<> Several years ago, this writer spun a fantastical yarn about an inadvertent
hot lap session. During my fantasy practice race, I managed to pass one of the
best Super Stock pilots ever, the owner of several championships, Dale Gangl.
For that story, I drove Dr. Jeff Pellersels #1 WISSOTA Super Stock. But alas,
the entire “driving” portion of that tale was fiction, make-believe, whole
fabrication…a dream completely conjured from the deep recesses of a life-long
bull-shipper’s slightly off-kilter imagination.
Fast forward a handful of years and the good doctor Pellersels has graduated
to the ranks of UMSS Traditional Sprint car racing. The Traditional Sprint car
is the creation of the Upper Midwest Sprintcar Series CDO (Chief Dreaming
Officer), none other than The Swampman – Ron Bernhagen. “Sunshine” Bernhagen
also co-owns St. Croix Valley Raceway, where the Traditionals compete each
Friday. Brought into existence in 2011, just over a dozen Traditional teams
race on a regular basis – and Pellersels was looking for a way to recruit new
drivers to Bernhagen’s new class of cars. His recruiting tool of choice? The
“Arrive and Drive”. For the price of a $100 deposit and the paltry sum of five
dollars per lap, experienced drivers could sign a waiver and try their hand at
sprint car racing on the St. Croix Valley Raceway quarter-mile oval.
Given my boastful tale from years gone by, and the presentation of a golden
opportunity, Dr. Pellersels suggested I try driving his car “for real” this
time. Well, I made the mistake of polling my children – the vote was four out
of four – they all wanted to see their dad drive a race car. Now, I’m a
semi-experienced race car announcer, but after 46 years on this planet (and 40
of those years avidly watching races), I have never even come close to actually
driving a purpose built racing machine. However, I’m not exactly a push-over
either. I grew up on the gravel roads of southeastern Minnesota. Farm
country. It’s more than once that I had the tail end of my old 1975 Ford Elite
hanging out as I was going too fast down Kreidermacher Hill. And my kids can
attest to a great number of donuts their dad has spun for them in the snowy
cul-de-sac in front of their home. So, at about 10:30 Saturday morning, we
loaded up and headed east, to The Valley, and some real hot laps in a sprint
car.
We arrived pit-side, the kids and I, about a half-hour into the ‘arrive and
drive’ sessions. I chatted briefly with Kevin Bradwell, one of the host
drivers, as well as racer and engine builder Travis Jehlicka, and Doc
Pellersels. There were quite a few drivers signed up for a test drive, so it
was going to be tough squeezing everyone in before the scheduled wrap-up time of
2:00 p.m. We watched for a short time, but the strong west wind blowing into
our faces made it difficult for the kids to enjoy anything about the
experience. So I gathered up the clan and we headed to the upwind side of the
track to watch from the comfort of the scorer’s tower. Up there, we joked, we
watched, the girls played “radio station announcer” and the minutes whiled
away. At 1:30, I left my oldest in charge up in the booth and I wandered back
over to the pits. There were still several drivers awaiting their test session,
and I was wondering if my golden opportunity wasn’t so golden after all. The
two o’clock deadline came and went, but Doc insisted, I would get a turn,
schedule be darned. Sure enough, ‘round about 2:40, I donned Jehlicka’s driving
suit, gloves and helmet and slithered into the cockpit of Pellersels Foot and
Ankle Clinics #5 sprinter.
Save for me momentarily forgetting how to get one of these monsters into
gear, the push-start was uneventful . I was under way. Exhilarating! Even at
idle throttle, it’s sensory overload. The roughness of the suspension, the
insane restrictions that the helmet and roll cage place on your field of vision,
the smell of the fumes and the dirt, the restrictive tightness of the five-point
harness, the taste and grit of dirt in your mouth, all amplified by an
adrenaline rush that no roller coaster could ever hope to induce. My nerves
were somewhat calmed by the fact that there were no other cars on the track with
me, so if I did goof up, I just had to worry about me…this was going to be a
solo trip.
