My legs are shaking uncontrollably with fear. I feel I'm going to pee my pants as I wander through a smorgasbord of fully race-prepped demolition derby cars, roll cages welded together in more points than you'd find in your neighborhood jungle gym and hateful blather liberally spray-painted on rusted flanks. Giant iron bars-shaved into spikes-protrude from dented and decaying body panels. What the hell am I doing here?
The 24 Hours of Lemons promises more thrills per dollar than an extended trip to Tijuana and the kind of door-to-door racing you'd normally need years of licensing for. The rules? Find a car costing less than $500 and race it for 13 hours.
After two and half months of procrastination, we find a 1990 Toyota Celica ST at a police auction. $500. In baby blue. Jay, our engineering editor, must produce a competitive race car from this pile in less than two weeks. He does it with the help of SCC staff plus Honda Tuning's Bob Hernandez, and Joey Leh and Ryan McKay of Import Tuner. We strip out the interior, sunroof, even the sound-deadening material and put in an assortment of new and scavenged OE replacement parts-all under the $500 total.
There is no limit on safety gear, so we splurge on a clean and cheap four-point mild steel rollcage from Battle Version's Alex Pfeiffer. No door beams; since they're only recommended, we figure it's safe enough. We pick up a five-point harness from Takata, racing shoes from Alpinestars, and sweet carbon fiber auto racing helmets from HJC. As far as we know, we're as prepared as anyone.
Northern California's Altamont Raceway. Legend has it this is where the music died when The Rolling Stones played on this very ground back in 1969. One of their fans, Meredith Hunter, was killed by the Hell's Angels 'security'. It's not a nice recollection as I gawk at the metal militia lined up on trailers, including a BMW with 'Hell's Angel's Security' emblazoned on the door. By the time all the entries have arrived, we're one of only three teams that chose to drive their race car to the event-300 miles from LA. And we intend to drive back.
You need an approved racing license to run Lemons. Good thing the track is selling them for $75 each. We meet up with Dave Coleman in line and trade notes about the cars we've seen. We tell him the Road & Track entry looks pretty tough-fully race-prepped and probably the lightest car here. "No way," says Coleman, "Our CRX weighs only 1600 pounds." Sweet. Looks like we won't be only team dying today.
After registration and licensing, we're ushered through a couple of drivers' meetings, during which time organizer Jay Lamm stresses this isn't a crash 'n' derby-rubbin' ain't racin'. "OK, maybe just a little.
He threatens multiple offenders with draconian penalties from a 'Wheel of Misfortune': a Spanish Inquisition-style poison picker (see sidebar). "The staff at Altamont Raceway tell me 20 cars are way too many for the track. We're at 34."
We're let loose for 'qualifying', which sets a clear precedent for what the next 24 hours will be like. Each car is slalomed around three seated dummies at whatever speed the driver desires. While still carrying said speed (or not), anywhere from one to four baby strollers are hurled at the cars from the sidelines. The idea is to stop before killing a plastic baby, but in most cases the cars have stopped for the first stroller while the remaining three are blasted into the side panels.
Powder-wigged judges then swarm over the cars like ants, trying to pick out the ones costing more than $500. Clearly, there are more than few violators, though everyone gets to tell it to the judge. I've been elected to justify our car's existence. "It's a 1.6-liter," I say. The ridiculous yellow wing from our Neon SRT project car is raising a few eyebrows. They don't think our team name (Sport Compact Car) is original enough. They have a point. We're docked some laps.
4:07pm. Go time. Editor Ed is strapped in. Watching from the sidelines, I think I can feel his heart skipping beats through the Takata harness. It's a rolling start and after a couple of laps around the track, the green flag is thrown
Thirty-four heaps of shit erupt into a cacophony of bent valves, gutted exhausts and squealing alternator belts. The speed is picking up, and the threat level is elevated almost immediately to Code Orange. But after just three laps, Ed is black-flagged. What the hell has happened? It seems track officials thought he needed a fire suit to race. Who needs one of those?
