Finally, I was cheered by a crowd, in a stand, at a motorsport event. It was the first time I’ve ever been cheered by a crowd. Once, before, I thought a crowd was cheering me… but it was only because I was rushing towards the other team’s goal and they were saying “No!”, not the “Go!” I supposed they were yelling.
How did me being cheered at motorsport happen?
Let me paint the picture.
It’s early. Too early. It’s still dark. I shouldn’t need to get up this early on a day off.
I stumble to the garage and get into my 1957 MGA. In the passenger’s seat is a helmet, placed there the night before because I knew I wouldn’t want to deal with prepping in the morning. Also, there’s a backpack filled with duck tape, zip ties, baling wire, and other helpful items in case parts of the car fall off during the day.
I head out, a forty-minute drive ahead of me. I’m glad I’ve built the MGA’s convertible top, the early-morning September air starting to become brisk. The top does hold in the smell of the car’s various parts warming in the engine bay. I wonder if the smells are normal.
As I pass through the next town, I drive past the line waiting to get into the Cars and Coffee parking lot. They’re probably surprised that I didn’t join the queue, wondering where I could possibly be going that would be better than Cars and Coffee in a rich suburb, comparing money spent… I mean, cars.
A long line of Jeeps is in the Cars and Coffee line. I smile to myself, remembering that my daughter asked why the Jeeps go to Cars and Coffee when they could be out doing Jeep things.
I think of my Jeep friend, that uses his Jeep in the most extreme ways, realizing that I can’t remember him ever going to Cars and Coffee with his Jeep.
As I get closer to the main city, I start passing British cars. My oversized engine and taller geared axle (stolen from a more modern MG) paying off in the trundle to the All British Field Meet. Still, despite having a bit of speed, I feel ridiculously small on the Interstate with semi-trucks beside me. Probably about how wiener dogs feel in a crowd.
I get off the Insterstate via the off-ramp. No humor here, the area outside the race track is filled with tents and decrepit RVs. In better times, this area had been the site of a large amusement park, and a second race track. Now it’s largely a community park inhabited by those without homes. Thankfully, one race track has survived, but for how long… only God knows.
I pull into the entry lane for the race track. A line has gathered at registration. Two British cars have died in the wait, one exhibiting signs of electrical failure, the other, signs of cooling failure. Thankfully, based on previous experiences, I’d replaced my entire wiring loom, and added a modern radiator. I survived the line to registration. With British car ownership you come to appreciate the small victories.
I drive to the field where we’re gathering. A man directs me towards the other MGAs.
After I pass him I hear him yelling at me to “STOP!”.
“Uh oh”, I think, “There must be something wrong with my car.”.
He sprints to my car. Then he yells, “You’re in the wrong class!”
Confused, I ask what led him to that conclusion.
He excitedly tells me the badge on the back of my car says, “1800”, and I entered the “1500” class. “1500” is the size of the motors in older MGAs.
He caught me. I put an 1800cc motor in my car (from a later MG) and, as a joke, I adjusted the badge to look like “1800”.
My explanation doesn’t suffice. After all, I might win an award which I’m not entitled to, despite my car clearly not being an award winner. He calls over another official. They discuss my badge behind the car, while I watch them in the rear-view mirror. I see much pointing and gesticulating at my badge. At one point the other official bends over and runs his fingers over the badge, as if to confirm that I messed with it.
Finally, they allow me to park with the other MGAs. I’m not sure what other choice there is. Maybe that’s what they decided as well.
I park and begin taking the convertible down, because an MGA looks much better with the top lowered. A man comes over to chat; strangely, I gathered an impression that he was investigating whether my car was a challenge to his car.
I get out my lawn chair, sit behind the car and spend a half hour reading the news and drinking coffee. This may seem like an odd thing to do, when arriving at a car show, but with my lifestyle I seldom get to simply sit and do as I please. I enjoy a very nice half hour.
It’s approaching 10:00 a.m., when we’re supposed to sign up for the on-track slalom. I wander over to the event tent, which is also selling Scottish biscuits. I sit, waiting, eating delicious biscuits.
A friend from a previous All British Field Meet approaches, also with the idea to sign up for the slalom. Two years ago we were “competitors” in the same Field Meet class, he having a rally-racing ready Mini Cooper, and I brought my fake Lotus 7; I think our class was the class for those that didn’t belong anywhere else. He, of course, beat me. This year he’d brought a full rally-prepared British Ford Escort, a very cool and capable car with a rich history of rally racing… which is surprising since the American Escorts were far from notable.
I sign up for the Slalom and gather my MGA, heading to the staging area; we have to wait to be escorted across the track because the true historic vintage race cars are racing today. Our staging area is in their pit area. We line up in the pits, surrounded by historic Corvettes, Mustangs, Jaguars, Porsches, etc. Not one of the race car drivers come over to look at our cars.
