Picking up the BDC late Friday at Larry’s after installation of some 2 into 2 into 1 stainless sidepipes, I headed up to Cumberland. Muted tones of red and brown, the whisper of a nip in the sultry air, and the glare of late afternoon’s bright sun low to the horizon told that Fall was coming on fast. After burning the stink off, the new pipes rumbled satisfyingly and the ever more broken in Boss 347 churned away willingly. I pointed her nose up the familiar trace toward the Western Maryland mountain passes, and so began the journey of the second to the last Cumberland event of the year, the beginning of the end of the 2009 autocross season.
Arriving just before dusk, I rode in straight to the adequate but never pretentious Best Western. Just in time to break bread with Chipper, Al Paca, and, in a rare appearance, Troy “Cabana Boy” Torbett. One of my pals from the Solstice club trying his luck for the first time at Cumberland joined us. We retired to the bar, and after a pop, it was just Gary and me. We saw some of the Steeltown guys and got a report on Donna Mae. Just out of ICU, still in the hospital, she had weathered the storms of two strokes with no serious damage except for the unfortunate inability to speak. Let’s hope that’s only temporary and she gets back that faculty quickly. Wade rolled in around 9, and ordered beers and a rib ‘n chicken dinner, into which he proceeded to dive with both hands, dripping with two kinds of sauce.
For once the formal entertainment (I mean the musician singing and playing) was more diverting than our lame hijinks. Lynn Rouhtzan, an unassuming singer-guitarist dude with an impeccable repertoire, laid down solid tune after tune, mashing his effects pedals with his bare feet. His day job, it turned out, was quartermaster at the Martinsburg prison. He took five weeks off a year to hunt down his muse in Western MD and WVA in prosaic nightspots like Henny’s and the Haystack Mountain Sportsman Club. Everyone is out there living his own personal vida loca.
It was right chilly at dawn the next morning. My uncovered ride wore a wet coat of thick dew from the large overnight temperature swing. Growling down into Cumberland, the rising sun began burning off the mist blanketing the valleys. By the time of the coursewalk it was obvious we would have an achingly bright crystal late summer day for the contest.
After breakfast, we walked Mark Bogg’s course. I have to compliment the Maestro on this one. After experimenting with challenging busy and tight features all year, Mark distilled this one to the pure, simple essentials, but those were technical elements that demanded attention, and would bite if driven poorly. Basically, it was fast and open. Starting from the hanger side, a slight offset gate fed into a tight left hander, down a crooked straight, leading to a spooky “thread the needle” jog at the fastest point, a long lead into the police chopper hanger turnaround, more sweeping than usual. Rolling out of that down the long especially straight back straight, into the kink, a deep chicane this time, feeding into a right hand angled crossover, into the terminal end turnaround, down a short, open slalom and a sinuous flowing lazy S into the finish. A course for brawlers, not toe dancing ballerinas. There was plenty of speed to be had, even through the turns. The trick would be carrying it and keeping everything glued down.
Deep KinkAn impressive CACC roster made the trip. Wade, Chipper, Fred, accompanied by his FFF/Karcepts stablemate and part-time publicist, Brian Karwan, Larry, Al Paca, all the Smiths, including Uncle Sandy, Wayne Koi Boi, Troy, Dave Thompson, Tink, and your humble scribe.
All Present and Accounted ForAlso posting was the increasingly formidable West Va. Backdraft of Barry Knotts and Will Teeter. But this wasn’t an all-Cobra show by any means. Stan Vann dragged his Caldwell all the way from North Carolina to challenge serpent supremacy.
Anchoring the Teutonic horde and making a guest appearance was DC Region SCCA BSP stalwart Stewart Fain in his well-sorted black Boxter, and Dennis Howard in his cool white RS America 911. The other Smiths, Bill 3 and 4, brought out their lemon yellow Low Cost Lotus co-driven by course designer Boggs and, joined on the ersatz Lotus lily pad by Chipper’s petulant little snotty rocket, and Jeff Duncan’s Ultralite. Also, spoil sport Greg Honeycutt and the Feltens were there in their open wheel Reynard killjoys. A full pack of Steeltown Corvettes and Smooth Jim Harris in his Z06 rounded out the bow tie convocation. Also sighted were more of those odd relic Subaru SVXs, including one with what appeared to be a homemade equal runner intake atop some sort of blower, protruding from a hole in the hood. I think these mysterious vehicles are kept by a band of hobbits, who only emerge to buy parts on e-bay. Ziptie skipper Paul P drove his Beemer with half an engine. He would have to wait until Sunday to be reunited with his former Hyundi autocross date, while Mustang Boy continued his campaign in his Cobra Mustang, this time challenged in the already contested ESP class by a serious red SCCA stickered 1999 Mustang driven by Dan Ireland out of Pittsburgh.
Ireland and Fain at Tech
Howard's Immaculate RS America
Bad Things Happened to this CarChipper had crowbarred open his wallet long enough to squeeze out enough sheckels for new wheels and tires, which protruded obscenely from the unsightly Snot Rocket’s meager fenders. The overall effect was reminiscent of the sleds that prowl the mean bordertown streets of Tijuana, earning Chipper a new informal sobriquet, “Cholo.”
Hey Essay, Check Out Those Rims!At the driver’s meeting, Jeff Duncan, long neglected, got his Wall of Fame photo to recognize his FTD glory. Boggs made the happy band even more ecstatic, by announcing that we would have six runs on this perfect day, on this fast course.
