Speedster
Racing in the 60s - Part II
This is one
of a series of articles written by Pat Tobin which appeared
in '356 Talk''. It is reproduced with the kind permission of
the Author.
What racing
in the 60s was all about
This will not be a blow-by-blow
account of every turn, every race. I will try to convey what
it was like to race in 64 - 66, and recall only anecdotes that
I feel are interesting, or better yet, funny. And we did have
some good laughs. First of all, I want to say what racing in
the 60s was not. It was not driving the car to the track, unloading
the wife/girl friend with the picnic lunch, popping off the hub
caps, taping up the headlights and going racing. That was club
racing in the 40s and maybe early 50s. Even when Rita and I came
to California in 58 and began hanging over the fence watching,
production class racing was n dedicated cars which were rarely
driven on the street. I'm talking about the front runners. It
was still possible to bring out a car that was almost stock and
race, and as long as required safety equipment was in place and
the driver had a competition license. A few did so, and had their
own little race back in the pack. I supported them gladly; feeling
that they had as much right to be out there as I did so long
as they stayed out of the way. There was no rule which said that
you had to build your car to the max in order to come out and
enjoy racing.
The racing
rules
Until about this time a valiant
attempt had been made to keep production class cars almost showroom
stock. Protests occurred and engines were torn down for inspection.
But all the front-runners were running racing cams, and everyone
knew it. Finally the club just gave up and allowed any cam to
be used, except roller. At the same time any compression ratio
became legal. Remaining restrictions were severe, however: .040"
over stock bore, stock carburetor type and throat diameter, stock
valve diameter. Zeniths had to be run on any 356A car. One guy,
Terry Hall, ran a B roadster with Solexes and Super 90 heads,
but suffered a weight penalty. Much later, Alan Johnson brought
out a B roadster. But those are the only two I remember. We could
use the Carrera GT (60 mm - wide) front brakes, but I never had
them until I was out of racing! No disc brakes - they hadn't
even appeared when I started racing in 64. We were allowed only
the wheels used on the Carreras - I think 5.0 inches was the
limit, maybe 5.5 by 65 or 66. But again, I never had anything
but the stock 4.5". The new Goodyear Blue Streaks had supplanted
the Dunlops which had been the racing tire for many years. Caldwell's
in Pasadena did racing-quality recaps on the Blue Streaks, and
that's what I ran. Former divisional champion Denny Harrison
told me that new Blue Streaks were good for 1 to 2 seconds a
lap over recaps, but I was raising a wife and two kids and racing
all on a single salary - I couldn't afford a set of new tires,
no matter how important the race.
Safety regulations
Safety regs weren't nearly as
numerous. No special fuel tanks were required; we didn't even
have to carry a fire extinguisher! An aircraft lap belt and two
shoulder straps were required, and they were fairly picky about
roll bars. Some of the tech inspectors had a cleanliness fetish.
They might not notice that the cotter pins were missing from
the rear axle nuts, but God help you if there was a speck of
dirt on the suspension!
Race preparations
I covered the setup of my Speedster
pretty well in the last episode, but may not have mentioned the
clutch. By the time I set up for racing, the Carrera 2s were
out, and they used 200 mm clutches. That made it easy to get
the 200 mm disc and pressure plate, which I ran in the race car
from day 1. I had the flywheel turned out (but not lightened
much, if any, on the outside) and the pressure plate fitted to
the flywheel by two precision pins in close-fitting holes in
order to maintain accuracy of balance as the pressure plate was
removed and replaced many times.
Riverside
My first race was at Riverside.
I was momentarily startled by the relative violence of the start.
All the competition driving I had done to up to that time - time
trials, racing training - had used "soft" starts. Suddenly
the flag fell and all hell broke loose. All these other guys
were trying to get ahead of me! And they were none too polite
about it, either. Didn't they understand courtesy of he road?
Late in the race the tail got loose. Noting a considerable increase
in tire pressures after practice, I had foolishly let them down.
Turn 1 at Riverside was banked a little only at the inside. If
you weren't on the inside line, the track was flat. I somehow
got up onto that part and the tail of the Speedster traded some
paint with the Armco metal barrier. Damn! Drew blood the first
time out. I'm sure I finished umpteenth, if not worse. Driving
home we were a disconsolate group. Then to round out a less-than-perfect
day, I found the red lights of a CHP motorcycle cop in the mirror
of the tow car. In our downcast mood we had forgotten to bolt
the towing lights onto the luggage-rack sockets of the Speedster.
Fortunately, a buddy with us was a police officer, so they got
it sorted out without penalty and we installed the towing lights
on the shoulder of the freeway. All considered, it was an underwhelming
first effort.
