare chest, that kiss, that smile, those eyes...the way she cradles my head when the pain comes (and it still does).

I'm going to go to bed now. I'll slip in next to her and she'll put her head on my chest and her arm around me and I'll kiss her and whisper that I love her. And in the morning, we'll wake up together, and I'll go on trying to be a man worthy of her, an endless crusade I know I'll lose, but an effort she deserves.

The Crash: Part 2

2005-09-20T22:39:00.000-05:00

I don't remember the impact itself. There's a rather large and annoying blank spot right about there.

Here's what I do remember: I was cutting around the inside of an NSX on the tail end of a high-speed S-curve. Then one of my observers said something about a Skyline coming up on my inside. The automatic part of my brain handled the driving while the part that thinks about things thought that there was no way this particular Skyline could outturn my Supra, especially at the speed we were doing, and especially since the driver was really, really bad at warding off understeer--

--crunch. That's the sound of a Skyline hitting the rear wheel fender panel. The Supra lost all traction in the back, skidded sideways, and plowed right off the track. No grip on any of the tires. No brakes. Yanking the anti-roll bar lever and clicking them all the way loose did nothing. Neither did the handbrake. Or jamming down on the throttle, or any of the things I did in the five seconds in between the impact of the Skyline and the time I slammed into the wall at one hundred and seventy miles an hour.

Crashes at that speed, with the zero deflection I had, are categorized as 100% lethal. Meaning that no matter what kind of safety equipment you have or your physical conditioning, you will not survive. You could crash and be in surgery at Walter Reid or Johns Hopkins within a minute and there's not a damn thing even they could do. You might survive the crash itself, but the wounds will be far too severe to live through. Frankly, you're lucky if they don't have to hose you out of the car.

The last thing I remember is seeing the giant ad stuck on the wall speeding towarsds my car and thinking, "Death is coming, and it is a goddamn PIAA billboard. I don't even like PIAA's shit, and I'm going to become a splatter on their billboard."

I closed my eyes just before I hit, and that's about where my memory stops.

The next thing I can remember experiencing is coming to in the car. My legs felt really funny. My stomach hurt. I had a really bad headache. My helmet felt kind of funny, and that was because my head had split it in two. All the vision in my right eye was clouded red. There was blood pretty much everywhere. I had been splattered all over the inside of the car, but most of the important stuff stayed put. It was just blood splattered everywhere. Mostly.

The first track rescue guy darted up to my window a few seconds later. I turned a little to look at him (the Head And Neck Restraint System--HANS--was broken), and he threw up. I got told later that I had said to him, "I think I'm hurt pretty bad" and that he threw up because he didn't think I could possibly be alive, much less conscious, and much much less able to speak.

Once he started wretching, my head slumped forward (I couldn't hold it up anymore) and noticed that my right thigh had a funny little S-curve to it that I didn't think it was supposed to have. That, and I could see the bones in my leg. They hadn't really so much been pushed through the skin as the skin and muscle had been mangled off the bone by the car collapsing around me.

I passed out again, and I wasn't awake for a week.

Let's go through my specific injuries, shall we? To keep things organized, I'll start at the bottom and work my way up:

-most of my toes were broken
-right ankle badly sprained
-left tibula (shinbone) broken, compound fracture through the skin
-right femur (thighbone) broken, bone twisted apart, open tear wound
-hairline fracture in pelvis
-three vertibrae in lower back were knocked out of alignment
-two ruptured discs in my back
-most of my internal organs were bruised, my right lung was partially collapsed
-both shoulders were dislocated by the safety harness
-my right arm was broken
-two seperate hairline fractures in my skull
-I suffered a concussion, bruising and swelling of the brain, and there was fluid in between my brain and my skull which required a shunt to drain

I had open brain surgery, a bunch of other surgeries, and some other stuff I'm still not sure about. I should have died, by all rights. Fully three-quarters of my blood found its way out of my body, but they were able to run enough into me to keep my body going.

When I did wake up, the first thing I saw was a cute-looking Japanese nurse sponging off my bare chest, and a whole lot of angry little black lines on my skin there that had apparently appeared during the big black space.

Leave a damn comment. I'm fairly bored.

Hurt

2005-09-20T02:44:00.000-05:00

Sorry for not having written in so long. I've been in the hospital.

Crashes suck. Really hard crashes at a hundred and fifty into concrete walls suck even more. They have a funny tendency to break both the car and you.

Now here's the problem: When you're broken, you can't race. The company still has to pay you, but you're worthless. Never mind the fact that you just won them two championships and a manufacturer's title, you're just an expensive, battered lump of expense. And what's worse, they have to pay your medical bills. On top of that, you also just busted their umpteen-million-dollar car.

So what happens is, if you're still broken at contract renewal time, you lose your job.