Every Dawg Has His DayThe tarmac slowly warmed up as the first heat hit the grid. Stewart Fain’s Boxter set the pace, lapping the big open course in 48.65 ticks on his best pass. Boggs in the Smith Low Cost, its high revving motorcycle engine revving like a pissed off yellowjacket, caught him with a 48.2 by heat’s end. Other first heat highlights included a post-kink turf excursion by Meg Ellis’ Miata, prompting an embarassing Tourette’s moment where your scribe barked out an unprintable trying to get the next driver’s attention to the red flag, several stations before the driver got to me, the sound of the gray STX’s detonation knock from far down the course, followed by the sickening gray smoke that told how that story ended, and Mark Lile throwing around his mammoth street tired stock Dodge Charger RS like it was a Miata.
In second heat doings, Team FFF codriver Karwan continued his Cumberland Cobra campaign in Fast Freddie’s fleet Mark III FFR, knocking Boggs out of FTD with a bar lowering 46.2. The Ireland Mustang cut Oxenham’s work out for him in ESP with a best run of 48.2. Troy turned in a solid performance for a rookie, beating his times down into the 58s, but with a cone.
The swollen third heat, the land of the fast and the home of the brave, saw the usual down and dirty grappling for position. Scant parts of seconds separated the contenders, as each tried to use the generous helping of six runs to answer his rival’s previous time, pressing harder and harder on each chance. Wade snapped the 45 second barrier by his second run, while the Cholo snapped loose a front tie rod end (it had lost its nuts) on the Snot Rocket on his first run, front wheels splaying wildly in opposite directions as he crabbed his way down the course, putting him out of commission. Larry answered Wade on his third run, and Fred was in the 45s too by his fourth. In the timeless battle for XP table scraps, Barry Knotts and Tink overtook the Smith Brothers to lord over the second tier, but both Smiths pushed so hard they ended up cording their A6s. A bit lower down the food chain, I had Al Paca every run until my fifth, when I entered the kink at 7000 rpm and went too deep to make the chicane, sliding sideways at speed, trying to steer out of it, and then violently slingshotting around in the other direction, my driver’s side front corner coming 4 inches off the ground as it hit a bump in the tarmac I am told. Al used that moment of weakness to claw ahead.
By the end of the slugfest, Wade stood at the top of XP with his 45 flat, Larry next with a 45.4, followed by Fast Fred with a 45.8. Next in the XP Cobra ranking came Knotts, climbing higher with each outing, with his 47.0, then Tink, with a 47.1, then Karwan with a 47.3. Craig bested his brother for a change, but only by an eyelash -- 47.85 to 47.95. They were followed by Al, with a 48.5, your miserable scribe with a 48.7, Papa Herb with his 48.9, and Dave Thompson, cherry no longer, with a 49 flat.
But Jeff Duncan threw a wet blanket over all the CACC hot shoes with his best pass of 44.741. FTD thus far. Papa John Felten elbowed his way between Larry and Fred with a 45.5, to finish 5th overall for the day. Two Harrises, Jim and Rob, ably piloted their black Z06s to very solid finishes 45.7 and 46.8 respectively, good for 6th and 8th overall. In other groundpounding action, Karl Loper’s Camaro locked up a 48.4, followed just a tick behind by Bill Ngya’s 48.5 in his yellow TransAm, both good for top 25 finishes.
Canny Stan Vann bided his time and sat quietly watching the frantic third heat on the fringe of the grid. Fourth heat was his turn, and spoiler Gregg Honeycutt’s also, after all the Cobras had shot their wads. The wheel of karma turned on Gregg and he broke after the first run. And the Carolina gentleman in the white Caldwell snuck past Duncan by a scant hundredth to take FTD with a 44.735. And that was that. In the end, Wade took third place overall, Larry fourth, Fred seventh, Knotts ninth and Tink tenth. In addition to them, both Smith brothers and Al finished in the top twenty five.
The picnic was fantastic as usual, fittingly featuring the last harvest of sweet corn.
Later, after Grampa Hughes waddled off to bed, Wade, Al and I were joined at the bar by Mr and Mrs. Moran, Mike and Jenn, and soon to be Mr. and Mrs., P, Pbso, how the hell do you spell Paul’s last name? Paul and Kate. And Mustang Boy. In keeping with a bacchanalian harvest festival theme, the whim for shots or shooters seized the company, but we were plagued by doubt and indecision. It was decided that we would leave the decision to our comely server, Nikki. An interesting experiment which would reveal whether she would choose her favorites, or try to anticipate what we would like, and also, perhaps something of how Miss Nikki liked to party. She surprised and delighted us all by chirping out, without a moment’s hesitation: “OK, how about Bend Me Overs?” Who amongst us could say no to that?
Those, which were not bad, were followed by Pineapple Upside Down Cakes, and Flaming Dr. Peppers, which were quite bad, and then Crown Royals with Peach Schnapps. Which actually were just about as harsh as they look in print. The increasingly raucous conversation and overly personal revelations brayed at too loud volumes promoted by such exotica at first intrigued, and then began to horrify a table full of “gals night out” ladies seated in back of us. They revealed themselves as lightweights and ingracious to boot, when one rejected a perfectly innocent and chaste gesture of hospitality by Al, who sent one of them a Bend Me Over with his compliments. Completely misreading his intentions, she shut him down with the imprecation, “but I’m a wife and mother!” Geez lady, its only a drink, not a stint in Chiang Mai cathouse. Nikki said she might come out and join us the next day “after church.” Yeah. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve laughed harder and had such a convivial time since I was a seasoned nightlife pro in my ill-spent youth.
So, fairly brimming with goodwill and an evil amalgam of all kinds of weird booze, I drifted off to my room, and into the arms of Morpheus, still feeling the Gs of the days runs, and dreaming of nothing other than an even better day’s racing tomorrow.
