It was my father’s idea to take me to my first sports-car race. A group of Bridgehampton, Long Island businessmen had organized races for foreign sports cars on the public roads south of town. The 4 mile, roughly rectangular course enclosed the golf club, ran past stately homes, over bridges and around potato and cornfields. The races were held in June, starting in 1949, and the whole town pitched in selling hot dogs, programs and parking places on the front lawns.
Slender men in English clothes carried heavy leather helmets, while lovely women in plaid skirts and camelhair coats sat on picnic blankets with wicker baskets that had been unloaded, along with the spare tire, jack and other nonessentials, from cars that were about to go into combat. The drivers didn’t look like the burly sports heroes my school friends emulated. They looked like me-or at least the way I wanted to look if only I would grow a little. I guessed that to be a race driver, you needed to be brave, a daredevil, which was my own adolescent self-image. It required some knowledge of cars and engines, which I didn’t have, but I knew I could learn. This was something I might be able to do-and do well. On the drive home, we passed restaurants and hotels with sports cars out front, some still with their race numbers on the sides. Inside, I pictured those streamlined drivers with their golden-haired women, having a wonderful party. “This is the perfect life,” I thought. Beautiful cars, beautiful people. It was a new summer romance. And the beginning of a life-long love affair. This significant excerpt was culled from the writing of a great driver, definitive gentlemen and a friend to all whom were lucky enough to have been graced with his presence and kindness. If this small sampling of his motorsports wisdom touched you, if you relate to this youthful experience, well then, he will always be here, in our memories and serve as but a small tribute to this special sportsman.. NEVER FORGET-BOB AKIN I’ll race with you on the other side of anywhere, my friend
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RACING UPDATE-SUNDAY, MARCH 4th. MetroMan-Michael Lauer Wins Rolex 24 in Gentillozi prepared Jaguar. In only three tries, he personifies the spirit of our club, he being a member and my personal friend/client for many years. Trying for so many years, I’m more than envious of that significant Rolex Daytona he will be wearing with pride. Perhaps one of the most qualified sportsman in the field, destiny was apparent years ago in his enthusiasm and spirit with motorsport activities. An inevitable feat! From myself and “our” club-fortuna favet fortibus-“fortune favors the bold!
In similar fashion, I salute Metro members Chris Manfredi, Tom Popodopoulis, together with a personal friend, and NHRA Champion, Anthony Bartone. This year may be their first, but more than likely, not their last race at this field of glory. “Now, on with Sebring, where just finishing is tantamount to winning!” My opportunity for admission into the factory program for a new Supercup from Porsche is an acknowledgement of many years of competition with Porsche. Imagination is always part of the journey when owning a unique car and I try, in this passage, to reach those whom may never have the liberty of gaining admission into this exclusive club. We arrive with an order placed through Alwin Springer, director of Porsche Motorsports U.S.; our contact is the lovely Vera Frank with whom the actual order is processed through. Because of the gradually limited number of new racecars built for customers, their choice of owner becomes more critical every year. Options are few. Color, in my order is always white, however, red and black are additional choices. Sorry, no paint to sample and I suppose anyone placing such a credulous request would not have been on the short list clients at the outset. Three gear set ratios are available as are additional wheels, requiring insight into what your actual purpose, in racing, will necessitate. Some of the 13 cars, in this years litter, will go to teams in the Speedvision series. “Speedvision” prepared Porsche “Cup” cars will need no options based on the significant modifications they will endure to be competitive in their respective classes. Indeed, the engines will immediately require upgrading to GT3RS specifications for the faster class in the aforementioned races, alongside a radical suspension change incorporating “reservoir” systems for damper control. With the many changes this series mandates the “OEM” Cup car distinguishes itself most radically in lap time capabilities, even with the weight penalty they must endure for the TV audiences attracted to this