Post by Whoz Yo Daddy on Apr 11, 2006 19:30:23 GMT -5
I've seen cars go down the track at over 330 miles per hour, and yet I fear 180 like a yearold dog fears thunder. I've watched John Force strike the tires at 300 feet and stay in it, smoking the hides and barely keeping it off the wall, and still going out the back door at over 250. If only for a brief moment in time, I can relate to his ride.
It was the Annual March Meets, the largest Nostalgia drag racing event of the year, and my first and only chance at qualifying came on Sunday morning, after a rain-soaked Friday and Saturday pelted Famoso Raceway, postponing the race until that day. The sun was out, and I was strapped in. Back two or three sets of cars in the lanes, I sat in my adreneline soaked firesuit with my face shield up and my gloves off awaiting my turn at the 1320 foot track. As each pair went down the track, our car inched forward to the starting area, until I was on the track, behind two other Nostalgia Eliminator cars.. the pair just ahead of me. The dragster on the left, a blown car, stomped the hides right outa the water box and erupted in a rage of noise and tire smoke. The altered, much like mine, rolled thru the box about ten feet.... until... one pop of the throttle and the tires grew tall and smoked for 100 feet or so. They backed, guided by skillful pit crew, into the lights and then idled. Each inched forward into the beams, successively lighting the first, then second of 2 staging lights. As both lights on each side came on, the throttles went on and a flash of yellow lights sent them charging off. Both ran straight and loud, each running quicker than 7.60. These facts gave me hope for my pass, as I feared the track was bad, cold, and greasy.
Gilbert appeared from the left, fueling the injectors of the 481 cubic inch Rodek Big Block Chevy. He reached for the starter as I flipped the ignition switch up. He nodded to me as I pressed lightly on the throttle. He spun the monster and it fired hard. Idling radically, the engine settled into its loping fury, begging for me to let it go. I rev'd the car twice to blow ecess fuel from the zoomies, and reached down between my legs. Pulling the shifter to first gear, I pressed hard on the brake. The car lurched as the tranny grabbed, and I pushed the shifter button to hit second for burnout. Holding the brake, I saw the starter call us forward. "Well, he we go", I thought and let the brake go. The car quickly jumped and moved forward as I feathered the brake thru the water box. I saw Dennis to the left of me drop his hand, indicating that it was time for the show. Pumping the throttle once and then off, I dropped hard again to strike the tires in a rage of smoke and thunder, 1255 horsepower spinning the tires at nearly 5500 rpm and heating those hides to nearly 180 degrees. At about 90 feet, I lifted and feathered into the brake again until the altered rested in my lane. Deep breath, press shifter to reverse, transbrake button, and back we go towards the starting line again. George stepped in front of me and guided me backwards, tilting his hand left and right to place the rear tires of the beast back in the marks that it just left on the starting line. As I pass the starting line in reverse, the staging lights flash on.. then off, telling me I'm beyond the line and ready to move into the beams for a start. I stopped the car, and began to inch forward towards the beams. Reaching to my helmet, I dropped the face shield down. "Snap".
As the car reached the line, the top staging lights glowed for me, telling me I was in the first beam. I stopped and waited for the other car to stage, then I inched into the second beam, lighting the bottom staging lights on my side of the tree. Just as the bottom bulbs lit, I pressed the transbrake button, holding the car dead and I pushed my foot to the floor as hard as I could. The car ramped up hard and the tach read 5500, as the altered shook hard and ached to leave. The next 4/10 of a second is the longest in history, and occur every pass I make. The car is shackled, effectively held in reverse and forward gears at once, and unable to do anything but beg to be released. A slave to the transbrake, the car can do nothing but wait like a race horse in a chute. Then.... a flash of 3 simultaneous vertical yellow beams glow so bright that they nearly blind you and your thumb instinctively lets the button go. All the power, all the fury and rage of 1200 horses transfered to the rear tires and my head is pressed violently to the cage, with the force of 3 G's, and the front wheels stood instantly as wheelie bar fought to keep the car from flipping over backwards. At about 30 feet out from the line, the wheels settled to the ground and the car began its wild ride, with me as a mere spectator.
