PartV

My year of woe with my 1965 street/strip GTO actually has a happy ending, but first a little more woe.  The constant checking of the wiring systems has revealed the flaw in my lightweight battery.  It has very little reserve.  I am constantly losing charge in it.  Another trip to O’Reillys and I have a cut out switch from the stock fuse panel to my auxiliary fuse panel.  I can now shut off the main electric cooling fan while I am diagnosing other circuits.  I already had the cut off switch for the headlights. These 2 switches prevent the drain from the main fan and the headlights and give my battery lots more life between starts.  I hid this 2^nd switch under the dash where it also acts as a theft deterrent.  With it switched off there is no power to the fuel pump relay.  Whatever’s in the carburetor fuel bowls is how far the thief would get.

The race I attend is called Club Clash.  I race with the GTO club.  It is a chance to connect with racers I have known for years but seldom see.  Plus the fine folks at Bandimere have given me a free entry to offset not getting down the track even once the last time out.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Whiplash.

“Most of them went to Kansas for the Pontiac Uprising drag race.”

“It’s just you and me?”

“Looks like.”

I am disappointed but also vaguely relieved.  I don’t want a bunch of witnesses when the car fails this time.  One happy note–I filled the new fuel tank past the halfway point for the first time a few days previously.  Miraculously, this did something to the fuel gauge float and now my gas gauge has returned from the dead.  Or, perhaps, angels have visited my gas tank.  Either way, it works.  Of course I have no faith that it is accurate but it does register different amounts of fuel.  This is a win.  Whoopee.

I ask a kid in the pits to help me unload the car, me favoring my arm.  He is thrilled to help—and rub shoulders with– a graybeard with a hot rod race car.  I remember myself at his age.  Dumb as a box of rocks but full of optimism, energy, health and a passion for performance cars.  I hope the next 40 years of racing and wrenching, should he choose that path, does not beat it out of him.  I thank him and shake his hand, gingerly.

I prep the car, get in line for the first time trial, and prep myself.  I put in eye drops, then don helmet, jacket and gloves.  I always wear boots and long pants at the track.  Windows, doors, seatbelt.  Closed, locked and buckled.  Take a swig of water.  I start and kill the engine several times.  Everything is working.  Is there a breeze?  Which way is it blowing?  How strong?  Oil pressure—fine.  A final check of the engine temperature, 160 F, always the same for consistency.  As soon as I can see to, I practice counting down the Christmas tree using the cars launching ahead of me.  It’s my turn.  They wave me forward.  I note on the starting line where the car ahead of me leaves a fresh patch of black.  I’ll try to put my rear tires in the same place to take advantage of the increased traction.  I do the burnout, and stage the car.  The lights come down and I take a shot at a good light.  It’s a decent launch–the tires do not spin.  The shift light is set at 6200 RPM.  In 1st gear it comes up quick.  I bang the shifter into 2^nd.   Second gear takes a little longer, shift light glows on and I bang 3^rd.  I concentrate on keeping the car straight and run it hard past the finish line thru the quarter mile.  It feels strong, there is no hint of fuel starvation and I have solid fuel pressure at the top end.  I get the time slip and pull to one side out of the way.  I am pole axed.  I blink and read it again.  The car ran 11.95 at 113 MPH.  This is unheard of good.  Elevens are the Holy Grail for my car.  I haven’t had one in a couple of years.  Car runs low 12s, that’s a given.  For it to run a solid 11 on the first pass is, frankly, unbelievable.  Plus it didn’t break.  It. Did. Not. Break.

Back in the pits Whiplash finds me.  “Let me see that time slip,” he says.  He witnessed the pass and doesn’t believe it either.

“I’m done,” I said.  “I can pack up and go home.  I don’t care what happens tonight, I got an 11.  Nothing else matters.”  I leave unspoken, except of course, driving the thing home.

“Air must be pretty good,” says Whiplash, who can be a little stingy with his compliments.

By our second time trial the sun has gone behind the mountain.  Now that I’ve tasted an 11, I want another, both for my ego but also so I can have some consistency from the car to dial my E.T. for the first round.  We run it through and the car comes back with an 11.97.  Wow.  Win or lose first round now, I do not care. I’ve got 2 time slips in the 11s,

Round one, I shoe polish an 11.97 on the windows and get in line.  Guy I race red lights—he leaves too soon giving me the automatic win–and I leg it through—11.968.  That’s a pretty close dial.

