Once a year, the organizers of the Cumberland airport autocrosses get dispensation from various and sundry bureaucrats to use a much larger footprint of tarmac for our cone-dodging obsession. On one day of the usual two day event, they lay out what has come to be known as The Long Course. This is in tribute to days of yore, from the early 1950s to the early ‘70s, when the top sports car racers in the country gathered in Cumberland to run an SCCA National Championship, a door banging donnybrook on a road circuit cobbled together with haybale pylons on the municipal airport runway. Through the years, the configuration of the airport has changed, and much of the old layout is gone. But on one day of a weekend in early June, four score drivers harken to the faint echoes of those fabled days. For that one magic moment, they get to stretch the legs of their metallic steeds on an endless back straight, and taste speeds virtually unknown in the autocross game. The Long Course and the celebration of Cumberland's place in storied racing history attracts hotshoe drivers and vintage racecars from far and wide, for the driving and the fellowship.
I drove up directly to the airport early Friday afternoon, after stacking on my tire trailer a set of new Hoosier A6s from Radial Tire in Silver Spring. Its an enduring mystery that just looking at an inanimate pile of fresh rubber can induce extreme pleasure sensations. As it turned out, I was far from the only one sporting new sticky race rubber. The Historics paddock had more new shoes in it than Sara Jessica Parker’s closet.
Although the weatherman threatened rain, I had a nice dry run up under unsettled skies, with so little traffic that I made record time, arriving just as the event organizers did. Eventually, the lead camel of the Smith caravan appeared, followed by the rest of the clan. Then Chipper and Wade. The paddock slowly filled as Ron Dotts, Jim Harris, and other Bow Tie pilots trickled in. Joining Koi Boy Wayne Orchard on the MIA list was Al “Paca” Schmidt. Urgent voicemails to Captain Crunch went unanswered all weekend. The authorities have been alerted, and search teams dispatched.
The Historics usually feature some display of original vintage iron actually raced up there back in the day. If we’re really lucky, one might actually take to the course. This year’s treat was a beautifully restored 1965 Beach Formula Vee racer. Its owners were a father/son team out of Pennsylvania. Their perfectly lime-soaked accents and names (Mason and Nigel) lent a touch of Anglophilic Top Gear class to the otherwise thoroughly disreputable snake pit of our end of Friday’s paddock. They built it for hillclimbs, but fittingly elected to make the 2010 Historics the venue for the competitive resurrection of their lovingly rebuilt classic.
I brought my CoolShirt rig, but used it to cool Dogfish IPA instead of my sweaty hide on the trip up. Producing the first bottle of chilled golden nectar after the long hot ride in the coupe probably was more refreshing than use for its intended purpose. I shared one with Wade. Like the pro driver that he is becoming, he gave props to a sponsor by using as his beer coozey a Kelley Acres Speed Shop ankle sock given to him by Fast Fred’s wife, Chris.
Chipper, Wade and your humble scribe eventually made our way to CACC’s field headquarters, the La Vale Best Western and Henny’s bar, for the traditional pre-race festivities. As we enjoyed a good dinner, the Ziptie contingent arrived. Unfortunately, our usual haunt, a long table in the back on the lower level was “reserved” for dignitaries more important than us. We were relegated to the narrow upper level and became increasingly squeezed into cramped quarters as more celebrants arrived – including Mike and Jake Moran, Beemer aces Woody Hair and his buddy, Joe Brannon, and Larry “Lare Bear” Casey.
Seating arrangements: sub-optimal.
Mean elapsed time between beer refills: sub-optimal.
Then a one man “band” set up just beneath us. Despite an impromptu stage bristling with high end equipment, the guy used it not to make music, but what sounded like random ambient noises occasionally resembling a vaguely recognizable song, which was usually a Pearl Jam number. He pretty much lost me during the digereedoo/jaw harp medley, but forever clinched his place in the annals of the worst Henny’s band ever during the guest solo, when his brother played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on the harmonica. I kid you not. It turned out that OUR table was reserved for his lame entourage. Humph.
Music: suboptimal.
At the Divisionals a couple weekend before, I solemnly promised Jason Becker that I would pick up his SSM class trophy and deliver it at the Historics. It was a spiffy hat, embroidered with “Class Champion.” Expecting that he would drop by the bar Friday, I stupidly brought it with me. Much of the night I spent guarding Jason’s hat from a host of indignities suggested by an increasingly drunken mob. The least obvious and crude example was to pull out the stitching for “C” and “L” so that the hat would announce the presence of the “ass Champion.” Ha ha. Chipper left prematurely, frankly pronouncing himself bored by our company. And who could blame him?
Jokes: suboptimal.
As the younger crowd (and Larry) declared themselves ready for their alcohol-absorbing grease bath at Denny’s, I shambled off to bed.