channel’s concept of a racing format. A last but most significant handicap to TV’s answer to motorsport parity lies in the “spec” tire and how generally miserable everyone is with their TOYO tire requirements. Our car will be among the few spared this most unceremonious dismemberment. We will compete in the Porsche Club Racing sanctioning body. The cornerstone of which is to keep these factory prepared 996’s in completely (well almost) stock form. Upgrades to earlier versions have recently been incorporated into the rules. Stupid ME, I pushed for the rules change only to realize that I would have had an “unfair” advantage with this “02” version that would have offered better lap times in the hands of a competent driver! Taking delivery at the factory of any new Porsche racecar has always been a treat to myself as well as other drivers I know. These machines are completely assembled at Weissach, as such; we travel to this “Mecca” of world motorsport activity to take delivery and or to Stuttgart for a little tour. I like this because of the opportunity to “inspect” all the racecars being delivered around the world within a short time span. Arranging transport and customs issues can be intimidating if this is your virgin experience. With my contacts already in place, this part of the delivery was the least awkward. To a point! I say that because we lost the keys for the car while in transit only for them to reappear jammed under the on-board fire extinguisher bottle. Whew! A real bummer, although, Porsche would have sent me another set of keys with their knowledge of the code to cut them. The 02 version has some quality, evolutionary improvements in suspension, brake, aerodynamics, safety as well as significant drive train upgrades. Perhaps the most important may reside within the confines of the engine bay, with the improved valve train and resultant horsepower curve gains, or “grunt”(race guy talk). March 23 we will all gather at F.M. and view/talk about both the 02, accompanied by driver, Paul Orwicz and his several years of racing tightened into his belt,). We have added the 00 cup car with which we won several races last year, it owner/driver is Bob Glasser (Metro President), who will be glad to field any questions about his new "ride". The call came. Christmas for Joseph Bartone’s family, friends as well as myself, would be inalterably changed forever! The glib times we live in do not kindly stop for death. Possibly the reason for my own circumstantial defiance lies within the thought of death and curls the corners of my mouth! You see, I want everyone around me to live life large. When called, I’m available. When needed, I’m there. Joey shared in that belief! When a kindred spirit of mine is snatched away, through a horribly simplistic traffic accident, I hate life just a little more. Even the fittest among us survive for only so long. Applying it to words on paper, temper the unfairness we all must endure.
The appropriateness of my feeble attempt to encapsulate Joey’s existence in this journal of Porsche people can only be viewed as one car guy missing another. Yes, Joey was, is, a car guy, as we, who read about him are labeled. Along with his brothers, Tony and Michael they lived cars. He and his family struggled and pulled themselves into a position of managing a burgeoning, tough, ever complicated business; more and more people tugging to get a piece of them, indeed get at them. The solitude of Joey’s opportunities in motor sports activities delivered the much needed relief valve that so many of us enjoy beyond the reach of work and responsibility. Our lives crossed in the early years of the 90’s. My business had been established in Long Island City for 5 or 6 years, he and his family were consolidating their paving operations in the same zip code. Joey, as the car he drove, a red 78 911 Turbo, was in good shape and set a pleasing picture to one’s eyes. He later gigged as a drag motorcycle pilot along with driving (really drove) a bevy of exotics, doing some of the things everyone dreams about. But in his case there was much more to it than that. Our first encounter led us to drive his Turbo out onto the highways of NYC and bond like car guys are supposed to do-in the Big Apple. The words that came from him were always soft and well natured, never harsh or difficult to listen to, expectations always at the forefront of our conversation. He introduced me to Manducatti’s, a neighborhood Italian restaurant known throughout the city. He brought me to have the finest hamburger in existence at the “airport” diner near LaGuardia. We enjoyed each other. The good are NOT supposed to die young. Myself, as others, witnessed