This is a story of great financial loss, a tale of broken dreams, shattered expectations and complete stupidity. That's right, it's a story about a racecar. My racecar. I'm grateful to have owned only one.
Truth is, after all these years, I still blame Roger Penske and Paul Tracy for the whole thing.
Spring 1993. I'd been living in Los Angeles a little more than a year. Paul Tracy, driving for Roger Penske, had just won his first IndyCar race at Long Beach. I liked Paul. He was aggressive. He drove the car like he hated it. Like he stole it. I liked that. What can I say, I'm originally from New Jersey. You got a problem with that?
At the time, Paul was 24 years old-only one year older than me. But I wasn't driving for Roger at Indianapolis. I was sitting at a desk. I obviously had some catching up to do. I needed to get myself a racecar.
I immediately joined the Sports Car Club of America and began to search for just the right ride. The fact I was living in a one-bedroom apartment with no garage, and owned no trailer, tow vehicle or tools certainly should have deterred me. It didn't. I figured I could scrape together about $2,000 if I took a cash advance on a credit card. More than enough for a decent car, I recall thinking at that time.
Yeah, right.
I remember looking at open-wheelers like Volkswagen-powered Formula Vees, showroom stock racers and a few classics like Bugeye Sprites and Porsche 914s. But they were all beyond my mechanical know-how and financial means. The ones in my price range were missing engines, suspensions and other small details.
Months went by. It was becoming clear an entire racecar could not be had for my measly $2,000. Then the phone rang. It was the friend of a friend. He had a 1978 Volkswagen Scirocco racecar he wanted to unload. He said it was complete, had a 1.5-liter engine that ran fine and had a logbook. He said it was legal for ITB (Improved Touring B class), and it could be competitive on a local level. He said he would even throw in a trailer and spare parts, which included an extra set of wheels and tires. He wanted $1,500.
Right then, I should have hung up the phone. And I did. But first I said I'd take it. I'd come up Saturday and pick it up.
I hate Paul Tracy.
Early that Saturday, I packed up a borrowed Ford pickup with my then-girlfriend and headed north to Santa Rosa, Calif., a sleepy wine town just beyond San Francisco. Stupid me. I actually thought I could drive the seven hours there, make the deal, hitch up and tow home the same day. Stupid me.
When we arrived at the guy's house, the car, which wore an odd red, orange and yellow paint scheme, was in the driveway sitting on a very small, slate-gray, single-axle trailer. The trailer had no suspension, brakes or working lights. It looked like it had been built from scrap. The car just fit between its wheelwells.
I remember my girlfriend being obviously disgusted by the car's appearance. The gutted interior was infested with spiders. I handed over the money as if it was a privilege to be the next owner of this grand machine. Unbelievably, I didn't even ask to hear it run.
We hitched up, loaded the spare parts, which added up to a pair of worn struts and a coffee can full of bits and bolts, and headed south. I now owned a racecar. What I was going to do with it when I got it back to Los Angeles was still uncertain. Hey, one step at a time, right?
The drive home was long. It got dark. I got tired. Midnight passed with hours to go. I remember the trailer getting a bit wobbly above 65 mph, but it basically towed straight. We stopped every 50 miles or so to check the hitch and trailer. My girlfriend slept with her head against the truck's side glass. With just 30 miles to go, I remember thinking we were just about home.
That's when things got really bad.