I Flew a USAF F 80

Ok, so it wasn't precisely an F80, but rather the T33 trainer version. But to the best of my knowledge the only differences are the lack of armaments or hard point mounts for them, and the dual seat and dual control cockpit.

I had joined the USAF ROTC Officer “training” program during college. Until the post-Vietnam era, public universities, which had been granted land by the Federal government upon which to build their campuses, were required to have all male students participate in two years of Reserve Officer Training, forming a Corps of cadets (ROTC), with some hopefully going on to an additional two years in the program followed by commissioning as an officer for at least four years of service.

In theory this could have been a wonderful way to have young people participate in public service, though there were a few things less than stellar about the actual program. The first was that it was for men only...true public service to the country and community should not be based on sex. The second was that it was only for military service rather than a broader based way to help build and further the American experiment, particulary for those without interest or capacity to join organizations whose primary purpose was to kill people. 

But the biggest weakness in the program was that it didn't even provide any real value in terms of military training...no classes on strategy, tactics, war history or battles to study, no academic aspect at all. The program consisted totally, as best I can recall, in marching around an athletic field under the “command” of those cadets who had signed up for the second two years of the program and eventual commissioning into the military. The rest of the students were basically just fodder for these future officers to drill.

The University of Florida offered only a choice between the Army and the Air Force...there was no Navy or Coast Guard component. I really don't have any idea of why I did so, since at the time I had zero intention to do more than the required two years, but I chose the Air Force ROTC. So in Sepetember of 1963 I picked up my black shoes, khaki normal wear, blue “dress” uniform, and the kind of cap worn by ice cream scoopers in Baskin and Robbins, though in both khaki and blue variations, and prepared for two years of boredom marching around an open field, mostly, except for winter, in the Florida heat and humidity.

Thus my surprise when the Air Force offered me an enticing financial incentive to enter the second two years of the program and a stint as a USAF officer. The fact that I have no recollection of how that occurred probably is a pretty succinct comment on the impression it did or did not make on me. But it did solve a rapidly escalating and serious financial bind for me.

My dad had expectations for me built, I think in part on the lack of educational opportunities he had in his own life. Though I never learned the details, he had to end his formal education after the 8^th grade, likely to provide financial support by going to work and helping his family's economic survival. I believe he was probably a good student, and thus was deeply motivated for me to achieve what he we unable to...thus his extreme anger and disappointment when I turned down multiple scholarship offers to instead attend the UF in Gainesville, at the northern end of the Florida peninsula.

I really lacked the independence, self confidence, and maturity to be away from home. While my relationship with my then girlfriend Cheryl was a good part of my reluctance to be far from home, there was more to it then that even if Dad did not think so. I clearly remember crying a good part of the way as Mom and Dad drove me up to Gainesville from Miami. 

That choice by me contributed in a major way to my desire to be as financially independent of Dad as possible. Summer jobs and government “National Defense” (NDEA) loans were my main source of financial “freedom,” but by the end of my sophmore year it was apparent that I either needed to ask for more from my poarents, or somehow garner more resources on my own.

The offer from (I suppose) the commander of the Air Force ROTC program was to pay for tuition, books, plus a modest living allowance until graduation. The repayment was four years as an Air Force officer. The Gulf of Tonkin phony “attack” on a US warship occurred during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year (1964). Though in retrospect it is possible that I would not have been drafted, at least not prior to my graduation, or could at least have deferred conscription until I got my degree, the odds are probably even that I would indeed have been drafted at some point, and the last thing I wanted to contemplate was facing life as a “dogface” foot soldier. I was never a great physical specimen and it is possible I would have failed Basic Training, but I believe I felt it was not worth taking a chance, and if I had to go into the military, going in as a junior officer in the Air Force, with the side benefit of them paying much of the cost of my last two plus years of college, seemed by far the best way to go. 

But by the time I got my time piloting the T, a lot had changed, and in many ways for me and the nation, not positively. Although at the time I did not think much about what the consequences might be, in retrospect my “bravery” in taking on the entire US Air Force about Vietnam would more correctly be called bravado. I was aware that they might send this trouble maker to some freezing outpost for four years (Thule, Greenland was much on my personal radar). They could have done a lot more to make an example of me and my life a living hell.

Sometime during my Junior year of 1964-65 I and others became aware that the Vietnam military incursion was both futile, and a crock of bullshit. I don't recall exactly when the Pentagon Papers were leaked by Daniel Ellsberg but it was well after I, and one other ROTC cadet, a Philosophy Major, began to openly question the lines we were being fed by fairly senior USAF officers. In particular, I vividly recall the visit of an Air Force Chaplain, who was lecturing us on having confidence in the legality of orders issued to us. 

As a Jew I had become acutely aware of the Nazi era in Germany. In fact, for my Bar Mitzvah birthday, rather than the joking tradition of a fountain pen, I asked my parents for a copy of William Shirer's “Rise and Fall of the Third Reich” and, at 13, had read it cover to cover, and was well aware of Adolph Eichmann's 1961 trial defense of “just following orders.”

So when the Chaplain made the statement that, were the class ordered to drop nuclear weapons on Moscow we could be confident that the “dirty Russkies” were, at the same moment, destroying DC,iIn front of the whole class I asked him about the Eichmann defense and how to reconcile that statement and the trial.

