SPS

It’s a novel notion, but there’s a racey side to Saturn

Franklin, Tennessee – 3:30 p.m., Friday, October 8. Alex Kramer is off the school bus, up the street and in the front door. Homework will have to wait. So will Scooby Doo. It has been a week since dad headed North in the ancient GMC dually towing the white Saturn coupe with the Texaco Star on the hood. Alex knows today is race day at the SCCA Runoffs, 600 miles away. He slides to a stop in the kitchen. "Mom," he yells. "Who won?"

Race Day minus 5:

It’s 6 a.m. EDT and still dark in Ohio. Cold, too. From inside my sleeping bag I hear the Saturn flag overhead cracking in the wind. It’s our totem. It’s also lonely. Our No. 19 is the only Saturn entered here this week in the 1999 Sports Car Club of America’s (SCCA) National Championships.

"Here" is the Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course, the technical and twisty ribbon of asphalt just outside Lexington, Ohio. To SCCA’s amateur road racers, it’s Mecca. I towed in last night from Franklin, Tennessee – almost 10 hours and a climate zone to the southwest.

We race in the Showroom Stock C class (SSC) – stomping grounds for some of America’s most popular small cars: There are 23 other classes featuring all manner of hardware: Camaros and Mustangs, GT-2 Sunbeam Tigers, Formula Atlantics, Continentals and Fords, Bug-eye Sprites, a few Vipers, several new C5 Corvettes and even a Chevy Corvair.

The place will come to life in about two hours with the sounds of air guns, generators and race engines warming up. But now the only thing moving is the wind against our flag.

Meanwhile, the white Saturn waits patiently on jack stands. From its streamlined nose down muscular flanks to its rear spoiler, it’s a breathtaking racecar. In the rays from our overhead lights, it gleams. It has been washed, waxed, tweaked and prepared for what promises to be the most ferocious week of its racing life.

Today is a test day. It’s our last chance before formal practice starts tomorrow to fine tune the car and check out the track – not to mention the driver. It’s been three months since my last race.

As dawn breaks, our Saturn compound comes alive. Crew chief and Saturn Field Service Engineer, Tom Brandlehner, emerges from his Coleman pop-top camper. He drove up from Atlanta yesterday. The Kramers; Ralph and Carol (aka mom and dad) are in from Indianapolis. Mom gets the coffee started. Pop’s been up for an hour, has wrangled a newspaper and walked the racetrack already.

SSC cars go out at 8:30 a.m. Tom lays out the objectives: "We need to get temperature in the engine, scrub in a new set of Kumho tires and burnish a new set of brake pads. No need to push too hard today. Let’s see what we’ve got. And whether the driver can still find the groove," he adds with a grin.

I agree. I’m anxious. The adrenaline splashes deep in my chest. We’ve had a great year: We think the car’s ready. But am I? This – after all – is the big show. It’s the World Series of American amateur road racing. It’s also Hell Week. The top 615 drivers, teams and cars in the country are here, representing SCCA’s eight geographic regions. All of us get a 20-minute timed practice session Monday. Qualifying sessions Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday establish the starting order. Our race – a 40-minute sprint – is Friday afternoon.

The No.19 Texaco Saturn is the SSC Southeast Division Champion for the second year in a row. We won seven straight races. We set a track record at Daytona. We’ve got momentum. But we’re also realistic.

Of 32 cars entered in our class, we’re up against several Nissan 200 SERs and Mazda Protégés, a small group of Dodge Neons, a Hyundai Tiburon, a Ford Escort ZX-2 and 11 potent Honda Civics SIs.

On paper, the Hondas are the class of the class. They have a serious horsepower and handling advantage. We’re racing in their backyard – Civics are assembled just up the road in Marysville, Ohio. They will be very tough to beat.

But we didn’t come this far to wimp out now. Sunday’s first test session is slow as expected. The track is slick but the car feels stable, comfortable. I practice patience. The Kumhos are heat-cycled and the new Carbotech brakes are ready to go. I shake the rust off. We get faster in each of two more test sessions today. But the Hondas are out of sight. Their lap times are up to four seconds faster than ours. I feel like I’m tugging on Superman’s cape.

Sunday night, the other Brandlehner (that would be brother John) flies in from Atlanta. Tom and I pick him up at Akron. It’s a sober trip. Can the Saturn stay with the Hondas? We fear not. Can we break into the top 10? Maybe.

