- 3,130
- HaylRayzor
Nürburgring Dream: Prologue
As I stood there beside the Kinkade RX8 looking over the pit road of the world renowned Nürburgring I could hardly believe the strange turns of fate that had landed me here. In a mere 3 days the Festival would officially start and I was going to be racing the Ring for real. Six months earlier it had looked like I might never race again, ANYWHERE.
A booming voice startled me out of my reverie. “So what do you think of it?” It could only be Sam Kinkade himself, the man responsible for this dream opportunity.
“The car?” I asked.
“The track!” he snorted.
“It’s everything I expected, and nothing like I expected. It feels like I’m standing on Holy Ground.”
“You are,” he replied. “It never gets old. You ready to make some laps?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“You two get acquainted. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
As I pulled out of the pits I took a look in the mirror to be sure there were no cars coming and proceeded to swerve back and forth a few times to clean and warm the tires. This was my first time in the Kinkade RX8 and I planned to take it easy until I got the feel of it.
Turn by turn I picked up speed. The car was willing and responsive, seemingly anxious to run. I held it back for another few turns until I was sure the engine, transmission, and differential were up to temperature. By the time I reached Hocheichen I was ready to turn her loose.
The growl of the 2-rotor Wankel turned to a scream as it revved past eight thousand rpm. As I swept through Flugplatz the car was balanced and grippy. I debated with myself about how fast to take Schwedenkreuz. Discretion is the better part of valor I decided.
Over the top and hard on the brakes for Aremberg. The brakes bit hard and the racing tires clawed the pavement as I hauled down from 260 to less than 100. A bit of understeer as I turned in. But rotated nicely in the center and pulled strongly on exit.
The car and I became a single entity as we negotiated the course. As I completed the lap I felt confident enough to explore the limits of the car. Turn by turn we tested ourselves against the famous Green Hell. As I passed Galgenkopf I was already planning what adjustments I would make.
I was now certain that a slight stiffening of the rear dampers was in order, and maybe a bump up in the rear swaybar…
As the speedometer climbed past 260 the engine was just reaching it’s horsepower peak. I was getting ready to tap the brakes when suddenly the power dropped. It wasn’t dramatic but it was enough to get my attention. I eased off the throttle, silently hoping it wasn’t something serious.
But as the rpms dropped below four thousand a sickening grinding noise started. I was now certain it was something serious. I pushed in the clutch and the engine shuddered to a stop. Now with no power steering or power brakes I eased onto the brakes.
What I didn’t know was that the engine had dumped oil onto the rear tires and the car snapped around, spinning onto the shoulder and bouncing off the guardrail. First the rear, then the front kissed the barrier. The car ground to a halt in a cloud of radiator steam.
As I unbuckled myself I saw the black smoke starting to mix with the steam. The oil had coated the catalytic converter and was now on fire.
The car was a total loss. As quickly as my fortunes had turned from bad to good, they had turned from good to bad. To worse.
Kinkade had not even spoken to me as the car was towed back to the paddock. Maybe he blamed me for the loss. Maybe he was just disappointed and didn’t want to talk.
As I walked through the garage I cursed to myself. This was so typical of my luck. There was no way I’d get another serious ride after this. And of course there was the small matter of my being blackballed in the international racing community…
I didn’t even see the man leaning against the garage until he spoke. “Aren’t you James Wilson?” His accent was upper-class british.
I stopped and looked at the man. Mediteranian looking. 60ish. Nice suit. I had no idea who he might be.
“Most people call me Jim,” I said. “And you are…?”
“Oh, I’m just a race fan,” he said. “I understand you’ve had a bit of bad luck.”
“You could say that,” I replied. I couldn’t tell if the man had something in mind, or was just trying to make conversation.
Either way I was not in a mood for conversation. I just wanted to get out of this place and put it behind me.
The man continued before I could excuse myself. “Kind of like six months ago at Sonoma. What caused that accident?”
I was beginning to get a little peeved with this man. Who did he think he was bringing that up, here and now, with everything else that had happened?
“I did,” I snapped.
The man raised his eyebrow slightly. “Really? You don’t blame Crosley? He blames you…”
“Well either one of us could have backed off and the wreck wouldn’t have happened. But my fault as much as his.” I wasn’t even sure why I was talking to this man. But he seemed genuinely interested in hearing my side of the story.
“Are you some kind of reporter or something?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “Just a race fan. I saw that race and it was pretty obvious that Crosley didn’t need to make that pass. He was ten seconds ahead of Sanderson.”