In control of a vehicle possessing easily twice the horsepower of anything
I’ve driven before, I quickly progressed to “kid-in-a-candy-store” mode. And
the throttle response, wow! No need to press your foot too far, just curling
your toes under a little bit gives enough extra gas to provide noticeable
acceleration, along with a similar increase in decibels. The day was partly
sunny, but very windy, so the track was quite dry – full throttle was likely not
coming to this novice driver. None the less, I was going to get every bit of
speed I could out of this thing – it was time to get serious. Admittedly, in
the words of my daughter, I was “driving like a granny” to begin with, I mean,
this thing goes left when driven straight, after all! But little by little, lap
by lap, my comfort level rose. Rapidly. My first attempts at sliding through
the turns were lame, but I quickly realized the error of my granny ways. I was
slowing down too much entering the corner. If I wanted to “break her loose”, I
had to throw this girl into the turns. My first attempted “throw” was still
mostly squeamish. The turn three wall seemed to come up awfully fast. However,
the car was so light, when I over-compensated on my throttle lift, it was
obvious I wasn’t really getting close to the wall. Really, not close at all!
Now looser and emboldened, my right foot got heavier and I put my technical
skills to work. I’ve watched Robbie Caho turn tons of laps at The Valley,
“pushin’ off the cushion”, so I climbed up the track and set my right rear at
the edge of the marbles – and pushed a little more. WHOA, a little too much,
almost lost it. And dang it if I didn’t let off “too much” again. Again into
turn three, I’m now able to stare down the concrete wall with only the slightest
hint of fear. Quickly applying the lessons taught me at each turn, and
combining them with a lifetime of observations, speed comes surprisingly
natural. The track is incredibly dry, and I realize I’m not setting any track
records, but I bet I could hold my own with other rookie drivers. I wasn’t
holding anything back, what little traction the wind swept clay provided, I
consumed.
Laps ticked off, and the concrete wall became increasingly docile. No longer
something to be feared, it was becoming something to be challenged. The
adrenaline was increasing with my speed; I was oblivious to the rest of the
world. Before the push off, Doc mentioned something about gauges, but they were
completely ignored. Only clay and speed occupied my mind. My senses were all
still in overdrive and the dry, hard clay was generating a new aroma – the smell
of melted, burning rubber from the sliding right rear tire filled my nostrils.
Truly there can be no greater thrill on this earth.
But within the next lap that greasy right rear proved too much for this
novice chauffeur to handle and the back end squirreled out of my control in turn
four. Still possessing the over-reactions of a rookie, I de-throttled to the
point of stall, and pointed in the wrong direction. The sudden silence snapped
me back into the world at large, and I gasped in multiple deep breaths, as if I
had been holding my breath for the entire session. Huffing and puffing, I
popped my hotrod out of gear and waved over the push-truck for an assist back to
the pits. I wasn’t ready for the Outlaw tour, but I was now, finally, a bona
fide race car driver.
Admit it. I had you going.
Yep. I lied again. Oh and I lied a ton! To be sure, I really did take the
car out this time. And it really was a thrill greater than any of the roller
coasters I’ve sampled at Valley Fair. But honestly, I mostly drove like a
granny.
It’s amazing that there can be such thrills, even at granny speeds. It’s no
wonder racers get addicted. It’s not “thrill-a-minute”, or thrill-a-second, or
even thrill-a-moment, it’s a CONSTANT thrill.
How bad was I? As Dr. Pellersels’ car safely rolled to a stop in the pits at
my session’s end, my ear-to-ear grin was greeted with, “I’d like to say that was
impressive, but…”
Yeah, I was just slightly better than dreadful.
So let’s go back and do this again, and I’ll try to be honest this time. I
say “try”, because it will be impossible to give you the whole truth. Not
because I’m a compulsive liar, but because I can’t remember what happened! It
really was sensory overload for me and unfortunately many of the details of my
adventure are as blurred as my vision was during my hot lap session – the one
that occurred at breakneck speeds, surely I must have topped 30 MPH.
Here’s what really happened.
I really did poll my kids, and they really did unanimously vote that I should
drive Jeff’s car. I really did take them to watch up in the booth, and I really
did head back to the pits at 1:30. Then I milled around some. And Jeff really
did insist that I would get my turn. So I set off in search of a driver’s
suit. Travis is only slightly shorter than me, and I was able to squeeze in to
his suit – but there was no way I could have touched my toes. It was a tight
fit.
Once I donned the fire protection, my nerves kicked into high gear. I don’t
think I was this nervous for the birth of my children.
