I've never had much interest in drag racing. To me it's like being in an F1 race, accelerating flat-out at the start then quitting at the first corner. But I do appreciate the physical and emotional thrills of raw power when applied from a standing start. Thus, when I was invited to participate in a drag racing event, I accepted gladly. Only to end up looking like a fool.
This tale goes back to the 1960s. I was a part-time automobile journalist specialising in radio and television, with a full-time job as assistant public relations manager of Volkswagen Canada and with some minor league success road racing a modified Beetle. The producer of our TV show, Wheelspin, wanted to film a drag racing event and chose a weekend when I'd been loaned a Lotus Seven for road testing. When we arrived at the track, the competitions manager informed us that a special category had been created for imported cars and invited me to enter the Lotus. And so, with a loaner helmet on my head, I lined up beside a much-modified Volvo.
With my road racing background I obviously knew how to get away quickly and how to shift gears in split seconds. The Lotus and I finished first. This meant that I'd race again, now against another, faster, sedan. Once more I crossed the line ahead and found myself competing in the final run. My competitor was driving a sports car (I don't recall the make, nor that of the aforementioned sedan), which was definitely quicker than the cars in the first two heats. Nevertheless the lightweight Lotus edged ahead and as we approached the finish line I was sure to be the winner.
In the blink of an eye the engine quit. The guy in the sports car became the import class champion and I felt like an idiot as I coasted past the line and pulled off to clear the track for the next race. My producer was almost as embarassed as me, especially as the crowd, accustomed to growling V-8s, had been cheering this little British upstart. And because, as host of a TV show about motor racing, the spectators had expected a showy performance and up to then were getting one.
So what had caused the engine to stop running at such a critical moment? We'd run out of gas! And how could we let this happen? The Lotus Seven, being a bare-bones sports car, didn't have a fuel gauge and I'd assumed that the dealer who'd loaned it to us that very morning had filled the tank. We'd only driven about 70 miles to reach the track and there'd be plenty of fuel remaining. Wrong. No one at the dealership had topped it up and I, foolishly, hadn't used the measuring stick that substituted for a gauge. After a fellow racer had generously given us a few gallons and after we'd done the requisite shooting and interviews, I slunk away, hopefully unnoticed.
Thus ended my one-and-only attempt at drag racing. The track people generously invited me back for a repeat performance but as the Lotus wasn't mine I couldn't accept. My only regret is that I came so close to winning my first-ever drag race and even after all these years would love to have that trophy sitting on a shelf.
I'm still not a drag racing fan but I can understand the thrill, even in a topless, hapless Lotus Seven. Fortunately it loves corners.
[Photo: Tires2012.com]