"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?" said Marsha.

Stupid? Let's see. . . I'm going to take a 30-something-year-old street car, drive it to Portland International Raceway (PIR) and make it go around the track as fast as I can get it to go. Never mind that I've never driven on a racetrack before, not even in a parking lot Autocross. Come to think of it, I've never driven this particular car over 70 MPH and I've never dared corner it hard -- it's too fragile. I've never been to performance driving school. I've never even sat in a car while wearing a helmet (have to borrow one of those somewhere). There will be other cars on the track, some in similar condition to ours, mixed in with much faster machinery. In all likelihood, 90% of the other drivers participating rate themselves as "above average;" the other 10% consider themselves Natural Born Gods of the Road and will drive like idiots. What do you mean, "Stupid?" It's not every day that VSA holds a meet five miles from our house and ipd sponsors a Friday at the track to kick it off. There's no way that I'm going to miss this.

So, for the five weeks leading up to Track Day, I spent several hours every day (and way more money than was in the Volvo budget) making our '67 1800S considerably less fragile. The more I took it apart, the more I found that needed repair. Early on, I could see that just getting it to the track would be a race against time, in and of itself. But I had to try -- progress was slow, but progress was made.

By Wednesday evening before the great event, the motor was running nicely on a set of fresh SU carbs and initial tuning done. By Thursday noon, the car was back on the ground with extensively rebuilt suspension and steering (thanks for all the parts, Rusty). I'd replaced a failed Bilstein shock with another used one (thanks, Duane), located and bolted on a set of ancient ipd swaybars (thanks, Shayne), and installed Delrin upper control arm bushings. The brakes had been completely overhauled with new calipers, stainless hoses and Metalmaster pads. Other than swaybars and good shocks, though, the car's dead stock. Its B18B motor is rated at 115 HP, plenty enough to get a person of my inexperience in over his head at PIR -- the front straight is over a half-mile long, and I suspected that Turn 1 can come up awfully fast.

Thursday evening, the wheels balanced and the front end aligned to Hueppchen specs, I took it out for a shakedown run in search of some twisty roads. There really aren't any near here, but the car felt so solid and fun to drive (brakes were great for the first time) that I kept looking, arriving back home much later than I'd expected. A few problems remained unfixed: an annoying waver in ignition timing at high RPM, an inoperative tach and a gonzo speedometer. I was a bit worried about the tach (would I be able to hear well enough with a helmet on?), but that's as much as I could accomplish in the available time. I'd do some fine tuning during the next morning's practice session, in any case.

We arrived at PIR right on time at 8:30 AM, Marsha following in the "support vehicle," our VW Westfalia. It was more support for us than for the 1800 -- a source of iced tea, shade, sandwiches and seating. The pit area was crowded with old Volvos; some destined to be in the Saturday concours, some decidedly rough, some stock, some modified, some I was familiar with, some I'd never seen -- there was no lack of other crazies who also considered this a Good Idea, it would seem. We did a bit of socializing before putting the car in line for tech inspection, in which it was determined that the wheels were likely to stay on, the battery wouldn't fall onto the track, fluids were not actually pouring out of anywhere, and nothing in the interior or trunk would go flying around and reshape the bodywork.

Next was the drivers' meeting. ipd's Scott Hart explained the ground rules: passing allowed only on the front straight in two lanes separated by cones at each end. No speed limits; no pace car. Watch for brake fade; drive dead slow in the pits and don't set the parking brake or you'll warp something. Cars will be let onto the track at intervals in groups of ten (or so) for the morning and afternoon practices of six laps each. The day will end with timed runs for prizes. Everybody play nice and be careful. Pretty easy stuff to understand, even with several ipd project cars lapping the track and wailing around Turn 9 right behind Scott.

Scott and VSA's Pat Priester then attempted to sort cars and drivers into sensible groups. Who's had track experience before? OK, that's Group 1 (I called this the Death Wish Group -- apparently, several individuals considered doing a parade lap at a vintage race "experience"). I humbly ended up in Group 5: "Inexperienced Stock 1800s." I wasn't out to kid anyone.