Awakened early Saturday. Scuffing the A6s on the highway, I drove to the airport in the steel-gray dawn. The paddock quickly began to fill with the day’s competitors. Those who made the trip this year included Becker, Karwan, and Chamberlain, each with fresh SCCA NE Divisional class championships, as well as the thugs from CACC’s rogues’ gallery, Kelley, Casey, the Smith Brothers, et pere, and Dave T. Gary “Chipper” Hughes and Jeff Duncan brought their Lotus 7s to the dance. Team Ziptie made the scene, with automotive strumpet Paul P. abandoning his BMW (forever sullied at the Divisionals by Andy Thomas’ faster driving) for a weekend of making sweet love to the rides of others, Rich Biancone’s first gen 280Z sporting brand new Kumhos, and some frighteningly quick but controlled alien from the planet Evo School inhabiting the body of Rob Robeson. Steeltown Corvettes and Central Pennsylvania, strongly represented as well. The open wheel Reynard menace of the Feltens and Honeycutt did not pass up the opportunity to uncork on the extra long circuit.
Boggs’ course was much the same as usual, but with a few intriguing twists. The first straight section was very long and, while a little snaky, unmarred by deeply offset gates. It held a promise of upshifts and tremendous speed. The turnaround at extreme end of the course, way, way out past the Trooper 5 chopper hanger, was marked by a single cone, with no outer marker, allowing the driver to choose the line. Another feature was a slalom coming back along the bizjet hanger fully 8 cones long, feeding quickly into the signature kink. There was a double cone crossover, and, coming out of the extreme end turnabout, a sharp turn to the right, then back to the left, thence through a cone tunnel feeding into the hanger slalom. This S turn was to be fateful later. The bad news was the super tight, angular as usual, esses at the end of the course, bristling with cones, and that, in most sections you had no choice of line, but had to follow one prescribed path. As usual for the Long Course, key sections were marked by chalk lines.
After signing up for my first heat work assignment, I realized too late that the worker stations would be far different on the Long Course. My choice, Turn 5, was in another time zone, the very last station, out among the tumbleweeds and howling coyotes at the very end of the course. They pulled Larry off to work at the other end, and as he made that long long trek back, I was pleasantly surprised to be joined by Kate Mewhinny, who volunteered to pull a double work shift because they were shorthanded for the first heat. A solid work ethic on top of everything else. What a woman.
The opening runs of the first heat were a disaster, which I saw close up from my vantage point. Every car ran off course. They either charged right from the far turnaround into the exit of double coned crossover, eyes fixated on the cone tunnel, missing completely the first right hander of the S turn combination. Others indexed and turned in on a tall cone near the braking point of the straight, but missed the additional gate beyond that marking the turn into the crossover, placing them completely out of the crossover to the inside. In fact, only Gary Smith, in his purple metal flake dune buggy, looking for all the world like an escapee from the set of the Munsters, nailed it on the first pass, his methodical but plodding 105 second run standing as FTD deep into the second runs.
A halt was called. Boggs and team appeared in a truck, with the chalker, and marked out distinctly both sides of the missed turn, and, for good measure, an arrow pointing the way right down the middle of the turn. The only thing more that could be done would be to station a guide dog and white cane at the turn in point. First heat drivers eventually started getting it. Notable runs included Randy Pearson’s 70 point something second pass in a black Super Stock Z06, Jen Moran’s solid 73.1 in the family Suxass Subie, Noel Leslie’s 72.9 in an BMW roadster running on streets, and Pete Harrison’s 74.5 in his S2K Honda. But on the whole, clean runs were hard to come by. The endless procession of cones creates endless opportunities to hit them, and hit them they did.
In the second heat, formidable FTD contenders Matt Felten, Jason Becker, and Gregg Honeycutt took their cracks at the Long Course. We watched from the sidelines by the Lion’s Club tent as the cars bombed away from us down the straight, growing ever smaller until we saw the wink of brake lights far away at the crossover. Becker piloted his Imola red BMW M coupe, now fitted with a lightweight carbon fiber hood, a nicely engineered front splitter (the stainless steel supports of which were reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter’s barred anti-cannibal mask), and huge rear wing, to make his already wickedly fast coupe stick better than ever.
He dropped the bar for the entire field dramatically his second run, posting a 66.5, and then a 66.0, but all his laps were spoiled by a lone pesky cone. Not a man you want to hand that kind of advantage, Matt Felten, as quiet and insurmountable an obstacle as the mountains surrounding Cumberland, slammed the door on both Becker and fellow second heat contender Honeycutt with a clean 66.4. Moran Brother Jake took the XP lead with a sub 70 second second pass of 69.7, while Oxenham waltzed to E Mod victory with his best, a 73.2.
