White Knuckles On A Wild Worm

WHITE KNUCKLES ON A WILD WORM

RACE WATCH

HO-LY S_ _T!" I YELLED IN side my helmet. I knew I was in for a wild ride, but I hadn't expected anything like this.

I mean, there we were, darting and

skittering on the outer edge of control as we rocketed out of a 100-mph sweeper, my butt dangling only a fraction of an inch above the asphalt blurring past beneath us, my fingers

clamped around the grab handles like 10 pairs of Vise-grips. And all I could think about is how I had ever allowed myself to be talked into this looniness. >

It all had started innocently enough when we first learned that the ultra-trick GP sidecars would be coming over to Laguna Seca for this year’s USGP. Since few people anywhere have ever driven or ridden on these exotic three-wheelers, we thought it would be fun to hitch a ride on one sometime during pre-race practice. And after a little investigation, we found that the Lucky Strike team was particularly receptive to the idea of sticking one of our staffers in the “chair” for a test ride.

A great idea, I thought—until Editor Edwards informed me that / was the staffer chosen to be the “monkey” on the Lucky Strike rig. Suddenly, I had my doubts. I mean, as an experienced roadracer. I’m used to blasting around the track with parts of my body skimming the asphalt. But those parts usually are my wellprotected knees, not—as I had seen in photos of sidecar passengers at work—my butt, my shoulders, my elbows, my feet and my head. Besides, it’s one thing to be the person controlling a race machine; it’s something else altogether to be along for the ride, even if the driver (Egbert Streuer, who competes with passenger Bernard Schneiders) is part of the team that has won three world sidecar championships.

You can understand, then, why I was tickled to learn that Schneiders> doesn’t have a radical, hang-it-out style of passenging. In fact, upon my arrival at the track for my ride, he showed me how to hang-off properly without having to get too close to the ground with anything but my toes and, er, my butt. Okay, I thought, I can handle that. I think.

Then came the moment of truth. Streuer, already in the driver’s cockpit, motioned that he was ready and pointed toward the platform. I assumed this was his way of telling me to get in. So, I zipped up my leathers, took a deep breath and said to Exec Editor Camron Bussard, who had come along to watch the fun, ‘Tf I don’t come back, tell everyone to send flowers.” But although I was joking, I didn't seem to be laughing. I even briefly thought about backing out of the deal. But it seemed a little late for that, so into the sidecar I went.

Once I was settled in, Streuer turned to me and, in his thick Dutch accent, asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Ah, well, I dunno. exactly.”

“I'll tell you what you’re going to do,” he said. “For the first lap you're going to do nothing! On the second lap you can move around, but on the first lap you do not move.”

Before I could respond, Herr Streuer had the engine fired and we were on our way. As we crawled around the track at a pace as gentle as a drive to the park for a family picnic, Streuer kept glancing back at me as though he wasn’t sure I’d still be there. And when he again looked over his shoulder as we came down out of Laguna's famous Corkscrew and headed for the final turn, I gave him the thumbs-up signal. Hey, if we're going to do this, I thought, let’s get on with it.

And did we. Once Streuer hit the front straight, he wasted no time getting with the program. He wicked open the throttle of the 150-plus-hp TZ500 motor, and instantly the family picnic turned into a barroom brawl. The rig slewed sideways, the drive wheel spun and squealed, and the 410-pound worm started accelerating so wickedly fast that I almost slid off the back of the car. I remembered Schneiders telling me beforehand “not to hold on too tight so you don’t tire too quickly,” but no way was I going to relax my grip. >

Just about the time I figured out how to keep from falling off the back due to acceleration, Streuer jumped on the integrated three-wheel brakes for Turn Two, slamming me up against the bulkhead in front of me. I felt like Wile E. Coyote helplessly being flung head-first into a canyon wall. Just as I was recovering from that, we darted around the lefthander with such violence that I could barely get my body hung over the sidecar wheel. And a split-second later, I was almost tossed off the back again as Streuer got the thing fishtailing with acceleration toward Turn Three.

It went like this for a couple of laps—Streuer trying to make decent time while I awkwardly tried to climb into the right positions for optimum cornering or traction. But I soon started getting the hang of it, and quickly my terror was transformed to joy. I actually started having fun.

Finally, Streuer slowed and pulled into the pits. My adventure was over. And I had lived to tell about it.

“Well, what did you think?” asked Team Lucky Strike owner Lee van Dam as I took off my helmet.

“I’ve never experienced anything like it,” I said. “It was kinda scary at first, but once I got into it I had fun.” “Yeah, I noticed,” he replied. “You were looking good out there toward the end. In fact, are you doing anything the afternoon of the GP— you know, just in case we need a back-up passenger?”

“Umm . . . I, er . . . well, uh, if I’m not mistaken, I’m busy that afternoon. I, uh, think I’ve got an appointment to have my car washed.”

I lied, of course. I’m only crazy, not stupid.

Doug Toland