I actually don't recall his answer, but I'm pretty sure it was logically inconsistent nonsense, because shortly after the lecture I was called into the Commandant's office and told I had “embarrassed” the Chaplain. Aw, poor guy!

Needless to say, by the time I got to the mandatory six week summer training at Eglin AFB in Northwestern Florida, my reputation preceded me.

In fact, at one point, though I don't recall whether it was before or after my jet flight, I was told by the officer overseeing our group that I had a very low rating by my “peers.” I was not told why nor how to improve that rating. So my only response was that these beer swilling braggarts of sexual conquests that were largely made up, were not my “peers.” 

The day ot my T 33 flight I was issued a parachute and given a brief explanation of how it worked...so brief I recall nothing about the details, but in fairness I was probably experiencing most things that day as somlewhat surreal and thus erased this from my memory. Nor do I recall how I actually got into the cockpit, though I suspect walking with the parachute pack slung beneath my butt, even in the short distance from the vehicle transporting me to the flight line, was probably pretty uncomfortable.

I do remember, once I sat down on that chute, being strapped in by an enlisted crewman. And I certainly remember quite vividly watching him pull the “Remove Before Flight” red banners and their attached “keys” from the two ejection seat arm rests. I needed no warning about not touching these until and unless instructed by the pilot.

My preception of him is pretty dim...I think he was a Major, and my memory tells me he had short and receding grey hair...but I also might be mixing him up with my first girlfriend Candy's father, also a Major at the time I dated her, but in the Marines. At any rate it was the pilot who told me that, if he deemed it necessary to bail out, once that decision was made, within less time then it takes to write this he would jettison the canopy and be gone, leaving me to figure out if I thought I could fly a plane he no longer thought he could (not bloody likely). I also remain acutely aware that what I recall as chisel points on the top of my seat, designed to punch through the canopy in the event it failed to eject. That memory is quite vivid because it seemed to me that the top of my “loaner” helmet was above those same chisel points and I kept reminding myself to duck “just in case.”

The taxi out and takeoff didn't make any impression on me. I do remember feeling a bit uneasy when the canopy closed...there's not a lot of room overhead and it is clear why military pilots are not too tall nor too wide. The amount of space around you, for those familiar with it, is rather similar to that of a mocern Lotus sports car. Snug doesn't begin to describe it. The takeoff was not memorably aggressive...certainly the Major was not trying to show off or scare me and just as clearly the plane is capable of a much grater takeoff angle. Nor do I remember the climb to whatever cruising angle he chose...I'm guessing it was under 10,000 feet but that is indeed a guess. I don't recall using an oxygen mask on the flight. 

The Major did a number of fairly gentle “S” turns as well as a “Split S” climb. Looking down we were well under the cruising altitude of a commercial jet liner. Still, on a very clear day the visibility was extensive. I don't recall seeing any big cities such as Apalachicola or Tallahassee but Eglin is such a huge base it seems to go on forever. 

At one point the Major did a wing roll and flew inverted, asking me to notice that it was “just like sitting in your living room” and to also note I was not hanging from the shoulder straps. I disagreed, saying my ceiling did not look like the ground view above the canopy. 

The view forward from the rear seat is largely blocked by the lead pilot's seat back, so when I was instructed to take over control I was bit concerned that it would be basically instrument flying from the “get go.” I suspect, but don't know for sure, that in actual pilot training the student is in the front seat. Fortunately I had always been fascinated by planes and had once even made a cardboard instrument panel for some plane, done from a photo in a book. I used Mom's canned goods to draw circles for the various instrument sizes. I cut out the pointer needles from cardboard, pinning them to the center of the dials and moving them manually of course.

The Major had me fly “straight and level” for a bit, and I used the “Turn and Bank” indicator gauge to ensure that the wings were level and the Horizon indicator and altimeter to ensure I was neither climbing nor descending. The plane was quite stable. I watched the dual throttle control to be sure the officer was not going to play tricks on me by increasing the setting and causing the plane to climb. The cockpit was surprisingly, though not totally, quiet, and with headphones on I could not hear any change in engine sounds very well. 

I was then told to institute a number of gentle turns and changes of heading, relying on my now “co-pilot” to watch for other traffic in the area. I was allowed to so some horizontal “S” turns but there was no suggestion of anything in a vertical direction. There was no particular sensation of speed, though the rate at which the ground was passing below us was pretty impressive. It is normal to fly most planes at about 75% throttle, so assuming this was the case I would guess we were moving at roughly 500MPH. 

And then

He asked if I could see a fighter which had just taken off from the field and was climbing rapidly. I think it was an F102 or 104...though they do not at all resemble each other I really don't recall which it was and have no real reason to think that. Since I have worn glasses my entire life perhaps he wsa concerned about my visual acuity or depth perception.

At any rate I acknowledged that I could indeed see the plane, and he ordered me to set what I judged to be an intercept course with the fighter, moving the throttle to 100%, the accelration resulting pushing me deeply into the seat and generating a noticeable increase in G force.

Without experience judging distances in a plane I can't really say how far from the fighter we were...I was successful in setting an intercept course that would have resulted in us crossing just behind him...if we had more power. As it was I never really got close, but the Major told me the course I had set wsa appropriate.