Whiplash has won as well.  It’s a wonderful world and I have fallen back in love with my car.

Round 2.  Guy this time is half a second quicker.  I have a miserable reaction time at the starting light.  He has a more miserable light and I get the win.

Whiplash loses.  He is not happy.  He is so unhappy I figure it must be his blood sugar.  In all the excitement I have forgotten Whiplash’s dietary requirements.  I offer him a salad I have been saving.

He’s indignant.  “I’m not eating that.”

“It’s got cheese.”

“I don’t care what it’s got, I’m not eating it.”

“So what do you want to eat?” I ask.

“Something that had parents.”

Round 3  I haven’t been this deep in eliminations since—I don’t remember when.  This is starting to feel like an out-of-body experience.  The night is cooling.  I lower my dial to an 11.95.  I get a gal this time in a late model Mustang.  Again, I get a pathetic light.  But her light is more pathetic.  I catch her at the 1000 ft. for an easy win.

In the pits Whiplash studies my time slips.  “How do you win with such awful lights?”

“It is a mystery.”

“No mystery, just dumb luck.”

Whiplash can be a little jealous.  However, in this case, he may be right.  I would love to explore this further with him, but I have a problem.  My gas gauge shows I am nearly out of gas.  I check with my homemade dipstick.  It confirms it.  Bandimere’s fuel store closed 30 minutes ago.  I shake every drop of my 2 gal gas can into the car.  I don’t care I’m nearly out of gas.  I am absurdly happy that my gas gauge is working, of all things.  Wouldn’t it be funny if I ran out of gas and was still in the race?

Round 4– the race has turned into the Twilight Zone.  Every round only half the people come back.  Where did everyone go?  I am in a daze, completely stupefied.  Some of the racers who have been there before reassure me.  “You’re doing fine.”  I feel completely out of my element.  I draw a very experienced racer.  He red lights by 3 one thousandths of a second.  I run it through and the car has slowed.  “Air went back up,” says Whiplash, “7400 feet.”  I raise my dial-in to an 11.99.

There are so few cars now the winners are hot lapping back to the staging lanes.  “What round is this?” I ask one of the survivors.

“It’s fifth round, but don’t think about that now.  You got a race to run.  Concentrate on that.”  The experienced racers are giving me tips, rooting me on.

I get my best light of the night.  The guy whiffs badly on his light and he can’t run his number.  My car is running like a big dog and it is another easy win.  I get the time slip from the girl at the timing shack and she gives me a huge smile.

They let the cars cool down when we return to the staging lanes.  There’s four of us now.  Semifinals.  Round 6.  I try talking to my opponent before the race, but he isn’t very talkative.  The other two racers talk to me though.  I allow myself a moment.  This past year of misery has paid off.  My stealth tank is working, I have very little gas left and it’s racing just fine.  The fuel system is working, no hint of fuel starvation (3 different fuel pumps, countless teardowns, even more countless diagnostic sessions.)  The electrical system is working.  The feather weight battery is working. Even the gas gauge is working.  It all seems worth it, even my arm.  It hasn’t bothered me all night.  The last 12 months of sweat, time, money and despair have all, every moment, paid off.  My whole car—my whole life–is not only working but running the best times in years.  All my luck has come rushing back.  I am over the moon.

Time to race.  I’m dialed at 11.99.  My opponent dials an 11.98—this oughta be fun.  We do the burnouts, I come to the line, pop it in neutral, and whack the throttle twice to clean the plugs.  I hear a thump from the motor and a warning light in my dash glows on.  I give it a little throttle and the light goes away.  What just happened?  I have exactly 2 seconds to decide what to do.  My opponent has pre-staged.  I either stage, or forfeit the round, and I’m out of the race.  C’mon, make a decision.  I make one.  I think I’ve thrown the fan belt.  That’s what I heard and the light was the alternator.  I can run this race with no alternator or water pump.  I stage, the lights come down and I red light badly, my concentration completely thrown.  At the timing shack the very cute employee has a trophy for me and another big smile.  She tells me her name, which I have since forgotten.

The pits are nearly empty.  It’s late, everyone has gone home.  Whiplash is waiting for me.  “Look at you,” he says and offers his hand.

