How the 24 Hours of Lemons reminded us of the true joy of racing

The 24 Hours of Lemons prides itself on being one of the most accessible ways to go wheel-to-wheel racing on the planet, and despite our garage full of fast cars, we try to do at least one Lemons race every year. Why? Because they’re just plain fun. Over the years, we’ve brought a Volkswagen Fox and a few different Miatas to the party, along with our ill-fated Lincoln Mark VII project and a last-minute effort affectionately called Doorknob (everybody gets a turn). 

These efforts were united by a common shortcoming: We wanted to be fast. We’re racers, after all, which is why we kept gravitating toward Miatas or, in the case of that old Lincoln, a Fox-body Mustang in sheep’s clothing. 

Even our Volkswagen, terrible as it was, was treated to tons of cheaty modifications in an attempt to make it fast. And no matter how much we tried to fit in, it was obvious that we’d never really be welcome in the Lemons paddock unless we showed up with a truly terrible car. Which brings us to the story of this 1997 Toyota Corolla.

A Corolla we used to own–twice. 

We saved this car, originally plucked from an older woman’s driveway to be campaigned in the Grassroots Motorsports $2000 Challenge presented by Tire Rack, from the junkyard. Then we watched it bounce between backyards for a few years until it landed with our friends Britt and Ellen Mann. 

Finally, the Corolla had found a loving home, and they rallycrossed it for a bit before installing a cage and starting their own Lemons team. That was four races ago, totaling more than 50 hours of track time. 

Clearly we were missing out, so we joined the team for the 24 Hours of Lemons Shine Country Classic at Barber Motorsports Park. 

[Live Thread: GRM at 24 Hours of Lemons Shine Country Classic]

Let’s look at the specs: 14-inch tires. A three-speed automatic. Some $300 eBay coil-overs. Maybe 100 horsepower at the crank on a good day. 

We were finally in a car bad enough to be welcomed in the Lemons paddock. And this was the “improved” version, fitted with a custom-made splitter and a 3D-printed rear wing that the team claimed really did make noticeable downforce. We cruised through tech and were placed in Class C, Lemons’ slowest class, “for cars with no prayer of finishing.” At last, we fit in.

What’s it take to keep a ’90s Corolla sedan running all weekend? As we learned, not much–rotating tires and checking the oil, mostly.

So there was only one thing left to do: drive. And after Britt finished the first stint, we hopped behind the wheel for ours. For once, we weren’t scared of going off track or breaking a highly stressed race car. Instead, we were scared of getting bored.  

But how can you be bored on a race track? After a lap or two to find our mirrors and learn how to shift (slap the slushbox’s handle between 2 and 3 a few times each lap to prod it toward the more usable gear), we were actually passing people.

In a straight line, the Corolla is a rolling chicane. But in the corners? It wasn’t just fast, it was one of the best-handling cars on track. The little Corolla became a great racecraft training tool, as we found ourselves setting up passes half a lap early in a desperate attempt to mush this little machine past cars with two or three times the horsepower in each corner. 

We also found ourselves shuffle steering, a habit we’ve mostly broken in our own cars. We’d blame the slow steering or the wildly off-center dirt track steering wheel, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the steering rack bushings were also trashed, meaning the rack (and the wheel) would change position by an inch or two at various points around the lap. (Meh, how much steering do you really need with 100 horsepower?)

We soldiered on, gradually climbing the leaderboard before it was time for the next driver, then the next. Then we lost track as we chilled in the paddock.

How’d we lose track? Because in a refreshing break from our own race efforts, pit stops weren’t rushed, drivers weren’t coached within an inch of the limit of their abilities, and an analog clock overlord wasn’t bearing down on us from the trackside tool cart. Instead, everybody on the team was just plain having fun. When you’re racing a free Corolla, do you really care if you finish 99th or 102nd? Exactly, and the weather was absolutely gorgeous, so pass the Cheetos and keep an eye on the smoker cooking tonight’s brisket. 

We ended the first day of racing 11th in class and 78th overall out of 131 cars, with only a few loose bolts on the car to tighten up. Instead of working on it, we drank beer and ate trackside barbecue. 

Then the rain came. Sunday morning brought weather in the 40s with persistent heavy rain, otherwise known as “miserable.”

Did we win? We had fun–and we’d call that a certain victory.

Unless you’re driving a free Corolla. Suddenly, all that extra horsepower in the paddock didn’t matter: We had a better-handling car no longer handicapped by a lack of straight-line speed, and we had a wet track for a full day of racing. 

We soon realized we weren’t just here for the party, we were here for the race. So back out on track we went, changing nothing on the car (the team just shrugged when asked about their rain setup) and gradually climbing the leaderboard. Even with a few superfluous pit stops to clean the fogged windshield, we ended the race with a stunningly good result: fifth in class and 38th overall. More importantly, though, our soaking wet team agreed that it had been a “hella fun weekend.”

So what’s the big lesson here? Honestly, there isn’t one, which sort of confirms our theory that maybe, just maybe, you don’t always have to take racing so damn seriously. We showed up with a bad car, competed in a field of other people with bad cars, and had a blast in the process. Sometimes, that’s all the victory you need. And let’s be honest: Our awards shelf will never have a Formula 1 World Championship trophy sitting on it anyway. At least we’ve got better barbecue than Max ever will.

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