And then two things happened almost in unison, which cut short the flight. Both the radio and the air conditioner failed. Had I known more, the first would have caused as much concern for me as the second, but I really was unaware of the risk of being unable to communicate with other aircraft, either military or civilian, nor the tower about returning to the field and laanding. As it was my focus instantly became the AC, as the plane rapidly became a “pheasant under glass” situation when the temperature in the cockpit shot up to well over 100, and both the Major and I rapidly became covered in perspiration, interfering with both concentration and vision. He took over control, increased the throttle setting again, and banked us sharply to return to the field.

I have no memory of how he made the field aware of our predicament...I don't recall any “wing waggling,” but I suspect he turned on the landing lights and, perhaps, there were lights on the wing tips he could use for signaling, as I know they have such lights on the US Navy F18 model I built. At any rate we quickly descended and landed, and he opened the cockpit as soon as the airbrakes slowed us down enough to ensure the wind woould not rip it off the plane. Even the hot and humid Florida air felt cool compared to the suddenly clasutrophobic cockpit, and my legs were wobbly as I climbed from my seat onto the wing once we parked, assisted by a ground crewman.

Still, it ws a pretty amazing experience.

My brief Air Force “career” ended sometime thereafter, in my Senior year in college. With my diploma in hand and my request for deferment for Grad School denied, I reported to some officer somewhere I don't recall for my pre-commisioning physical exam.

I sat around waiting for the result, and then the examining doctor told me I was rejected...for three conditions I have had my entire life. I was and remain “color deficient,” I was born with “flat feet,” and I was underweight for my height. 

I was completely baffled. I wondered if my “punishment” for questioning the war was to be shunted in as a non-officer, but the doctor told me the Air Force would not take me at all. 

Now what? I wondered. Were they going to REALLY screw me over and get me drafted as an Army grunt and send me to Vietnam? All I could do was go ahead and enter Grad School and wait. After a term at Florida I was selected for a Fellowship at the University of Georgia. It was there, several weeks or a couple of months later, that I reccieved a DD214 Honorable Discharge from the USAF. There were, of course, no listings of the places I “served” on the back of the document, and the accompanying form said, I think, something about me being released for the convenience of the service for “failure to keep myself physically fit,” which was a real laugher. 

Sometime after that I got the dreaded “where are you and what are you doing?” questionairre from the local Brevard County draft board, since, though married, my parents' home was still my official permanent address. The form had two questions to which my answers, though accurate, looked very odd together. The first was whether I had every been honorably discharged from military service. With my DD214 and certificate, the answer had to be “Yes.” But the second asked whether I had ever been rejected for military service for any reason (I think the form might have stated reasons such as physical or others)...and of course that answer also had to be “Yes.' Very odd.

I waited with more than a bit of concern until the small envelope containing my new draft card arrived. I no longer recall what the letter code was on it, but it basically meant I could not be drafted.

For years I wondered whether I was just extremely lucky, had confused the local Draft Board to the point they did not know what to do, or if there were something else going on. In retrospect I think that there might actually have been intervention by the Air Force to wash their hands of me and ensure I would not continue to haunt them, obviously being an early trouble maker in regards to the stupid, illegal, and immoral war. The findings in the pre-commisioning physical were items that any non-medical idiot could have known prior to offering me a scholarship...so perhaps the doctor was told to use them to wash me out. And it was even possible the Air Force contacted my Draft Board and told them to stay away from me, hopefully reducing the likelihood I would “go public” with my story in a way that would be embrassing for them, to say the least. Remember this was at the early stages of opposition to the war...later the noise and clamor would have overwhlemed those early day concerns and would have been much less likely to “make any waves.” But how were they to explain funneling money to such a trouble maker when they should have known up front he was “unfit” (in the words of Arlo Guthrie) to “see the world and kill the people there.?”

I know this is significantly longer than my usual posts, but it was important to me to put my brief time piloting a military jet into the context of my life at the time. The lead photo on this piece is a model of the T I just completed. Below are some other views of the completed kit.

 

