Day Two, 7:30am. It's freaking cold up here. But our number 28 will blaze on the leader board if it's the last thing we do. Joey and Bob belt me into the car. Thank God most of my nervousness has been replaced with an all-consuming desire to win. I felt if I drank too much water before going out, I'd have to pee before my slot was over. About 15 minutes in, the heat and general fear for my life has drained every ounce of hydration from my body. Too bad I have two hours left.
I'm initially cautious, getting to know the Celica. In a race laced with crash 'n' derby undertones, it's important to figure out who's aggressive and who's bluffing right off the bat. Once I assign a personality to each of the cars on the track, I'm confident to pass on the inside, the outside, the straightaway and in the braking zones.
The Nitto NT01s have tremendous grip-swinging around some of the bigger V8-powered cars on the outside of Turn One is like being in a vacuum kart among a sea of armored trucks. And so it goes for about an hour, with horsepower blasting by me on the straightaway and me suctioning my way back in front on the corners.
Until someone dumps about six quarts of transmission fluid onto the straightaway coming out of the final corner. Me and a VW Golf are gunning at 10/10ths when we hit the slick together. As I countersteer, trying to stay away from the gravel and the V-Dub at the same time, I think: "That asshole must have pushed me in." When the dust settles, I catch a glimpse in his helmet. His daggered stare tells me he was thinking exactly the same thing.
The fluid makes for the longest caution of the day, but there isn't any need to bring the Celica in. The thing is a rock. I, on the other hand, am feeling beaten and tired, like I've been walking for days in the desert. I take a glance at the leader board while we wait for track officials to clean the mess. There it is-fifth place. Adrenaline shoots through my body, giving me a second wind.
Another 30 minutes into racing and it's getting aggressive out here. People aren't afraid to do some pushing and nudging. The BMW in front of me is swinging into the tractor tires on the side of the asphalt to send his welded-on training wheels flying. Finally, I have pretty hard contact from one of the domestic big boys-it's smashed the passenger-side quarter panel in, and I can hear grinding.
I'll wait for the caution. More importantly, I'll use the Nittos to divebomb his ass in Turn Three. Three has become my favorite corner. Turns One and Two are long sweepers, so the car is loaded on the right by the end, where traffic is funnelled into the much tighter Three. Find the inside by the end of Two, jab the brakes and yank the wheel. The Celica pitches into an abrupt slide, scrubbing speed and scaring the crap out of whoever is on the outside. They'll panic and brake every time, V8 or not. Black flag stuff in any form of actual racing, but who cares?
My hubris is satisfied as I blast past my new friend in Three, but the grinding out back is getting more and more ominous. The next caution can't come soon enough. Two hours have passed, and the tire looks like a ball of yarn as I pull into the pit. Before I'm out of the left side, the right side is jacked up and the guys are hammering out the quarter panel. It's not the first time we'd have been dead in the water without Ryan McKay's help. Ed's getting strapped in and I'm explaining the track. I'm doing my best to lie through my teeth and tell him the melee isn't really anywhere near as bad as people are saying.
Three laps in, the radio crackles with Ed's first transmission "Dude, it's crazy out here." He's the first to have a radio while driving, and it's already clear it's not a good idea. We're sure it's distracting him, and the messages keep coming in
Ed Loh
When I strap in for my 'second' driving stint, I don't have quite the dry-mouth anticipation as I did from my three laps the first day. Although, when I pull out onto the track, I realize things have changed dramatically. Naturally, after eight hours of driving, all the teams/drivers are a lot more comfortable with the situation and hence, much more aggressive than at the very beginning of the race.
I find myself immediately boxed in behind traffic and spend a few laps trying to figure out who and where I can pass. Joey, Bob, everybody told me to avoid the bigger domestics since they are not the least bit squeamish about trading paint or sheetmetal. We have a lot more to lose than them-we're on the board in fifth and charging hard.
I rub up against a few of the big V8 cars early on and it's no big deal, until I rear-end the H8 Trans Am, which folds the hood and smashes the bumper in. Now I'm scared. Not that I will get hurt, but that I would be the jackass that ends our race prematurely. At this point, I know my judgement is being clouded, so I focus on passing safely and smoothly.
12:15 and the temp gauge is starting to spike. I radio it in and flip the heater to high. A sweaty hour and half later, I look up to see we're in fourth. Minutes later, a spin-induced head-on collision with the Car and Driver Aurora sends me to the pits.
No sooner does Ed get the car docked under our makeshift paddock than McKay leaps onto the now bent and immovable hood. As he jumps up and down, Bob pulls the release. The crease is flattened and the hood juts open to reveal a near-miss: the radiator has escaped being gouged by less than an inch. Despite high temps, everything seems to be running fine.
Jay is belted in and ready to go, but the hood won't stay shut after the accident. No worry, we have hood pins. And by hood pins I mean tin snips and zip ties. A couple of crude holes are made and zip ties are promptly wrapped around radiator supports on either side. It's not pretty, but we hope it'll last the remaining two hours and five minutes, as our little pit stop has cost us precious time. We've fallen off the leader board.
Jay Chen
By the time I get back out, the track is under yellow again. With the heater blasting and the water temp spiking every time I slow down for a corner (under caution), I target which cars are ahead of us. Rumor has it that open contact is kosher for the last hour of the race, and I don't care about body damage, tire wear, or fuel. There is no way to drive the car home now. I have to get back on that board.
The car won't stay in third gear and it's starting to overheat in second. I resort to driving ricer style: one hand on the wheel and the other mashing the lever into third. It isn't until I slide hard into a tire wall that something in the linkage coincidentally gets happy and lets me steer with both hands.
The seat rail is bent from the impact and the track workers are throwing lemons, which, strangely, I can smell over all the other odors. The track quickly turns slick with citrus. According to the car's clock, I still have 45 minutes left. We're in fourth, and the fuel gauge hits E around each left-hander.
Our break comes when the third-place Volkswagen expires. We're on the podium and I'm getting greedy. I want that number 14 BMW with the pig tacked to its roof. While it's faster in the straights, I have more tire. I gain two laps on him but get black-flagged for going two wheels off while fighting for the inside line. That was pointless.
Back out after a brief safety lecture and a forced discussion with the organizer about the weather. The carnage is pretty much at its peak, and my dreams for a chance at the podium's second step are lost. By this point the Celica is hurting for fuel, so I ease off the pace, knowing the fourth-place car is far behind.
Out of nowhere, I see the checkered flag. The car clock says 3:50. Ten minutes slow and all the difference between vapor-locking into fourth place and holding a podium finish.
Watching your teammate circle the final few laps of an enduro while holding third place is the very definition of nerve-wracking. The whole team is lined up along the fence hollering. We start to wonder if all our watches are fast as they tick past 4:00pm. Throw the flag, already. The next seven minutes pass by in what seems like an eternity, but finally Jay crosses the line in third place.
The excitement breaks like a dam when our baby blue Celica finally blasts through. Some of us are paralyzed with disbelief and others immediately jump in the air. But we all huddle around the sweaty and exhausted Jay as he emerges from the demolished Toyota. He's the one who brought a month of back-breaking work and thirteen hours of grueling driving to a close. And he did it on the podium. We'll go for the top step next year.
The Wheel of Misfortune
The 24 Hours of Lemons wasn't really 24 hours, but it wasn't quite the demolition derby we expected either, thanks to some inventive penalties devised by the wicked Jay Lamm. Those who were black-flagged too often for aggressive driving were pulled off track so one of these beauties could be attached:
Blind Man's Cane
Like the training wheels, they don't do damage or slow you down, but the time spent attaching meant lost laps