It’s 1:00 a.m. when my head hits the pillow. I’m exhausted, but my mind races. The relentless pursuit for speed continues.

Race Day minus 4:

We’re up at dawn on Monday. The No. 19 must undergo a technical inspection and get weighed before we grid for our first formal practice.

As more transporters arrive, space around our Saturn compound becomes a giant open-air race shop. The raucous sound of air guns, the smell of high-octane fuel and hot brakes; it’s sensory overload. The best of the best are here. The Runoffs begin.

I strap in for the afternoon session. Once again the goal is to stay out of trouble, keep the hardware straight and continue the search for speed. We mount another set of Kumhos, manage a quick alignment check, and we’re off. The 20-minute session is over way too soon. I am in traffic for all but a couple of laps. But the car feels great. I coast into the pits. Tom and John collect tire pressures and temperatures. Tom has scribbled my lap times. He hands me the sheet. We’re faster. But are we fast enough? We’re directed to impound for a cursory inspection.

We get our first look at posted practice times for all cars in the class. Oh, my goodness. We’re nineteenth. Nowhere near where we need to be – not even close. The Hondas are in a class by themselves. They use the draft on the long back straightaway to maximize their horsepower advantage. They’ve got the field covered by almost 3 seconds.

Dusk sets in. We install jack stands under the Saturn, cover it, turn off the lights and lock the transporter. Dismay is bordering on discouragement. No roller coaster has as many ups and downs as this racing game.

We opt for a trip to Mansfield. Break the piggy bank and splurge on supper.

Race Day minus 3:

It’s Tuesday and there’s more time to fret. The SSC cars don’t go out until late afternoon. I call Michael Beckett, and Todd Sanders in Spring Hill. They’ve worked hard all year and particularly the last couple of weeks helping prepare for the Runoffs. They are great friends and we owe much of this year’s success to them. "The car is good," I tell them. "But not good enough." We chat up some ideas and I pledge to squeeze everything I can out of the car.

Through a gorgeous autumn afternoon, we fuss with the car. We do a "nut & bolt" – which is to say we torque every fastener. We change the oil. We wait. Finally, we’re on the track for our second qualifying session. It’s a non-event. I find no drafting partners on the backstretch. The session ends. The stopwatch shows little improvement.

Dad meets the car in the paddock. He pulls out a notebook and begins to explain the hieroglyphics. He has been timing me from Turn 1 through what they call the "Keyhole" at Mid-Ohio and into the backstretch.

He’s got good news. The Saturn is slower by one second to almost everybody on this part of the track. Finding that one second should get me through the Keyhole quicker and translate into higher speeds down the backstretch. We study in-car camera footage from the session. The tachometer is barely visible in the corner of the screen. I pay very close attention. I see the revs way below the power band coming out of Turn One. An adjustment to my shift pattern and my turn-in point is called for. And suddenly we’re back in the hunt. It might cost me time going into Turn One. But I should come out screaming. I remember the old racer saying: "Sometimes you gotta’ slow down to go fast." We’ll find out tomorrow.

Race Day minus 2:

It’s 6:45 a.m. Wednesday. It’s another lovely day. Our second qualifying session is this afternoon. We fit brand-new Kumhos on the rear and a scrubbed set up front. We assemble and install new Carrera strut assemblies at all four corners. We align the wheels, bleed the brakes one more time and alter tire pressures. Then, we rehearse my new driving pattern – over and over again.

Finally on the track, I feel the difference immediately. I’ve been overdriving the car through Turn One. Altering the turn-in and my shift point gives me more bite exiting turn one. I carry more speed through the Chicane and into the Keyhole. The car sticks. We’re definitely quicker. The stopwatch shows improvement. I don’t get a really clean lap. But I pick up a ½ second. Slow down to go fast – makes perfect sense to me?

Nothing is more nerve-wracking than a Runoffs’ qualifying session. Traffic is heavy. The group gets maybe nine laps. Turning one or two into what racers call "flyers" is the best you can hope for. It means avoiding slower cars and avoiding even tiny mistakes. Dropping a wheel onto the grass or missing an apex equates to a loss in speed. Can’t afford to even lose 1/100^th of a second.