Coronado NAS Vintage Races and the USS Ronald Reagan

For several years I participated in a vintage race weekend associated with the Holiday Bowl celebrations in San Diego...during which the Coroonado North Island Naval Air Station across the bay from downtown opened their gates to the public for an open house and various events including those races. These were not the most successful events for me...the original course was so rough and inhospitable that one bump in particular broke a rear axle during the first practice and left me stranded “on course” as the Marshalls decided it was safer to leave me where I was til the end of the session rather than trying to tow me out into the race traffic. The Navy did listen about the issues with the course (some cars had their paint and windshields pitted by sand thrown off from the deteriorating concrete) and moved the location to a better part of the field. But that didn't help me with a second major issue that meant a thousand mile roundtrip tow for only a few minutes of on track driving. At an event at Sears Point earlier in the season I had noted that lubricant in the rear end was leaking onto the left brake drum and wheel. Correct, exact size seals were not available for the axles, and thus this was not uncommon to see with the closest substitutes available, though the amount seeemed unusually high. I sprayed the area with copious amounts of Brakekleen and figured that was the best that could be done. The issue did not seem to negatively impact handling nor stopping power. Sears is a clockwise course. Most turns there are thus right handers, and any fluid would naturally be thrown outwwards towards the left side of the vehicle. Coronado, though also clockwise, as an airport course had limitations set by the layout of runways and taxiways, and was a bit more balanced, so leaking fluid could be thrown to either side of the car. Being aware of a potential issue I checked under the car after the first practice run, only to discover that the rear end lubricant was now slung from the left rear all the way to the differential housing at the very center of the car. It was thus apparent that this was not simply a leaking left seal. A bit of a digression here is needed...the reason will become apparent in a moment. Bob Graham had “adopted” stewardship of me and the Siata...he was a “shade tree” mechanic in the most positive connotation of that term...capable of solving virtually any mechanical problem in a cost effective manner, usually with whatever materials he had on hand, though sometimes with questionable attention to some details or structural durability. Bob had decided, during some other work he had done on the car, and without asking me, that it needed lowering. Though this also resulted in tires scraping the rear fenders under hard cornering which has plagued the car ever since, the main issues were his methodology as well as the materials he used. The method included cutting and shortening the factory original struts holding the body to the front subrame...the materials issue was, rather then having correct length U-bolts made to attach the rear axle housing to the subframes he bent new ones out of hardware store threaded rods. These cheap rods are made by cutting the threads rather than rolling them...the result basically turns the U bolts into very effeective chisels, which had cut their way through the housing. Needless to say that, despite “advice” from at least one “expert” who should have known better, telling me to run the car, I thought it best to not risk either my safety nor further damage and chose to sit out the rest of the weekend. Sherri and Catherine had flown down to see Gary and me race, and though disappointed, once I explainied that I did not think they wanted to see me die or be injured if the whole thing failed totally, they accepted that possible reality and we at least were able to enjoy the rest of the Navy's hospitality for the weekend. That included a welcome dinner party at the Admiral's residence, served by formally uniformed Navy personnel and includied entertainment by a Naval orchestra. As with all these weekends, they ended with an Awards Ceremony held in one of the two “hangars” onboard one of the aircraft carriers home berthed at the base. The final event, for those interested, was a guided tour of the carrier under the supervision of navy staff trained for that purpose. Though I had been on more than one of these, starting with the non-nuclear and now retired USS Constellation and including the USS John C Stennis and others I've likely forgotten, the most notable tour by far was on the USS Ronald Reagan, at the time the newest nuclear carrier in the inventory. Thus it was easy to decide which carrier to model for my “personal history with” collection. After the Awards Ceremony ended we decided to take advantage of the Navy's offer for a guided tour of the carrier. We joined in with the next group to leave the hangar deck area, under the shepherding of an NCO who was both so far ahead of us at the tail of the group, so softspoken, and (apparently) so bored we could not hear a single thing he was saying. One of us in this “rear guard” noticed that there was a much smaller group following ours, and we could hear the enthusiastic speech of the sailor esccorting the group more clearly than our own guide, so we and a few other couples detached from our group and attached ourselves to his. Obviously the Navy was trusting of us as there was no “headcounting” or any other tracking of who went with which escort. What a lucky switch that turned out to be! The guide was a last minute sub and had not been briefed on where he could or should not take visitors...and thus we were quite literally “all over the boat” with him. I no longer remember the exact order so I'll talk about the tour in a “top to bottom” fashion. We would have started at the top of the command “island” (the Bridge), lterally standing at the captain's work station as well as the Commander of the Air Group” “office,” the CAG. We also looked over the navigator's work station before moving on to the flight crew ready room, with its very comfotable lounge chairs for the pilots. We also walked through both the officers', and then the enlisted staff's cafeterias. Meals are served 24/7 as the carrier, even while in port, is a 24/7 operation, though the Air Wing had, as is normal, been flown off before entering the harbor, and was either housed on one of Coronado's airfields or at nearby Miramar. We spoke with a number of sailors who assured us the food being served was as tasty and well prepared as it looked. We spent a bit of time on the flight deck and heard some interesting stories from our guide. He told us it was not uncommon for someone to get accidently washed overboard from the backwash from a jet engine. All deck crew wear buoyancy suits which automatically inflate when hit with salt water. They can also be triggered manually and it is apparently a common “newbie” ritual to pull the cord on some unsuspecting crewperson, turning them into an instant version of “Mr. Bibendium”...the Michelin Man. We were assured that in a true “man overboard” situation, though never achieved in pratice, all 5400 sailors could be acounted for, the boat turned in virtuallly its own length, and the survivor plucked from the water in well under 15 minutes. We walked through both the officers' bedrooms and the enlisted bunk areas...oseparate cabins for male and female flight crew...no coed facilities. At at the latter, a couple of the women in our group asked if they could see into the cabin and speak with some of the women. Our guide saw no reason not to accommodate this, and after politely knocking and announcing his presence, our wives stepped into and spoke with several of the crew...despite our new sexist Secretary of Defense these ladies were totally professional and capable, though as the Captain had told us earlier in the evening, he had always to keep in mind that he was in command of five thousand four hundred young people who were still in, or barely out of, their teens. The near final two stops I recall were the anchor room, with chain links for each of the two anchors made of metal as big around as my arm and weigh several hundred pounds each, and the arresting hook cabin. We learned that each arresting cable is attached to a hevy metal sled riding in a huge tank of thick oil. The tension is adjustable somehow for the weight of each type of plane to be landed...possibly by opening or closing bypass valves in the oil though I don't recall being told the exact process. We also might have toured the catapault launch cabin and perhaps I am mixing the story up a bit. The last stop was a sort of combination trophy and video room, where there is a movie recording of Ronald Reagan speaking about America's role in the world and how carriers like #76 supported his vision of that. There were photos of him on the walls, along with some banners representing the ship. We were, by a couple of houres, by far the last civilians to be waaved goodbye to by our young escort at the gangplank. In fact, the Shore Police guarding the gangway wre stunned that we were still onboard, having thought all civilians had been gone for some time. Though there are many stories I recall about Coronado and the racing weekends as guests of the Navy, our evening on the USS Ronald Reegan is well up there among my fondest memories.