Oh, they still pay your medical bills and they're nice enough to send you home in a first-class seat, but you're still out of work.

I fired my agent.

So now I'm going to school. Driving a nice car and living in a nice apartment, though. And I've got some gigs to work, with the possibility of maybe getting back into the game. But for now, I'm happy to be walking. I won't go into detail about my injuries, but they were pretty bad. The doctors were telling my folks, it's fifty-fifty he'll make it. I asked them on the side, alone.

They gave me one in ten.

No coma, just agonizing pain for three months straight because they're too damn afraid of killing you to give you painkillers. Coma would have been nice. Instead I was awake the whole time. Swelling in the brain, spinal injuries, damage to internal organs...note that there's no detail, just a rough sketch. I wanted to die. Very much so. Fuckers wouldn't let me.

So now I walk with a cane. It's not too bad. I can drive just fine (it's my right leg, which is used for the gas pedal alone if you're a serious driver, because you use your left foot for both braking and clutch). I can move pretty quick when I want to, so that means I still have the chance to drive. It just hurts to really move.

I met a nice girl. Her name is Lisa. Absolutely gorgeous and smart as a whip. Shes not just some sleazy lay like all the othes were. I love her. I think she might love me. Doesn't care about the limp and the cane. Doesn't care about the fairly gruesome scars, either, or the fact that I'm an asshole. I've even told her everything about the way I was, and that doesn't seem to matter much.

So I figure, I better get a ring on this girl quick. Funny thing is, I'm only half-kidding.

Now write some comments dammit, so I can kill a few minutes responding to them later.

Carvakan Materialism

2005-04-16T02:12:00.000-05:00

So I haven't been on much lately. Sue me, I don't get paid for this, and it won't get me laid, so excuse me if it's rather low on my priority list.

Starting to really hate NSXs. I mean really, really hate them. It's given that I really hate Skylines (any team that runs a Skyline just has too much goddamn money). I couldn't give two shits about any of the European grand touring cars...those guys are all a bunch of poor bastards, trying to lug around a bunch of family sedans. Except for the Mercedes-Benz CLK car, I really hate those guys. And everyone I'm hating just happens to be the guys that have been kicking my ass.

We can't afford to fix some of the things that are wrong with our car. We can keep it running, but major modifications are out of the question. We're limited to 600-hp, which is really a lot, but nowhere near what any of these teams can make out of their engines. So the goal is to make a peak of 600 as close to the torque peak as we can manage, and to keep the horsepower lines and the torque lines as horiztonal as possible. In other words, make a lot of power everywhere along the tach. Very doable, with such terriffic engines. We could be doing that a lot better, if we had some more money to play around with. And I mean a lot more money. But we don't. Winning races doesn't help; we don't get paid money for that. We get money from sponsors, from pasting little stickers everywhere on our car. If I could put a sponsor's decal over the entire windshield, I would. I'd never win a race, and have to sort of bump around the course until I finished. With the mandatory restraints, HANS head and neck restraint system, helmet, and the car's cramped interior, it's impossible to stick your head out the side without undoing all the restraints (which gets you fined big-time), and then removing or tilting up the steering wheel. I'm lucky, my steering wheel just pops off once you twist a little bolt, just like the rich Jap bitches with the Nismo-Xanavi 350Z, the Motul-Pitwork 350Z, and the Motul-Pitwork Skyline GT-R. The ones that only tilt up are a real pain in the ass to squeeze out of, even for racers (who are, almost without exception, just the tiniest, skinniest guys on the team).

It's funny...we've got no money to buy a new engine or anything, but every time we step off the plane, and after we get the car and the truck (sometimes trucks, if it's a really big-deal race) of equipment to the track, it's always back to another nice hotel, always at least three stars, four a lot of the time, and once in a while, a really posh five-star. The entire team then proceeds to make long-distance international calls to their families, while I go get a massage, and charge it to the sponsors. Then I go to the bar and order expensive drinks and let TRD pick up the tab. Many times, I buy drinks for women there, some of them old enough to be my mother, if they had me in high school. What do I care? Someone else is paying the tab, and I don't get paid enough as it is. So I might as well cover the gap between what I am getting and what I should be getting in alcohol, massages, dinners, so on and so forth. Many times, on my next visit to Tokyo, me and the higher-ups will have a nice little discussion.

JAPANESE GUY: How could you possible drink [checks bill] thirty-eight Long Island iced teas?
ME: There was a nice woman there.
JAPANESE GUY: How could she possibly drink thirty-eight Long Island iced teas?
ME: She had friends.
JAPANESE GUY: So you tried to sleep with all of them?
ME: No, just the one. But I wasn't about to leave anyone out in the cold in terms of drinks. That would be ungentlemanly. And besides, they weren't my type.
JAPANESE GUY:Mr. Red, if I've learned one thing from these bills, it's that you don't have a type.
ME: Of course I do. I don't like ugly chicks.

