Saturday, 9 a.m.Trek to Sonoma: Headed to Mazda Raceway at Laguna Seca for ALMS qualifying and the World Challenge race
Us: Leaving Las Vegas
Thawley has a fever of 103 and spent so much time on the throne last night I'm tempted to call him His Highness. Faced with this new challenge, we decide to skip the top-speed testing in Death Valley and take the short way to Sonoma. Problem is, there is no short way to Sonoma. There are two mountain ranges and nothing but twisty roads between here and there. This is the part I've been waiting for, but locked in the car with Thawley's pathogen stew, I want to keep this as short as possible.
I think he has Ebola.
That glowing phallus of light has done a brilliant job of bringing tax revenue to the area. Highway 95 is long and straight, and smoother than most racetracks. It looks like they pave it every two weeks.
We're several thousand feet closer to sea level now, and the RS's diminutive Garrett GT17 turbo is eagerly making boost. Torque steer is such a problem that boost is limited to about half a bar (8 psi or so) in first gear, and just under a bar (maybe 12 psi) in second. By fifth, though, it's making more than a bar (16 psi easy, if the gauge is accurate) and it takes conscious effort to keep our speed below 120 mph. The RS is unnervingly stable at these speeds. Other than the quivering needle, the only evidence of our speed is how ruthlessly we're passing other cars.
Saturday, 2 p.m.Trek to Sonoma: Driving a parade lap around Laguna Seca
Us: Getting carsick
The dull, straight monotony of the desert has finally broken, evolving into stunning vistas and roads to die for as we climb Highway 168 into the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. We stop on the edge of an oasis-like valley, ringed on all four sides by mountains and pocked with a lonely, double-digit town appropriately named Oasis. The road west out of the valley is a rolling, twisting ribbon through rocks and scrub brush. Cresting one small peak, a front wheel comes clean off the ground and spins. That's the only way to get a Quaife to lose composure. We double back and Thawley sets up his camera to record the rare dynamic event.
After 10 passes over the same corner, I'm starting to feel green. I don't get carsick. Hell, nobody gets carsick when they're driving themselves. It must be the Ebola coming on. We continue up the hill, trying to enjoy the once-in-a-lifetime treat of a Focus RS on one of California's best driving roads, but I'm clammy, dizzy, and clearly off my game. Thawley is clenching and grabbing in vain for something that will save him from the impending disaster that is my driving.
The turbo lag returns as we climb again, but the tight road offers the first glimpse at the Focus RS's handling demeanor. It's a ruthless grip machine, offering shocking cornering speeds, but surprisingly little soul. The rear wheels are devout followers of the fronts. The RS will not drift, will not rotate, will not even twitch; it's stomp and steer, or nothing.
At the 7,200-foot crest of Westgard Pass, we pause to make our mark and enjoy a brief respite from my shameless wheel monkeying. In three days I never noticed the RS doesn't actually have a temperature gauge-its home on the dash has been taken by the boost gauge. The sweet-smelling steam and torrent of boiling coolant has suddenly made this obvious. While I appreciate the sentiment, omitting the temperature gauge is just plain stupid. We gather ourselves and hope the downhill run will cool things off. Too bad we have no way to tell.
Saturday, 6 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Headed to San Francisco
Us: Headed to Hell
Thawley takes the wheel as I slip into a delerium of fever. I don't know if it's the explosive multiplication of the virus, or the flu medicine I bought back at the MoMart, but I've lost my sense of direction, my sense of balance, even my very self-awareness is wavering. I feel like we're falling. I think I'm losing touch with my colon.
The road ahead is the stuff of dreams; a sinuous path fluttering and bobbing over the hills like a silk ribbon gleefully tossed in the air and left to drape itself over the texture of the mountain. The pavement is perfect, the rhythm sublime; if John Buffum and Rod Millen were civil engineers, they still couldn't make a road this good.
I have to vomit.
Saturday, 8 p.m.
Trek to Sonoma: Chi Chi Club, San Francisco
Us: Best Western, Lodi
The sudden and dramatic expulsion of bodily fluids has forced yet another schedule change. We don't actually have to be in Sonoma until tomorrow morning. The deterioration of my physical state has become painfully obvious, and Thawley looks like he's been clenching for the last five hours. We spot Lodi on the map; a sleepy wart of a town serving truck drivers and farm laborers on the Central Valley's desolate Highway 99. They have toilets in Lodi, so it might as well be Club Med. We splurge and get two rooms, with two separate bathrooms. There will be no taking turns tonight. Over the next 12 hours, we proceed to flush 3/4 of the valley's vital annual irrigation supply.
By E. John Thawley III
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