1:720 Model I built of the USS Ronald Reagan

Luca di Montezemolo and The Monterey Historics

                                          

 Steve Earle did not create the Monterey Car Week in the last week in August. The Concours at Pebble Beach had already been in existence since the end of racing through the pines there by the time of his frist historic race gathering in 1974. But he was in no small part the gudiing force in its development into what quickly became, and largely remains, one of the premier sports car and automobile racing events in the world.

Steve developed the idea of a paid attendance vintage racing event as an outgrowth of his membership in the Ferrari Owners Club. Like a number of other members, Steve had a fair amount of inherited wealth and chose to spend some of it on old cars, many of them racers, and a number being old Ferrari race cars. Having spent some time in Europe (he even raced at least once at LeMans), and also doing some of the Concours with these (including Pebble Beach), he was bored by the latter and intrigued by the vintage race scene on the Continent, but wanted a more casual atmosphere where peoople could actually hae open access to the cars and their owners.

So he put up some of that inheritance, rented Laguna Seca on an open weekend in August, and invited some of his “car buddies” to come out and play. This included the Ferrari Owners Club members...the club had a tent set up on the top of the Corkscew Hill by the scoring trylon, and made it a club event. In fact, if not for the financial support of the FOC the whole thing might have never gotten off the ground.

You can read that history in almost any car publication...for example: https://www.supercars.net/blog/the-first-historics/2/. Note the exclusive “all Ferrari” front row with Stevve and my first driving instructor David Love's cars leading the pack. As you can, no doubt, notice from the photo, all but two of the cars were Ferraris. 

Steve decided to honor a single marque for each MHAR..thus was born the tradition of every tenth year, ending in xxx4, honoring Ferrari. An easy choice as no other manufacturer was both born in competition and stayed true to participation throughout its entire history.

Steve's success was basd in no small part on him honoring the entire history of motorsports and not just the major players. Thus it was that except for one year when I took the Siata cross country to race, and on one other occasion, my entry was accepted for every year from my first restoration of the car in 1984(?) through my last entry, which was also the year the founder of the event was ucnerimoniously kicked to the curb after growing it into the premier event of its kind in the US.

As noted elsewhere in this blog, Ernie Mendicki was my mentor in many of my automotive skills and the source of much of my knowledge. With only a very modest income as a forms salesman he had managed to own and accumulate a stable of cars that most of us can only dream of. I don't recall exactly which models he owned while he partipated in the MHAR, but I'm sure it included the 250 Sport, the first 3 liter V12 and winner of the Mille Miglia in 1952 with Giovanni Bracco driving all but one of hour of the event, fortified by many sips of brandy.

        

            

You can read about the car here: https://www.supercars.net/blog/1952-ferrari-250-sport/

For a number of years I could only attend the MHAR as a spectator, though membership in tehe FOC did grant me VIP access. At one event the FOC was invited to bring their cars from the “corral” display area for an on track exhibition...which turned into the world's largest Ferrari parking lot, with something like 200 cars on the course. At the time it was believed to be the largest gathering of Ferraris in one place. That must have been 1984, because I bought the Siata shortly after and began my stint in vintage events. I do recall sitting in traffic trying to come up the hilll from the highway to the paddock...the only time the 2+2 overheated. Sherri asked me what I was going to drive at the next Monterey Historics and I replied “the Siata.”

So I am guessing it was 1994 when the Great Gold Chain Caper came off. But by then the qually great Hat Caper had been long established as a tradition at the after party, held in the intimacy of the old amphitheater up on the hill above the front straight. It was the perfect gaathering place for the warm afterglow of a successful race weekend for me...having driven and finished well and, as old friend Terry Matheny used to say, not having madde a fool out of myself infront of all those spectators. I even was once recognized by Steve for the best performance and presentation on my class...a small “trophy” I still display proudly in my shop.

The hat caper was actually set off by Al Moss, founder of Moss Motors, one of the earliest American sources of parts for British sports cars. Al was as untouched by fame and glory as was Ernie, most of the time driving a three wheeled Morgan which used to scare the hell out of me trying to pass. It was impossible to tell which way the damned thing was going to jump when it hit the tiniest imperfection in the track surface.

As Al was called up to the podium for an award, on impluse he grabbed Ernie's cowboy hat on the way up, then swapping it for the cap Steve was wearing. And from there we were “off to the races...” with the rul being you did NOT get your hat back at the end of the ceremony.

That caused problems at least twice. On one occasion I had a young nephew with me, and somehow his cap (Miami Dolphins as best I recall) wound up on Vic Edelbrock's head, and Vic's signed cap then wound up on my nephew's head. He was quite upset until we convinced him that Vic was famous and respected throughout the car universe.