rays of sunshine as he spoke and warmed in his surrounding along with others fortunate enough to come in from the cold, a feeling which, sadly, too many sports car owners project. In retrospect, Joey never took, but gave. Joey embodied a wonderful sense of enjoyment, the continual constrictions of life faded when he was around. The introduction to his older brother, Tony was a giving from Joey. This act allowed myself the addition of a close friend and confidand which, as you know comes few and far between. Our last conversation centered on Joe’s desire to buy another Turbo, a decision which would have moved him back from the army of automotive acolytes and embrace Porsche ownership, thereby rekindling our distant friendship. This irony was closed by the meting out of retributive disapproval in the machine, which took his life. Irony can be used as a cudgel, as an enemy of subtlety, easy simplicity posing as meaning. It’s why teenagers enjoy it so much. So consider this a plea on behalf of the memory of Joseph Bartone, an appeal to have his name added to a roster of great, cool guy’s who remain remembered, not a momentary reaction equivalent to hustling past a figure surrounded by flowers attached to lines of people paying respect. To paraphrase that aphorism this is another favorite of adolescents: we are all of us subject to the inevitable occurrence of the excretal expletive, and it’s best to remember that no one gets out alive. The wages of everything is death. Sadder still, fewer of us than we care to imagine will expire with anything resembling the dignity we wish for. My thoughts remain for Joseph Bartone, taken from us this Christmas 2000AD, his children, loving wife, brothers and sister, mother and father. “Joey, I’ll meet you on the other side”. Time:
Sunday, MEMORIAL DAY-1962 Conditions: A warm, early and sun drenched morning. Location: Dead end Street, East Flatbush, Brooklyn. Oak trees in full bloom, shading the roller-skate rink, we called home. The end of the WW11 boom. Change is about to encompass this enclave of cops, firemen, Daily News print stained workmen, along with their wives and families. Stick ball, block parties, card games and alcohol scented evening laughter were about to come to an abrupt and impolite end. A twilight zone for so long for so many blue collar moms with so many children. This Sunday morning was aglow with pastels of women’s dresses coupled to brown suited, straight striding dads, juniors in tow, devout with their trek toward a noontime spire of faith. My Dad…ahh well, his crusade was the NY Times crossword. Pencil in one hand, Bloody Mary in another! Having recently orchestrated the print ads for Jack Kennedy’s “err” successful election. Jack’s father had MANY friends. Jack himself, a man who would unwittingly change and almost end the world as we knew it; fractionalizing entire concepts of urban neighborhoods, to the day he died. His “second” would embark on the removal of half of this neighborhoods youth, forcing their transplant to an ongoing Asian experience of rice and misery, only to be summarily discarded into a new world order on their old turf dozens of months later. Without any reason for losing their chance at the American Dream of adolescence, they sit on their stoops; vacuous, haplessly viewing siblings repeat what they’re desperately trying to forget as they conceal a toke on the smoke of Saigon. At this age, I’ve been endowed with a Grand Garage replete with enough “stuff” to create my first Empire of the Formula. I pedal my Schwinn to Ebingers on Flatbush Avenue for MY religious host, devilishly tasty crumb cake! Summer heat waves reveal a somewhat distorted mirage. My bike’s rapid pace creates a quick disappearance of illusion though, allowing a vision that to this day, burns bright. A silver streamlined dome with two stick figures planted within, parked right in front of MY bakery. The scenario and its players were resoundingly out of character with my perception of what “older people” represented to this kid. “His” descriptive lingo (“I’m a hip cat”) and “her” lengthy, statuesque, almost porcelain quality set against the dark glass, wrapping her sculpted face, successfully hid her secrets from gawking onlookers. Both figures were clad in tight, black cloth and leather. Their vehicle exuded the same persona. Contrasting the blackness and flesh were the colors of deep German silver in the jewelry that adorned them and their machine, a ’58 Porsche Speedster. Leaning on the fender of their magnificent endangered,hump-backed species, “him” and “Her” sipped coffee, drawing on cigarettes they rolled themselves! ON THIS SIDE OF TOWN? I positioned MY ride against the bakery