Jamie

He died years ago. I probably knew the cause at the time, but have long ago forgotten. He had moved back East from California and I lost track of him, though I did see, from time to time, his name associated with the Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix, another one of those races I wanted to do "some day" and likely never will. Run through a park in the city, it is not the place to drive "Ten tenths" but the course is said to be tailor made for small bore cars. Our MGB would be about the most powerful racer I would want for the event.

Jamie Pheifer was a graphic artist, and a darn talented one. I was not at the event featured on his HMod event poster...though I don't remember why, as it was at one of my "local, home tracks." And I never got to ask him why he chose to feature my car as one of the three on the layout (the others being Don Racine's Aardvark and Don Baldocchi's Nardi/Crosley), but of course I was flattered that he chose to do that, rather than, for example, showing his own car.

Honored and Flattered
And I wasn't even at the event!

Jamie's ride was a Berkeley, a car so small it made the Siata seem like a sedan by comparison. And it was a lot quicker than you might expect, given that tiny size. 

The "Bumblebee" in Action
As Usual, ahead of me

A huge part of the joy of vintage racing was the sense of community, and in particular drivers with cars that ran together generally also "hung out" together at races, though that did not preclude us from also being part of other flocks as well. And a couple of such gatherings stick in my memory for tall tales which are funnier in the retelling than were the original events.

The first story involves not race cars, but a van and a rental car, the former driven by Jamie. For many years the US Navy hosted a vintage race weekend put together by the managers of the Holiday Bowl footbal game, at the Naval Air Station in Coronado. This airport course was challanging due to the flat expanse and resulting lack of landmarks. It could be virtually impoassible to tell exactly where you were on the course or where exactly to brake for corners at the end of long straights. 

Off the course was even worse, particularly after dark. Everything looked the same and driving was a nightmare on a huge expanse of concrete and lights of all kind with no hint as to where exactly they were or what they meant.

A group of us decided to go to dinner in San Diego. Getting off the runway apron after dark was a bit challenging and should have warned us that getting back in might be problematic, but...after a nice dinner partly fueled, no doubt, by alcohol, we proceeded back to the base, showing our paddock passes to the gate guards and motoring cheerily back to the airfield apron.

Or at least it appeared to be the apron. What seemed like miles of unlit concrete punctuated by lines of obscure lights in various colors. On we went, trying our best to navigate towards where we thought the gate to the temporary race car paddock might be when...off to our left we saw an orange van approaching at a high rate of speed, with a flashing ligh ton top. The rental car, which was in the lead, stopped, apparently as ordered by the individual driving said van.

After some period of time the van and car proceeded off to our left, towards some dimly perceived buildings. We took a pool amongst ourselves and, not knowing what we were supposed to do, figured the occupants of the car were being detained for some infraction, and started to slowly motor off on our own. 

Bad move! Said van came screaming back out of nowhere (where had it gone in the meantime, and where, oh where, was the rest of our party?), with a very large and very unhappy uniformed woman with an "SP" arm bad screaming at us out of the passenger window. 

"Did I not order you to follow me?" she yelled. Well, no, she had never come back to say anything to us, actually. But then what she added was a bit chilling.

"You are on an active taxiiway with moving aircraft! FOLLOW ME!" Uh, well, YEAH. While we did not see any moving planes that is just due to the sheer scale of that apron. Like a whole city paved in concrete!

Notthing like stopping the US Navy's Flight Operations by simply getting lost. We all agreed that, if asked, we would blame the confusion on Jamie. 

The second Jamie story got a bit more personal for me. Damn near wound up crunching the Siata right after finishing the restoration after the 1987 broken brake line made that necessary. (See series "This is Not Going to End Well" posts from April of 2017). 

Over the years Jamie was likely a significant contributor to the increase in the cost of Ariel Square Four engines and components. While a lovely looking motor and bike, the square configuration of an air-cooled engine using 1940s technology was more than a bit of a stretch in terms of the capabilities of the era. The issue of course was lack of effective cooling for the two rear cylinders. Add in the stress of racing and pumping more power out of the box than it was designed for and you have all the components for a really expensive hand grenade.

Though I don't really know much about the Berkeley it is my understanding that the Ariel was indeed the correct power unit for Jamie's example of this tiny little buzz-bomb. And in black and yelllow it is impossible to not think of it as an oversized honey bee. But it was damn quick and with Jamie's skilled handling runs like it's on rails.

Until, that is, the motor blows up...which it unfortunately did on Jamie's car with what I am sure was, for him, annoying regularity.Those of us with Crosley power spent a number of years with our own rather steep learning curve on how to reach that motor's theoretical potential without putting bits of it through the side of the block, so we can empathize to a point.

That point does not include a decision Jame made with the particular explosion in question. 

He was several turns ahead of me when it must have been clear from the lack of mechanical nosie from the motor, other than the tinkling sounds of little bits going through the block, that another large repair was going to be in order. But he then decided he might be able to coast from the top of the Corkscrew back into the paddock enttrance at Turn 10 instead of sitting by the side of the track waiting for a tow when the race session ended. 

Unfortunately there was one component to make that alternative possible which was less than a stellar decision on his part...he would have to stay on "the racing line"in order to maintain enough momentum for the plan to work.

Oh, and did I mention that Jamie was running a synthetic oil which was invisible on asphalt? 

After the steep drop of the Corkscrew, Turn 9 is still significantly downhill as well as being somewhat off-camber if you get too far to the outside on your entry. It also resulted, upon hitting Jamie's ivisible oil, in the Siata pirouetting in the most unnerving 360 I have ever done in the car (but then it is also the only full spin I have ever done in it). 

There is a white, concrete wall on the inside of the turn, but so far away from the course it would be virtually impossible to hit. Still, to me it looked as large as the Great Wall of China and a whole lot closer...that's what happens when your eyes get big in total shock at something totally unexpected.

Oil flag? Where the hell was the oil flag? Not to be seen. I must have hit something as I crossed the curbing at the apex of the turn, as when I looked under the car after returning (immediately) to the paddock I found a small dent on the bottom of the left rear fender.

As I shakily returned to my pit row Terry Matheney was standing in the middle of the aisle, shaking a finger at me and mouthing "I saw what you did" at me. Once I got the car parked and belts undone I immediately jumped out and grabbed him as he came into the pit.

"Did I just miss the flag?" I asked, somewhat incredulously. 

"No," Terry explained. "It was your spin, when you were halfway around, that the corner worker realized there was oil on the track even though he couldn't see it, and waved the flag."

Fortunately there was no serious damage and the small dent could only be seen by lyiing on your back under the car. But I do remember telling Sherri that racing was somewhat of a crap shoot and that, no matter how careful you are, there is always something beyond your control which can snap up and bite you.

I can laugh at it now but Jamie gave me more than a few grey hairs that day. My first outing after a four year restoration and it could have been a total disaster thanks to one small and inappropriate decision on his part. Thankfully it came out well and we remained friends who could laugh at ourselves and, on occasion, our own stupidity.

The Ariel is Indeed a Lovely Confection