The second time was when Carroll Shelby was the guest at the podium with Steve, helping to hand out awards. This was another tradition Earle started (and yes, I will eventually get to how that ties in with gold chains and Ferraris). I'm not going to say where exactly THAT hat, complete with British Racing Driver's Club patch on it, wound up...but I hope his heirs realized what it wwas and didn't just toss it. 

Shel was NOT amused and tried to get it back and we had to get the recipient to keep his mouth shut by threatening to drown him if he tried to give it back. Shelby eventually was able to talk the BRDC into giving him another patch.

So the guest for the weekend in question was none other than the Chairman of Ferrari, Luca di Montezemolo, dressed as nattily and as well quaffed as in this photo: 

At the time of the event, the California chapters of the FOC were the two biggest Ferrari clubs in America, and likely the world. Unlike the Ferrari Club of America (FCA), ownership of a Ferrari was a requirement for membership. There was always a recognizable difference between the two chapters. Sherri and I used to say we could walk into a cocktail party of the two chapters and immediately piock out the SoCal members by the hairy chests of shirts open to the waist to display heavy gold chains with large Prancing Horse medallions. 

Thus it was that Ernie decided to poke fun at that kind of pretentiousness. In addition to his usual Chambrey shirt, overalls, and cowboy hat, he decided to adorn himself for the Awards Ceremnoy with an “appropriate” gold chain. I don't remember a horse medallion, but the one inch galvanized chain, painted with gold leaf paint, draped over his haat and down his shirt, was pretty glaring...,particularly when he was called up for some award or another.

Maybe Montezemolo didn't get the joke? I prefer to believe he was just too cool to allow Ernie and the crowd to see any evidence of shock.

Come to think of it, I don't recall any standout reaction from the crowd either. The thing I always loved about that world in those days, was that literally no one was there to show off anything other than their love of driving those wonderful old cars as they were meant to be shown and appreciated. It did not matter who you (or your daddy) was, what you did for a living or owned, who you had married, or anything else. To paraphrase a very successful political saying for a Presidential election...

“It's the cars, stupid!”

Two Stroke Nostalgia

After literally decades sitting neglected, I decided to try a refresh of my old bike. It was partly just to have a proect to work on, partly in fear of Sherri''s contiuing threat to have my ashes buried in it, and largely because I had designs of riding again (see “Ashes in the Handlebars”, July, 2018). 

Though the refresh was successful and I did ride some, sanity returned, the family expressed their appropriate “concern” (are you crazy? Was a closer quote), and I realized that, at a minimum the 750 Suzy was probably a bigger ride than I should be attempting. 

To sort of compensate, as I had already returned to model building to help while away my remaining time on this planet, in light of the restrictions my half artificial spine was imposing on me, including a number of motorcycles which intersted me. And of course these included a number of Suzukis.

And many of these are two stroke models. Suzuki was, IMO, the most successful builder of two strokers for the American market, and was still exporting them into the country for some time after I bought my 750 four stroke bike from them in 1977. 

In fact, if I DID ride anotgher bike beside my GS, I would like a “popcorn popper” of some sort, likely no bigger than a 250. My last two stroke Suzy WAS a 250, and still ranks as the best bike I owned other than the GS. It was light, responsive, quick, and easy to live with. Though by today's standards the brakes and handling were marginal and you REALLY needed to understand that while it was easy to “wick it on,” getting it hauled down from its top speed was another story entirely.

I recently purchased a kit of a Suzuki 500cc two stroke racing bike, in a much larger scale than the rest of my miniature “fleet.” It will be the biggest of any of the bike models, as well as the largest displacement motor using that technology. It represents the pinnacle of that extinct breed, killed off by the need for environmental controls that appeared increasingly unlikely within any rational cost and price formula.

My favorite still remains the bike in this photograph of the model I built...the RG250. While I would be more than happy with my old X6 250, to the best of my knowledge there is no model available for that bike and so...

Yes, it's a model
Sitting on my workbench...
Dammit

What is behind my love of these ridiculous sounding, ridiculously high revving, rridiculously low torque motors? Quite simple. I'm a little, low strength guy, and it is possible to get more performance for less weight than any “normal” four stroke bike could offer.

Consider this...at under 300 pounds and with 29 little horses, my X6 would hit 30 FASTER than my 512 pound leviathan of a 750, and was less than a second slower to 60. Sure, from there to 100 the GS would eat the X6 alive, and at 100 it ws done and the 750 would not even be breathing hard. But I can also say that the X6 was the only bike I evern ownned whose acceleration was so sharp and, perhaps even qualified as violent, that the first three gears went by as quickly as I could twist my wrist and move my left foot, and it was all I could to keep the bike from literally leaping out from under me, while I slid backwards until I was almost sliding off the back of the seat.

The first time I took my roommate's out, which convinced me I wanted one, it was ou on the Millhopper Road outside of Gainesville, and it literally left me breahless. And two stroke motors were so simple I literally took one apart and scraped the carbon from the cylinder head in my living room.

As the years went by the bikes did become more complex, adding (still simple compared to four cycle motors) things like rotary valves and even water cooling (not visible in the photo there IS a radiator buried inside that fairing), which much softened that popcorn popper whine four stroke guys just hated. 

But it was environmental responsibility which finally killed them off. It was no longer justifiable to run motors which had to burn oil along with gasoline to run. I don't know why the tefchnology required that, and it doesn't really matter. Were there a somewhat more civilized version of the RG, with a two up seat, reasonable but not crazy power, and less costly than the many thousands these things bring (IF you can find one, that is), I'd be sorely tempted.

