In go-karts, an enduro race is one which would run an hour, sometimes more. Longer than that and too many of the karts would explode ... or at least the motors. To win one of these relatively-infrequent events was a triumph since finishing one was extraordinary. My ol' Dad had been trying in multiple enduros but his racing kit was complicated and, yep, it would often blow up so he had not yet finished an enduro.
Doc and I were racing that day as well and this was the early stage of the course of racing in the family. There wasn't a lot of money for this so we shared the same kart. This meant we had to stop midway through the race for a pit stop and we would inevitably lose the race because of that but this was the only way both of us got a turn. There might have been some jousting with each other over who would start and who would finish since we competed with everything else so likely that would have been an object of competition as well.
For this particular episode, I was running in the last half of the race. Part of the surprise was ... that I was running in the last half of the race. Usually something would break before then and that would end the run.
Enduros are huge fun for me as this is not crash bang driving but rather how fast does this thing go. The main straight is much longer than for a sprint track at about half a mile or so to accommodate a drag strip and the road to run out that speed. A go-kart only uses one gear so it was vital to choose the right gear ratio to give you some pull out of a corner but still build enough speed overall to be a contender.
The object was to hit the maximum RPMs for the motor at just the right point in the straight that you didn't blow to a million pieces by the end of the straight from holding the motor at maximum RPMs for too long. That wasn't so much a risk for the kart Doc and I drove as it wasn't wound so tight as ol' Dad's machine. We would bring it up to top speed and stay with it since the maximum was maybe seventy or eighty miles per hour whereas ol' Dad's kart was good for about one hundred and thirty, a bit over 200 kph.
That long run up the straight got kind of boring as you bring it up to speed and rolling with it but all that while there's a huge sweeping right turn at the end of it. The turn isn't like the Monza at Camden but it's got a significant bank to it and the turn would swing you back around one hundred and eighty degrees. That led into a series of road coarse turns which funneled onto a short straight with a set of pylons laid out such that only one kart could pass through at once. That was the scoring area where they counted laps.
The back straight was the really long one and there was a gentle curve to the left but it ran for much of the straight ... which wasn't quite straight. Even though gentle in this turn, you would build more speed on this straight and that slight turn kept it always on an edge. This was the finest of open-wheel racing as the speed may not seem so much but now try it two inches off the ground with the wind full in your face. If you hit anything, you are scenery as in right now. This is prime time exhilaration.
There was breakage, however.
The fuel tank for the kart was located in the front pan, which is to say it was between my legs while they stretched over it to the accelerator and the brake. The steering yoke lifted the wheel to the right height to accommodate the tank between there and the front end. The larger fuel tank was only needed for an enduro race so the installation was something of an improvisation.
Some improvs work better than others and the problem with this one was it leaked ... on me.
The race still had the best and wettest part of half an hour to go and I was damned if I was going to stop.
Think as I might, I did not have a signal to the pits to tell them ...
MY CROTCH IS GETTING SOAKED IN GASOLINE
There were no radio communications with the pits in those days and no doubt advice regarding a gasoline-soaked crotch would have been quickly forthcoming ... but ...
I AM DAMNED IF I AM GOING TO STOP
The melodrama continued, I kept getting wetter with gasoline, and there was the ever-present thought, this is really going to suck if you catch fire.
My logic in continuing was the absence of anything immediately around me which might make a spark. This may not have given sufficient weight to the presence of one massive spark immediately behind my head. However, that was back there and I was up here so I shouldn't explode.
As this continued, there was the increasing awareness of a growing warmth in the areas of skin in contact with the gasoline-soaked blue jeans. In fact, the warmth grew to a distinct feeling of dropping hot coals from a barbecue in my lap or perhaps walking on the surface of the sun.
Unfortunately, I also did not have a pit signal for ...
MY BALLS BURN WITHOUT FLAMES!!!
but ...
I AM DAMNED IF I AM GOING TO STOP
Doc and I were racing that day as well and this was the early stage of the course of racing in the family. There wasn't a lot of money for this so we shared the same kart. This meant we had to stop midway through the race for a pit stop and we would inevitably lose the race because of that but this was the only way both of us got a turn. There might have been some jousting with each other over who would start and who would finish since we competed with everything else so likely that would have been an object of competition as well.