San Luis Obispo
The next race was at San Luis
Obispo - a nice little town in Central California. During the
race I found that my steering wheel had about 1/4 turn of free
play! Anyone in his right mind would have stopped, but I decided
to carry on unless some vital part fell off. It turned out that
when I lowered the front end of the car I had not secured the
center torsion bar locks firmly, leaving the torsion bars free
to shift endways a little, which changed the direction that the
steering was pointing. Midway in the race the oil flag came out.
"I know what that means," said I proudly, "watch
for oi -- WHOOPS!" as I pirouetted gracefully out into the
boonies. I had been watching for oil - a puddle of oil! That's
how green and naive I was - it never occurred to me that oil
leaking out of a moving car would be a streak, not a puddle.
Almost as bad as the time much later, in practice at Pomona,
when I simply drove into a hay bale next to a light pole. Why?
Hell, I don't know. It must have seemed like a good idea at the
time. The next time I came around to that turn, the marshall
narrowed his eyes, leaned forward and looked me over REAL good!
That's the only time I ever wanted to slink down into the car
and disappear.
The other
circuits
For several months racing was
fairly routine. Riverside, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Del
Mar, Pomona. Ontario hadn't been built yet and I couldn't afford
to go as far as Laguna Seca. For some reason that I don't recall,
Willow Springs was not open for a few months. The first version
of the engine was not fully competitive with the leaders, but
I was learning to drive and having a lot of fun.
Racewear
No special underwear was required
in those days - only neck to wrist and ankle coverage in an approved
flame-resistant suit. Or - believe it or not - the rules allowed
fire proofing ordinary clothing in a bath of easily-available
drug store chemicals and water. I, and most everyone else, wore
the light blue two-piece racing suits sold under the Dunlop name.
Many drivers wore boxing or other athletic shoes. I wore ordinary
leather shoes on which the soles had been replaced with "Neolite"
neoprene re-soles. I had found Neolite to be just the right grip
- I left the rubber covers on the pedals and athletic shoes with
sticky soles had too much grip against the rubber. The Neolite
offered enough grip but not too much, which allowed easy sliding
around between the brake and accelerator pedals in the delicate
toe-dance of competition driving.
Topless in
a Speedster!
On a hot summer day at Santa
Barbara I came in from practice, stripped off the upper part
of the driving suit and slung it over the snow fence which separated
the paddock from the spectator area. Nearby were two young women
who seemed anxious to talk. I recalled how, in my spectator days,
I felt shut out of the action across the fence, and was happy
to visit a few minutes. The young ladies were from University
of California, Santa Barbara. An hour later, it was time to get
ready for the race. The upper part of the driving suit was gone
from the fence, and so were the young women! It didn't take long
to figure that one out. Had it been the pants missing (don't
ask) I might have faked it - I had occasionally driven a practice
in regular pants, which couldn't be seen outside the car, with
the Dunlop top. But I had to have a top! The only driver nearby
who wasn't running in this race was Pete Cordts who raced, believe
it or not, a Ford Falcon in sedan class. He was glad enough to
loan me the top of his suit. The only problem was, Pete was at
least two sizes smaller than me! I wasn't able to close the neck
at all. The top was so tight in the chest, shoulders and arms
it was like driving the race in a strait jacket! I hope that
top looked good on the girls' dorm wall.
Painful Spyder
Technically, kids under 12 weren't
permitted in the pits and paddock. But Cal Club officials were
nice about looking the other way as we came through the gate
with Janice, 7, and Brian, 4, hunkering down, trying to be invisible
in the station wagon. The kids were well-behaved and taught to
stay close to our tow car and not go wandering. Once Vasek Polak
drove slowly by in a Spyder he was taking to the pre-grid or
somewhere. Just as he passed near Brian, Vasek blipped the throttle
hard a couple of times to clear the plugs. After the car had
passed Brian complained, "I don't like that car - it gets
in my ears." At the time we thought his quaint expression
was just 4-year old talk. But later in life we learned that Brian's
threshold of hearing pain was somewhat lower than average. Probably,
the awful rap of the Spyder caused pain which he felt as a physical
presence in his ears.
Sneaking across
the track
One time we were leaving Riverside
while another race was on. We were all packed up - everyone in
the Ford wagon and the race car hitched on behind. We were in
the infield, and of course crossing the track was not allowed
until the race was over. I drove slowly down to a position near
the end of turn 9 and the beginning of the start-finish straight
- about as far from the nearest turn marshals as it was possible
to get. Then we stopped and sat there, appearing to watch the
race. But I had Rita looking behind us, watching the back straight
and turn 9. "When there is no car approaching turn 9, say
Now!'" I told her. I was watching the portion of track in
front of us. A couple of times "Now!" came when there
was a car about to pass in front of us. But then there was a
pretty good gap. "Now!" Rita said. I gunned the Ford
and we darted across the track and were in the wind. About a
minute later, when we were safely out of authority's reach, Brian
paid me the highest compliment possible considering the daily
activities of a 4-year old boy. In tones dripping with sincerity
and admiration, he gushed, "That was a good sneak, Dad!"