window and allowed my eyes and ears to draw it all in. The local natives were restless though, having rarely experienced “hipsters” in their midst. “His” clean-lined silhouette was a page torn from GQ. Arrogantly leaning against his ride, he looked in my direction. “Hey man, you dig my wheels?” “WHAT?” I stammered to say. The fluid, yet disfunctional eloquence of his approach was another bolt of lightning to an already heady encounter with “alien” beings along with their spaceship. I mused, “What kinda car is THAT?” Smiles overcame their somewhat demure coolness. “She” rolled off the fender and approached me like a supermodel, gliding down Coco Chanel's Paris runway. Softly, with an accent, she introduced herself as Genevieve. A virtual art form. “Mon Ami, iz name iz Bobby D. Ee azk hyou iv hyou lak ze carr. Yes? Hyou wood lak a drive, yes?” At 12 years of age and having a bit of the street in vocabulary, the words fell out of my mouth too fast….”Holy…..er, YEA! Take me to your leader, even if you guys fell off another planet!” The two Village People promised to wait as my somewhat routine disaappearance would undoubtedly raise several questions by my “authorities”. I rode home and lied about something”. Several minutes later the jump seat of this lithe speedster was filled with my lack of worldly experience…..Hell…..on my way to the beach with beatniks….in a machine “he” referred to as a “bathtub”. The playground was filled by the sound of 1600 cc’s of tuned explosions ensconced in a sliver skin, singing songs all the way over the Marine Park Bridge. We spent this early morning as lounge lizards do, sunning on a salt aired stone jetty. Atlantic around us, European stories in front; perfume mixing with the salty tone of Bobby D. Transistorized jazz and sumptuous foods I had never tasted before were in sync with the ideas of a world unknown to this lad. Bobby D and Genevieve were fervent advocates and professed the virtues of Porsche, jazz, coffeehouses and understanding the essence of being “totally cool”. With this newfound language and the new freedoms of speech; Genevieve, wrapped in Parisian charm along with Bobby the beatnik, I found more of what life was about. “He” was a Porsche mechanic par excellence and a man with whom I would work with in later years; most important, they were both “hipsters. These two cosmopolitans revealed another way, a cool life of not just driving a hip bathtub, but driving into a hip world. As bobby D would say to me that afternoon when dropped off, “When I drive, man, it’s like taking a bath…..It cleans your soul, you dig it?” Yea, I did, “I do!” You Cannot win at Daytona. You can only manage not to lose. As tile Rolex on the press room wall Swings past 10 PM EST the weirdness of fast paced diminution continues. Rumblings about an louder, especially since the three-car Team Oreca overall win by a Viper (Ugh!) are increasingly
Vipers now run in second, third and fourth overall. That’s right, second, third and fourth overall. Tile unbelievable attrition that rocked the 80 car field has, not abated and there’s almost as much traffic back and forth to the garage as there is going around the circuit. Hours later, as the result of an engine misfire, the decimated Sports Racers, aka Prototypes, headed by Rob Dyson’s Riley & Scott, would be harried by the onslaught of the eventual overall and GTO winners from tile Daimler/Chrysler consortium. This was a far cry from tile “evacuation” of the “flapjack flipping” Mercedes team at Le Mans. It would mark the first time in the 36-year history of this. tile most important sports car race in the U.S. that a production based American car would cop ail overall win. I had observed this team at Le Mans and it proved to be the class of the field; but no one expected such a storybook climax to their pursuits, such as we witnessed in this new millennium. Interestingly, one of the Team Oreca pilots from Le Mans moved to an underestimated Porsche GT3R ride and took the top GTU finish. The Harberthur Racing 996, although strong at Le Mans, was not factored in as a front runner, even though they posted an 8th place starting position. Stories along the way? I’ve got a bunch. As I mentioned last month, we were invited to join tile Champion/Texaco/Gunnar GT3R Team. Having had more than a dozen rides at the Rolex Sunbank Pepsi Challenge, and the Whatever 24 at the French facility, the capturing of that handy wrist timepiece has been somewhat elusive for me, and I was hoping my team’s drivers would get their chance at this, a most coveted prize in endurance racing. Alas, P.L. Newman fans (oldest driver in Daytona history and still very fast, indeed) would see their hero