Gordon
Nitro Member
I wrote this story because I, like many of us, dream of being a Top Fuel Pilot some day. I also enjoy writing. More than likely, I'll never climb into a TF car, but who knows? On the other hand, I may very well get the opportunity to write some day. So, I offer this to you and hope you get as much enjoyment out of reading it as I did imagining and writing it. I'm open to, and actually welcome constructive criticism - without it I'll never get any better.
The Sponsor Run: By Gordon Carlon
The tension was beginning to mount. Our prospective sponsor had been watching closely and it was just about time to show them what we were made of. Our low-budget, rag-tag team of volunteer mechanical engineers has performed magic with this ol’ rail during the last few months, but the marketing director wanted to see that we could really run with the big dogs before he was willing to write us a check. His company’s name wasn’t going on the side of any side show act, he wanted to know his 320+ M.P.H. billboard was going to have a legitimate shot at being front and center for 23 races. Period.
Freak, the crew chief, had briefed me that he was setting it to “kill” and quite frankly, that’s where the mounting tension was coming from. Now don’t misunderstand me here, I have all the trust and confidence in the world that Freak can get it done. I wouldn’t dream of strapping myself into a land-locked missile like this if I didn’t trust the guy calling the shots. But this ol’ heap – to borrow a phrase from the great Mr. Force – has a lot of runs on it and I’ve never been convinced it could handle a low .50, much less a high .40 – which was clearly Freak’s goal given the distant, falling sun and already perfect atmospheric conditions. My fear, or concern to use a better word, was that we were about to make the one run that could secure sponsorship for next year and he was setting it on, as he said, “kill.”
I disappeared into the trailer in an attempt to lose myself, to release the tension. I found my comfortable spot in the corner loveseat and began visualizing the impending run from “strap in” in the tunnel to “helmet off” at the other end. It has to be exactly the same procedure every time. No mistakes. No surprises. Every crew member has a job and I can just about draw their numbered footsteps from the time they start me until I pull forward to stage – including where each of them will stand during the run itself. I will get to the finish line first, qualifying run or not. I refuse to lose on a holeshot in front of a prospective sponsor. Visualize. See the run before it ever happens.
The familiar rumble flows over me as the motor turns over and eventually fires. Freak adjusts the fuel flow and signals me forward. I see Jimbo running ahead on the right side preparing to guide me through the back-up following the burnout. I feel the back end bounce ever so slightly as the rear Goodyears roll through the water box and I come off the clutch pedal and jam the throttle forward to the throttle stop watching the RPM’s climb to just a tic under 6,000 RPM’s. The back end starts to wash out a little so I counter and hold the burnout to just past the tree as planned. Next, I roll off the gas, step back on the clutch and slowly apply brake to bring the car to a stop. After I stop, I grab the reverser and begin the tedious process of engaging it so I can back up to the starting line. Initially it won’t go so I come off the clutch just a touch and wait for it it “grab” and engage. There it is. I look for Jimbo to jump in front of the car as I know I’m getting close and as planned, there he is. Remarkably, despite the “washout” during the burnout, I’m pretty close to where Freak wants me and the backup goes smoothly, without a lot of adjustments.
I disengage the reverser and hold the brake while Animal (we all have nicknames) removes and shows me the throttle stop. This tells me I will have full throttle available during the run – you’d be surprised, but it’s been forgotten in the past and when I mash the gas, I don’t go anywhere. It’s a bummer, to say the least. Also, I see Jimbo remove the cover from the fuel vent in the nose of the car, so I know I’ll have full fuel flow. Freak makes his last minute adjustments to the idle and gives me the thumbs up to stage the car. The concerns & tension I felt back in the pits are a distant memory, I’m running on pure reflex now. The run I visualized back in the trailer has gone exactly to plan to this point.
