The Plymford

Plum crazy purple with a lace roof?

Lace Roof!  Lace Roof!  Lace Roof!

In reply to AngryCorvair (Forum Supporter) :

Oh hell yes. 

RedGT said:

If my kid got to choose, the whole car would be the color of the new harness.

I hope that is where this is going.

There are clues to the car's color hidden within the pictures...

Dusterbd13-michael (Forum Supporter) said:

Plum crazy purple with a lace roof?

Yinzer way more creative than I am.  And I love it. 

volvoclearinghouse said:

RedGT said:

If my kid got to choose, the whole car would be the color of the new harness.

I hope that is where this is going.

There are clues to the car's color hidden within the pictures...

?????

At the track!

Passed tech!

woohoo!   good luck!

That is a great color combo

In reply to volvoclearinghouse :

The audacity of that big 'Ol sedan thundering around eating up little Honda's and other tidlers   Excites me   

volvoclearinghouse said:

I love that you put in the work to sand, prime, and paint the car, but didn't bother to fill in the holes in the cowl.

As always, it was great fun! Let's not wait 2 years for the next run.  

McCall

Looking great! The picture on the trailer makes that thing look about 30' long. 

"Want another one?"

"Sure."

That's pretty much sums up my recollection of the Thursday night before the race.  Matt arrived at Tunachucker World HQ around 6:30, and after scarfing down fajitas and margaritas, we adjourned to the garage to finish packing for The Pitt Maneuver.  Having ensured that all necessary provision for a weekend of eating race track food, drinking race track drinks, and...something else race track related...was packed in the Big Stupid Truck (BST), there was nothing else to do but sample the sundry canned beer selections Matt had selected for the occasion.  At some point, the realization that we needed to be on the road by 7AM the next day hit, and we shuffled off to our respective sleeping accommodations for the evening.

Friday, April 16th.  6:05AM.

"Coffee."

That pretty much sums up the first thoughts that scrolled through my head as the clock radio went off Friday morning.  Note to self: don't do that again this weekend.  I wrapped some bagel and cream cheese sandwiches in foil, filled the thermos, kissed and hugged the family, and after a quick pre-flight inspection, Matt, myself, the BST, the Plymford, and approximately 13 tons of affiliated detritus headed in loose formation towards Pittsburgh.  BST seemed somewhat unhappy with the load it had been tasked to transport; 60 miles per hour occurred in glacial time.  But, we were moving, and the gauges found their happy places, so all was fine.  We headed north into Gettysburg, and then turned the rig West on US-30.  Our plan was to tank up in Breezewood, then grab the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which would exit about 2 miles south of Pittsburgh International Race Complex.

About half an hour after getting on the Lincoln Highway, the topography went from "dead straight and mostly-level" to "kinda hilly" and eventually transitioned to "frighteningly steep".  Then, "alarmingly curvy" got tossed in, for kicks.  BST became unhappy.  We were chugging up grades, the pre-Vortec 454 screaming at 3500 RPM in 3rd gear, barely making 30 mph.  The coolant temperature was approaching the point of concern just as the truck crested the summit at Sidling Hill (Elevation: 2,311 ft) and we began the decent to Breezewood.  The passenger side exhaust of the BST had developed a major leak somewhere on the way up; chuffing down the mountain, still in 3rd gear for engine braking, the big block was doing its best impression of a big rig jake brake.  

In Breezewood, we decided to avail ourselves to one of the many truck stops for a bit of a breather- partly for us, but mostly for the poor tow pig.  The tank eagerly swallowed 30 gallons of unleaded; my bladder released about 1/2 a gallon of coffee.  Matt procured jerky while I checked under the hood.  The #1 spark plug wire had been bar-b-qued, but was mostly intact.  The radiator was still too hot to even think about checking, so I grabbed a gallon of antifreeze, dumped a quart or so in the overflow tank, crossed my fingers, and hopped back in the cab.  As we got ready to pull out, I glanced down and uttered, "Uhhhhhhhhh....".  The lever for the 4 wheel drive was in "4-High".  We'd just driven a hundred miles, up and down 8% grades, with the transfer case engaged.  I grimaced at Matt.  He said he'd noticed the indicator had all 4 wheels colored in orange, but he'd figured that was just a graphical label for the four-wheel-drive lever, not an indication of the mode it was in.

 
I shoved the lever into "2-High", probably cursed, and headed for the on-ramp of the  Turnpike.

No longer tasked with driving the front wheels, the Big Block Chevy seemed much more content with it's lot.  We cruised easily around 65 mph and made it to the racetrack without much further drama.  The left turn into PIRC is marked by a sign roughly the size of a garden gnome, on the right side of the road, but we saw it in time and made the turn before injuring too many onlookers.  

After checking in at the gate, we motored around till we spotted the bright green late 60's Chevy pickup with a camper back.  This would be Dave's rig.  He'd arrived Thursday night, and had the foresight to cone us off a pit area, which he directed us into.  After the obligatory salutations, we set about getting our paddock established, unloading the race car, and getting ready for tech inspection.  Ethan, our newly-anointed crew chief (and designated driver, since he's under-21) arrived next, the distinctive rumbling of the Powerstroke diesel in his Excursion announcing its presence.  McCall showed up around an hour later in a rented Nissan cute-ute, having just flown in from the South, which, as he reminded us repeatedly throughout the weekend, was _significantly_ warmer than Pittsburgh in April.  And, finally, Sasha rolled in, with plans to wander around the paddock offering mechanical services to teams in need.