“Well,” I answered, “The rules say that lap traffic must yield, and I didn’t yield. It was the last lap and I needed to get by Myers. I needed the points. I saw Crosley coming but I didn’t think he’d stick his nose in when we were already two wide. The officials called it a racing incident. No penalties were issued, as I’m sure you know.”
“But still you lost your ride,” the man observed.
“Crosley has a lot of pull,” I said.
“That is putting it mildly,” the man replied.
I was just about to continue on my way when he waved his hand, stopping me. “Say, can I show you something? Get your opinion on something? As a race driver?”
I wanted to say no. To say I had someplace I needed to be. But that was a lie. I didn’t have anyplace to be. I didn’t even really know where I would go.
But my curiousity got the better of me. “I suppose,” I said.
The man took off down the line of garages. After passing six or seven garages he stopped. He rolled up the door of the garage, revealing a dark green Lotus 111R.
“Nice,” I said.
“I love the color,” the man said. “It’s so British.” He chuckled. “Didn’t you drive a green car back in ARCA?”
I turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “You certainly know a lot about me, Mister…?”
“Farelli,” he replied. “Marco Farelli.”
My eyes widened a bit. “Farelli, as in the Farelli brothers?”
“They’re my cousins,” he said. “What do you think?” he continued. “In your opinion as a race driver, does this car have a shot at the Tuner’s Trophy?”
“Who’s going to drive it?” I asked.
“I will,” he stated.
Turning back to the car I said, “How much power?”
“A little over two twenty on the chassis dyno,” he said. “Let’s say two seventy five at the flywheel.”
“Stock weight?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Tips the scales at eight hundred thirty four kilos.”
I did some quick math in my head (which meant there was at least an even chance I had it wrong). “That comes to about 330 horsepower per tonne. We can be sure the Audi is over five hundred horsepower. At thirteen hundred kilos that’s say… almost four hundred horsepower per tonne. And it’s got the chassis to take advantage of it.”
In fact, there was more than one entrant in the Tuner’s Trophy race that had lodged complaints that the R8 LMS was in fact a race car, and therefore should be disqualified. The Audi people had obviously pulled some strings to get the car in the race.
I turned to look at him. “I’d say you might have a shot at second. If it’s set up right. At least you won’t embarrass yourself. You won’t beat that Audi. Unless…”
“Go on,” he said.
“Unless you can make up the difference in tire wear and fuel consumption. But that’s a long shot at best.”
Again the man nodded. I had the distinct impression I was being tested. “And would you mind taking it for a few laps and help me set it up? I have a good mechanic, but he needs better feedback than what I can give him.”
“You want me to drive this car after I caused that wreck in Sonoma, and then blew up the Kinkade?”
He shrugged. “The first one wasn’t completely your fault, and the second one none of your doing at all.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll admit I’m interested, and it’s not like I have anything else going on right now.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll speak to my cousins and see if we can get your blackball lifted.”
I frowned. “You’re going to do that because I’m going to test your car for you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m doing it because Crosley is an ass.”
An hour later I was strapped into the Lotus. The starter whined for a second and the engine snarled to life.
A quick runthrough of the controls and I was ready to take it out. When I snapped it into gear it was immediately obvious that the clutch was not the stock unit. At least I didn’t think the stock Lotus clutch would be quite that stiff or engage quite that positively… When I stepped on the gas the electronic throttle responded very sharply. Again, not stock I suspected.
As I pulled onto the track I did my habitual weave to clean the tires and headed off into the Arena. The transmission was a straight-cut unit, making a distinctive whine.
I was impressed with the handling of the car. I had expected it to be twitchy, but it was stable. Most impressive was the drive off the corners. You could bury the throttle with almost zero wheelspin coming out of almost every corner.
Corner entry was a bit trickier. It was, after all, a Lotus. But still more controlled than any other Lotus I’d driven.
I was more impressed with each corner.
The only time it exhibitted any bad behavior was under hard braking, when the rear would become light and threaten to lock up. A brake bias adjustment should take care of that.
I did two laps and brought it back in.
Marco Farelli was sitting on a folding chair in the garage, chatting with his mechanic.
As I was getting out of the car he handed me a clipboard. “If I could impose… We’ve jotted down a few questions here. This will really help us in getting the car dialed in.”
I looked over the list. It was more than just a few questions. It was a very thorough debriefing that took me longer to fill out than it had taken me to run the laps. As soon as I handed it back to Farelli, he passed it to the mechanic. “This is my lead mechanic Dreyfus,” he said. Dreyfus began poring over the responses, muttering to himself.