It's 15 minutes before the misunderstanding is sorted, but by then we've got Joey (the only guy who worried enough about burning to death to bring a suit) belted in and on the track. Like being pushed into an ice-cold swimming pool, Joey surely isn't ready for what he's about to experience. But maybe that's the best way to tackle your stint at Lemons.
Joey Leh
Ed gave me his Canon to get some shots of him driving. I'm trackside when I get a call from Jay ordering me back to the pits. I barely put the camera down when Jay tells me Ed was pulled in for not wearing a fire suit and, being the only person to have brought one, I'd have to go out instead. At least I wouldn't have any time to think, much less get nervous. I head out and instantly join a field of 33 madmen, all of whom seem to have forgotten that this is an endurance race
It takes a few laps to get used to driving this close to this many aggressive drivers, but as I learn more about them, I begin to get more comfortable. The Celica is incredibly easy to drive, despite its massive natural understeer. I try to avoid contact and keep a level head, finish my stint, wait for a yellow and pit, handing off to Jay.
Jay's first shift is largely uneventful. Like all who will drive in Lemons, the first few laps are an accustomizing period, and the rest are fairly consistent. Which is good, because the race strategy is not about winning. Ed wants to make sure everybody gets some track time while the going is good. So when Jay comes in, out goes import enthusiast and Honda Tuning editor Bob Hernandez.
Bob Hernandez
The track is littered with these infernal domestics, in particular the Team H8 Trans Am. I settle into a racing rhythm, only to have that rust-bucket ruin my driving Zen.
We both line up Turn One, coming off the straight with a little bit of speed, and the Pontiac's huge ass just bombs the apex in front of me from high on the banking to my right. With more mass and power, it would've been a different story. As it is, I feel lucky to get out of there with only my nerves in tatters.
Ed originally planned it to be an SCC staff team, but we needed a competent mechanic, so Ryan McKay was asked to come aboard. Joey was willing to loan us his Buddy Club racing seat and Bob offered up his garage for race prep, so we were obliged to include them. Gatecrashing this boys' club and next behind the wheel is SCC's managing editor, Amanda Savercool.
I looked to Bob for some reassuring advice coming off the track. Perhaps he would say: "It's not as scary as it looks." Or something. Instead, he pulls off his helmet and grabs my arm. I can feel him trembling all over through his grip. "Be careful out there. Watch out for the big cars. It's damn scary!" is all he says, and then he walks away. I jump in and stare straight ahead, trying to focus on not throwing up. Eventually, my fears subside, and it's fun-even as I hear a 'big car' driver laughing hysterically as he rams me from the side.
No one is really excited to go after Amanda's impressive stint. Though we only started timing our laps midway through the day, she just set our team's fastest lap. Ryan's eager to get his stint out of the way. I'm happy to procrastinate until tomorrow.
Ryan McKay
If there is such as thing as a sanctioned road-rage event, this is it. Taking the best line takes a back seat to blocking and dodging the demolition derby cars and trying not to get stuck behind that stupid yellow Datsun. The first 10 or 15 laps I try to drive clean lines and not be too aggressive. A bad idea, as I am rammed from behind a few times by the bigger cars. Things get better as I realize I can push harder and stay ahead of the cars that were trying to kill me. All I have to do is forget just how close to death and/or dismemberment I am and embrace the red mist.
It's just after 10pm. Free burgers and beer closes one of the longest days of our lives. We're all beat. But our dwindling motivation is abruptly flipped 180 degrees when Ed pops up with the standings. We're sixth. We weren't even trying-how is this possible?
Doesn't matter; the strategy has changed. Tomorrow it will be just Ed, Jay and I. We're in it to win it. We examine our trusty little Celica and find some interesting information. After six grueling hours of racing, the little 1.6-liter had barely drained a single tank of gas. And better yet, the car had hardly used our first set of tires, leaving us in prime position for a sticky home-stretch sprint at the end.