Oh, and I really don’t know a darned thing about race cars. The first
question I asked was, “how do I secure this helmet strap?” Yes, I am that
clueless. (And Doc STILL agreed to put me in his car!)
There were two more sessions before I got my turn. Swampman turned some laps
in Bradwell’s car, and he looked pretty fast and comfortable out there. I was
pretty sure I wouldn’t fare as well. I was right.
When the #5 finally came available, my nerves wound up even tighter. I
started contemplating ways out…an appointment I couldn’t be late for, a fainting
spell, anything other than a straight “chicken out”. But everyone would see
through the appointment excuse, especially on a Saturday, and fainting, really?
In the end, I didn’t even have the courage to chicken out. Resigned to probable
doom, I stepped one foot into the cockpit and I asked my next question, “How do
I get in this thing?” Doc shared that he found it easiest to descend in from
above the roll cage – so I climbed out, then up, over, and in. Good call
Doc.
Climbing aboard was tough in the snug, undersized suit, but I managed. And
holy schneikies, what a tight fit! Not too many racers are over 6’ 2”, and the
cockpit and seat sizes reflect this truism. There was no wiggle room in the
driver’s seat. Due to some medical issues, I’ve lost significant weight the
last few years, but I still tip the scales at over 220 pounds. Safety belts
were loosened quite a bit, and even then I could just barely thread the lap belt
into the five-point harness latch. With all five harnesses secured, we snugged
them down just a little past comfortable. Now I could barely see or breathe,
and it felt like the entire world was closing in on me. Claustrophobic? No, I
was too scared to be claustrophobic.
Fully secured and snuggly cinched into place, I got a 30-second primer on
sprint cars. In a “normal” car, the pedals are out in front of a semi-reclined
driver. In a sprinter, you sit bolt-upright and the pedals are under you. The
steering wheel is nearly horizontal, like a school bus, not the virtually
vertical orientation most vehicles utilize. Brake is on the left, (but it
doesn’t really push down, so much as it slides forward – not something that
would do any good for me to “stand on” as I sometimes give the drivers credit
for during my announcing duties). Gas was on the right, but that was weird
too. Indeed I pushed the throttle down, but it wasn’t a pedal, rather it could
better be described as a stirrup, hinged at my heel instead of my saddle.
There was a t-handle near my right thigh – press it down, the car is out of
gear, pull it up and my motor and wheels are mechanically linked. Then there
were gauges – fuel pressure, look at that on the push start. No, wait, that one
is busted, look at the oil pressure instead. Oh, and the kill switch, upper
right side of the “dash board”. None of it mattered. I forgot it all the
moment I was pushed trackside, and I’m dismayed to report, that part about me
completely ignoring the gauges for the entire session – that was true.
I was pushed onto the track and I rolled down the hill in turn three, then I
shoved the brake forward as I slowed in the middle of the turn. Hey, I
stopped. Brakes work.
Silence.
Eerie and uncomfortable. My entire body is a jumble of nerves. The car
isn’t racing yet, but my mind is, at warp speed. I remember exactly zero
percent of everything Doc just told me. I’m on my own. The fear is so
pervasive I forget my kids are witnessing this whole thing.
The push-truck driver pulls up and I hear him yell, “Put it in gear.” I’m
drawing a blank. I yell back, “That’s down, right?” and I push the t-handle
down, too nervous to realize it already is down. I feel the truck nudge me
forward. Immediately the push-truck driver notices my rear wheels turning
freely and I’m directed again to put it in gear. Hmmm, down didn’t work, I’ll
try up this time, and I pull up on the t-handle. The push comes again. This
time I can see, feel and hear the car churning around me. We’re quickly up to
firing speed, which is maybe a paltry 15 miles per hour, but it feels like 50 to
me. Now what? Oh, the switch! I flip it up. Instantly the car fires to life
and I jump away from the truck. It’s no longer silent, but I’m on my own again
as I exit turn four and pass the grandstands. The grandstands…that’s right –
the kids! I hastily free my right hand from its vise grip on the wheel and
shoot it out the right side of the car and give the kids a wave as I idle by the
flag stand. Don’t ask me if they waved back, tunnel vision prevented me from
seeing much of anything. There’s a combination of a rumble and a strange whine
coming from the engine. I’ll have to ask what that is some day, but for now,
I’ve got to negotiate turn one. I was going slow. On the drive over, my
daughter did in fact say she was going to enjoy watching me “drive like a
granny”. By turn two, I goosed the throttle a little. The throttle response,
that wasn’t a lie. I little toe wiggle will make you go faster.