Heh-heh. Jack Red, male chauvinist pig. No, I'm just looking for my kicks, since my kicks are about all I've got left. The Carvaka school of Indian philisophy were materialists. They said that hell was a life of boring, mundane pain without a purpose, rhyme, or reason. Instead, they said, one should pursue pleasure within practical limits...fine food, drink, music, and sex.

And I, for one, agree.

Broken Cars

2005-04-03T01:23:00.000-06:00

Sorry I haven't been on in so long. Been coasting around a couple different places. Came really close to beating the Xanavi-Nismo GT-R (which would have been an enormous upset). Unfortunately, the car broke, and broke badly. The driveshaft snapped like a toothpick at practically peak RPM, overspun the engine, blew out the tranny. Didn't completely destroy the thing, just screwed it up to the point where we said "Fuck it" and threw it away. And the turbo threw a bearing in all this. Finally, this happened in the middle of a turn, and it spun the car out. The right rear tire hit the red-and-white curbing with enough weight pushing down on that tire that the strut blew out.

Fuck me. Till I die.

So we got a DNF on that race, and then had a crazy-ass drive-through-the-night-and-try-and-fix-the-car thing. Just crammed our wreck of a vehicle into the trailer, and the crew guys went to work. They can jack the thing up on a lift back in there, and work under it. It's wide enough that for the car to fall down and crush them, it'd have to punch through the sides of the trailer. But it's not going to do that because it's locked and chained in place. Swap the tranny in two hours, fix the turbo in forty-five minutes, driveshaft in half and hour, and another thirty minutes for the strut.

And we're back in action. Cost: More than a small European car. Well, a couple small Europeans cars.

We're back in Europe. Again. Competing in some damn championship or another, a small touring one. World championship, all cars of all GT classes. Pretty much every central European coutnry that makes cars: France, Italy, and Germany. And you know, not one of them makes decent food.

Ridiculous Speed

2005-03-09T01:00:00.000-06:00

Good race. Fuckin` amazing race.

Last lap, just getting out from a yellow flag. I'd pitted in, had enough gas for two or three more laps. Really it was for tires. I had enough of a gap between me and the third car that I didn't have to worry, so I just asked for the grippiest tires we had and prayed the NSX in first needed something. I'd calculated he needed a couple gallons of gas and some new tires.

Thank God I was right. He swapped out for his high-grip tires, too, seeing that I was going to push him to hell and back.

Pulled out under green and redlined it. We were tight. My tires were a touch grippier, and that kept us neck-and-neck, since he was helped along by the MR drivetrain layout.

There was a long, long Sarth-style straight before the final chicane-to-hairpin. We both screamed up to 200 mph. Actually, it was probably faster, but I stopped looking at the speedo. We ran side-by-side. He was so low that his slipstream wouldn't have helped me, and I wasn't content to stick behind him. My car was actually a touch faster.

Mashed the brakes at the absolute last instant. I could feel my eyeballs pulling out from their sockets. Hell, I could hear the frame creak as the engine pulled forward under the g-load. Right at the end, I noticed a strange orange glow coming from all four wheelwells. The brake discs usually glow a faint orange under really heavy braking, so I thought nothing of it. There was some screaming over the radio, but the crew chief always screams. It's practically his job.

Won it with a gap of maybe .09 seconds. A literal blink of the eye. I braked again (there was a turn coming up) and noticed the tires were shot. Had that feel of driving on ice. So I bailed into the grass.

Popped loose from the restraints and got out of the car. The orange glow wasn't the discs, it was the pads. They had caught fire, all four of them. The left rear tire had also caught fire from the burning pad. Thank God the grass was wet. And thank God for fire extinguishers. Drove the car so hard she caught fire from the abuse. I love that damn thing. The gas tank had just the faintest puddle in the bottom.

The Japanese driver that was behind the wheel of the NSX caught up to me a little after the race. I'm not sure, but I think the only English word he knows is "motherfucker".

I don't know any bad words in Japanese, so I just smiled.

Cry, Bitch

2005-03-06T03:13:00.000-06:00

I'm going to take a detour from my usual cars-and-babes stuff. But it's important.

A Muslim family in New Jersey (Jersey City, to be precise, my hometown and the world's worst hellhole, beating out Tehran and New Delhi by a hair) was brutally murdered a little while ago. Execution-style. Bound, throats cut.

The youngest daughter, I might add, was tortured until her father gave up the PIN to his ATM card. When she broke free and recognized the...perpetrators (there's a real bad taste in my mouth when I say that) they cut her throat, ear to ear. Then they did the rest of the family. Five or six total, I believe. Did the father last.

I knew them. They were good people.

I also know the two guys that did it. They are not good people. Two Filipino hoods, the kind of cheap punks that usually populate gangs. Good with weapons but not too smart. One was renting an upstairs apartment from the victims.

