Hangin' Out on Another Edge

Due to two separate, nagging injuries and an avalanche of responsibilities during the winter of '97, I found myself out of the water for extended periods of time, watching some good waves come in, unable to ride them. It was reputedly the best winter for surf since '83 (because of the El Nino condition) and I was a virtual bystander. It was pretty frustrating for me, not being able to get my usual fix. I began flailing about for other ways to have some fun and somehow struck on the idea of going sports car racing, something I had always wanted to do, but never had the means or opportunity to try before.

Growing up in southern California, it's nearly impossible to avoid being indoctrinated in our "car-crazy" culture, and I certainly didn't escape. My father was a dirt-track racer and a garage owner/operator in his early years. Because he admired their design, engineering, and performance, he has owned Porsches from the time he could afford a second car until the current day. I can remember tooling around town crammed into the tiny backseats of his first one, a 356 1600 Normal coupe, battling with either my brother or sister for legroom. By the time I could drive, he had sold it and gotten a used 356SC, then traded that in after a few years on a brand new 1967 911S when that model debuted. Today, he still owns what he calls the "old man's" Porsche, a 928GT with an automatic transmission and power-everything-it even tells you if your tire pressure is dropping too low!

While I was still living at home, I managed to weasel the keys out of him to drive the 356SC and the 911S occasionally to run an errand or for a hot date night in the Southland, but the first sports car I ever owned myself was a '57 MGA roadster, because that's all I could afford. It had wooden floorboards that had rotted out because what was left of the "ragtop" didn't do that good of a job keeping the rain out, a motor that leaked oil like the Exxon Valdez, and the fabled early Lucas electrical systems that have driven many a British mechanic to the looney bin, I'm sure. I spent more time working on the car than driving it, but it was fun when it ran. It could only carry one surfboard, though, with the nose stuffed down into the passenger footwell and the tail cantilevered high across the seatback, so I got rid of it in favor of a big Ford station wagon after a few years.

I had always told my father I wanted to buy his 911S whenever he finally decided to get rid of it, but my younger brother snaked me on that deal when the day finally came, living closer to him and finding out about the purchase of the 928 before me. I'm still holding a grudge about that! [Editorial note: Since I wrote this, my brother has seen the light and I have purchased our family 911S from him, putting an even bigger dent in my racing budget by becoming a dual-Porsche guy.] In the summer of '97, however, after casually shopping for several years, I found a reasonable facsimile- a 1966 911 which had been converted to all '67S running gear, and modified with some later model body pieces. Since it was not stock and original, it was not a collector's item and didn't command a premium price, but it was rust-free and reasonably well-maintained, with only 107K miles on the clock and a major overhaul on the motor, so I bought it. The first step towards a burgeoning addiction.

The biggest difference I can think of between sports car racing and surfing is that modern day motorsports is a rich man's game. It is definitely not for the faint-of-wallet! Forget about the professional level, dominated by corporate teams who must garner tens of millions of dollars in sponsorship to field a winning F1, IRL, NASCAR or Champ car effort. Even on the semi-pro level, a couple of hundred thousand dollars could make you competitive in the lesser realms, and there are people spending that much on amateur club and vintage racing. I have heard a fast go-kart can set you back $10-15,000! In surfing, one could make a pretty good run at the semi-pro World Qualifying Series (WQS) to earn a spot on the pro World Championship Tour (WCT) for about that much in traveling costs, equipment and entries combined. At the amateur level, a kid needs a little talent, a $200 surfboard, a $20 pair of boardshorts, a $25 entry fee, and a bar of wax to give it a go in a National Scholastic Surfing Association (NSSA) contest. In this respect, surfing is a much more accessible sport, and I like that. Its "alphabet soup" is more affordable.

Having been an unrepentant surf-hippie-carpenter for the first 15 years of my (non)career, shunning material wealth for more spiritual pursuits (that's my story and I'm sticking to it!), and then a state bureaucrat for the last 15, I am not a wealthy person by any means, so I was looking for a cheap, entry-level ticket to this new game. I had the car already, it was a Porsche, so I joined the Porsche Club. It seemed logical. I started hanging around Qualcomm Stadium when the club held it's autocrosses, wondering if I really wanted to flog my pretty little car around the parking lot like that.

During that first weekend on the track, the other differences between the sports became obvious. Surfing is a cool, clean, soulful, natural experience, taking place in a relatively pure, vast, unpredictable ocean environment that can be both awesome and serene. Motor racing is a comparatively artificial, noisy, hot, dusty, greasy business, taking place in a very finite, contrived, and mechanical environment. While not as physically demanding as surfing, auto racing surprised me with how strenuous it really is. When braking and cornering at the limits, one's body is subjected to extreme G-forces, against which you continually react and brace yourself. There's a reason that racers strap themselves into their seats, and it's not just to avoid being thrown out of the car in a crash. It's so they can relax and focus on driving the car, instead of spending energy and attention in trying to keep from sliding around in the cockpit. So, naturally, into my car goes a full set of 5-point shoulder harnesses and belts (not to mention the roll bar to which they are attached). Kaaa-chiiinnng!

I used to think that the fastest car wins the race. No way. That's like thinking the surfer with the best board wins the heat. It is true that horsepower can make up for a multitude of driving sins, but it was a fairly humbling experience to find that in class racing, where the cars are essentially level in performance, the driver makes all the difference. In my first race I came in third, in a class with only four entrants. The best drivers were beating me by a 5-6 second margin in a 90-second lap. I noticed, though, that the fast ones all had very soft, R-compound racing tires on their cars, so for only a small investment, say a month's rent on a studio apartment at the beach (kaa-chiing!), I was able to shave 3-4 seconds off that margin by adding grippy rubber. But I was still finishing third in my class, just a closer third. I realized that only experience, more "seat-time", was the answer to going faster. The thing that needed fixing the most on my car was the "nut behind the steering wheel".

Compared to surfing, though, the actions are fairly repeatable, and with practice it is easier to quickly improve one's driving skills, I think. In surfing, the playing field is so dynamic, every session is so different, every wave is so unique, and the physical skills so complex, that it takes years to achieve basic competency. After only a few autocross events, I was already beginning to feel comfortable with the car at it's limits. The chaos and sensory overload which confronts you initially begins to subside and become more sensible, less scary. Like when you're starting out in surfing and paddle out on your first sizeable day, you can make novice mistakes and still survive. Just remember: "When you spin, put both feet in." It is more forgiving than you think.

One begins to 'suss out' the important things on which to focus, and the little voice in your brain that's screaming "you're gonna die!" begins to fade eventually. You start to find the correct line, put yourself out on the ragged edge and pull it off consistently. And that's where the biggest similarity with surfing is. It's the buzz-the adrenalin rush, I guess, that hormonal "flight or fight" cocktail built into humans somewhere in our evolution. The reward is in the excitement you feel when facing and overcoming your fear of the unknown, and in the glow of satisfaction and well-being when you survive by virtue of your own effort, skill and knowledge. For me, charging hard into a hairpin turn off a long straightaway, staying on the gas as long as possible, waiting to brake until the last second, feels a lot like scratching in over the ledge on a steep wave and taking the drop by feel, blinded by the salt spray, not knowing if you can make the free-fall to the bottom. Setting up the apex of a corner, turning in perfectly and getting on the throttle smoothly in a four-wheel drift to the track-out point is a lot like nailing a good bottom turn on a surfboard, burying the rail, and projecting a carving line into the curling pocket of a good-sized wave. It's a physical and mental challenge, and a great thrill.