“Listen to this,” I say to Whiplash.  The car has another noise.  “Tell me this is a lifter like before.”

We listen.  We raise the RPM slightly.  We let it idle down.  I shut it off.

“Sounds like a knock to me,” says Whiplash, “Rod or main, you’ve spun a bearing.”

“I’ll give you 2 hamburgers if you say valve train.”

“Ok, valve train.  But I still think it’s a bearing.”  He eyes me.  “You been holding out on me?”

Here in the pits I can see the oil pressure gauge.  It shows 2/3 normal pressure and the needle is rapidly fluttering.  It’s a bearing.  My beautiful 455, which has given me years of service, has given its heart to me tonight.  It has made the ultimate sacrifice.  I remember the instrument light I never replaced in the oil pressure gauge.  I couldn’t read the gauge at the starting line.  The thump was the bearing, not the fan belt.  The light was the oil pressure, not the alternator.  Too late I realize if it had been the alternator, it would’ve have stayed on.  I hope–had I known I’d hurt the motor when I was staging–I would have backed out and forfeited the round.  But I don’t know.  Car still ran 112 MPH, a tick slow, but still making power even though it was mortally wounded.  I am nostalgic for my rock n’ roll 455.  But I am not devastated.  I am, in fact, exhilarated.  The car ran better than it has in years—11s, baby, all night long– all my work the year previous is vindicated and I was nearly in the final round with laughable reaction times most of the night.  Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.  It is the best night I can remember.

The guy I beat in round 4, a guy I’d never met and by far the best racer I faced tonight, is climbing in his truck to tow his race car home.  He shouts and waves from across the pits.  “Great race!  Good luck to you.  Drive safe going home.”  I must be dreaming.

“Too bad the rest of the GTO club wasn’t here to see this,” says Whiplash.

“You know,” I say, “It’s OK,”

As we load the car on the wrecker—for the 3^rd time in the last month and the 4^th time since the Year of the Garage began–Lugnut, a racer and friend of Whiplash, wanders over, all 4 foot 12 of him.  “Good race.”   He’s never spoken to me before.

“Thank you.”

“You like these tires?” he indicates my Hoosier DOTs, at his eyelevel now that the car’s on the flatbed.

“Yeah, I do.  They stick pretty good at the track and they wear pretty well on the highway.”

“They oughta wear pretty well on the highway,” says Whiplash, “He only drives them to the track.  He never drives them home.”

1965 Pontiac GTO first ¼ mile pass in the 11s

Experience the visceral punch of John Becay’s street/strip 1965 GTO making its first quarter mile pass in the 11s.

I have known my good friend Paul Dreyer for decades.  He filmed this clip and provided the commentary.  This test and tune day, October 10, 2012, was Bandimere Speedway’s last event for the season and the car’s last run of the year.  The car had never run an 11.  But the plan was to get one that day.  Paul and I had labored all afternoon trying to capture that elusive 11.  The car would run a 12.0, but we couldn’t find that last tenth of a second.   The magnificent fall afternoon was drawing to a close.  Dusk was gathering, the staging lanes were choked with hundreds of racers also wanting one more pass to end their year.  This run would be our last.  We knew it was now or never.  Paul had a brainstorm.  He packed the manifold with ice.  We waited until we were only a car or two from the hold line.  We pulled the ice off, I got in the car and prepped for the final run.  Paul got to the starting line with the camera.  The massive burnout–on slicks borrowed from Paul–was the last thing I could do to ensure a record run.  During the burnout, check the young woman at the extreme right of the screen.  Her reaction says it all.

I’ve owned my 1965 Pontiac GTO since 1985.  It is naturally aspirated and runs factory heads, factory block and factory crank with a hydraulic flat tappet cam on pump gas.  It drives to the track and back home.  I don’t own a trailer.  Bandimere Speedway, nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains near Morrison, CO, has an elevation of 5813 feet.  The density altitude of this run was about 7000 feet, low for Bandimere.  This pass altitude corrects to a low 11.  If the car had made this run at sea level the E.T. would have been a 11.1 to 11.2 seconds.  A year or two later the car posted its best time–11.79 at 114 MPH–also at Bandimere, a 10.8-10.9 second pass at sea level.  Thanks for watching and thank you Paul Dreyer. –john van becay

 

copyright 2019    john van becay