They arraigned them a couple days ago. One was bawling over it.

Funny, asshole. Did the little one cry like that when you two did what you did? Or did she just scream through the gag? Or did she not have the energy for any of it? How about the mother? The sister? The brother? What'd you do to her? Break fingers, bones? Cut her? Pull out her fingernails? Rape her, too?

I know the Jersey City cops. I am very surprised they brought you in alive. Very surprised. They do not like this kind of shit.

New Jersey does not have a death penalty. Well, they do, but the liberals in power put a moratorium on it. The bastards. Although if there was ever a case to bring the needle back to the Garden State, this is it. The people of New Jersey have a limit. And right now, they are very, very pissed-off. But it won't go through. They'll never execute anybody in that goddamn state.

But I have hope. The inmates of New Jersey are a little like the cops: They, also, do not like this kind of shit. So stop crying, asshole, and fucking smile: You're gonna get to be everybody's favorite bitch.

Beware the Japanese

2005-03-02T18:16:00.000-06:00

Sport Compact Car magazine (www.sprotcompactcarweb.com) did two stories on Nismo Grand Touring Cars this month. It was a total, "Hey, let's all give Nismo a b-j!"

Nissan Motorsports, known as Nismo to anyone who knows which pedal makes the car go vroom-vroom, has a huge array of racecars out there, and they are my sworn rivals. Literally. One of the Japanese drivers decided I'm his primary rival in life and occasionally screams things in Japanese, whether or not we're out in public. And he gives me the finger any time I pass or he passes me.

But mostly, I just f*cking hate the Nismo guys. They're not cool. The Nismo Motul-Pitwork Skyline JGTC is my most-hated car. OOooh, I hate those motherf*ckers. They've got a car that so totally cheats without actually breaking the rules. Grand Touring Car racing was designed to so every car resembled, in profile, the production model it was based on. But the Motul-Pitwork Skyline has been heavily modified due to new rule changes allowing lower hood and roof heights. they moved the entire passenger area back and relocated the engine so it's behind the front axle, which gives them a huge advantage. And the goddamn thing looks like a Skyline in the same way that a Chevrolet SSR looks like a Silverado.

Also, they're assholes. They're sitting on a race program that costs Nismo alone $60 million a year. Never mind the other sponsors. Their car costs $2 million. In other words, our total annual budget is equal to what one of their cars costs. And they destroy quite a few.

Finally, they whine. A lot. They just had a GT-style race in California, and the teams were all bitching that the "substandard American track" was covered in dust which prevented their cars from pulling more than 1.5g. See, on a really good track, a touring car has 2.5-3 g's of lateral grip. That means that there is 2.5 to 3 times as much force pushing the car sideways in a turn as there is pushing it down.

My car does that. It depends on what specific compound tire we select, downforce settings, exact suspension settings, and if we have any ballast added (if you win a race, you have to add a certain amount of weight to your car; this is gay, but it keeps it from being a championship won by the same team every race), but most of the time, the car breaks free at 2.7g. And it's really hard to put 2.7g on a car.

And worse, it hurts to do 2.7g After every race, I usually have bruises wherever I was strapped down. You can feel the blood rushing around your head. It requires all of your attention not to drive into a wall, and meanwhile, you've got a migraine headache.

So if we ever get to a track that only lets my car pull 1.5g, I'm gonna kiss the tarmac.

Why NASCAR Sucks

2005-02-26T00:10:00.000-06:00

Nascar sucks because everyone wears a polo shirt and khakis and makes ten million dollars a year. There. I said it.

Especially this Jeff Gordon motherf**ker. Hate that prick. After his wife supported his sorry ass and dragged her and her kids all over the bloody country so Jeffy can live his little car-race fantasy and make ten million bucks without really working, Jeffy cheated on her. Asshole.

Fooling around might as well be an official event in most of autosport. Hell, as obscure as true GT racing is (compared to NASCAR alone, we're a speck; compared to NASCAR and NHRA drag racing, we're nothing), at every race worth going to, there's at least a handful of young women as close to the pits as they can get, breathing in all that exhaust and burnt rubber and cooked motor oil, dolled up in tight little halters and jeans. Sometimes they're only girls; I once saw a pretty little thing that couldn't have been older than 17 out there...and if any of my fellow assholes went near her, I was planning on kicking his ass.

I'm no angel...every chance I get, you know? But I'd kill for something approaching a steady relationship. Gordon broke the rules. He had a steady thing, he was goddamn married with kids, and he picked up some floozy. No one gives a shit either way if it's a single guy playing the field, and why should we? Lord knows he's wearing a condom, because when you make a living driving a 170-mph car, you tend to be extraordinarily careful in all areas of life.

Gordon's first sin: Cheating on a woman that sincerely loved him. Gordon's second sin: Beyond a polo-shirt wearing NASCAR prick.