Farelli stuck out his hand. “Thank you so much Mr. Wilson. I’m sure he will spend hours going over that.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said. “The car is brilliant, to borrow a term from the Brits.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “We’re quite proud of it. Will you be staying for the race?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh please do. I’d like you to be my guest. I have a rather nice suite. All the comforts you know.”
“Well, I…”
“It’s settled then. Come ‘round my suite at seven. And thanks again.” Farelli walked over to speak with the mechanic.
I took a walk through the paddock. When I passed by Kinkade’s garage I saw it was empty. I felt bad for him. He had put a year of his life and a great deal of his own money into the RX-8. But that’s the risk you run when you play the tuner game.
His car would be easier to rebuild than my career. I hoped Farelli was good to his word. Somehow I thought he would be. He struck me as the sort of man that does business with a handshake. The kind of man that unfortunately was few and far between these days.
The next day found me back in Farelli’s garage helping him prep the car for the final practice. The mechanic had made a few adjustments based on my feedback. Just a little here and there to strike what we hoped would be the perfect balance for the Green Hell.
Farelli took the car out as soon as the track opened. Thirty minutes later he was back.
As he got out I could see he was frowning. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t seem to get the right rhythm. I’m either braking too soon or turning in too late every corner. I can barely crack nine minutes. I know the car can do better. Yesterday you ran eight forty.”
“You just need some laps to get used to the car and track,” I said. I knew he didn’t have the time to do that, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Those arrogant Germans are acting like they have the trophy already won, and the part that buggers me the most is that they’re right. None of the other cars have shown the speed to run with the Audi.” Farelli was pacing as he spoke.
“You ran the fastest lap of anybody besides the Audi, and I can’t get close to your time.” He stopped and looked me in the eye. “Now you’ve driven it, do you think this car has any chance of beating the Audi, car to car, not taking my poor driving into account?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There are some variables we don’t know yet. We don’t know how his tires will wear, or how much fuel he’ll use. If he can get five good laps out of his tires then no. But if he has to pit after four laps, or if he does five but he has to slow down because of his tires wearing out… Then maybe.”
His eyes narrowed. “But with me driving, definitely not.” It wasn’t a question. He was simply stating the obvious.
“In that case Mr. Wilson I wish to hire you to drive my car tomorrow.”
As I stood there beside the Kinkade RX8 looking over the pit road of the world renowned Nürburgring I could hardly believe the strange turns of fate that had landed me here. In a mere 3 days the Festival would officially start and I was going to be racing the Ring for real. Six months earlier it had looked like I might never race again, ANYWHERE.
A booming voice startled me out of my reverie. “So what do you think of it?” It could only be Sam Kinkade himself, the man responsible for this dream opportunity.
“The car?” I asked.
“The track!” he snorted.
“It’s everything I expected, and nothing like I expected. It feels like I’m standing on Holy Ground.”
“You are,” he replied. “It never gets old. You ready to make some laps?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“You two get acquainted. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
As I pulled out of the pits I took a look in the mirror to be sure there were no cars coming and proceeded to swerve back and forth a few times to clean and warm the tires. This was my first time in the Kinkade RX8 and I planned to take it easy until I got the feel of it.
Turn by turn I picked up speed. The car was willing and responsive, seemingly anxious to run. I held it back for another few turns until I was sure the engine, transmission, and differential were up to temperature. By the time I reached Hocheichen I was ready to turn her loose.
The growl of the 2-rotor Wankel turned to a scream as it revved past eight thousand rpm. As I swept through Flugplatz the car was balanced and grippy. I debated with myself about how fast to take Schwedenkreuz. Discretion is the better part of valor I decided.
Over the top and hard on the brakes for Aremberg. The brakes bit hard and the racing tires clawed the pavement as I hauled down from 260 to less than 100. A bit of understeer as I turned in. But rotated nicely in the center and pulled strongly on exit.
The car and I became a single entity as we negotiated the course. As I completed the lap I felt confident enough to explore the limits of the car. Turn by turn we tested ourselves against the famous Green Hell. As I passed Galgenkopf I was already planning what adjustments I would make.
I was now certain that a slight stiffening of the rear dampers was in order, and maybe a bump up in the rear swaybar…
As the speedometer climbed past 260 the engine was just reaching it’s horsepower peak. I was getting ready to tap the brakes when suddenly the power dropped. It wasn’t dramatic but it was enough to get my attention. I eased off the throttle, silently hoping it wasn’t something serious.