Rita and I almost fell out of the car trying to camouflage our
laughter.
Wonderful
Willow Springs
Then an upcoming race at Willow
Springs was scheduled. I had heard so much about the treacherous
nature of this track I figured I'd better get out there for a
private get-acquainted session. So I took a day off work, paid
the $15 or whatever it was and, on a weekday afternoon, shared
the track with only one or two other cars doing testing. Willow
Springs. I can't imagine where the name came from - to the best
of my knowledge there is neither a willow nor a spring for fifty
miles in any direction. The name sounds like another real estate
developer's wet dream. This is raw desert, folks, blazing hot
in the summer or a cold, cutting wind in what passes for winter
in these parts. I never enjoyed a day of comfortable weather
at Willow.
A circuit
of Willow
But after one lap I was in love
with the track. Part of the course runs up into some small hills
so there is the added interest of up and down grades. Turn 1
(third gear) and turn 8 (fourth gear in a 356) are very fast.
Turn 1 is great for drifting - in fact you must do so to be competitive.
There's a picture in an old Porsche Owners' Club Newsletter of
my car drifting through turn 1. Most of turn 8 (the long sweeper
- I think it is turn 8 altho I don't remember the turn numbers
for sure) is flat-out in a 356, so there's no power left to drift.
Just get in, sit down, hold on and shut up. Starting down from
the top of the hill is a short straight stretch on a steep downward
grade. Bill Huth, who owned or managed the course at the time,
told me that he judges a new driver by whether or not he (she)
accelerates down that short, steep hill. Uncle Bob Kirby, writing
in a club publication, mused that if a car were to lose its brakes
on that stretch the driver would be lucky to get it stopped short
of the Rexall drugstore in Pearblossom (a nearby desert metropolis).
And the track had lots of grip - the pavement was sticky, smooth
and uniform, a far cry from the parking lot and airport courses
which were often bumpy and changed surfaces several times per
lap.
Healthy respect
In short, Willow is a drivers'
course. But it can also be a killer. At driving schools held
there, students were sternly instructed that if they find themselves
losing it on the fast sweeper, they must straighten their wheels
and drive off the course with all wheels pointing in the direction
the car is moving. One of the instructors of that time didn't
take his own advice. In a race he went off sideways in a Cobra,
Corvette or some big V8 iron. The car flipped, the roll bar buried
itself in the desert sand, and the driver paid with his life.
As much as I liked Willow, I always maintained a healthy respect
for the course.
The outside
edge
But in a practice session one
time with faster classes, as I entered the sweeper I saw Scooter
Patrick in my mirrors in a modified of some kind - a much faster
car. I moved to the left - the outside - to let him nip past
on the fast line. But he didn't - he slowed and followed me,
staying toward the inside. So I went around turn 9 with my left
wheels about a foot from the edge of the pavement. I knew where
I was and was comfortable with the situation, although wishing
he would get the hell around me. But after practice Scooter came
to my pit, still a little pale, and chewed me out royally. It
had scared the daylights out of him to have a new driver navigate
the sweeper on the outside edge, flat out for my car.
Something
broken?
But I'm getting ahead of the
story. Near the end of my introductory private practice session,
disaster struck. Suddenly a severe engine vibration shook the
whole car! I limped back to the pits. The engine seemed to run
OK and there were no extra noises. Puzzled, we packed up and
hit the road. It was late afternoon as we headed directly for
Al Cadrobbi's Culver City shop. It was after closing time, but
Al was still there, talking with a customer about an upcoming
major overhaul. The four Tobins sat around with long faces. Finally
the customer was gone and we had Al's attention. I started the
engine and the whole car shook. Al signaled me to shut it down.
He removed the fan belt and asked me to start it again. No vibration!
After I shut it down again, Al reached around into the fan intake
and, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a
hat, he pulled out a rag! Obviously I had left it laying in the
engine room and, at racing speeds, it had been jostled around
and eventually sucked into the fan. It had taken Al less than
two minutes to find the trouble. How do you spell relief? Al
had said that, seeing our long faces, even while talking to the
customer he was taking mental inventory, "Let's see, I think
I have a good case, and I have a crank and rods..." He was
going to get us running for the race at Willow even if my engine
was in little pieces.