I slowly pull forward, inching my way toward the pre-stage beam. I light it and await my competitor to do the same. I don’t have to wait long, there he is. I perform one last quick check of the instruments, open the second fuel pump and take my foot off the clutch pedal. I feel the motor load as I do this. Next I slowly pull forward by ever so gingerly releasing brake. The centrifugal clutch will move the car forward easily without applying any gas. I’m hoping to stage as shallow as humanly possible – we’re lookin’ for the big ET here and I don’t want to lose any time whatsoever to rollout, or more specifically, lack thereof. There, I’ve tickled that stage beam & I’m ready. The other driver rolls in almost simultaneously, so here we go…
Flicker of amber bulbs and my right foot stomps on the loud pedal as my right hand not only releases the brake handle, but actually pushes it forward so as to eliminate any chance of friction between the disc & the pads – every little bit counts. Oh man, this will never get old. As my hot rod accelerates harder than most will ever experience, the lateral G’s press my entire upper body, from my buttocks to my head, into the back of the padded roll cage. My visibility is hazy on the outer periphery, but unlike fighter pilots who experience high G’s during aerial combat, the blood stays in my head so I don’t lose complete vision. The front end is up and though I don’t have steering, I’m straight as an arrow and not climbing, just up. My job here is to keep the front wheels straight, so when she finally touches back down, I won’t lose time or control. I subconsciously watch the Christmas tree disappear on my left side and I feel the familiar tire rattle, not bad, but it’s there. I know I’m going to drive through it or blow the hides off (that’s what happens when you’re trying to rotate Mother Earth). So I keep my foot mashed and hope for the best. My focus remains glued to the narrow groove, if I get out of it, I lose too much ET and I’ll surely hear about it – not to mention what will happen to my date with the sponsors check at the top end. Still can’t see the car that lined up next to me in the left lane, but I sense he’s there… close. The G’s begin to let up a little and the front end finally touches down, right on target. I begin to brace for the next blast and WHAM! As the clutch locks up and I carry the front end for a split second once again, I know Freak knew what he was doing when he tuned her up – I’ve never in my life seen half track come and go this quickly. Don’t ask how I feel a few hundredths difference, I just do – experience will do that for you and I’ve made enough runs to know I’m on one helluva pass. My head and ass are planted into the padding one more time, nearly as hard as the initial launch, but not quite – it’s the speed that goes along with it that make it so unreal. If there were telephone poles lining the edge of the track and they were painted white, they’d start resembling a picket fence right about now. I begin to feel, rather than see the car drifting ever so slightly to the right so I apply a little counter-steer and she stays right there in the middle, right where I want her. When applying this much torque, the entire frame feels it and the car naturally wants to drift – again, experience.
Ok, my right hand moves to the parachutes because in less time than it takes you to read this sentence, I’m going to need ’em. Still in the groove, still accelerating, still don’t see the car in the other lane… and there goes the finish line. I’m really haulin’ the mail now. I pop the laundry and wait for the intense negative G’s and rapid deceleration that follows. Uuhh, there it is. My body is now experiencing the near exact opposite of what it felt leaving the starting line – my whole being is thrown forward in the cockpit and my head is heavy on my neck. Wow, that’ll get your attention.
As I coast through the shut down area, I begin the shut down process - I gently apply brake, slowing the car evenly but not aggressively and I see the win light on my side of the guardrail. Ok, I met the first part of my goal, I won. But what’s the ET? The car continues to slow as I push in the clutch and shut off the fuel and begin looking for my director at the top end. I spot him and he directs me into the shut down area ahead of the car in the other lane. Making the turn I see a small group of folks coming over to my car and I’m beginning to feel the pre-race pressure again. Did we impress the sponsor? Did I leave anything on the track? The exuberant Alan Reinhart approaches me with the TV crew and a microphone as I climb out and remove my helmet. The excitement is overwhelming and I struggle with the strap, but finally get it. He asks me what I thought it ran and I tell him I knew it was “on one” but I wasn’t sure – “a .52 maybe?” After a slight pause he tells me it ran a 4.455 at 329.92 M.P.H.!
And this, my friends, is what dreams are made of…
The Sponsor Run: By Gordon Carlon
The tension was beginning to mount. Our prospective sponsor had been watching closely and it was just about time to show them what we were made of. Our low-budget, rag-tag team of volunteer mechanical engineers has performed magic with this ol’ rail during the last few months, but the marketing director wanted to see that we could really run with the big dogs before he was willing to write us a check. His company’s name wasn’t going on the side of any side show act, he wanted to know his 320+ M.P.H. billboard was going to have a legitimate shot at being front and center for 23 races. Period.
Freak, the crew chief, had briefed me that he was setting it to “kill” and quite frankly, that’s where the mounting tension was coming from. Now don’t misunderstand me here, I have all the trust and confidence in the world that Freak can get it done. I wouldn’t dream of strapping myself into a land-locked missile like this if I didn’t trust the guy calling the shots. But this ol’ heap – to borrow a phrase from the great Mr. Force – has a lot of runs on it and I’ve never been convinced it could handle a low .50, much less a high .40 – which was clearly Freak’s goal given the distant, falling sun and already perfect atmospheric conditions. My fear, or concern to use a better word, was that we were about to make the one run that could secure sponsorship for next year and he was setting it on, as he said, “kill.”
