TRAVELINGWITHTOOLS

My evolution as a car guy has taken some twists and turns over the last forty years. I went from being an uninterested teen, to an enthusiastic amateur, to a sometimes racer and then a grizzled old vintage racing mechanic.

In the lead image above, I’m sitting in car number 18, on pole position for the first time, with Johnny Banzai on the outside (I’m not a mechaneek, I’m a driver!). The Jim Russell Racing School seduced us by offering a season of races in return for free labor, and they called it a mechanics training program. We actually paid tuition! How on earth did I end up sitting in that car on that day, in the summer of 1991…

After my 1989 winter road trip across America in the ’71 Volvo, I had some decisions to make, as I was dead broke and still without a plan. I landed in my Grandma’s spare room in Reno, and I worked for a couple of temp agencies doing manual labor through the summer to save up enough money for the next leg of my journey.

One of those gigs was at an electronics company warehouse, where I was tasked with moving pallets of surplus product into dumpsters, headed for a landfill. (What a country!) I still have a spool of 3/8″ heat shrink somewhere in the garage that I snuck out the back door. Another item that I liberated was a stack of square electrical box covers, galvanized steel sheet for which I had some vague idea of how they might be useful.

My poor old Volvo was pretty rusty in a few places, coming from New England as it did, and one of those was the leading edge of the hood. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to do some rust repair in Grandma’s driveway, and I cut out the perforated front edge of the hood. Without, of course, having a plan for how to replace it. But I had this box of steel squares, and surely I could use them somehow?

I rotated the squares in my hands and held them up to the front of the car, imagining how they might fill the gaps. My mind’s eye settled on an admittedly clichéd vision of a P-40 Warhawk, and it was simple to fold the squares into triangles, then bend a flange on one side. A drill and some pop rivets, and Bob’s your uncle!

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More of an orca than a shark, really. It’s funny, but I can’t remember any of the feedback that I surely must have received, from relatives, friends or random people on the street. I was pulled over more than once with the car in this configuration, and its appearance just wasn’t a topic of conversation.

One day off from work at Laguna Seca, I went for a blitz out Carmel Valley road from the coast. The route from Hwy 1 out through Carmel Valley and onward into the central valley is about 50 miles, most of it narrow twisty two lane pavement, sometimes squeezing down to one lane. The scenery varies from rolling golden hills with scattered oaks and manzanita, to damp forested canyons and open farmland at the end.

The Volvo had a side pipe exhaust at the time, which dumped under the driver’s door sill, and a fair amount of exhaust crept into the cabin. I had been driving alone, with almost no other cars on the road, and going quite fast. You know, using the opposite lane to get a wide corner entry… diving down to the apex dropping two wheels in the dusty shoulder, then unwinding back out across the center line into the other lane (when visibility allowed, of course).

Completely antisocial behavior, in some people’s view.

After going flat out for many miles, I reached the valley where the road straightens and becomes boring, so of course I dropped the pace and caught my breath. I did feel a little bit affected by the exhaust fumes, if I’m honest. I noticed in my rear view mirror then, red and blue lights way back in the distance. The road was straight, but rolling over hills and gullies, so the lights in the mirror disappeared and appeared as the road undulated. They appeared closer each time, and then all at once the CHP Crown Vic was on my tail.

The cop came out of his car furious, red faced and huffing. He ordered me out of my car and proceeded to give me a drunk test. I’m pretty sure I can’t recite the alphabet backwards when stone cold sober, but afterward he put me back in my driver’s seat and went back to his car with my license. I was sure I’d be charged with reckless driving, at least!

He came back after a nerve wracking wait and handed me my papers. I can’t remember the words he used, but he gave me a stern warning, basically, “Don’t drive like such an asshole!” He went back to his car and stormed off, leaving me in a state of simultaneous confusion, joy and relief! How could it be?! The last stop sign was at least ten miles back. He had been chasing me for a long time, and I had no idea, because he never got close enough for me to spot in my mirrors. I can only imagine that he was embarrassed to put it down on paper that a 21 year old kid in an ancient Volvo out-drove a professional officer. And damn, he was honest… he didn’t make up some bullshit to punish me, thank the lord.

But he didn’t mention the row of white teeth on the front of my hood either.

Back in Reno, a year earlier at the origin point of my toothy Volvo, I had found the ad for the Jim Russell MTP in the back of an Autoweek magazine. An old girlfriend from high school was trying to talk me into going to Europe with her, getting Eurail passes to bum around the continent for the Summer. I couldn’t afford to do both; I had to choose tuition or airfare. It was a hard call, but in the end, I chose the school and I wonder now and then, how different my life might have been had I picked the other option.