But as the rpms dropped below four thousand a sickening grinding noise started. I was now certain it was something serious. I pushed in the clutch and the engine shuddered to a stop. Now with no power steering or power brakes I eased onto the brakes.
What I didn’t know was that the engine had dumped oil onto the rear tires and the car snapped around, spinning onto the shoulder and bouncing off the guardrail. First the rear, then the front kissed the barrier. The car ground to a halt in a cloud of radiator steam.
As I unbuckled myself I saw the black smoke starting to mix with the steam. The oil had coated the catalytic converter and was now on fire.
The car was a total loss. As quickly as my fortunes had turned from bad to good, they had turned from good to bad. To worse.
Kinkade had not even spoken to me as the car was towed back to the paddock. Maybe he blamed me for the loss. Maybe he was just disappointed and didn’t want to talk.
As I walked through the garage I cursed to myself. This was so typical of my luck. There was no way I’d get another serious ride after this. And of course there was the small matter of my being blackballed in the international racing community…
I didn’t even see the man leaning against the garage until he spoke. “Aren’t you James Wilson?” His accent was upper-class british.
I stopped and looked at the man. Mediteranian looking. 60ish. Nice suit. I had no idea who he might be.
“Most people call me Jim,” I said. “And you are…?”
“Oh, I’m just a race fan,” he said. “I understand you’ve had a bit of bad luck.”
“You could say that,” I replied. I couldn’t tell if the man had something in mind, or was just trying to make conversation.
Either way I was not in a mood for conversation. I just wanted to get out of this place and put it behind me.
The man continued before I could excuse myself. “Kind of like six months ago at Sonoma. What caused that accident?”
I was beginning to get a little peeved with this man. Who did he think he was bringing that up, here and now, with everything else that had happened?
“I did,” I snapped.
The man raised his eyebrow slightly. “Really? You don’t blame Crosley? He blames you…”
“Well either one of us could have backed off and the wreck wouldn’t have happened. But my fault as much as his.” I wasn’t even sure why I was talking to this man. But he seemed genuinely interested in hearing my side of the story.
“Are you some kind of reporter or something?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he said. “Just a race fan. I saw that race and it was pretty obvious that Crosley didn’t need to make that pass. He was ten seconds ahead of Sanderson.”
“Well,” I answered, “The rules say that lap traffic must yield, and I didn’t yield. It was the last lap and I needed to get by Myers. I needed the points. I saw Crosley coming but I didn’t think he’d stick his nose in when we were already two wide. The officials called it a racing incident. No penalties were issued, as I’m sure you know.”
“But still you lost your ride,” the man observed.
“Crosley has a lot of pull,” I said.
“That is putting it mildly,” the man replied.
I was just about to continue on my way when he waved his hand, stopping me. “Say, can I show you something? Get your opinion on something? As a race driver?”
I wanted to say no. To say I had someplace I needed to be. But that was a lie. I didn’t have anyplace to be. I didn’t even really know where I would go.
But my curiousity got the better of me. “I suppose,” I said.
The man took off down the line of garages. After passing six or seven garages he stopped. He rolled up the door of the garage, revealing a dark green Lotus 111R.
“Nice,” I said.
“I love the color,” the man said. “It’s so British.” He chuckled. “Didn’t you drive a green car back in ARCA?”
I turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “You certainly know a lot about me, Mister…?”
“Farelli,” he replied. “Marco Farelli.”
My eyes widened a bit. “Farelli, as in the Farelli brothers?”
“They’re my cousins,” he said. “What do you think?” he continued. “In your opinion as a race driver, does this car have a shot at the Tuner’s Trophy?”
“Who’s going to drive it?” I asked.
“I will,” he stated.
Turning back to the car I said, “How much power?”
“A little over two twenty on the chassis dyno,” he said. “Let’s say two seventy five at the flywheel.”
“Stock weight?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Tips the scales at eight hundred thirty four kilos.”
I did some quick math in my head (which meant there was at least an even chance I had it wrong). “That comes to about 330 horsepower per tonne. We can be sure the Audi is over five hundred horsepower. At thirteen hundred kilos that’s say… almost four hundred horsepower per tonne. And it’s got the chassis to take advantage of it.”
In fact, there was more than one entrant in the Tuner’s Trophy race that had lodged complaints that the R8 LMS was in fact a race car, and therefore should be disqualified. The Audi people had obviously pulled some strings to get the car in the race.
I turned to look at him. “I’d say you might have a shot at second. If it’s set up right. At least you won’t embarrass yourself. You won’t beat that Audi. Unless…”
“Go on,” he said.