Just kidding

I think.

Suzuki RG 250 specs: 49hp, 287 pound dry weight, 6 speed transmission, 100mph top speed

Suzuki X6 250 specs: 29hp, 297 punds, 6 speed transmission, 100mph top speed hmm...seems familiar 

Cobras to the Left of Me, Cobras to the RIght, Here I AM ..Stuck in the Middle

 I think I've heard that song before.

My sister, feeling badly about my major spinal issues and pains, and how they have narrowed my life, picked up a couple of car kits from a neighbor's yuard sale collection. Among them was an old Monogram kit of a 427SC Cobra, specifically CSX 4031. While not his car, I immediately thought of one of three people with similar or identical cars, and how their worlds and my own intersected deep in my past.

But first, a bit of background. One of these individuals was Mike Tangney, a backyard mechanical "genius" whose work and one of his cars crossed my path some 40 years ago. You see Mike not only did much work on my Siata when it came west from a long sleep in Pennsylvania in the early 1980s. Among other great work he did on the car, he fabricated a replacement for the turtle decck which had been cut out some decades earlier in order to make the car into one of the world's ugliest convertibles. 

But there was another intersection with MIke, because at the time he owned and vintage raced a highly unusual car...one with direct predessor links to the AC ACE, whose body and frame graced not only the unique AC Bistols, but also, with a Ford 289ci V8 grafted in, the AC Ford/Shelby Cobra. 

This car was a different beast under the skin, but the body, crafted by John Trojiero, became, under his refinement, the lovely cuurves gracing the ACE. And yet there was even more strangeness than that, linking Trojiero and the ACE to my (barely) contemporary or earlier Siata.

You see, John learned his craft in Italy, working in the Bertone shop panel beating both "production" and "one off" bodies for the many car manufacturers trying to get a foot up in early post-war "Motor Valley" in the northern part of the country. 

Though not a for sure fact, it is entirely possible Trojiero had a hand in the work to design and fabricate the 300BC bodies Bertone put on the modified Amica chassis Siata supplied, when it was clear that the small tube frame put on the Orchidea prototype for the 300BC was not workable for an albeit limited, production car given the welding technology of the era. Only  Maserati was successful, some eight years later, with the small tube welded frame for the legendary "Birdcage."

So it is, perhaps, no coincidence that the 300BC is sometimes confused for the ACE or 289 Cobra. From a distance and looked at quickly they appear remarkably similar. 

So...the Trojiero Special to the 300BC Siata to the AC ACE to the 289 Cobra? Could be. All four, BTW, used the identical transverse apring upper link suspension setup, original to the even earlier Fiat Topolino...the famous "Little Mouse" of the late 1940s.

At any rate, the relationship continued, from one "John" to another. Mike Tangney also worked on at least one of John Lewis's cars. My relationship to that John (The world's oldest teenager even at his death some decades ago) winds through this blog in other posts, so I won't delve too deeply into that here, other than to say he was one of my very closest friends, and I miss his unique style to this day.

So let me (finally, you say?) close the link. John (my John...Lewis, not Trojiero) owned a series of cars in his life, and at one point this included a pretty, though somewhat...less than 100% in terms of condition...AC Bristol...thus the link to Mike Tangney and that whole back story, as Mike had his hands all over the AC in one way or another. Here's a photo I took and gave John for a gift at some point, given back to me by his daughter after he died.

This was shot at the public school in Virginia CIty used as a staging area for the Virginia City Hillclimb event. 

Let me use the photo as the next link in the story. John was, like most of us in the era, an enthusiastic driver but not experienced in actual competition driving. Both of us were members of the Bay Area Chapter of the Ferrari Owners Club, at that time probably second only to the Southern California chapter in having the greatest concentration of Ferraris on the planet...seriously. And every year the chapter joined with the Bay Area Cobra Owners Club to operate a hillclimb event in Nevada. 

This was a pretty complex affair to organiaze and run, as I learned both by volunteering as part of Start Control as well as working a corner multiple times and also helping then President Doug Fonner in a trip in his 308 Ferrari to get the required permits and volunteer help for comunications.

The course was  5.2 miles, climbs 1200 feet, and has 20 numbered curves as well as long straights, finally crossing the old Virginia and Truckee railroad line via a pretty dangerous overpass. It also crossed county lines and thus required permits and police support from three different agencies, closing the road to public traffic (the alternate route was a more gentle road used by commercial traffic, but this also became our cooldown return to the starting area after a run.

  The cars were started at intervals to hopefully avoid passing and also make sure we could shut the course down quickly in case of an incident, before a succeeding car arrived on the scene of the problem. And problems there were.

  In fact, as I became more skilled I came to realize it was by far the most dangerous event I ever did, with potentially fatal dropoffs and little margin for error on turns, plus that tricky overpass with its change from macadam to concrete just after the final turn. There were many "near misses" and cars "hanging over the edge' (almost includidng mine...see  https://martinodipietra.blogspot.com/2017/01/nevada-insanity.html  for that story.

  On the day which brought the links of this story together, Sherri and I were working one of the turns, though time has erased exactly which one. I know there was a straight out of the following turn which contained a rock wall, but we had to rely on a local shortwave radio club for turn to turn communication as no turn could see the one before or the one following. 