When I have to go visit the business guys at Toyota, I wear a dark suit. No khakis, no sneakers, no polo shirts, no blazers: A suit. For one thing, it's a business meeting, and these people are paying me to do a job. It's my responsibility to look presentable. For another, I'm there as a businessman, a professional. Anything less would be below the role I'm playing there.

But any other time, I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Or a button-down sport shirt and jeans. My clothes all come from Bullhead, Quicksilver, Volcom, Hurley, or the like. My entire wardrobe comes from PacSun. I don't care if I'm visiting the R&D boys or talking to magazine guys or just wandering around the pit, that's what I wear. Polo shirts are for golf.

Gordon's third sin: He does not sign enough autographs, and he does not shake hands with the public, the people who are really responsible for his ten million bucks a year.

I love the public. You guys are awesome. You take one of the eight days a month you have off and you come down and you just watch me drive a car. It's because of public interest in racing that I have a job doing this. If no one cared, the number of teams fielding cars would be cut in half and all the drivers would be rich guys who like driving cars fast. So thanks. There are times when I'm practically moved to tears by all the people in the stands that came down just to watch us drive. All of us, from the drivers to the guys in the pit to the managers, owe everything to the people who come to watch.

And I really love kids. None of them know who I am. None of them care who I am. I'm a guy who gets in this awesome-looking car and screams around a tarmac circuit. Before every race, I go out to the bottom of the stands and hang out with the kids. The adults have no idea who I am, and don't care either. But the kids will filter down and ask for autographs and handshakes. I'll sign hats, t-shirts, whatever. I've got a little pad in my jacket pocket in case they don't have paper. If one of them knows who I am, he gets the jacket. Just before I go away, I pick some young kid and give him my hat. What do I care? The jacket and the hat both come from the sponsors, and they love me for handing out their advertisements like that. Good for PR. I just figure I owe the kids something. No one expects anyone to go out and do all that crap every single race; it's a pain in the ass to walk all the way from the pit to the stands, a distance that can be as far as half a mile each way, and the time just before a race is better spend studying course notes for a few minutes or looking over the car a few more times. But once in a while, you damn well better either hike or catch a ride on one of the pickups that the track workers use.

Gordon, on the other hand, would rather sleep in a few more minutes.

So let's compare...I make fifty grand a year doing this (which is low by any standard for a all-year-round pro-GT driver). I can't get a real girlfriend because I'm never in one place long enough. My car gets "refurbished" every season because we can't afford to build a new one that often. We make do on one engine a year, and by the time we're done, it's completely beat to shit. We drive anywhere we have to go, unless it's overseas. We've got an six-year-old tractor trailer that hauls all of our gear and is just big enough to hold the car, too. Sometimes the crew guys spend all night riding back in there, trying to fix the car for the next race after the damn thing breaks. Everyone else rides in a beat-up van that breaks about as often.

Jeff Gordon makes at least ten mil a year, and a lot more in endorsements. He's one of the highest-paid men in autosport, period. He had a wife and kids that followed him from race to race in a half-million-dollar Winnebego, until he cheated on his wife. He uses two or three different cars during the course of a season, not because they go bad all that quickly, but because he breaks them a lot and they've got the cash to replace them just as soon as performance even so much as seems like it's going down. He flies if the races are far apart (first class, no doubt) or rides in his Winnebego.

But at the end of the day, my car is faster.

2005-02-20T00:18:00.000-06:00

So ya'll wanted pics? You got your stinkin` pics. If I remember correctly, that's a Motorsport Elise behind the Supra. And then there's some stupid GT-LM supercar in the foreground (that blue thing on the right side). It's heavily waxed in the pic(practically a full jar), which we don't do for racing. When it hits the track, it gets a double coat to help the aerodynamics a little bit, and to keep road grit from soiling the sponsors decals. Please note that this picture was taken back in the days when I was sponsored by those dumbasses at Bridgestone. Other changes include different wheels and a slight scoop on the hood to accomodate a larger turbo. Intercooler is water-to-air deal whenever it's really hot out, with an air-to-air one when the air temperature is under seventy degrees.

In other news, Californa sucks. It really, really sucks.

350Z vs. Supra

2005-02-19T01:45:00.000-06:00

Hell of a race the other day. Just an expo thing, no championship points involved, but it's a race. Somoene wins, everyone else loses. I lost, but I put on a really good show, and did okay. Third really isn't bad at all, in the grand scheme of things, especially when you run the last two laps with a malfunctioning turbocharger.

I rode second for most of the race, with a clear gap in between me and the 350Z that was in third. But towards the end of the race, my tires started to go (I've never been all that good at keeping rubbers fresh; I drive too hard for too long), and he pulled up on me. He doesn't like me and I don't like him. Unreconcilable differences. Like he's an asshole.