pack up along with the rest of us at the unusually early time of about 9:00 in tile evening. Clearly, P.L., as a prior GTO winner here and multifaceted motorsports entrepreneur who commands significant respect, should and always will be considered a career driver: a no BS kinda driver getting the job done. At 75, 1 hope to be in as good shape as he is. The race started early this year, an hour past high noon. Why? I guess the traditional 3:00 o’clock cacaphony of engine sounds was too traditional. The Rolex organization intended to change forever my impression of the crudeness of the event layout. They ran an exceptional week of events. Our team’s drivers were flawless in their execution and one was the son of a close friend. Gunnar Jeanette, at 17 years of age, was the youngest driver in the field—ever! Sponsor Texaco offered up a sumptuous array of feasts and accommodations. They suited my style perfectly, as overall tuning or driving are my specialties and the thought of inhabiting a cold, damp pit in the dark before dawn is a thing of the long past. Who is Michael Lauer? This was the inside running gag on the team. As our Metro members are aware, Michael has been a long time participant at our driving events and has managed to improve his capabilities to the point of being the fastest driver on the team. His exploits Friday were equally impressive when driving the 1986 GTP Championship winning prototype, only to be “shunted” at the end of a fabulous Vintage Race. Incredibly, his nearest risk of personal injury came at the very end of this most serious exercise of fast racing machines. A blown rear tire caused the leading (Le Mans winner) Fat Turbo 962 to head uncontrolled toward “Laver” as he was inspecting his own bruised P-Car. Only a jump over the pit wall saved this “unknown” driver from serious injury. Jokes aside, his moving from prototype to GT3R during the several days here proved a benefit to his style of driving, shown by his ease at executing quick laps in the 2000 lb. 996-based GTU contender. As Team Manager, my friend Kevin Jeanette has won this race before; and his game plan was simple: Conserve the equipment. As with most front running teams in the GTU category, engine problems on the “waterpumper” were rampant. The “factory” guys were responsible for the engines and water pump failures kept them busy, along with an occasional overall blowup here and there.. Having carefully observed the Teutonic approach the “3R’s” took at “The Sarthe,” I did not come away from “The Beach” nonplused. You come to Daytona with about 20 “new” machines, tested in Europe under relatively unstressed conditions, throw into the mix a “bumped up” power level and voila: Unreliability! Okay, now what? New Ballgame! This is of major concern. How competitive will these GT3R machines be, and how marketable in the future? In fairness, no one builds a racecar as complete as the Porsche factory and the GT3R is an easy car to drive fast. However, many in the P-Car business realize how popular one-or-two-yearold Porsche factory race cars are on the resale market, because of the long lived qualities they offer. Our car gave no indication of premature engine failure – no gauge deviations – No idiot lights! Nothing but Boom Boom Room time! Hmmmm…. Along with my compatriot Nick Ventura, I did some most enjoyable socializing with my guys Randy Sasson and (King) Henry McClure. An “observation deck” set up at the International Turn enabled us to view most of the track and entertain some of our Metro friends, Speed Slawson included, between stints at the pit wall. Joining the usual suspects (crew) in the pits, we had a great group of mechanical engineering students doing “chores” that freed us to plan strategy. The arrangement of lower end 993 grafted onto upper end 996 seemed to solve prior reliability problems, but alas, I fear not. This too will be resolved. In engine building, the most important part of the process is the disassembly. This separates the men from “the mechanics”; and there will be plenty to disassemble, as usual. Regarding Water Pump Failures: According to sources in Porsche Motorsport, unusually high engine attrition has been attributed to a factory subcontractor’s improper cleaning of cylinder heads (of manufacturing debris). Ahem… I am bewildered by how quickly this questionable explanation has been manufactured. There is still no answer to the plethora of other engine failures at Daytona. Drive Porsches Have fun. Solve problems. The events I’m about to chronicle are accurate. However, the date frame has been slightly altered and I’ve decided to change the names of the players; fairness to their memories could be misconstrued.
