How much “stuff” is enough? A seemingly simple question that historically has never been easy to answer. If you look back through the entire expanse of human history, this same question rears its homely countenance time and time again. Take the Romans for instance, they never seemed to have enough “stuff.” They were constantly grabbing more “stuff” everywhere they went. Some bronze here, an urn there, a couple of temples and 6000 square miles over there. It was never enough. Ultimately, their empire collapsed into ruin because they couldn’t manage all their “stuff.” “So what’s the point?” you ask. “Did I accidentally pick up a copy of Anthropology Today?” No, this is still VRJ. The point is that a recent race event has forced me to reevaluate the “stuff” that I bring racing. And the underlying question that I’ve had to ask myself is, “How much stuff do I really need to bring to the track?”
When I started vintage racing, my m.o. was pretty clear – “Real racers bring everything that they can.” Who knows what I might need or have to fix? Like an octane-addled Boy Scout, I wanted to be prepared. As far as tools went, I brought out the big guns. I brought my entire hernia-making, hemorrhoid-popping toolbox (top box and bottom box) filled with every screwdriver, wrench and socket ever conceived of by mankind. I mean, I brought everything from microsurgical scissors used for repairing severed cranial nerves, all the way up to crescent wrenches and sockets, large enough to remove the propeller off the H.M.S. Titanic. Christ, I even brought Whitworth wrenches, and I don’t own a single Whitworth nut or bolt! I was leaving nothing to chance. But it didn’t stop there… not by a long shot. I had several other crates and chests filled with my more “esoteric tools.” You know – funky mirrors on 12-foot telescoping handles, ridge reamers, ring pliers, gas-welding equipment, drills, grinders, plasma torch, plumber’s wrenches, coping saws, a biscuit-joiner, wait a minute… how’d that get in there? And that was just the tools! I still needed all the spare parts (more crates), awnings, chairs, tables, coolers, imitation grass carpeting. The list was seemingly endless. I simply couldn’t bring all the “stuff” I needed – both figuratively and literally.
I started feeling the full weight of my “stuff” right off the bat. My first tow vehicle, our family Isuzu Trooper, was woefully inadequate at pulling 2,200 lbs. of racecar and 15,000 lbs. of “stuff.” This point was rammed home the first time we had to cross one of the Southern California Mountains to get to a track. In first gear – at redline – my little travelling “Home Depot” dipped below casual walking speed and looked set to become a permanent roadside attraction on Highway 14. Needless to say, one month later my wife was commuting to work every day in a Ford F350 crew cab, dually with a 460 cu. in. V-8 under the hood. God, I love that woman!
With my immediate transport problems solved, I settled into what would become my normal racing routine. I’d spend threes days packing everything up, go to the race for two hours of track time and then come home and spend another three days unpacking. It didn’t take more than a year or so of this before I started to see why the Roman Empire crumbled. I needed a new philosophy.
So, being the extremist that I am, I went completely the other way. Sort of a Bauhaus “Less is More” meets “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I needed to “purify” the racing experience. So I started bringing less and less stuff. Finally, in recent years, I’ve gotten so downright “Grasshopper, pass me the bamboo mat” minimalist that I’m lucky if I remember to bring the car! Tools? Some kind soul will lend me some, if I need them. Spare parts? If the car breaks, I don’t want to spend the weekend bloodying my knuckles. Besides, Murphy’s Racing Law #1 clearly states that the part which breaks is the one that I don’t own, no one in the paddock has, and is back ordered for two months from England.
Until two months ago, I thought I had become the virtual Dalai Lama of vintage racing. I had paired my worldly racing possessions down to just the bare essentials. Then I had my awakening.
While up at Laguna Seca for the first HMSA race of the season, I met a man who radiated racing enlightenment. His name was Tom Price, and he arrived at the track Saturday morning driving a gorgeous 1932 Alfa Romeo 8C2300. And that was it! In the passenger seat was his helmet and driving gear. He drove up, he registered, had his car quickly teched, changed clothes and started racing. When the day was done, he changed back into his street clothes, fired up the priceless 68-year-old Alfa and drove home. My mind reeled. How could he do it? No tools, no spares, not even a trailer or tow vehicle!
As I made the long trip home, I contemplated this master of minimalism, this true vintage racer. Could I attain this level of purism? Would I find vintage nirvana by following this hearty soul’s path? Then the answer came to me like a lightening bolt from Valhalla – not a chance in hell! I’m far too anal retentive. I’d be a nervous wreck. What if I break? How will I get home? How will I keep my Snapples cold? No, my true path must lie somewhere in between. Besides, I’m becoming increasingly entranced by the idea of having a satellite dish and a 24,000 btu barbecue with salmon smoker attachment at the track. I’m going to have to start looking into a bigger trailer.
Maserati Corrections
Recently (March 2000) VRJ featured a Racecar Profile on the incredible Maserati 300S. In the interest of accuracy, we want to draw your attention to a couple of revisions.
First, the Maserati 300S, used as a test car and featured in the color photographs, was mistakenly listed as that of Dudley Mason-Styrron, when in fact, it was the car of Hartmut Ibbing. VRJ is very grateful to Mr. Ibbing for the generous use of his car and regrets the inaccuracy.
Also, on page 20, we listed the driver behind the wheel of a Maserati 300S at Watkins Glen as Bill Lloyd. Recent evidence supplied by A.S. Carroll, Secretary of the VSCCA, indicates that this was in fact Bill Spear behind the wheel and Mr. Lloyd standing by the car with Spear’s wife.