So he starts riding right up on my bumper. I'm talking, I can't even see his grill. He's pulling up inside of me on turns, all sorts of stupid stuff. So I dogged him back. Cut a corner a little tighter and forced him to brake almost to a stop and then make the turn behind me. He came out in fourth. I was edging up for the win when my turbocharger blew a bearing or two and just siezed up. It still worked, but only barely. I fell back to third behind an Acura. It sucked, but I'm not gonna complain.

Nascar-Smashcar

2005-02-14T21:54:00.000-06:00

Ha-ha. Nice work, NASCAR boys. Ya'll can't drive, sons! In the future, you may want to learn how to do right turns. This is not a new phenomena. The NASCAR boys tried to race at Sears Point last year. There were like six or seven car-breaking crashes. Everyone's car was smashed up to one degree or another.

And now they're out flipping themselves and crashing into photographers on a goddamn regular old oval track. Went into the pit lane too fast, hit a buncha people, that's just dumb. Dude! You drive around in a circle for an hour at 170 mph, braking to 110-130 twice a lap, your brakes will get hot. Your tires will go bald (and NASCAR-type slicks are pretty bare to begin with). Hot brakes and bald tires mean no brakey-brakey. You really gotta ease in and apply engine braking (by downshifting) while slowly laying on the brakes. I figure it's either that, or the fool came in too hot and too hard, realized he was going too fast, and slammed on the brakes, instantly sending his wheels into full lock. Full lock really, really sucks.

Thanks for pointing out another miserable NASCAR catastrophe, guys. Truth be told, I really don't pay much attention to them. Different industries. They sell beer and "natural male enhancement" drugs. I sell coil-over suspensions and turbos.

But come on! Those photographers shouldn't have been standing there. It's an unwritten law...we're out to race as hard as we can because our livelihoods and the livelihoods of other people rely on us pushing the car. The photographers take pictures because that's their job. Sure, they're going to get close and try and go for good angles. And that means they're going to be right in the thick of the action. But they're supposed to keep a barrier in between themselves and us. Or get above the track. Anything to make sure there's never a line from a car to them.

So to hell with `em all...the driver sucks cuz he can't drive and probably shouldn't be behind the wheel. The photographers suck cuz they're f*cking morons.

In other news, I had a very fine Valentine's Day back in the U-S-of-f*cking-A. Actually, I just had a really nice dinner with a girl I knew and liked from high school, although she couldn't care less if I was alive or not. Why did I do this? Because at the end of the night, it's fun to turn my back on the girl that stood me up one year ago today. Heh, yeah, I was a pale and skinny bugger back in the day. So she stood me up on Valentine's day, the cold heartless bitch. But man...it's all worth it now. Take her out, have dinner with her, let her see me and my nice shiny new muscles and skin, my cool-ass life...and then just dropping her off at her dorm room. No interest whatsoever, and this was the kind of girl that's not used to guys not being interested.

Heh, payback's a real bitch, ain't she? If only every rejected loser had the chance...

Party Like a Rockstar

2005-02-05T20:57:00.000-06:00

Thank you, all, for commenting. keeps one going with this thing. Feel free to continue doing so, or not...either way, just need to know if anyone's reading this.

Ford GT40, circa 1970. Absolutely amazing car. Doesn't even look like it should run. Very well-balanced car...just a little bit of understeer, which is what you want on a vehicle with that much power. And you know how everyone says that they called it the GT40 because it's only 40 inches high? They're right.

I got to drive one for an off-the-reservation race here in central Europe. Open road autocross in vintage sports cars. Nothing younger than 25 years. Stingray Corvettes, vintage Ferraris and Masserattis, old Porches and classic Jags, MGs, and Aston Martins. A few old Mustangs, and the 40. A team that was running the old beauty had their driver drop out over something silly, and I ducked in.

Eh. No time to practice except for a few turns to get a feel for the steering. The rule, I found, as to look at the posted limit for turns, and then enter them at twice the number on the signs plus five mph. Slow enough that the car doesn't break loose and go for a slide (and when this baby slides, there's no getting her back), fast enough that you don't wish you came in harder.

Anyways, it was a hundred miles on two- to four-lane roads that ran through forests, hills, valleys, along streams, and right through towns. Unsafe as hell, that's for sure. You could be driving along a long, straight and wide one minute and be working your way up or down one-lane switchbacks perched on the side of cliffs the next.

Very fun, all around. I won my class, but it was mostly the car.