Allow me a momentary flash of retrospection: 1968. The spring and summer of my 17th year had been filled with Frisbeeism, school, surfing, Porsches and racing, never in that order. (Fribeeterians believe that, when you die, your soul goes on the roof and you can’t get it back down.) This was NYC and that last part, racing, was not FIA approved. Indeed, our streets offered a sanctioning body all their own. As the blare of sirens assured us, they were mean streets, unforgiving in nature. I limited myself to a voyeuristic position in a rather abstract form of gladitorial guts: street. racing, dangerous and illegal. Many of Gotham’s young, impressionable Porsche owners, their pathetic silver spoons tied to a leash, enabling them to “heighten the Experience” of speeds their minds had already OD’d on, would form up under the awnings of a night club on the service road of the Staten Island Expressway. “Hadaar” would carry with it an almost necessary signature, made necessary by the comings and goings of its “made” patrons. Located near the terminous of the relatively new Verrazano Narrows Bridge sat this den of the reticent and sociologically disordered, having all the trappings of post adolescence, aching to pay homage to the few who had already been indoctrinated and accepted into NYCs malfeasance and corruption. This incongruous fellowship would take their thrones as spurious and mock turtleneck juniors, riding in pastel sports cars, engaged in a dangerous game of traversing, at terminal velocities, this very long span of The Narrows that Robert Moses rammed down the throats of Brooklyn and Staten Island. The backdrop of a jeweled Manhattan skyline was framed by the two spires of this portal colossus as these weekend sorties droned on- that is until a fateful foggy evening in October. That evening’s entertainment was provided by my pasta bellied, directionless, yet every so jolly sidekick, Freddy- “Fat Freddy,” that is. The need for a moniker in Brooklyn has always intrigued me. The “large one” prowled the boundaries of Bensonhurst. His Mamma owned an Italian restaurant and, I imagined, fed half of “the Boys” for “nuttin”: nice suits-no money, always paying with a scheme. The fat one spent much of his salary in my father’s garage, behind our house. I found the enjoyment of repairing Porsche cars too much to miss. His indulgence always grew from watching mine. I loved Freddy as much as his 911S Targa. Despite his lardness, he drove like Tazio Nuvolari in the Mille Miglia. Unbeknownst to the weekend warriors with whom he would trade paint, Freddy had a trick that made his “Porsh” run away from the “rat pack.” With the changes we created, his gutteral and raspy voice could proclaim, “Hey, Marko! Dis weekend we’re gonna kick dair asses!” While everyone else concentrated on extensive engine modifications, we secretly shoved a 912 gearbox into “The Yellow U-Boat,” allowing him much quicker acceleration on the way up the main span of the bridge. Freddy enjoyed women as much as his beloved Porsche. He also liked to drink and drive. His girlfriend was a neighborhood “chick” with teased coif, five inch heels and a penchant for confession on Saturday afternoons. I knew her religious rituals through Freddy. “She’s a good kid; she don’t drink, but can she throw bull. Tank God my bookie meets me in front o’ da choich while she’s in deah. ” Yes, she was a good kid in many ways. So was he. That October “Hadaar evening” was rapidly degenerating, as much from the weather as from Freddy’s drinking. He was always jealous of guys hitting on his chick. Many of us knew the cocktail of alcohol, jealousy and racing the span would some day be a fatal mix. In walked Vinny the Suit. “Hey, what’s happening, Freddy?” quips The Suit. “I hear dat pieceajunk outside is ready for da dump. No, not yer chick. Da car! Haahaa, ahaahhaal” Well, Vinny’s “crew” circled around him, knowing full well that Freddy’s got 100 lbs over “The Suit,” and may be “carrying.” As expected, one thing leads to another and everyone spills outside: The Suit, Fat Boy, both crews and hordes of wannabes. Two well known “Gousheens” settle the argument by “setting up a sit-down” later in the week. Fat Feddy is p****d. Vinny saunters over to his “Furrayree,” settles into the seat, turns around and yells to Fat Boy,” I wouldn’t touch dat skank you’re wit.” In a cloud of dust, The Suit splits and the Yellow U-Boat is in rapid transit, behind. Freddy has his chick and has been drinking heavily. It’s all hands on deck as both crews and others scramble to follow those Chariots of Fire over the bridge to Bay Ridge. One last time. The newspapers had it all wrong. Some illiterate redneck, pushing 18 wheels, decided to turn across all the lanes and into the Belt Parkway exit at the far end of the span. Those of you who know this crossing realize that no commercial traffic is allowed on “The Belt.” There’s no room for a big semi. Freddy and The Suit knew that too, but realized what was happening too late. Later that night, or should I say that morning, NYC Highway Patrol cops couldn’t peel the three players from their fused coffins. Then, three funerals, all with the usual Brooklyn ornamentation, attended by a veritable Who’s Who of the world of the streets- crying and swearing and a lot of cheek kissing. Sad to say, other Porsche People have followed Freddy, Vinny the Suit and that good girl. It never ends. But drive Porsches, take chances and be good boys and girls. |
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