Last weekend (June 28/29,
2008) the Sportscar Vintage Racing Association (SVRA) hosted the Mid-Ohio
Vintage Grand Prix, with a feature race honoring the 50th
anniversary of the Austin Healey Sprite.Although not at Mid Ohio Raceway in person, I was there in spirit,
following vicariously the exploits of a friend who prepares and campaigns a
vintage square-body Sprite.
But this story is not about
the race weekend; it is about friendship, decades of knowing, not knowing, and
then knowing again what makes us tick.It is about what the love of racing automobiles does to bond us over
thousands of miles and many, many years.
I saw my first Sprite my
freshman year of college, in 1969.Yeah,
that’s late in life, but I was in “Buick Heaven” before that.I watched my first gymkhana (yep, we used that
archaic term then) being won by a small, nimble, little piece of a car called a
“bug-eye”.The temptation to jump into
the fray was too great.I summoned up my
hard earned cash and paid $400 for a dull orange, well used bug-eye.Originally robin’s egg blue, it had been in a
back yard in Kansas
City, drawing
snow and leaves and rain until rescued by the intrepid Sprite chaser mentioned
in the first paragraph.
My new Sprite, with ripped
top and tonneau cover, unmatched dime-wide tires, and holes shot in the floor
boards with a .45 to allow drainage, was worth just a little under $200 at the
time of my purchase.Lesson one in
Sprite buying and selling was learned to the detriment of my bank account.But to the advantage of my friend’s cash
stash.Did I say “friend”?Yep. Friends
teach you lots of things, although I’m not sure that lesson about buying and
selling Sprites really ever took.
What made the exchange of
cash for car so interesting was the character (flaws and all) of the fellow who
sold me the car.A few years older, a Viet Nam veteran in an era of protest years, he was very savvy
in capturing cash, much more than I.He
did have to commit to one thing before I handed over my money.He promised that he would help me rebuild my
new orange toy, and I could call him anytime.Little did he know what that truly meant.I don’t think he realized the deal we made until
that Sunday morning.It was 8:00 a.m. and I wanted to catch him before he went to church.When I knocked on his front door, his
girlfriend answered.She was dressed in
one of his embroidered chambray shirts, and not much else.She grinned, and led me to him, where he was
still in bed, tousled, and obviously recently interrupted from some type of
extracurricular activities with said very cute girlfriend.
The conversation would have
been short.Discussion of valve grinding
would never have taken place. But the dozen glazed doughnuts I laid on the bed
sheets seemed to appease the young man, and he patiently let me pester him for
another hour or so while girlfriend made coffee and laughed at us both.
Hey, a promise is a
promise.And although I’m not the best
negotiator, I am persistent.
Friends teach.He taught me about rallies and amphibious
Ford Mustangs (not intentional).He
taught me how to eat chocolate chip cookies with beer, while watching the last
race run at LakeGarnett.He taught me
that persistence worked, as I managed to make a total nuisance of myself
“bugging” the bug-eye expert for advice on my shoe-string budget rebuild.
Did I call him an
“expert”?Guru is more like it.I was never patient enough to look anything
up.There was no internet.It was a lot easier to just call Clancy.Over the years, my questions got better.Clancy’s answers grew, also, and he continued
to gain a reputation of knowing the inside and outside of any Sprite.And where to get parts.A golden combination.
I finished college, and bid a
fond farewell to my friend and Sprite mentor.A last pitcher of beer was drunk in the basement of the Bierstube and he
tore a dollar bill in half.I took one
half, he the other, and we drank, with a promise to reconnect, to spend that
dollar together somewhere, someday.
But I was off now to a new
career, moving from Lawrence, KS to St. Louis, MO.Filled with
all my worldly possessions, and a fresh quart of Castrol GTX, I pulled my now “1963
Corvette Yellow” bug-eye into the parking lot of my new employer, Monsanto.I spied a robin’s egg blue bug-eye, in full
SCCA race trim, on an open trailer, ready for its weekend tow to Wentzville.He was competing at Mid America Raceway.When I met the car owner and mentioned I knew
a bug-eye guru, he said simply, but with a generous tone of skepticism, “You
don’t mean Clancy?”
I should have taken the hint
then, and stayed far, far away from the addiction of Sprites, and the
characters associated with them.But
then, I’ve never been that smart.Besides, my bug-eye wasn’t quite finished and Clancy had promised his
help until it was done!So I stayed in
touch, begging for parts and advice from my friend.Clancy believed in pretty first, safe next,
and then fast.Good advice.The rebuild continued toward making a pretty
and safe autocross bug-eye.But with a
new career, family obligations, and budgets and and and and… you know the
result:my bug-eye became a perpetual
project, slowly getting prettier, and safer, but never really fast.