Tire management is critical as well. Our Kumhos are at their optimum grip for only a few laps. Then they get too hot and lose maximum adhesion. Additionally, I need a tow down the back straight. "Tow" is the vacuum created by another car. NASCAR fans know well that two cars running nose-to-tail can go faster than one alone.

So that’s the formula. Sounds simple, but it’s not easy. All of these elements are critical: Get a clean lap when the tires are at their best and look for a drafting partner down the back stretch. We get neither. But we still see faster lap times. Too bad for us – so did the Hondas.

Race Day minus One:

Thursday morning is our final qualifying session. We’re the second group out. The sky is clear. Four days of tire management have given us an ideal set of heat-soaked Kumhos. Tire pressure and temperature data have yielded ideal suspension settings. I strap in and get ready. I need to find another ½ second.

We’re off. The car feels good. I’ve got 20 minutes to deliver the fastest lap of my life.

With two minutes left, Tom keys the radio, "You’ve got a clean track, only one car anywhere near you, watch the tires. Go get your flyer."

I point the car deep into turn one, hammer the throttle and squirt out the other side with only a tiny piece of asphalt separating me from a certain trip to the body shop. The car accelerates out of the Keyhole. And lo and behold, we find our tow. It’s Neal Saap’s Honda and Mike Leibl’s Nissan.

Is a three-car draft better than two? "Ya’ man!" We rip down the backstretch in a 117-mile per hour blur. Saap moves over. He has given us the tow we need.

On the brakes hard, I downshift for the quick sequence of uphill and downhill S-turns they call "Madness." The Saturn blasts through the radical elevation change. The engine screams. I tap the brake to initiate slight oversteer, drift into the chute and point toward the uphill. In a heartbeat, I’m entering what they call "Thunder Valley." The Saturn is flying. Looming ominously on the right is the Turn 13 fence. My sideview mirror scrapes in protest. A brush of the brake and a twitch of the steering wheel, I turn left, apex late, stay smooth and set-up for the Carousel. Hard on the brakes, I steer through the constant radius right-hander. Can’t hurry the car here, slow hands and smooth input. Left-hand transition and then full throttle to the rumble strips at the exit, up through the gears on the main straight and I’m across the finish line. I breathe again.

Tom keyed the radio, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. I could hear him smiling. We’d taken the Saturn to a new performance high. We weren’t as quick as the Hondas, but we’d set a new benchmark for ourselves. A 1:51:088. We qualify twelfth behind seven Honda Civics Sis, two Nissan 200s and two Mazda Protégés. We’re within striking distance.

Race Day:

It’s 4 a.m. Friday. Sleep is elusive. I get dressed and wander outside. The weather is a bit warmer, but for the first time this week, the sky is cloudy. Rain is in the forecast. I go back to bed, hoping for a couple of hours of sleep.

Our first guests show up about 8 a.m. Bill Kubota and Ed Moore, a video crew from Detroit, are here to document the show for "Window on Saturn."

We’ve decided to sit out the warm-up. During yesterday’s final session a GT1 Camaro broke an oil line and dropped oil around the track. We opt not to find one of the oil slicks.

The Texaco guys arrive. Tom and John’s mom and dad drive down from Chagrin Falls, Ohio. A group from Saturn of Chapel Hill is on the scene as well. Here come John Comeskey and Jennifer Larew – they of SPS, the Saturn aftermarket catalog house. All together, a splendid Saturn cheering section.

Mom breaks out the lunch spread. I am not hungry.

Alone now in the transporter, I prepare for the run. I tell myself the best shot we’ve got at a top-10 finish is to shadow the leaders. Must be precise. Must be patient. Must let the car do what it wants to.

I capture Tom and John for a second. We shake hands. I tell them how proud I am that I get to put their talent and hard work up against the best of America. I thank them for what has been the greatest racing season of my life.

My mom pulls me aside, gives me a hug. She tells me to be careful. "I will." My dad puts his arm around my neck, smiles and says to have fun. "I will." This scene has been playing for more than 25 years. Mom and dad: always there…always supportive…always interested in their kids. Man, am I lucky.

In four years together, it’s become tradition for Tom to ride with me to the grid. He climbs through the right side window. There’s not much left to say. It’s show time.

There’s a short driver’s meeting and then the five-minute warning. With Tom and John’s help, I get strapped in. We check the two-way radio one last time, and the video camera. We get the one-minute warning. I twist the ignition key. The Saturn fires. I start outside, row six, in a field of 25. Could be worse.