“Unless you can make up the difference in tire wear and fuel consumption. But that’s a long shot at best.”
Again the man nodded. I had the distinct impression I was being tested. “And would you mind taking it for a few laps and help me set it up? I have a good mechanic, but he needs better feedback than what I can give him.”
“You want me to drive this car after I caused that wreck in Sonoma, and then blew up the Kinkade?”
He shrugged. “The first one wasn’t completely your fault, and the second one none of your doing at all.”
“OK,” I said. “I’ll admit I’m interested, and it’s not like I have anything else going on right now.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll speak to my cousins and see if we can get your blackball lifted.”
I frowned. “You’re going to do that because I’m going to test your car for you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m doing it because Crosley is an ass.”
An hour later I was strapped into the Lotus. The starter whined for a second and the engine snarled to life.
A quick runthrough of the controls and I was ready to take it out. When I snapped it into gear it was immediately obvious that the clutch was not the stock unit. At least I didn’t think the stock Lotus clutch would be quite that stiff or engage quite that positively… When I stepped on the gas the electronic throttle responded very sharply. Again, not stock I suspected.
As I pulled onto the track I did my habitual weave to clean the tires and headed off into the Arena. The transmission was a straight-cut unit, making a distinctive whine.
I was impressed with the handling of the car. I had expected it to be twitchy, but it was stable. Most impressive was the drive off the corners. You could bury the throttle with almost zero wheelspin coming out of almost every corner.
Corner entry was a bit trickier. It was, after all, a Lotus. But still more controlled than any other Lotus I’d driven.
I was more impressed with each corner.
The only time it exhibitted any bad behavior was under hard braking, when the rear would become light and threaten to lock up. A brake bias adjustment should take care of that.
I did two laps and brought it back in.
Marco Farelli was sitting on a folding chair in the garage, chatting with his mechanic.
As I was getting out of the car he handed me a clipboard. “If I could impose… We’ve jotted down a few questions here. This will really help us in getting the car dialed in.”
I looked over the list. It was more than just a few questions. It was a very thorough debriefing that took me longer to fill out than it had taken me to run the laps. As soon as I handed it back to Farelli, he passed it to the mechanic. “This is my lead mechanic Dreyfus,” he said. Dreyfus began poring over the responses, muttering to himself.
Farelli stuck out his hand. “Thank you so much Mr. Wilson. I’m sure he will spend hours going over that.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said. “The car is brilliant, to borrow a term from the Brits.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “We’re quite proud of it. Will you be staying for the race?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh please do. I’d like you to be my guest. I have a rather nice suite. All the comforts you know.”
“Well, I…”
“It’s settled then. Come ‘round my suite at seven. And thanks again.” Farelli walked over to speak with the mechanic.
I took a walk through the paddock. When I passed by Kinkade’s garage I saw it was empty. I felt bad for him. He had put a year of his life and a great deal of his own money into the RX-8. But that’s the risk you run when you play the tuner game.
His car would be easier to rebuild than my career. I hoped Farelli was good to his word. Somehow I thought he would be. He struck me as the sort of man that does business with a handshake. The kind of man that unfortunately was few and far between these days.
The next day found me back in Farelli’s garage helping him prep the car for the final practice. The mechanic had made a few adjustments based on my feedback. Just a little here and there to strike what we hoped would be the perfect balance for the Green Hell.
Farelli took the car out as soon as the track opened. Thirty minutes later he was back.
As he got out I could see he was frowning. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t seem to get the right rhythm. I’m either braking too soon or turning in too late every corner. I can barely crack nine minutes. I know the car can do better. Yesterday you ran eight forty.”
“You just need some laps to get used to the car and track,” I said. I knew he didn’t have the time to do that, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Those arrogant Germans are acting like they have the trophy already won, and the part that buggers me the most is that they’re right. None of the other cars have shown the speed to run with the Audi.” Farelli was pacing as he spoke.
“You ran the fastest lap of anybody besides the Audi, and I can’t get close to your time.” He stopped and looked me in the eye. “Now you’ve driven it, do you think this car has any chance of beating the Audi, car to car, not taking my poor driving into account?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There are some variables we don’t know yet. We don’t know how his tires will wear, or how much fuel he’ll use. If he can get five good laps out of his tires then no. But if he has to pit after four laps, or if he does five but he has to slow down because of his tires wearing out… Then maybe.”
His eyes narrowed. “But with me driving, definitely not.” It wasn’t a question. He was simply stating the obvious.
“In that case Mr. Wilson I wish to hire you to drive my car tomorrow.”
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