The force in a pass like this is so great that your body is smashed, pressed so tightly to the cage that youre stuck in position, your body weighing 3 1/2 times its normal weight. In my case, thats nearly 475 pounds. At about 200 feet out, the rearend broke traction, striking the tires and sending me right, no. HARD RIGHT. At this point, Im only going about 80 miles an hour, but the steering wheel is tiny makin git hard as hell to steer out of the bent position I'm in. I shifted to second and the car lurched towards the center of the track, and then back to the wall. I peddeled the car, a thrusting motion with my throttle foot to try to gain control of the wild boar I was riding. Back out of it and back in, as the car jerked close to the wall. By this time, my arms are crossed, my wrists touching as I try to steer the beast right again. Peddle peddle, throttle hard, and here come the center cones again. At this time, I'm at about half track and 125 miles an hour., and I still have no control over this roller coaster. I peddled the car once more and lifted, primarily beacuse I was tired of looking at the stands one second, and the campgrounds the next. Surprisingly, the car settled in the center of my lane and shook a little, standing once on the left tires and then dropping to the rights. As both tires landed to the pad, and a feeling of relief brushed briefly on me, my right foot did something I did NOT tell it to do: It stomped to the floor. As imagined, the car jumped hard, not right and not left, but straight! Dammit, what a concept. I left the rogue foot to its duties and went out the back door at about 102 miles an hour, crossing through the traps at just over 9.51 seconds. (This is a 7 second car.. not a 9 second car). As I passed the scoreboard, I lifted, and the beast got quiet as I pressed the fuel lever in. The engine idled up as it starved for alcohol then died. I coasted off the track at the second turnout, and came to rest about 150 feet from the timeslip booth. My face shield steamed as I exhaled the breath I had taken 10 seconds earlier at the starting line , 1320 feet prior to coming rest here.
Snapping the belts loose, I released myself from this bear trap, and my shield fogged further with each heaving breath. I stood on the seat, sat up high on the roll cage, rolled my legs towards the slick, and stepped onto the tire. I dropped off the tire to the pavement and my knees buckled some.. but held. I sat, in my suit, in my helmet, neck roll, and gloves. I didn't move, I did'nt dare. I rest and told myself that I am a stupid stupid man for ever thinking I could peddle the beast through that pass. As I grasp the tips of each glove and tugged them off, I recognized a noticeable shake. Not a shake, a tremble. My hands were trembling. I struggled to release the chin strap of my Simpson helmet, and just as I pulled it up over my head, I heard a familiar voice, "Aren't you the one who always tells me that when I lift I should never peddle back in? What the HELL were you THINKING?" The chastisement was from my 18 year old son, Casey, who drives our 9 second altered in the same event. (and qualified fifth in his first ever event that day). " I know, I know.. but I wanted to qualify". Hiding my utter fear and loss of bladder control, I went on to say, "It wasn't that bad, hell what did I run anyways?"
We went on to watch the class behind us, an 8 second door-car class called B Gas. In that class, 3 cars in a row hit the wall at half-track, precisely where I had relinquished control of the beast. After that, the event was cancelled due to water percolating up through the pavement surface at mid-track. Gee, I wonder why the beast went nuts on my pass? LOL.
Anyways, I'm no John Force, and the beast is no 300 mile an hour Funny Car. But I feel your pain, John, if only for a brief March 9 seconds of hell on Earth.
It was the Annual March Meets, the largest Nostalgia drag racing event of the year, and my first and only chance at qualifying came on Sunday morning, after a rain-soaked Friday and Saturday pelted Famoso Raceway, postponing the race until that day. The sun was out, and I was strapped in. Back two or three sets of cars in the lanes, I sat in my adreneline soaked firesuit with my face shield up and my gloves off awaiting my turn at the 1320 foot track. As each pair went down the track, our car inched forward to the starting area, until I was on the track, behind two other Nostalgia Eliminator cars.. the pair just ahead of me. The dragster on the left, a blown car, stomped the hides right outa the water box and erupted in a rage of noise and tire smoke. The altered, much like mine, rolled thru the box about ten feet.... until... one pop of the throttle and the tires grew tall and smoked for 100 feet or so. They backed, guided by skillful pit crew, into the lights and then idled. Each inched forward into the beams, successively lighting the first, then second of 2 staging lights. As both lights on each side came on, the throttles went on and a flash of yellow lights sent them charging off. Both ran straight and loud, each running quicker than 7.60. These facts gave me hope for my pass, as I feared the track was bad, cold, and greasy.
Gilbert appeared from the left, fueling the injectors of the 481 cubic inch Rodek Big Block Chevy. He reached for the starter as I flipped the ignition switch up. He nodded to me as I pressed lightly on the throttle. He spun the monster and it fired hard. Idling radically, the engine settled into its loping fury, begging for me to let it go. I rev'd the car twice to blow ecess fuel from the zoomies, and reached down between my legs. Pulling the shifter to first gear, I pressed hard on the brake. The car lurched as the tranny grabbed, and I pushed the shifter button to hit second for burnout. Holding the brake, I saw the starter call us forward. "Well, he we go", I thought and let the brake go. The car quickly jumped and moved forward as I feathered the brake thru the water box. I saw Dennis to the left of me drop his hand, indicating that it was time for the show. Pumping the throttle once and then off, I dropped hard again to strike the tires in a rage of smoke and thunder, 1255 horsepower spinning the tires at nearly 5500 rpm and heating those hides to nearly 180 degrees. At about 90 feet, I lifted and feathered into the brake again until the altered rested in my lane. Deep breath, press shifter to reverse, transbrake button, and back we go towards the starting line again. George stepped in front of me and guided me backwards, tilting his hand left and right to place the rear tires of the beast back in the marks that it just left on the starting line. As I pass the starting line in reverse, the staging lights flash on.. then off, telling me I'm beyond the line and ready to move into the beams for a start. I stopped the car, and began to inch forward towards the beams. Reaching to my helmet, I dropped the face shield down. "Snap".