Well...I'm out of Germany. So long, nice to know ya. That girl I met there is still in my black book. When we both ge back to America, I'm probly going to look her up. In the meantime, it's back to the "So Cal Loco" life:

Here we go again
Callin` on a good friend
Slippin` on a rye
Pickin` up a 40-ounce cuz my mouth's dry
Boardwalk
Hustlers with their cheap talk
Trying to find the time on their Tijuana knock offs
Hookin` up with the b-dub crew
The hottest setting up for a front row view
Knockin back laughs and a bottle or two
Just watchin` that ass as it rolls on through

(chorus)
Life is short, son
Better have some fun
Party like a rock star, kick a little ass
Crack a cold one
Snap a fat one in the midday sun
Rockin` like a porn star, slap a little ass
Life is short, son
Better have some fun
Party like a rock star, kick a little ass
Crack a cold one
Snap a fat one in the midday sun
Rockin` like a porn star, slap a little ass
Crack a cold one
Snap a fat one in the So Cal sun
Rockin` like a porn star, slap a little ass
Full-blown knuckleheads, So Cal Loco

Licquor like octane
Soaking in my membrane
I might be cracked but I still can throw
So come out the dice
It's a three-bone night
Bankin` at the table, fools still don't know
So I school a little crash course
Show `em what they're in for
People gather round for a ring-side view
Hypin` up the show
I shake `em up then let them go
Four-five-six bling-bling see low!

(chorus)

Now I must say that I'm feelin` fine
Money in my pocket and girls on my mind
No, I'm not talkin` about a true romance
Eighteen, go low, and a table dance
Because it's really kinda funny
If you drop a little money
How the ladies start a buzzin` like a bee does to the honey
It's all about makin` them home-town laughs
Party like a rock star, kick a little ass

(chorus)

Random B-S

2005-01-30T21:39:00.000-06:00

Still kicking around here, and will be for the forseeable future. My next stop is going to be Florida, Mexico, California, and maybe a race or two in California. Thank God...it's cold as shit here.

Got into a pretty good fistfight with one of the other drivers today. See, most of the time, drivers and crews are pretty cool with each other. But in my case, everyone except my guys pretty much hates me because at my age, they were still playing around with the cars their parents got `em. So they like to tap the ass end of my car in races. One guy did that for half a frickin` race while I was in the lead, so I eventually got sick and tired of it and hooked my rear bumper across the lip of his front bumper, ripping it clean off. And since the front bumper provides downforce to keep the front tires glued to the road during high speed turns (by the function of air flowing over it and pushing the front of the car down), he slipped back into fifth place.

Anyways, this thing today was nothin`. He said something to me, I said something back, he swung at me, I knocked him down. He's like twice my age, he should know better.

They're retiring my car after the '05 season. In '06, they're gonna launch us in a 2007 model year Toyota Supra, which isn't really the same as the 1992 Supra. The `92 Supra is a $40,000 sports car powered by a V6. The `07 Supra is a $100,000 supercar powered by a 600-hp V10. I'm sorry, but I can't see the resemblence, and I'm not going to drive this new monstrosity.

Instead, I found an elegant solution. And I do mean elegant. Jaguar is willing to pick me up to race in their new XK8 American Touring Car. As a bonus, I get a free used XKR coupe out of the deal, and the racing season is only from March until August. So I can go to Yale for a full school year and then go pull a full season of racing.

Oh, and I'm seeing Lisa, the American college girl I met the other day. Very nice girl, loves cars as much as I do. Yes, I kissed her. No, I am still not trying to sleep with her. You perverts.

Oh, and if you're reading this, drop me a comment so I know someone is. And don't be afraid to drop one int here whenever, I'm always bored as shit, so I'll probably answer unless you just call me a faggot or something stupid like that. In which case I'll just kill your mother.

Nuremburg

2005-01-25T05:31:00.000-06:00

Yes, that's right. I don't have an off-season. One of those would be really sweet. In spring I race in the warmer parts of the US and (once in a while) Mexico. When summer rolls around, I go and hit colder areas of the US, Europe, and Japan. When fall hits, I go back to the southern US and Mexico. And in winter, I get shipped out to a test facility with some technicians and my crew chief to tune and set up the car. See, every season, we incorporate the newest technology into the damn thing, and that means we have to completely re-work the car's baseline tune settings. That baseline produces the handling characteristics I like (neutral over/understeer unless you pump the gas a little) and gets the most out of the car. Using the baseline settings, the car is then tweaked for each track it runs on. So it's always minimizing its weaknesses and maximizing its advantages.

Anyways, Germany is a pretty cool place. I speak the language pretty well, but I can't read it worth a damn, although I know what einbahnstrassen means (one-way street). The people are generally nice enough, and the girls are amazing.