  So all we heard was the crash when John's AC hit the wall coming out of the turn following "ours.". Even before we were told over the radio to do so, I reached for the yellow flag, only to have the wind whip it off the pole it was supposedly attached to, leaving me no choice but to reach for the red, even as the sound of the following car became a crescendo which seemed to suck the entire atmosphere off the hill, down the throat and out those huge side pipes of Dick Smith's 427 Cobra...California vanity plate "Litsmup" or maybe it was "litesmup?" 

  Anyway, I'd never seen (or heard) anything like it. Yes, I know a 427 can go from 0-100-0 in 10 seconds...but I'd never before seen anyone actually do it! It just stunned me.

  That was my first, but just the beginning, of my ever growing respect for the man. I was to meet, and watch him, at many subsequent FOC/Shelby Club track days, and on to many years in vintage racing, finally losing sight of him as my own particpation in that world became limited by age and back issues.

  Watching Dick was an incredible thrill. Most of the guys that drive and even race Cobras can barely hang onto them. They take a turn in a true "point and squirt" fashion, tiptoeing around a turn lest the rear tires light up and the beast becomes a dragon, then stepping on it and firing off like they wre shot out of a gun once lined up on the following straight.

  Hell, I could easily pass soome of these guys in any turn, and once did it just to say I had, but in general, what's the point? On the following straight they would just disappear from view anyway, so why bother?

  But Smith was something else to watch...the smoothest driver of a Cobra I've ever seen up close. He acttuallly DROVE it around turns, just as if it was my Siata. Never a wheel chirp and just as smooth as silk. Just stunning...and he was ALWAYS at the sharp end of the finishing order, if not, as he mostly was, in first place.

  So the final link of the story that began in Torino around 1950, was an early Spring HMSA vintage race weekend...maybe in the  mid to late 1980s. This is an event I always loved.

  Laguna Seca in the Spring is my idea of heaven. The later usually gold hills are green, the weather is cold and could be rainy but never washed out the event totally, the people that raced with HMSA were always "gentlemen" in the true sense of the word, and I never worried about being on track with bigger and faster cars...and the early Spring (March) timing made for a relaxed start to get drivers AND cars "in tune" and ready for the season, after what is, for most of us, a winter's sleep.

  A time to "get the dust out" of cars and driving skills. A time to relax and have fun. A time to...maybe check and see what cars I would be grouped with. Unfortunately, for this particular meet, the grids had not been printed. So I flagged down Cris Vandergrif, the race organizer and the owner of HMSA, as he passed by on a motor scooter.

  Who am I gridded with?"

  "Not sure, but don't worry about it. Just a bunch of small bore cars like Alfas and such." (This was before the days of using more modern tech to hotrod cars of any era to way exceed their historic performaance, often vastly exceding the abiltiy of their brakes, suspension, and wheels to manage the increased power).

  So innocent me toddles my tiny, snarling little ride up towards the gate entrance to the hot pit lane, just this side of the wall to the track itself. But now my view of the grid is blocked, as it would not be before they were built, by the row of garages, occupied by crews supporting gjuys with more serious cars and/or money. All I can see until I pass the garage wall is...concrete...UNTIL...

  Oh S**t! Nothing but Cobras and Corvettes as far as I can see. So now I am directed to tuck in my snapping little terrier right next to...a 427 Cobra. Not Dick Smith, but what's the difference? The guys on the line are all laughing, and I'm just shaking my head and wondering what Cris was thinking of. I guess he had nowhere else to put me. All I could hope was that the laughter was good natured.

  I needn't have worried. Everyone on the grid understood what I was driving, and that there was not another car on that line whose engine was lass than 5 1/2 times the displacement of my snapping MinPin.

In an anti-climax to this part of the story, nothing happened. Evceryone gave me plenty of room and passed only when it was clear I knew where they were and they were going to let me do what I needed to. In at least one instance I tried to wave one of them by just as I would have been setting up for the next turn, and there were two of them behind me who were obviously fighting for position, yet the lead car simply shook his head and waved off my signal, waiting for me to go through the turn, before both cars exited behind me, passed, and then set themselves up for the dice on the subequent turn.

 It was simply the most courteous run with the most powerful cars...a cohesive group of people well acquainted with each other and their own skills and machinery, without any need to "prove themselves" by taking away a turn from a car that could almost sit on the hood of any of these. 

And one of those cars which passed me, was Dick Smith, who lapped me TWICE in the session...and it was just a joy watching him do it.

So the final step in this journey was my attempt to make sure I had his name right, and also to see how CSX 3181 did NOT match up to his Cobra in livery...to be simply stunned by the following article on the web site of the Washington Cobra group he was part of: http://wasaac.org/dsmith/dsmith.html .

I had no idea. How sad, and yet in a way, I can't help but envy him...while a tragedy of course, it is no less so than a dozen different tragedies that hit you in old age...and while obvioulsy doubly sad to go out that way with someone younger with you, for Dick maybe it really is not so tragic. I know nothing of what aging ailments might have plagued him, but his own life ending without lingering pain (hopefully) and instantly...is that more or less tragic than hanging on waiting for the inevitable, and maybe sufferiing greaatly along the way?

I really don't know, but it was a ashock to find out about losng him. That was NOT what I was thinking of as I was building this model as a tribute to him.