TRAVELINGWITHTOOLS

Coast Road, between Bixby Bridge on California Highway One and Andrew Molera State Park in Big Sur. Google says that it is 10.1 miles of dirt, but in 1991, there were only paper maps and cell phones were practically still science fiction.

Kennedy and I were out for a night run in my ‘71 Volvo. He knew the road better than I did, because he regularly strafed it in his red VW GTI. The student mechanics at the Jim Russell Racing School all had their own favorite routes to drive, and this was Kennedy’s.

I favored Carmel Valley Road and Palo Colorado, two paved roads off the PCH, south of Carmel, where a huge group of Jim Russell mechanics lived in a 7,000 sq/ft mansion on Rio Road. Kennedy was my roommate, and the mob of us would watch races on the big projection screen in our rec room, which had a pool table and a hot tub out back. Most of us had dreams of being professional race car drivers, but track time at Laguna Seca, like methadone, was carefully administered and in small doses.

I was lucky (we were all very lucky) and I did around eleven races in the Russell Formula Mazdas, a few more than the nine that made up the official Staff Championship series. But those were all special days, and in between those days, we needed to scratch the itch that made us all want to drive race cars.

My Volvo had a four point harness for the driver, factory rally gauges, and an Isky cam in the 10.5:1 hi-comp motor. I spent an unreasonable percentage of my time behind the wheel of that car in some amount of oppo. “Opposite lock”, for those unfamiliar with the term, is when you turn the steering wheel opposite to the direction of the corner because the rear tires are sliding, the lock being the stop at the end of the steering’s travel.

On Coast Road that night, Kennedy was riding shotgun, and we were having a good time. He was egging me on to get more sideways, which is easy enough to do in a long wheelbase Volvo. But in the dark, it is just not possible to judge some corners. You can see the entry and down to the apex, but the exit is a mystery until it is illuminated.

I had gotten into a rhythm over several miles, where each corner unfolded in a similar way. Turn in sharply and break the rear tires loose, then get on the gas to spin them and control the angle of attack with your right foot. Maybe use a little hand brake at the entry to help rotate the car. This was all incredibly stupid, given the conditions, with sheer drops to the bottom of the canyon. We approached another corner, Kennedy laughing and whooping it up in the right seat as I kicked the tail out and aimed at the apex. I began to unwind the steering and get on the gas, expecting the curve to open up, but it didn’t! It was a hairpin, and I was now accelerating towards the edge of a cliff!

I locked up all four wheels and the car skidded onward, nothing but black sky visible outside the two beams of my headlights. Expletives!!!!!! Two guys screaming, me white-knuckling the wheel and Kennedy gripping the dash in front of him. The nose cleared the berm at the edge of the road and the belly of the car scraped into the earth, the sump of the engine rammed into the dirt, bang!

The car came to a stop with the front tires dangling in the air, lights burning twin boreholes into the cloud of dust. It felt like the scene in “Planes Trains and Automobiles”, where John Candy and Steve Martin scrape between big rigs, going the wrong way on the interstate. Their bodies become transparent and their skeletons are visible for a moment. We came so close to flying to the bottom of the canyon! Death.

It took some time for the adrenaline to dissipate, and for the cursing to stop. I put the 4 speed into reverse and tried to back out, but the engine was stuck in the berm. Kennedy got out and clambered over the edge, to find a foothold and push up on the bumper while I gassed it. We managed to get a bouncing rhythm going and I somehow scooted the car back off the edge.

I don’t remember the ride back to Carmel. I imagine it was quiet, and I never drove Coast Road again.

Later, after I had graduated and moved to Seattle for a vintage racing job, I heard that Kennedy had a moment while hauling ass down Laureles Grade to work at the track one morning, and he rolled his GTI off the edge, with a significant head injury as the result. I didn’t keep in touch with my Russell housemates for the most part, and I never found out where he ended up. I hope he made his racing dreams come true.

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in cars, and I’ve been lucky for the most part. This was one of a small highlight reel of those times where I was very nearly unlucky. Now for a public service announcement: Driving cars at the limit is dangerous, kids. Make sure you know what you’re doing, and try not to wipe out any innocent bystanders.

Have you got a good Coast Road story to share? Hit the comments below…