A low octane
start
Since there had been no race
at Willow for a number of months, there was a meeting of the
POC Race Team at which former divisional champions Alan Johnson
and Denny Harrison offered tips on driving the course. Alan concluded
his remarks by advising me and the other new drivers not to take
the sweeper flat out - "your car is not ready yet."
A polite, face-saving way of putting it. I didn't bother to tell
him that I had already been there, done that. Then, race weekend.
Early Saturday morning I hitched up the race car (we didn't have
a trailer - always pulled it on its own wheels) and drove to
the neighborhood Standard Chevron station to gas up both cars
(apparently the gas truck was not going to be at the course).
Gas was still leaded in those pre-historic times, and "White
Pump" was a little over 100 octane - that is what we raced
on. The Ford wagon got middle grade; then, overly tired and groggy
from too little sleep after a late night with the wrenches, I
also filled the tank of the race car with middle-octane gas!
Hey, we're off to a great start.
Some idiot!
Going underneath the race car,
I disconnected the fuel line and, during the tow of 80 miles
or so, allowed the tank to drain by gravity onto the highway.
However, the flow was slow due to having to run through the electric
fuel pump which was not activated. At a Chevron station in Lancaster,
last town before Willow, I found that the tank hadn't completely
emptied, so in a far corner of the service station lot I allowed
it to finish draining with a little help from the electric pump.
Then I drove around the rear of the station and back in front
to the pumps. While filling the race car with white pump, the
attendant began telling me about some idiot who, just a few minutes
before, had been leaking gas from a race car onto his asphalt
lot. About halfway through the tale he suddenly took a closer
look at my car, then looked again at the spot where the cars
had been just a couple of minutes earlier, and stopped in mid-sentence!
I didn't say a word, but was embarrassed and should have apologized.
I hadn't realized that the raw gasoline would soften the asphalt
paving for a while. Actually, not too long in that desert locality
where the sun bakes the asphalt, and everything else, for hours
each day.
That's my
daddy!
I don't recall much about Saturday,
including how I finished. Could look it up - I have all these
result sheets put away in a folder somewhere. But Sunday was
something else again. Uncle Bob Kirby hadn't been able to attend
Saturday but was there Sunday - the first race he and I had both
participated in since I had bought the Speedster from him, battered
and with the engine in a basket, about a year previous. Bob had
never seen the car finished and kept saying to wife Diana, "Look
- that's (previous owner's name)'s old car!" By that time
I had found a few more horses in the engine and had begun optimizing
the gearing for each course. Also, I was feeling a few more oats
myself, loving Willow Springs as I did. Sunday I quickly found
myself running second behind an Elva. With me hot on his tail,
the Elva driver spun. Meanwhile, back in the pits, it was accepted
that just as any race started, one or both kids would suddenly
need to go to the bathroom. Chata, the wife of a couple of good
friends who were with us, volunteered to take Janice so that
Rita could watch the race. At that time the only sanitary facilities
at Willow were the familiar portable powder rooms. Chata reported
that just as the P.A. announcer said, "...and that puts
Pat Tobin in the lead..." the porta-potty shook with the
intensity of a young voice booming from inside, "That's
my Daddy - That's my Daddy!" Chata said that everyone within
earshot cracked up.
You should
have won it!
Pretty soon I saw "Fred,"
Bob Kirby's Speedster, in my mirrors. Since he didn't run on
Saturday he had to start at the rear on Sunday, and had worked
his way through the pack. To my great surprise he didn't drive
around me but followed, evidently having a look at the "new"
guy. But after a few more laps I over-cooked it slightly down
the steep stretch at the top of the hill and hit the following
left turn a shade to hot, and while I was sorting it out Bob
came around. But that wasn't the worst of it - the damned Elva
got his act together, passed us both and won! A sorry day of
shame for the POC racing team. I don't know how he got around
Bob - his engine must have gone sour. Bob later said to me, "I
never would have got around you if you hadn't bobbled."
Nice of him to say it, even the I didn't believe it. Nevertheless,
it was my first "trophy" finish (top 3) and I felt
it was a good enough day's work. In the pits soon after the race,
Alan Johnson, who wasn't running that weekend, came driving up
in his latest toy - one of the very first air-conditioned VW
beetles. I gave him a smile and wave. Alan rolled down the window.
"BOO!" he shouted. My smile withered; what did he mean
by that? Was he telling me I was driving too hard and shouldn't
have finished that far up? "BOO!" Alan cried again;
"You should have won it!" He had a point there. I had
never before led a race. It came as a surprise and I was not
psychologically prepared to fight back after my bobble and put
forth a winning effort.
The Story continues
in Part III.....................