For this particular episode, I was running in the last half of the race. Part of the surprise was ... that I was running in the last half of the race. Usually something would break before then and that would end the run.
Enduros are huge fun for me as this is not crash bang driving but rather how fast does this thing go. The main straight is much longer than for a sprint track at about half a mile or so to accommodate a drag strip and the road to run out that speed. A go-kart only uses one gear so it was vital to choose the right gear ratio to give you some pull out of a corner but still build enough speed overall to be a contender.
The object was to hit the maximum RPMs for the motor at just the right point in the straight that you didn't blow to a million pieces by the end of the straight from holding the motor at maximum RPMs for too long. That wasn't so much a risk for the kart Doc and I drove as it wasn't wound so tight as ol' Dad's machine. We would bring it up to top speed and stay with it since the maximum was maybe seventy or eighty miles per hour whereas ol' Dad's kart was good for about one hundred and thirty, a bit over 200 kph.
That long run up the straight got kind of boring as you bring it up to speed and rolling with it but all that while there's a huge sweeping right turn at the end of it. The turn isn't like the Monza at Camden but it's got a significant bank to it and the turn would swing you back around one hundred and eighty degrees. That led into a series of road coarse turns which funneled onto a short straight with a set of pylons laid out such that only one kart could pass through at once. That was the scoring area where they counted laps.
The back straight was the really long one and there was a gentle curve to the left but it ran for much of the straight ... which wasn't quite straight. Even though gentle in this turn, you would build more speed on this straight and that slight turn kept it always on an edge. This was the finest of open-wheel racing as the speed may not seem so much but now try it two inches off the ground with the wind full in your face. If you hit anything, you are scenery as in right now. This is prime time exhilaration.
There was breakage, however.
The fuel tank for the kart was located in the front pan, which is to say it was between my legs while they stretched over it to the accelerator and the brake. The steering yoke lifted the wheel to the right height to accommodate the tank between there and the front end. The larger fuel tank was only needed for an enduro race so the installation was something of an improvisation.
Some improvs work better than others and the problem with this one was it leaked ... on me.
The race still had the best and wettest part of half an hour to go and I was damned if I was going to stop.
Think as I might, I did not have a signal to the pits to tell them ...
MY CROTCH IS GETTING SOAKED IN GASOLINE
There were no radio communications with the pits in those days and no doubt advice regarding a gasoline-soaked crotch would have been quickly forthcoming ... but ...
I AM DAMNED IF I AM GOING TO STOP
The melodrama continued, I kept getting wetter with gasoline, and there was the ever-present thought, this is really going to suck if you catch fire.
My logic in continuing was the absence of anything immediately around me which might make a spark. This may not have given sufficient weight to the presence of one massive spark immediately behind my head. However, that was back there and I was up here so I shouldn't explode.
As this continued, there was the increasing awareness of a growing warmth in the areas of skin in contact with the gasoline-soaked blue jeans. In fact, the warmth grew to a distinct feeling of dropping hot coals from a barbecue in my lap or perhaps walking on the surface of the sun.
Unfortunately, I also did not have a pit signal for ...
MY BALLS BURN WITHOUT FLAMES!!!
but ...
I AM DAMNED IF I AM GOING TO STOP
And I didn't. I was the first in the family to finish an enduro race. I didn't place but Team Fraser Junior did come in fourth. This was not bravery but rather more concentrated stupidity than you could ever pack into a political clown car. It's based on the fundamental principle of all teens: we are immortal.
(Ed: did you really have such a wimpy name?)
Hell, no. We would have fought over that too.
There was one small problem with completing the race insofar as I was still soaked in gasoline and I didn't only finish the race on fumes, I was the fumes.
There comes the awkward moment of immediate realization ...
HOLY SHIT THIS BURNS!!! I HAVE GOT TO GET THESE JEANS OFF!!!
Then comes the parallel recognition there are people all over the place and exposing one's personal area in such a circumstance is not advised.
Somehow that situation was resolved and this became yet another example of the professional level of self-abuse since another instance was when I introduced my personal area to a Harley gas tank at speed.
Note: this isn't for amateurs who should continue to practice their normal forms of self-abuse.
There's a historical record for the Harley episode in the blog somewhere. Will update this one with a link if I find it. (Blog: That Didn't Hurt)
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