A few years, and a few states
later, I’m in Kansas
City with a new
job and a new honey.(I met her in first
grade, but renewed the romance in K.C.)The
same Corvette Yellow bug-eye came, too.Although
driven only a few hundred miles in the north Georgia mountains, and on the
beaches of Southern California, it now needed new shocks, a brake rebuild,
carburetors, and of course, a tachometer drive gear.Wait, that means a new generator with the
tach drive, oh, to heck with it, just drive it.
Anyway, back in Kansas, my bug-eye and I need help. So I call who else?Clancy.
Now the relationship with my
old mentor develops into something sinister.With money from a regular paycheck in my pocket, I am lusting after a
Lotus Super Seven (cross flow head!) basket car.Just before making the deal, the phone rings,
and I make the mistake of answering.“Bigfoot?” Clancy asks me (yep, my moniker still exists among the
ancient of the racing fraternity in the Midwest.Just ask the Age and Treachery
Race Group).“Bigfoot, how would you
like to own half of a race car?”
Silence on my end for a
moment.“Let me think about it, and call
you back.” I said.Cagey, aren’t I?
My wife heard my end of the
conversation, which took about fifty times longer than the above interaction to
complete and warned me.“Remember the
$200 bug-eye you paid $400 for?Doesn’t
Puck need new shocks?”editor’s
note:We had named our Sprite Puck,
after the water sprite in Shakespeare’s A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream.Doesn’t everyone name their Sprite, at some
time or another?
The race car was supposed to
be available for a test race at Ponca City that weekend.My
wife and I were planning to go spectate, and meet up with some old college
friends.Thursday, I called Clancy and
told him I didn’t want to go racing. He
told me the car wasn’t ready.We
couldn’t make a deal with the guy, so we’d just drink beer, like at LakeAfton.Whew—dodged a
bullet, as my budget committee reminded me.
Just north of the Matfield
Green rest area on the turnpike, in the middle of the Scenic Flint Hills (this
was before they created the huge rock sign on I-35 that tells you that you are
entering the Scenic Flint Hills, so you will be sure and know you are looking
at something scenic…) we spotted a race car on a trailer on the shoulder.A fellow car junkie, in need of help.We must stop.The car was a square body Sprite, roll bar, numbers, ready to race, on
an old trailer, hooked up to a Volvo station wagon.A blue Volvo wagon that I recognized.As belonging to…Clancy.
“I made a deal for the car,”
he says sheepishly.“I was going to call
you, but we had to load the car, and…you said…” he stopped, looking at the
semi’s brushing up against my rear end as we stood on the shoulder of the
turnpike.“Vapor lock; I need a new fuel
pump.”
An auspicious beginning.Again, I should have turned and run.But no, not me—
Our racing back then was never
well funded.Engines came from wrecks that
we stripped. I’ve still got about a
hundred tiny little tonneau fasteners.We re-used rod bolts and bearings until number 3 connecting rod just
wouldn’t take it anymore.We designed
and install our own Watts linkage, which never worked.My budget committee developed a new form of
currency:RTE’s.Race Tire Equivalents.Like the euro, it moved up and down.We talked frequently about furnishing the
house, and whether the new sofa (27 RTE’s) was worth it.
Lessons of preparation,
organization, perseverance – and how to have fun at the race track – all were a
big part of the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s racing fraternity.I learned to respect the work of the Leapin’
Lizards corner crew.I learned about the
racing attitude from Mack Yates and his Cobra, quoting him often: “I ain’t no
vintage racer, and neither is my car!”I
learned about myself.A lot.
After several years and
actually getting a new set of slicks for the Sprite, we had a chance to win a
race or two. But as perpetual back
markers we weren’t used to running at the front, and Clancy had a tendency to
go fast, then faster, then fall off.Hmm.Protecting my partner’s
reputation, I defended him after a particularly spectacular off course excursion.I reminded the critics that Clancy’s goal
wasn’t to win, but to go just as fast as possible every lap.A long look from my guru partner told me I’d
struck a chord.I think the partnership
had succeeded.We were learning from
each other.
Wins were still rare.Budgets not withstanding, competition was
fierce.It was not unusual to have ten
Sprites at each race. F, G, and H production
all ran with each other, fast guys on two wheels in a corner, waving to me as
they passed, dicing and going at it.Great fun.
Careers move on, as do
partnerships.Clancy and I split on good
terms. I moved on to race Sports 2000.Clancy continued to race Sprites off and on, buying and selling about a
thousand bug-eyes over the next few years.I moved to the west coast, and for many years, rarely saw my friend.He kept racing and finally passed the torch to
his son, Scott.Quick in autocross (not
gymkhana any more) and on the full track, Scott learned car control and the
finer points of racing from his dad.