As the car reached the line, the top staging lights glowed for me, telling me I was in the first beam. I stopped and waited for the other car to stage, then I inched into the second beam, lighting the bottom staging lights on my side of the tree. Just as the bottom bulbs lit, I pressed the transbrake button, holding the car dead and I pushed my foot to the floor as hard as I could. The car ramped up hard and the tach read 5500, as the altered shook hard and ached to leave. The next 4/10 of a second is the longest in history, and occur every pass I make. The car is shackled, effectively held in reverse and forward gears at once, and unable to do anything but beg to be released. A slave to the transbrake, the car can do nothing but wait like a race horse in a chute. Then.... a flash of 3 simultaneous vertical yellow beams glow so bright that they nearly blind you and your thumb instinctively lets the button go. All the power, all the fury and rage of 1200 horses transfered to the rear tires and my head is pressed violently to the cage, with the force of 3 G's, and the front wheels stood instantly as wheelie bar fought to keep the car from flipping over backwards. At about 30 feet out from the line, the wheels settled to the ground and the car began its wild ride, with me as a mere spectator.
The force in a pass like this is so great that your body is smashed, pressed so tightly to the cage that youre stuck in position, your body weighing 3 1/2 times its normal weight. In my case, thats nearly 475 pounds. At about 200 feet out, the rearend broke traction, striking the tires and sending me right, no. HARD RIGHT. At this point, Im only going about 80 miles an hour, but the steering wheel is tiny makin git hard as hell to steer out of the bent position I'm in. I shifted to second and the car lurched towards the center of the track, and then back to the wall. I peddeled the car, a thrusting motion with my throttle foot to try to gain control of the wild boar I was riding. Back out of it and back in, as the car jerked close to the wall. By this time, my arms are crossed, my wrists touching as I try to steer the beast right again. Peddle peddle, throttle hard, and here come the center cones again. At this time, I'm at about half track and 125 miles an hour., and I still have no control over this roller coaster. I peddled the car once more and lifted, primarily beacuse I was tired of looking at the stands one second, and the campgrounds the next. Surprisingly, the car settled in the center of my lane and shook a little, standing once on the left tires and then dropping to the rights. As both tires landed to the pad, and a feeling of relief brushed briefly on me, my right foot did something I did NOT tell it to do: It stomped to the floor. As imagined, the car jumped hard, not right and not left, but straight! Dammit, what a concept. I left the rogue foot to its duties and went out the back door at about 102 miles an hour, crossing through the traps at just over 9.51 seconds. (This is a 7 second car.. not a 9 second car). As I passed the scoreboard, I lifted, and the beast got quiet as I pressed the fuel lever in. The engine idled up as it starved for alcohol then died. I coasted off the track at the second turnout, and came to rest about 150 feet from the timeslip booth. My face shield steamed as I exhaled the breath I had taken 10 seconds earlier at the starting line , 1320 feet prior to coming rest here.
Snapping the belts loose, I released myself from this bear trap, and my shield fogged further with each heaving breath. I stood on the seat, sat up high on the roll cage, rolled my legs towards the slick, and stepped onto the tire. I dropped off the tire to the pavement and my knees buckled some.. but held. I sat, in my suit, in my helmet, neck roll, and gloves. I didn't move, I did'nt dare. I rest and told myself that I am a stupid stupid man for ever thinking I could peddle the beast through that pass. As I grasp the tips of each glove and tugged them off, I recognized a noticeable shake. Not a shake, a tremble. My hands were trembling. I struggled to release the chin strap of my Simpson helmet, and just as I pulled it up over my head, I heard a familiar voice, "Aren't you the one who always tells me that when I lift I should never peddle back in? What the HELL were you THINKING?" The chastisement was from my 18 year old son, Casey, who drives our 9 second altered in the same event. (and qualified fifth in his first ever event that day). " I know, I know.. but I wanted to qualify". Hiding my utter fear and loss of bladder control, I went on to say, "It wasn't that bad, hell what did I run anyways?"
We went on to watch the class behind us, an 8 second door-car class called B Gas. In that class, 3 cars in a row hit the wall at half-track, precisely where I had relinquished control of the beast. After that, the event was cancelled due to water percolating up through the pavement surface at mid-track. Gee, I wonder why the beast went nuts on my pass? LOL.
Anyways, I'm no John Force, and the beast is no 300 mile an hour Funny Car. But I feel your pain, John, if only for a brief March 9 seconds of hell on Earth.
Glad you kept it off the wall, but you'd better keep a good eye on that foot of yours. Some days the racing Gods are gentle, but don't forget that when they bite, it really hurts. 
Good luck to you and your son this season. Be safe and have fun.
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