The team had made it to the track.

Dude, US30W from Gettysburg to Breezewood is no joke. 

AngryCorvair (Forum Supporter) said:

Dude, US30W from Gettysburg to Breezewood is no joke. 

No berkeleying E36 M3.  Just wait till you hear about the trip home...

Westbound you overheat the drivetrain.

Eastbound you overheat the brakes.

AngryCorvair (Forum Supporter) said:

Westbound you overheat the drivetrain.

Eastbound you overheat the brakes.

Among other components...

Friday, 2:30PM.  

The intermittent precipitation that had been hounding us since hitting the Pittsburgh metro area cleared in time for us to queue up for our assigned tech time.  Under cool, cloudy skies we awaited out turn with the Judges and Scrutineers.  Due to the special event restrictions, we were under the impression that we were supposed to show up for tech in our race gear, thus our elaborate theme plans of 1950's hot rodders in t-shirts and jeans got mostly eschewed.  We did pass around several packs of candy cigarettes, and blasted doo-wop music from the Plymford's sound system.  That, coupled with the inherent terribleness of a post-war Plymouth welded onto the chassis of a mid-70's land barge earned us a solid Class C ranking.  Tech inspection went fairly smoothly, albeit with the usual head-shaking and laughter from the scrutineers at the hilarity, er, sheer awesomeness of our race rig.  

Race gear inspection ended up being in a different building, and took on a sort of TSA-esque pre-flight security line feel.  After being personally violated, I was ensured my race helmet was going to self-destruct at any moment, being 10 years old, but that it was begrudgingly good enough to race with.  

Now that we were cleared to race, there wasn't much left to do, so we grabbed some grub and toured the paddock to inspect the competition. 

The weather was still drizzly and cool, but we were in good spirits.  We decided that Dave, since he'd only just seen the Plymford for the first time that morning, ought to at least drive it around the paddock to familiarize himself with the controls and such, so he headed off towards an open part of the paddock pavement where he proceeded to "explore" the handling limits of the Plymford.  He came back all smiles, effusing about how much fun it was.  McCall decided to take a spin next and re-educate himself on the car, but at that moment a track security lady came over and proceeded to lambaste him...for Dave's shenanigans.  

We all headed back to the pits, laughing it off, and enjoyed the evening with Dave's hella tantalizing smoked delicacies.  And beer.  And various fellow racers perusing the paddock proffering spirits.  Around 11 we decided to call it a night; Ethan chauffeured Matt and I to the Ramada down the street, while McCall chauffeured himself there in the Nissan Rogue.  Upon checking in to said Ramada, we found a wedding party (pre or post, couldn't tell, but definitely straight outta Hee Haw) going on.  The hotel was set up such that the rooms opened up out onto the pool area, and there was noisy red neck revelry going on till well past midnight.  I took a long, hot shower and cranked the fan up to drown out (most of) the carousing, and was just dozing off when I was yanked back into consciousness by the fire alarm.  At *checks clock* 12:48AM.  Fearing immolation from the 50-year-old wooden structure, I pulled on some clothes and headed for the lobby, only to be told it was "probably someone smoking in Stairwell 3".  Cursing, I trudged back to the room and re-discovered the bed.  

In reply to volvoclearinghouse :

I had been up since 4:00 AM that morning and had just dozed off when the smoke alarm blasted me back to reality! I made it to the hallway just in time to hear one of the shotgun wedding folk slur something about a false alarm. 6:00 AM came quick the next morning...

Saturday, April 17th.  6:29AM.
Race order:  McCall - Mike - Dave - Matt - Mike

Ethan was waiting at his green Excursion promptly at 7AM (when we'd agreed to meet), out front of the Ramada.  Matt, however, was not.  15 minutes went by, still no Matt.  Texts were sent, no replies were received.  McCall cruised past on his way to the track, and we decided I'd go with him, fill up the gas cans for the race car, and head to the track, while Ethan waited for Matt. 

As it turned out, we all ended up arriving around 8 o'clock.  Matt's excuse was a missed alarm; I suspect, though, he had been out partying with the wedding people too late the night before.  At any rate, we were all there, the car was ready, and breakfast was served.  Since the race didn't start until 10AM, we went for a morning stroll around the paddock, before belting McCall in for the first stint of the day.

Around 9:45, with the Plymford staged to head onto the track, I noticed the coolant temperature was getting warm and flipped on the electric fan.  The car instantly died.  The familiar wave of panic rushed over me; I shoved it back down and started checking the obvious- fuses.  Sure enough, the 15A fuse (in the circuit containing both the ignition and the electric fan), that had been fine for the past year, decided to pop right as we were heading onto the track.  I sprinted back to the pits, threw open my green electrical toolbox, produced a 20A fuse, and hustled back to where the Plymford sat, McCall still patiently waiting to start.  I popped in the new fuse, and with a flick of the starter toggle the old 460 resumed its business.  McCall cruised down pit road and merged onto the track, just in time to take the green flag.  

As they say, Boogidy, boogidy, boogidy, let's go racin', boys.

Oh, yeah, the drive westward to pittrace is no joke. 

The muffler fell off the tow vehicle on the way there one time, with hours yet to go.  Wide open throttle in 4th gear was berkeleying LOUD and those hills are berkeleying loooooong.  I've actually never done the trip in an automatic but that's gotta be hell on the brakes going back east.

In reply to RedGT :

Yeah, thankfully BST is a manual, the engine braking saved my bacon on those grades.