Several trucks were taking people around the track, so I hopped into the back of a pickup for the tour. The driver gave advice over a walkie-talkie -- "Lift here at the end of the straight" -- "There's no right way to do this turn. Don't get on the curb or you'll get grass stains on your roof" -- "Keep away from the wall in this part, you can't see what's ahead," and more. The walkie-talkie kept cutting out, but I got some of it.

By the time I met up with Marsha again, the early groups were doing their morning practice runs. We watched from the stands for a short while; no one seemed to be driving much beyond their capabilities. Before I expected, Group 5 was called. I borrowed a very nice Snell-approved helmet from a helpful guy who had a spare one, pulled the 1800 into line, and was waved onto the track.

I found right away that I had no trouble hearing the motor under open throttle. I kept the revs conservative and didn't push hard at all. Several cars howled by in the passing lane; I lifted at the walkie-talkie designated point and coasted into Turn 1 without even touching the brakes. I just concerned myself with learning how fast things happen at speed, where the turns went and what all that new steering stuff would do when pressed.

On the second lap, I revved a little higher and pushed a little harder, actually putting some real pressure on the brake pedal several times. Everything about the car seemed to work even better than I'd hoped, but I wasn't anywhere close to figuring out braking points or lines through the turns -- the west end of PIR is a quick sequence of tight curves, and I still didn't have "what happens next" sorted out at all. I did manage to get a nice controlled drift going in the untricky last turn into the straight. This was starting to be fun.

The little B18 was pulling really well, and I let it rev freely on that third pass down the straight. Winding out in fourth, though, the car sputtered and lost power, cutting in and out. Downshifting into Turn 1, all seemed well again, but I went around it wondering what the heck was going on under the hood instead of concentrating on driving. It ran just fine through the curvy sequence, and I pushed it again on the last turn of that lot, winding it out on the back part of the course -- and again lost power hitting high revs in fourth. Well, no ignoring this. Into the pits with me.

I couldn't see anything wrong. Pressure and temp gauges hadn't gotten a bit excited. The plugs looked just a bit lean (I tweaked the carbs a little more), but showed no glazing or other evidence of problems. All wiring appeared tight, and the motor sounded happy. Digging a little deeper, though, a few twists on the distributor rotor showed the advance mechanism to be very sloppy. Did it throw a spring, or what? I quickly had the distributor out of the block. Oh no! The tabs that fit into the drive gear slots were badly chewed up -- that certainly explained the timing fluctuations. It would get the car home, but would it survive an afternoon on the track?

I stood around, undecided what to do, as the hour lunch break began. But wait -- I'd cleaned up an old distributor hulk before deciding not to give priority to fixing the timing waver. It was still sitting on my work bench, only five miles away. No time like the present, then -- I evicted Marsha from the Westfalia (a most understanding wife, Marsha is), made a false start before realizing I'd lost my pass to get back into PIR, finally found it on the ground next to the bus, put it in my wallet and headed out in a hurry.

Once on the highway, I remembered that I'd planned to take the 1800 to a gas station during lunch. After my unplanned long test drive the previous evening, it might not have enough gas to get through the afternoon practice laps, timed runs and still get home in rush hour traffic. I had a two-gallon gas can, but it was full of 87-octane for the lawnmower. I wasn't about to feed that to a high-compression motor and then run the heck out of it.

I devised a plan. The lawnmower gas went into the Westfalia, which seemed to take forever. The filler's at an awkward angle, and gas leaked all over my hand before the can was finally empty. I wiped it off with a paper towel, tossed can and distributor hulk into the back and headed for the handiest two gallons of 92-octane to be found on the route back to the track. After filling the can, I saw that I'd left the gas cap off the bus -- a brand new, pricey, Washington smog-legal cap. Well, it was only three minutes back home...