We seem like the youth team invited to do a demonstration during the down time between professional matches. The pros in the pits try to avoid eye contact with us goombahs who think we’re somehow relating. I ask a nearby pro racer questions about his car and get only grunts for answers. I jokingly ask one of the race officials if my MGA could do vintage racing and receive one of the most condescending answers I can remember. Fun group, vintage racers.
Improving my mood, my family calls and tells me they’ve arrived and are heading to the stands to watch me.
We’re escorted onto the track, and it’s finally “racing” time. The Oregon Mini Society sets up a really fun slalom, running down a part of the racetrack, through a pit lane, and back onto the racetrack via the drag strip.
Now I’ve read, and watched, all the “How to Race” videos; they tell you that smooth is fast, and pealing out and squealing tires in corners are bad. But those things are fun, and I decide that I’m going to do them anyways.
My “go” flag drops (or rises), I crank some Irish punk (it’s almost British) on my radio, peal out, wave to my family in the stands, squeal my tires around the corners, oversteer the 360 degree turn onto the drag strip, almost spin out in the slalom (tagging a cone with rear end) and roar off down the straight stretch with my arm chilling on the door like I’m on a Sunday drive (a serious track-day “No, no”, which I’ve been yelled at for).
And I heard a strange thing. I heard a cheer from the crowd. I actually heard it. The MGA is kinda quiet (compared to a race car), but I was surprised because I was told drivers couldn’t hear the stands. I did hear the stands.
Kellie (my wife) told me, later, that because I’d pealed out, waved, and been silly, I caught the attention of the stands.
There it is. My five minutes of fame. Well, one second of fame. But I heard it. A cheer from the stands. I have achieved a cheer from stands… and they weren’t yelling, “No!”
After that, we enjoyed walking around the All British Field Meet as a family. The Field Meet were encouraging owners to let people sit in their cars, and the kids got to experience true British luxury in a Rolls Royce. The door felt like it weighed more than my car but closed perfectly; I was impressed by those hinges.
Side note: The Field Meet officials asked me if people could sit in my car, but I declined because if anyone pulled the ebrake, I wouldn’t know that it was stuck on until halfway home and I smelled burning, because that happened the year before (my children probably pulled it). A neat feature of my car is that the emergency brake lever will return to the “off” location, but the brake will still be partially engaged until you crawl under the car and yank on the cable. (Also, I wasn’t sure people would know how to open the doors; you pull a cable, inside the door frame, to open MGA doors.)
I think my family enjoyed the Field Meet. Either that, or they’ve become good at humoring me.
The family certainly enjoyed the monster trucks, the following weekend. They’re a tad more entertaining.
Speaking of family, I took the girls on a princess parade ride in our local parade. I figured, “Why not?”. Again, people seemed to like the MGA, or they were good at humoring me.
There was the unfortunate kid that I made cry during the parade. Creeping along the long parade route, at a ridiculously slow pace, the MGA was loading up a little with unburnt fuel. When we approached areas with few spectators, I’d rev the car and blow out a nice cloud of black exhaust, cleaning out the gathering unburnt fuel. Once, when I did this, I failed to notice a nearby little girl who went running, in tears, to her mother who glared at me like only an angered mother can do. I’m lucky I didn’t die.
Otherwise, my recent endeavors were to prepare both cars for cooler weather. This adds a lot of usability in the Pacific Northwest.
The MGA received a working windshield wiper motor. The Lotus received a convertible top and pop-off doors. I’m proud of my endeavors. Both cars are able to drive in cool weather now. I used the MGA’s wipers on a foggy morning recently, heading to the last autocross of the year.
And the Lotus went out for a cool November drive without us freezing to death.
I also added some bling to the Lotus. It now has gold BMW M3 wheels (which caused one person to comment that their car “doesn’t need gold teeth to get attention”), a Lotus 7 grille, and a nicer steering wheel. I put the Lotus in the center of my Halloween display.
I’m still loosely trying to sell the Locost, but I think the local market isn’t into it. I’ll have to go national in the Spring, and prep some little stuff before I get all the annoying questions from the “experts” that scrutinize advertisement pictures.
Honestly, you read the “experts” questions on other classified ads, and you wonder what sort of life these people have; “I see in the 10th picture a fleck of oil behind the right wheel… have you taken apart your axle and inspected for the warted axle shaft that GM suffered from axle serial numbers 100478 to 232578, which will cause axle seal leaks?”
The poor car owner then answers that, in the picture, it was a fleck of mud that they have since cleaned off.
The expert then accuses the owner of falsifying the ad, and proclaims that the car certainly suffers from warted axles.
I’m really looking forward to that. I’ll let you know how it goes; I’m sure it’ll be entertaining.
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