I have a weakness for motorsports that surpasses all understanding. Maybe it's because when I was about four years old, my brother Pete brought home a Scalectrix slot car set -- perhaps the original thing of its kind. The cars were stamped tin and ran on hard tires on a rubbery track. The controllers were just on-off pushbuttons, and to make things a little more exciting, the set came with a bottle of "skid fluid," the model equivalent of oil on the track.

Running into skid fluid produced immediate, dramatic oversteer. Hitting the controller button at just the right instant would guarantee that the inside car in any corner so treated would neatly punt the outside car into the boonies. Naturally, Pete was in charge of which corners did or did not get applications of skid fluid -- I doubt if I ever won a race. My big brother could beat me at everything else; so this seemed in the natural order of things.

Anyway, I caught the bug. I progressed (if one can call it progress) to mowing peoples' lawns for free just so I could run a gas motor. As a teen, I could double-clutch downshifts on farm tractors like nobody's business (not so easy to do with a hand throttle), and as for that old flathead pickup truck they had -- well, planting a few replacement fenceposts was not too much penance to pay. Cow pies are nothing compared to skid fluid.

I've never gotten over this affliction. Life's vagaries being what they are, though, I've never managed to put myself through a high-performance driving school, own any sort of a dedicated race vehicle, or even lurch through a parking lot Autocross. I'm a bit in awe of people that go fast in real racecars, and I sure like to watch them doing it.

Portland International Raceway is a ten-minute drive from our house, and there was no way I was going to miss out on the chance of seeing vintage racing there, no matter what. The opportunity was suddenly upon us: Cameron casually asked, "Going to the races this weekend?"

"Races? This weekend?" was my clever reply. . .

In case anyone is under the illusion that being editor of this stuff keeps me on top of current automotive events, let me disabuse you of that notion. I'm more often on the bottom of a fairly large pile of "things to get done yesterday," and the view's a little murky from down here. In fact, we were well past the deadline to apply for passes to park in the Volvo paddock, so general admission would have to do. And how much would that cost?

"Oh, I think it's like seven or eight bucks."

So, that Saturday morning, Marsha and I set off for the track in our 1800S. Warned of the $5 hot dog prices, we packed a cooler with a liter of ice water, a bag of corn chips and two sandwiches. I had $45 in my wallet, so we'd be able to buy whatever sodas or iced teas were necessary to keep us from drying out in the projected 90-degree heat of the day.

As we arrived, a nice man directing the minimal traffic informed us that we could park outside the gates in the dirt lot for free, or we could pay to park inside. I didn't ask how much; the dirt lot was fine. We parked in the company of some very nice machinery, in fact -- BMW and Jaguar owners don't necessarily fritter their money away on non-essentials either, it seems.

At the gate, a very bored chick (to use the accurate term) hit us up for $20 each to get in. Well, there went our soda budget -- good thing we parked in the dirt. I sure wasn't about to turn back at that point, you can be sure. I think the people running the track had that figured out, too.

A fairly good hike later, during which we had a fine view over the top of the fence of assorted rollbars howling past, we came to the first grandstand and climbed to the top to reconnoiter. Incredibly, as we sat down, a voice immediately to my right said, "Ah, you made it. Hi, Marsha, nice to see you."

In all that crowd of people thronging over acres of racetrack, we'd sat down next to Cameron without even seeing him. Cam was sort of hanging out, as that stand was handy to the Volvo paddock, and he was waiting for the call to line up for the parade lap. We chatted for about ten minutes while watching some not very thrilling practicing on the track before he had to go. From what he told us, the most fun viewing spot (that was accessible to the public that day) would be all the way down at the other end of the grandstands lining the front straightaway. We climbed back down and resumed hiking.

There's a lot of money in vintage racing -- and all of it flows away from the car owner or driver, who's usually the same person. These people pay for their own cars, and they pay to race; if there's any prize money at all, the sum is negligible. It's a club thing.

In professional series like the various CART or NASCAR championships, cars are very closely matched and all the drivers are pretty darned capable; otherwise, they wouldn't be there. In vintage racing, it's nothing like that -- the clubs try to accomodate anyone who shows up with a pot of money, a basic racing license and an older car that will pass a safety inspection. The cars run from high-dollar exotics to historic cars to barely modified economy models, and the drivers' skills run the gamut as well. The cars are sorted into rough groups, in which they at least look like they might belong on a track together. The drivers aren't sorted at all.

This last became apparent as soon as we sat down at the far end of the long straight, because there lies PIR's most diabolical set of turns: the chicane. Braking from the highest speed they'll reach on the course, cars have to negotiate an abrupt, 90-degree right turn, immediately followed by a 120-degree left. Not everyone gets the hang of this right away. The first Volvo to come down the straight -- a green 1800 -- went through turn one just as if Pete had done something sneaky there with skid fluid, overcorrected, spun around counter-clockwise and pirouetted gracefully into the pea gravel without ever having to face turn two. Well, that's why they call it "practice," right?

The only other Volvo racing that Saturday appeared to have much less trouble. I thought I recognized that red 1800, and a quick look at a borrowed program confirmed that it was indeed driven by Dave Winters of Seattle, who placed third in last fall's Volvo Gran Prix at Elkhart Lake. I knew who I'd be rooting for in that particular group's race that afternoon. We never did find out who the driver of the green car was; it wasn't listed in the program.

