Tales of the Washed

When You Just Can't Win

A million years ago in the days of the Flashback Racing TR-3, we learned the hard lessons of life and racing. The price of the car increased more than five times from purchase to its first real competition outing on the racetrack. It was over four times to get to the track to test it and then the cost went up more.

We'd replace parts, find they were not up to the job, replace them again with better parts. Over and over we built and rebuilt the TR-3.

Just recently, I have had the reality check with a new taste of everything going wrong. A long time ago, I found a T- shirt, unfortunately still attached to someone or I'd have it, that read "You Can't Win, You Can't Break Even, You Can't Even Quit the Game" and I decided that explained racing more than most will ever know.

"You Can't Win." We all know that. If you ever fool yourself, Fate will deal you a parts bin of bad rods, cranks, clutches, or whatever just to remind you. Or Fate will spin the backmarker in front of you who takes your car out for a few months.

"You Can't Break Even." If you chalk up all the money spent, the hours spent, the weekends spent, the favors, the nasty looks from She Who Must Be Obeyed, the broken promises of weekends NOT racing, and so on to "having fun so this doesn't count", THEN and only then may you start to think you are breaking even. You probably burn winning lottery tickets, too.

"You Can't Even Quit the Game." No way! I know several who have tried, but you see their brain burning inside with ideas of putting together another race car. Craig quit after the '83 Run Offs and sold the TR-3 because E-Production was about to become another GT class and frame cars became instantly worthless in GT. But he never quit. In '90, he bought a well- used TR-7 to run in Improved Touring.

I've never quit. I just get in deeper and deeper. The urge to race has been there forever, I think, but the path to getting involved was outside my sphere of the known so it took longer for me. I jumped into autocrossing and hill climbing and departed such for a time overseas. Of course, while I was there, I tried to get into racing to replace what I was missing.

Then I came home and found an old race car. The curse of us all, that evil on four wheels that reaches up and bites us, bit me and held on, as I am now in the midst of "Let's break all the old pieces so we have all new pieces so nothing can break" routine. Believe me, it doesn't work.

So I coast back to the rear entrance to the infield to be hanging from the rope. It is time to pack the trailer and go home, as the holes in the pan are slightly larger than you can fill with RTV.

I didn't win. I didn't even break even. But I can quit and go home, right?

Not hardly, as on the way home, the transmission in the Suburban decides that Stuart is a good place to die. Seventy miles from home and the tow vehicle dies. No, I can't even quit.

And yet, I am winning. I'm racing and a lot of people aren't. I didn't get hurt and many blowing motors on the high bank of Daytona have been. And while around here many have been to Daytona and it is no big deal, where I am from just being at Daytona is a big deal.

I am breaking even. I came home with almost the same number of pieces I left with. Granted the rod is now in two pieces but it could have been the car in two pieces instead of just the rod.

And I don't want to quit. That is the biggie. I don't want to quit as long as I can hang in there and do this.

Save the Wave,

The Doctor