I pushed the throttle as far as I dare, which by my estimate was less than
half way to the floor. But I really did want to try my hand at that sideways
sliding thingie that the drivers make look so easy. I slid a little (I think),
and it did get awfully loud. But Donnie Schatz has nothing to worry about; I
won’t be taking over his ride anytime soon. The car kept getting louder, which
I took to mean I kept going faster. Even with the track as dry and slick as it
was, I kept wondering why I wasn’t flipping over in the turns. Especially turn
two. The stubbornness with which that car stuck to the track defied my
sensibilities, I was going way too fast around the corners but the car seemed
nonchalant with the g-forces generated, the girl wasn’t even breaking a sweat,
unlike her driver.
Eventually, I finally did get going fast enough to break the back end loose.
Did a complete 360. Stayed on the throttle, straightened her out, and kept
right on going. Actually, that part did seem to come naturally to me, I thought
the maneuver was pretty easy. No lie, and I’ve got witnesses (this is the
“truth” half of the story, after all), must be all them wintery donuts in the
cul-de-sac with the kids in the van. A lap or two later, I looped it again.
This time it was a double, but again I kept from killing the engine. Yep, the
dim-bulb who couldn’t strap on his own helmet and didn’t know how to climb in
the car executed a perfect 720 degree spin.
Unfortunately, spinning was the only thing I mastered. My last loop was just
a 180. I honestly don’t remember, but I think in was in turn four. Again I
kept from killing it, but only going 180 degrees around meant that I was now
circling the track in Alan Kulwicki victory formation – clockwise. As I headed
the wrong way down the front stretch, I gave the kids another wave, this time
with my left hand.
After about ten laps and three spins, I had enough. Only problem was I had
no idea how to stop. The brake only slowed me down as I rumbled through turn
four. I pushed on the t-handle but nothing seemed to happen as I idled through
turn three, so I pounded the t-handle with my fist and then I could finally feel
the car begin to coast. Next I pushed the brake forward and slowed, then took a
hard right into the infield at the exit of turn two. Stopped, in neutral, I hit
the kill switch. (I may have pounded the t-handle a little too hard. There was
no bruising, but my hand was still quite tender a full four days later.)
That huffing and puffing part – that was real too. I legitimately wonder if
I was holding my breath the whole time. I ran cross-country in high school, and
I don’t ever remember being that winded. Even after I was pushed back to the
pits I was still gasping in huge gulps of air.
Also true was the smile. Man alive was that fun! Laugh all you want at my
granny-speed induced adrenaline rush, but I won’t apologize for having one of
the biggest thrills of my life at 25 miles per hour.
And that brings me to a long list of people I must thank.
First and foremost, Dr. Jeff Pellersels, the inspiration for my original,
fictional, hot lap session only ever materialized because of your generous offer
to let me drive your superstock. Then you offered again with you new car, even
though it possesses nearly double the power-to-weight ratio as the super. After
four decades of watching from afar, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for
allowing me one of the biggest thrills ever.
Thanks also to my kids. Had they not shown such enthusiasm, I would have
chickened out. Travis, thank you for allowing me the use of your driver’s suit,
despite the snugness. Jeff and Dave Keeney, thanks for convincing me to give
Kopellah Speedway a try all those years ago…that whimsical field trip was quite
literally step one on this journey. Jeff, I wish you could have been there, I
know Dave had a great view from above – for how much he enjoyed a good laugh, he
might still be rolling on heaven’s floor.
Thanks to Sunshine Bernhagen, for bringing to life the UMSS, Traditional
Sprint cars, and St. Croix Valley Speedway. None of this is possible without
you. And frankly, thanks to the entire racing community. The family dynamic we
all share, the camaraderie and competitiveness, and our collective ability to
have fun on a little circle of clay – even if one of us is only going granny
fast, makes it all that much more special. (Although, the first thing my
daughter said to me afterwards was, “dad, you didn’t drive like a granny!”)
So there you have it, the narrative of my graduation from grandstand racer to
budding open wheel superstar. Look out Steve Kinser.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it…at least until I change my
mind.
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