On came the thrilling third heat. CACC favorite and Cumberland front page poster boy Wade Chamberlain ran as quick as a 67.8, but with every run spoiled by cones or a wipeout. At the end of Saturday, Wade was dragging around the psychic load of a 10 consecutive unclean run drought since Day 2 of the Icebreaker. Larry Casey, rolling on A6s this time, ran consistently fast in the mid-69s, all but one of those clean. Fast Fred Kelley, who had since discovered and replaced the unfastened ring gear in his diff. and cleaned out the bolts, shaved metal and gear oil sludge that sidelined the FFF roadster at Divisionals, answered with a best lap of 69.7. Smooth Jim Harris dominated Prepared classes and took ASP easily with a solid 70.1 on the length circuit in his red Vette. Doug Smith ran smoking sub 70 second 69.8, while sibling Craig, pushing hard and spinning off on two runs, logged a 71.3, just behind the 71.0 of Tink Phillips, in the “other” Daytona Coupe. Paul P., whoring around in the Suxass, logged a quick 71.9. But CACC’s serpents yielded Long Course victory at the end of the third once again to Mike Moran. With Teutonic precision to match his high and tight haircut, he ran two and three in the high 67s, before pushing the AWD Subie too close in the everlasting slalom and coning out his last pass of 66.68; not enough to best Felten even if clean. Neither the CACC Cobras nor any other third heat cars could hold a candle to the fragrant lotus blossoms of Duncan and Hughes. Jeff ran to a best of 67.56 in his azure Ultralite, good for second place overall, with Gary just a little more than a tenth behind with a 67.69 in the homely green Snot Rocket, securing third overall.
All eyes were on Karwan in the fourth heat. He had the best shot at snatching FTD from Felten. To torture his CACC pals, Brian elected to run in XP, so Moran’s class win was also on the line. Karwan ran dirty on all but one pass, his best 68.3 thrown out by a downed pylon in the stop box. He came through in the clutch with a 68.4 clean lap on his last at bat. In the end, Cobra jockeys lost their familiar top of class berths to rice burners. Moran and Becker were class winners and fourth and fifth overall, while Karwan landed second in XP and sixth overall. Cobras had a hard time even breaking into the top ten, with Larry running seventh, Fred eighth, and Wade, cone and all, tenth.
The other fourth heat standout was Team Ziptie's own Rob Robeson. Fresh from Evo School, he wanked his RX-8 to a crushing C Stock victory, running very consistent amazing 71 second laps, all dirty, but good enough to lock down a 73.3 with a lone cone.
Miraculously, the weather held all day. Only as dinner time approached did the storm clouds that swirled around all day threaten. Traditionally, at the Historics, the between race day picnic at Doc Mike’s is replaced with a charity auction and dinner, usually held in the jet hanger. This year, NRA rode to the rescue of the Queen City Museum of Transportation, which had seen its funding cut in this hardscrabble year. We convoyed from the airport in parade formation under the gathering thunderclouds. Because the BDC and Larry’s car were the most garishly stickered up street legal racecars on hand, Dave W. and the museum staff gave us the position of honor right in front of the impressive old brick structure, which is housed in the former National Guard armory, and accordingly built like a fortress. Becker quipped that they should have at least put two cars that ran in the sixties in front. Ouch.
Al Feldstein once again handled auctioneering chores, cracking up the assemblage with off color jokes and rapier swift put downs, but all in good fun. Among the choice items up for bid at the auction was a large wall size hanging of a vintage photo of Bob Johnson next to his No. 33 Cobra in the paddock, next to his stunning bombshell wife, replete with huge bouffant hair, cat eye sunglasses, camel-toe tight gold lame pants and near bursting decoulletage. Obviously perfect decoration for the walls of that den of old perverts, Cobra Inc. Elder appointed Gary as bidding agent. But Czar Smith also had designs on this prized artifact. The relentless bidding quickly exhausted Gary’s meager bidding authority, and Herb wound up beating Scott without even belting in to a car. Herb generously bid on some artistic prints. The Smiths got in a bidding war with a Corvette enthusiast over a framed reprint of an old ‘Vette in the Cumberland race paddock, and a pit pass button from 1960, driving the bid up to stratospheric heights before bagging out and leaving it to the other guy to stroke the whopping check. After winning nearly all the bidding duels in which he engaged, Herb dug even deeper, to gross up the total take to a princely $5,000. Herb’s dashing good looks are exceeded only by his generosity. What a catch, gals. I hear he’s available. Wade paid $500 for three hats, including one autographed by the Dixie Chicks, clearly not his favorite band. In explaining to Beth, he withheld until the last possible moment the fact that they threw in a 2011 season pass. I bid $25 for a $25 debit card at Henny’s. Later that evening, it bought exactly one-fourth of a round of shots. But hey, its for a good cause.
It was quite touching when the curators of the hard pressed museum warmly thanked all the CBE racers who had turned out and given to support this asset to the Cumberland community. It was fitting and proper, as the first generation races and its airport venue are unquestionably an integral part of Cumberland’s transportation history, as is the revival in which we are all participating now. It was sure a nice event, in a great setting, amongst vintage automobiles, elegant carriages, utilitarian buckboards and stagecoaches, and the odd musty stuffed horse or two.
As much as I try to project a hard core driver vibe (it might help if I had the skills) I have to confess that almost as much of the attraction of the Historics is spending the weekend with likeminded, frequently amusing, goofballs. Almost all autocross organizers say its all about having fun, but National Road Autosport has masterfully succeeded in making it so. Yes, it’s the really cool cars, but also a mix of people who, on the course, are a serious as a hanging judge with hemorrhoids, but, off of it, don’t take themselves too seriously, or who are quickly pricked and deflated with good natured derision if they do. The tribute portion of the Historics did not disappoint, and I hit the sack after a long day Saturday more than ready for another day.
Stay tuned for the Sunday report.