We leave the grid and move in double-file around the track. I notice the sky is darker. We’ll get the green flag on the backstretch. Then, we’ll have 19 laps to determine who’s got the best equipment, the best driver, and the best luck.

I am not surprised to see raindrops on the windshield as we crawl through the Keyhole on the way to the starting line. In seconds, it’s a genuine drizzle.

I say, "self, methinks the squirrel has found an acorn." Rain is to the No. 19 Saturn what a briar patch is to Brer Rabbit. Rain is good. It’s the great equalizer. In the rain, the Hondas lose their horsepower advantage. The slick surface will be difficult to manage with their ultra-stiff suspensions. Suddenly the odds have changed.

I’m hard on the throttle as the starter picks up the green flag. I get a great jump. I’m riding seventh going into lap 2. And the rain is falling harder. The track is like ice under snow – slick, sloppy and diabolical – the Saturn loves it, and so do I! Tom radios the lap times, we’re running 2:05 laps.

Let the rain remain, I pray. I pass another car. I’m actually running sixth with 15 laps to go. Then, Tim Connolly’s Mazda dives underneath me as we snake through Madness. Confident I can overtake him at the next corner, I let him go. I’m on his bumper, too close, as he begins to slide sideways. I jump off the throttle. In a split second, I begin to slide. The car comes around like a top. Finally, I’m stopped on the wet grass. Most of the field flies by. My solid sixth is suddenly eighteenth. I get the car turned around, find a gear and mash the throttle. The car is in better shape than I am. I scream up the main straight, barking on the radio!

I’m angry! Any mistake is costly. This one just cost us 12 positions and 30-plus seconds. We didn’t come here to finish 18^th. We worked too hard for too long to do that. Nothing’s bent or broken. Got to get it together.

Tom keys the radio. "Settle down," he says. "Put the spurs to it." His voice is calm and confident inside my helmet. I do as he says.

But we’ve got a ton of asphalt to make up. Worse yet, the rain is moving out. The track is drying. Everybody will be faster. I must be faster still. The trick will be to find grip where the others don’t. I try a modified line. The tire squeal is faint, but I hear it. The car sticks and we begin running faster on the sloppy track than most everyone else. I’m closing in on the cars I watched pass me earlier. With eight laps to go I’m back where I started – in twelfth. I can see the leaders. "Gotta’ keep digging." The track is now dry. A lap later and I’m running 10^th. But we’re not done. Will Harrison’s Honda gets wide entering the Keyhole. I stick No. 19’s nose inside. We touch. No, actually – we slam together at the apex. The driver’s side mirror snaps. I can see into the Civic’s cockpit as Harrison fights the wheel. I stand on the throttle. It’s Honda sheet metal against Saturn’s polymer panels. Polymer wins!

Dead ahead are two Neons. I move to the inside and out-brake them entering Madness. Now, I’m seventh. But Harrison’s powerful Honda fills my mirrors. We are nose-to-tail and door-to-door for two more laps. It’s a cliché, I know. But this is what it’s all about.

Tom’s voice fills my helmet, "be smooth and deliberate." The high-speed pushing and shoving continue. I wonder, though. Am I good or is Harrison toying with me? I think the latter.

Finally, the immovable object gives way to the inexorable force. I’m back to eighth as we take the checkered flag. But we’ve made our case – from 12^th to sixth to 18^th to eighth. We finish behind six Hondas and a Nissan.

What a great run! We fell down and got back up. We challenged the demons of speed, danced in their back yard and drove an eighth place stake into the ground before we were done. We had won. The Hondas didn’t sweep the top 10, as promised. Other cars were better – more power and grip. But the little Saturn with the Texaco Star on the hood did itself very proud indeed. And that ThunderSport Crew: It’s the best there is.

Back at the compound, the Saturn flag flies over a serious celebration. Mom and Dad Brandlehner break out champagne. The in-car camera yields riveting footage. We play it again and again.

Our guests depart. My cell phone rings. Son, Alex is on the other end. "How did you do Daddy?"

I respond without hesitation. "We won Alex! We finished eighth."

When there was time, I’d explain.

"…the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena – whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…a leader who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause – who, at best if he wins, knows the thrills of high achievement – and if he fails, fails while daring greatly – so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."  - Theodore Roosevelt