Practice soon ended, and the parade laps began. All sorts of clubs were present. Cameron's tan 122S, leading the Volvo contingent, followed a large cluster of Camaros of all ages. MGs, Aston-Martins, Bentleys, Corvettes, old Fords, and I don't know what else all had their moment of glory in front of the crowd. Then it was lunch break; Marsha and I straggled out of the stands and went hunting for the Volvo paddock.

As forecast, the day had turned just plain hot. We'd run through most of our ice water sitting in the stands, and my sandwich seemed awfully dry. Marsha couldn't even eat hers. The Volvo paddock offered no shade at all, so she sensibly defected to go sit under the lone tree in the MG camp. I was familiar with perhaps half the Volvos in the paddock, which, in the spirit of a vintage racing event, also represented a diverse range. Cam's mighty 122S was showing off its new rear disk brakes, a white 123GT with gold anodized grilles and a Chrysler Le Baron interior looked more like a low rider, Pat Priester's 1800S sported a new set of R-Sport Solex carbs. . .

Most impressive, in a sense, was Shayne Green's wife Sarah's Amazon daily driver. It's that faded pale green color, and someone once hand painted a large yellow sun all over the hood. Shayne's usual 122 wagon is in the beauty shop for new paint; kudos to him for bringing the other car anyway and supporting the marque. A man after my own heart.

After sitting in the MG shade a bit myself (they were quite generous with it), loud sounds from the track summoned us back on our feet. I tossed a VClassics brochure onto the seat of any Volvo that needed one, and we headed back to our old seats in the stands, pausing only to spend the last of our cash on a large iced tea. We'd have to nurse it through the afternoon.

The first qualifying race was for open-wheeled cars, all lumped together with seeming disregard for age or size of motor. One of the larger formula cars managed to spin 270 degrees just braking for turn one, coming to rest right by the zero marker counting down distance to the corner. The rest of the field took interesting lines around him before the driver got it spun back around in a cloud of tire smoke, now chasing a pack of lesser machines.

We saw quite a bit of this sort of thing. A big, heavily-bewinged, made-for-racing-only Porsche (I don't know Porsche model numbers) was generally in the way of little snarly Lotus things; a Ferrari was all over the road. When it came time for Trans Am cars, the lone Javelin had Mustangs scattering for cover on every pass through the chicane. One modern-looking stock car planted itself firmly in the pea gravel, while a mid-'60s Mercury motored smartly around.

Of course, it's a lot more fun to see good driving, and there was an abundance of that, too. We cheered when a not-very-fast Jag E-type picked up four places just by steering cleverly through messy traffic. A guy in a '56 XK-140 put in a heroic performance against much newer cars, trailing a spume of overheated drum brake smell all the way. A very impressive pair of early Sting Rays led most of their group's race before finally giving way to a big-block Cobra (a second Cobra gradually losing ground).

In the smaller cars, one Cortina put on a great show, hotly pursued by two Minis from Hell. A bugeye Sprite went indecently fast -- it shouldn't oughta do that! -- and was immaculately driven. A very rare, special-bodied TR-250 ran magnificently despite Martian styling; a "has to be from the '60s" blend of spaceship and uterus.

And for the most part -- and most to the point -- a whole lot of fairly OK drivers in fairly OK cars had a whale of a good time.

Finally, it was time for the last race of the day, featuring the two 1800s. It was obvious from the first that neither had any chance of actually winning. Two Alfa GTVs and an old Giulia roadster (that really didn't seem to have any business keeping up) dominated the field. Winters, in the red 1800, did a competent job, but there was nothing to be done against that kind of Italian artillery, and none of those three seemed likely to make mistakes.

As for the green 1800, well, it did stay out of the pea gravel. Whatever its driver lacked in skill and experience, he made up for in enthusiasm, taking varied and adventurous lines through the chicane, including a cross-country route through the grass on the outside of turn two. After the fourth lap or so, he failed to come back around into sight from the far side of the track, and the rest of the race was run under a yellow caution flag -- no passing allowed. It was a bit of an anticlimax.

We were about baked to a crisp by then anyhow. As we slowly trudged out past the racers' tents, I could have sworn the empty cooler was even heavier than it was going in. To stupid to take pictures, I still had to stop and get an eyeful of one marvelous machine: a 1935 Alfa full-on racecar, hood open to reveal a big straight-8 with two superchargers. I heard they ran it -- and not gingerly -- the next day; wish I'd seen it go. After that, a trailer loaded with old Testa Rossa's hardly got a second glance.

Compared to some road courses, I guess, PIR is no great shakes. I don't mind -- heat and all, I couldn't have enjoyed the racing more had it been at Brands Hatch at cherry blossom time. I can't say I'd had my fill, but the raw edge of my addiction had been smoothed considerably.

And you can bet the last oyster in Willapa Bay that we'll be back for Track Day at the VSA Portland meet the last weekend of August. If you happen to see me there planted in the pea gravel, just take a look around for my big brother Pete. You'll know him -- he'll be the one with the innocent look on his face.