Dad.You had to admire Clancy’s dedication to
Sprites, racing, and family.And I know
where he learned it.At Road Atlanta, in
the late 70’s we were in the hot pits, watching Clancy qualify in our
G-Production Sprite.Actor-racer Paul
Newman had been out in the group before us and pulled in.He got out of his car and walked to the pit
rail.The paparazzi followed, a dutiful
ten feet away, en masse.P. L. walked up
to stand beside Clancy’s father, Louie, and we waited to see what the white
haired pop would say to the famous actor.P. L. stood beside Louie for a minute or so, no words spoken.Louie looked at Paul once or twice, but didn’t
say anything.Then Clancy came down the
hill to the last corner and crossed start finish in front of us.Louie didn’t miss a beat, turned to Paul
Newman, grabbed his arm, and said proudly, pointing to the track, “That’s my
boy!”Paul loved it.
Clancy supported his own son
in racing on the limited budget that so many racers have.They began vintage racing together.Scott developed quickly as a driver, and it
wasn’t long before he was eclipsing dad’s lap times.I saw them at Heartland Park Topeka in 2007,
wiping up the puddles of oil that Sprites always leave.Sprites are kind of like puppies, leaving a
trail wherever they go.He and Scott
were continuing to race hard at vintage get togethers, with friends and family
whenever possible.They loaned tow
vehicles, trailers, parts, whatever, to friends whenever asked.And they painted their transmission pink.
“Coming to Hallett?” I asked
on the phone in mid June this year.“Nope,”
Clancy offered, “We are headed to Mid-Ohio.”“Mid-Ohio?” “Yep, the 50th
anniversary of Sprites thing with SVRA?”As I listened to the
excitement in his voice, and how much I enjoy racing my Formula Mazda, I thought,
I’m not a vintage racer, and neither is my car.But I didn’t say that to Clancy.Then Clancy says, “Yep, quite a gaggle of Sprites, neat deal, you should
try vintage racing!”
We’ve had that conversation a
few times, and my time for vintage might come, but I’ve convinced myself I’m
not there, yet. (I ain’t no vintage
racer, and neither is my car!). I’m
enjoying a resurgence in my Formula Mazda, five seconds off the class leaders,
as I was twenty five years ago in Sprites…but hoping to go faster.“No, thanks, Clancy, but good luck.”
Saturday of their race
weekend, I called to check in, “How’s it going?Fifth on the grid?Cool!Let me talk to Scott…Hey dude, be safe, keep
it on the black stuff, and HAVE FUN!!”
“Okay!” Scott says.“We don’t have the close ratio box, we’re
running on very old tires, but the engine doesn’t leak!It’s fun already!” he says.“We’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how
it goes.”
I wished I was there. Vintage
racing at its grass roots best.Maybe
this is something I need to think more about.But I sold my bug-eye last year.I don’t know.I could do
this.Tires for the FM are
expensive…I don’t know.Grease up to my second knuckle on the Mazda,
or up to my armpits on the Sprite… Hmmm…
The phone rings Sunday
afternoon in California.“Bigfoot?”“Yep.”“Hey, this is Scott!”“Scott!Hey, how was the race?”Calm, level voice, “Oh, we won.”“WHAT?!!!!????!!!You are kidding!”I had had that pulled on me before.“Nope.Rained.Leaders took each other
out in the first lap.I had to work to
get around one guy, and then held him off.” Still calm.But pride. Lots of it deep inside that voice
and confident young man, now grown.“Dad’s pretty pumped.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw the
white hair, or what was left of it on the bald head that looks like the
scrubbing bubble of bathroom cleaner fame.And the grin, and the high pitched chuckle accompanying the father’s
pride when he came on the phone. “You won, the fiftieth anniversary of Sprite
celebration.You won the Sprite race!” I
can’t believe it.“Yep, we won.”
Well, congratulations, Scott
Schmidt.And Clancy.And Louie, whom I know was looking down on
every corner, helping with every shift, on every lap.There are others out there who are deserving
as well, who have never been on the big stage, who labor in the dust and the
heat and the cold and the wet just to turn a wheel on the track.They enjoy racing at the grass roots level
for what it is: the love of the track,
the driving, the fun, and the people who are there with you.It is all about the battles, the friendship,
and the stories (like this one, only better when you tell them, I am sure.)
Thanks, Schmidt family.You done well.And Leo, if you haven’t started the rebuild
on the “1963 Corvette Yellow” bug-eye, that Clancy delivered to you in K.C. for
me, would you maybe be interested in some sort of trade for a Formula
Mazda?Sometime soon, I just might be
proud to say, “I am a vintage racer and so is my car.”
About Healeys 
But this story is not about
the race weekend; it is about friendship, decades of knowing, not knowing, and
then knowing again what makes us tick.