I'd laid the cap on the rear bumper, so I expected to find it on the steep uphill slope of our driveway, but it wasn't there. After a few minutes looking for it, I was feeling distinctly under pressure -- I might never again have a chance to drive on a racetrack, and here I was looking in bushes for a lost gas cap. No time for this! I drove off with the filler open. By chance, I spotted the cap lying in the road several blocks away from the house, stopped and retrieved it. Now, directly to the track, no matter what else happens.

Back in the pits, I set about turning two bad distributors into one good one. I'd like to say, "calmly set about," but I got the breaker plate in cockeyed about eight times before getting the screws to thread, so it's possible I may have been under some strain. I couldn't get the old condenser loose from the failing body, and struggled for a while before it dawned on me that I had a spare in the toolbox. Eventually, I was holding something that felt like a solid unit -- until I turned it upside down and a spring fell out. OK, let's take the breaker plate back out and start over...

I finally got it mounted on the motor and set the timing; hard to see properly in full sunlight, but the advance worked with no wavering at all. Good! So, what group was on the track by now? An official told me just to go anytime; practice was about over. I jammed on the helmet and went; he didn't have to tell me twice.

With improved timing and mixture, the car ran better than I would have thought possible. I took a relatively easy lap to get the oil warmed up and get my focus back on driving, then got on it for real in the slower lane on the straight, expecting the 1800E behind me to pass. To my astonishment, I watched as he got gradually smaller in the mirror. It wasn't until the last moment that it occured to me that I'd better get the heck over to the left before Turn 1 if I intended to take a line anyplace else than into the dirt beyond.

Countless hours of cranking assorted sports cars over back roads does not make one a race driver. I still had little clue about negotiating the curvy sequence efficiently, and the E (who's driver presumably had gotten in his full quota of practice) was closing back in. Well, I'd give him a run for it on the fast back section, then courteously let him by on the straight -- might be nice to follow someone through the curves a few times, at that.

It was not to be. Running up the back section, the car lost power once again; in fact, it pretty much quit entirely. The E waited patiently for me to limp to the pit lane before wafting by, several other cars now bunched on his tail.

The 1800 drove perfectly through the pits and into our spot, where it revved and idled flawlessly. I shut it down, declared myself done for the day, passed the borrowed helmet on to another needy driver, collected Marsha and a large glass of iced tea, and headed for the stands to do some spectating. Whatever the problem was, I wasn't going to get it worked out soon enough to compete in the timed runs, which were already beginning.

Cars were obviously going much faster than in the morning practice. Cameron went by looking like his modified 122S was an extension of his skin, ultimately taking second in class behind a Turbo 262C running nitrous. Skinny-tired ESs drifted by, hanging out their tails like they meant it. Several 240s gave a demonstration of locked brakes and botched lines, but somehow managed to keep at least three wheels on the pavement, bringing the ambulance crew to their feet several times. And sometime during this show, I finally understood what was wrong with our 1800.

When pulling some appreciable fraction of a G in a turn, where does gas in the tank go? Nowhere near the fuel line pickup, that's where. And how long will what's left in the line and float bowls run the car? About long enough to let it rev through two gears...

Gas enough to get you fifty miles down the highway is not enough to get you around one lap of race track. What with the distributor panic, I'd never even put in the two gallons I'd had such a fun time getting during lunch. That's even what was causing the cutting out in morning practice, I'll bet.

So, Marsha, I should have answered you, "Yes, I am going to do something stupid: I'm going to run the car out of gas." Five weeks of work got me five laps around the track, one of them in the back of a pickup truck. But the car drives perfectly now, and we can go anywhere in it whenever we want. It's got a fine distributor instead of one that would have left us by the side of the road a few months from now. It steers and stops really well, and the motor just plain sings. I learned a few things along the way -- none of this was wasted effort.

And besides, even if only for a few laps, I had a BLAST.

Lined-up cars photo by Gary Ramstad

(Look, I'm still writing. Check back in a few days for more about the meet and other odd tales...)