And then there's my bling. I'm staying at a fairly upscale hotel (thank you O Great Sponsors), with a big suite all to myself. Two rooms, a living room and a big bedroom. When I started, I used to sleep in the pit garage most of the time, or in the car, or in the trailer, depending on where we were. And when we're on tour, I still do that because there's just no time to drive from a hotel to the track or get driven or whatever. But for the short time I'll be here, the people that pay the bills have me pretty well set up. Toyota Racing Development (TRD) is dropping lots of green and a pile of free parts and tools on us because they're reintroducing the Toyota Supra in the 2007 model year. It's not going to be like the 1992-era Supra, though. Rather than being powered by a V6 like the original, this one is going to have a V10 or 12 that produces, at minimum, 500-hp. Probly 600-hp. As much as I love my sponsor (and I hope they don't read this) the new car just isn't a Supra.

And then there's the ride I "obtained" for personal use. Funny story about that. I decided I really wanted a car to tool around the Autobahn in. And pick up girls in. And I wanted it to be smooth and fast. So I caught a ride to this place that rents very high-class upscale sport and luxury cars to the fabulously wealthy. I introduced myself, offered to do a photo shoot and little promo kit for them (get a couple of pictures taken in their place and some video of me driving one of their cars), and they agreed to let me take the black RUF R-Turbo. I wasn't about to take some piece of shit Bentley. At first, when I told them I wanted an RUF, they tried to palm off a crappy 3400S on me, thinking that I'd be dumb enough to believe that that was their only RUF car. This thing is nice though, terrific handling. Goes from zero to sixty in under four seconds (I'm guessing here, it's only a touch slower than my race-built Supra), and reaches a top speed of maybe 220 mph. And yes, I did 220 on the Autobahn. One of the unrestricted-speed zones. Because contrary to popular belief, certain stretches do have speed limits, although the limits are something like 80 or 90 mph.

Tonight I'm going to go hit a bar or two with my plaything, see if I can find a girl to pick up. You know, everyone would like to believe that it's not the truth, but being a racecar driver and cruising around in a quarter of a million dollar sports car certainly does help a guy out in dealings with unatached members of the female persuasion.

The Cost of Dreams

2005-01-23T05:00:00.000-06:00

I got my first car at 16. It was a 1992 Volkswagon Golf GL that made 85-hp. It was a good car. I restored it to factory condition, and was happy. Then I added a soundsystem, and was happier. Then I tuned and turbocharged the engine until it made 170-hp, and was happier still.

I was a straight-A student. I had a smart, funny, loving, beautiful girlfriend. I had a good relationship with my parents. I had a good-sized circle of friends who liked and respected me. I had a future. By senior year of high school, I was kicking around town in a Ford Focus ZX3 2.3L 16V that I had tuned up to 250-hp from a base 145. I had been offered free rides to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Dartmouth, and planned on going to Yale. I was going to be a lawyer.

And then I won a contest. The prize was two laps in a pro race car at Mazda's Laguna Seca Raceway in California. I thought it was awesome. I'd already been racing first the VW and then the Ford at tracks (and illegally on the street every now and then), and had a good two and a half years of racing experience under my belt.

I got out to Laguna Seca, and got into the car. It was a Mazda RX-7 Le Mans car. I was thrilled. I'd converted the Focus from front to rear-wheel drive, so I knew how to handle the oversteer that came with RWD. They told me to take it easy. I did...on the first lap. I took every turn wide and slow, getting a feel for the pavement.

On lap two, I floored it. The car was beautiful. It responded perfectly. I was in heaven. It sounds silly, but I was one with the car. It was the hottest of hot laps, all the while with the crew chief and the PR guy screaming at me over the radio. I didn't care; I'd won two laps, and I was going to use them.

They were pretty mad. Well, that's an understatement. They were livid. I thought they were going to shoot me.

And then they checked the lap time. I'd broken the car's record at Laguna Seca.

That attracted the attention of people, who made calls to other people, and before long I was offered a free ride at the Skip Barber School of Racing, wherre I excelled. A few more hot laps and evaluations later, and I was given an offer...a lead driving spot behind the wheel of an 600-hp Toyota Supra identical in design to the JGTC Castrol Supra, except faster. It was my dream shot.

The catch? I'd have to leave behind Yale, my girlfriend, my friends, my parents, and my life. I'd have to ride around the country, never staying in one place longer than it took to do a qualification run and pull a race. I'd have to give my life up. So I did. It hurt.

Today, I have few friends in the world: a 600-hp Toyota Supra, my pit crew, my crew chief, and my manager. I don't have a car because I don't make all that much, and I don't have much of a home to keep a car at, anyway. I live on the road, in cheap dirtbag motels or in a garage alongside the pits. I have random, fleeting affairs with a strange assortment of girls I fall into bed with. Girls looking to tug at the cape of...whatever it is they think I have. It's always safe sex (one thing racing teaches you is to be safe in everything you do; life is terribly short and can end in the blink of an eye, which is as long as it takes you to slam into a wall at 185 mph), but I never see them again. My world is a nightmare.

But to everyone else, it's heaven. My face never betrays my emotions...I always manage that confident, driven, stoic look.

After all, I'm Redline Jack.