I disappeared into the trailer in an attempt to lose myself, to release the tension. I found my comfortable spot in the corner loveseat and began visualizing the impending run from “strap in” in the tunnel to “helmet off” at the other end. It has to be exactly the same procedure every time. No mistakes. No surprises. Every crew member has a job and I can just about draw their numbered footsteps from the time they start me until I pull forward to stage – including where each of them will stand during the run itself. I will get to the finish line first, qualifying run or not. I refuse to lose on a holeshot in front of a prospective sponsor. Visualize. See the run before it ever happens.
The familiar rumble flows over me as the motor turns over and eventually fires. Freak adjusts the fuel flow and signals me forward. I see Jimbo running ahead on the right side preparing to guide me through the back-up following the burnout. I feel the back end bounce ever so slightly as the rear Goodyears roll through the water box and I come off the clutch pedal and jam the throttle forward to the throttle stop watching the RPM’s climb to just a tic under 6,000 RPM’s. The back end starts to wash out a little so I counter and hold the burnout to just past the tree as planned. Next, I roll off the gas, step back on the clutch and slowly apply brake to bring the car to a stop. After I stop, I grab the reverser and begin the tedious process of engaging it so I can back up to the starting line. Initially it won’t go so I come off the clutch just a touch and wait for it it “grab” and engage. There it is. I look for Jimbo to jump in front of the car as I know I’m getting close and as planned, there he is. Remarkably, despite the “washout” during the burnout, I’m pretty close to where Freak wants me and the backup goes smoothly, without a lot of adjustments.
I disengage the reverser and hold the brake while Animal (we all have nicknames) removes and shows me the throttle stop. This tells me I will have full throttle available during the run – you’d be surprised, but it’s been forgotten in the past and when I mash the gas, I don’t go anywhere. It’s a bummer, to say the least. Also, I see Jimbo remove the cover from the fuel vent in the nose of the car, so I know I’ll have full fuel flow. Freak makes his last minute adjustments to the idle and gives me the thumbs up to stage the car. The concerns & tension I felt back in the pits are a distant memory, I’m running on pure reflex now. The run I visualized back in the trailer has gone exactly to plan to this point.
I slowly pull forward, inching my way toward the pre-stage beam. I light it and await my competitor to do the same. I don’t have to wait long, there he is. I perform one last quick check of the instruments, open the second fuel pump and take my foot off the clutch pedal. I feel the motor load as I do this. Next I slowly pull forward by ever so gingerly releasing brake. The centrifugal clutch will move the car forward easily without applying any gas. I’m hoping to stage as shallow as humanly possible – we’re lookin’ for the big ET here and I don’t want to lose any time whatsoever to rollout, or more specifically, lack thereof. There, I’ve tickled that stage beam & I’m ready. The other driver rolls in almost simultaneously, so here we go…
Flicker of amber bulbs and my right foot stomps on the loud pedal as my right hand not only releases the brake handle, but actually pushes it forward so as to eliminate any chance of friction between the disc & the pads – every little bit counts. Oh man, this will never get old. As my hot rod accelerates harder than most will ever experience, the lateral G’s press my entire upper body, from my buttocks to my head, into the back of the padded roll cage. My visibility is hazy on the outer periphery, but unlike fighter pilots who experience high G’s during aerial combat, the blood stays in my head so I don’t lose complete vision. The front end is up and though I don’t have steering, I’m straight as an arrow and not climbing, just up. My job here is to keep the front wheels straight, so when she finally touches back down, I won’t lose time or control. I subconsciously watch the Christmas tree disappear on my left side and I feel the familiar tire rattle, not bad, but it’s there. I know I’m going to drive through it or blow the hides off (that’s what happens when you’re trying to rotate Mother Earth). So I keep my foot mashed and hope for the best. My focus remains glued to the narrow groove, if I get out of it, I lose too much ET and I’ll surely hear about it – not to mention what will happen to my date with the sponsors check at the top end. Still can’t see the car that lined up next to me in the left lane, but I sense he’s there… close. The G’s begin to let up a little and the front end finally touches down, right on target. I begin to brace for the next blast and WHAM! As the clutch locks up and I carry the front end for a split second once again, I know Freak knew what he was doing when he tuned her up – I’ve never in my life seen half track come and go this quickly. Don’t ask how I feel a few hundredths difference, I just do – experience will do that for you and I’ve made enough runs to know I’m on one helluva pass. My head and ass are planted into the padding one more time, nearly as hard as the initial launch, but not quite – it’s the speed that goes along with it that make it so unreal. If there were telephone poles lining the edge of the track and they were painted white, they’d start resembling a picket fence right about now. I begin to feel, rather than see the car drifting ever so slightly to the right so I apply a little counter-steer and she stays right there in the middle, right where I want her. When applying this much torque, the entire frame feels it and the car naturally wants to drift – again, experience.
Ok, my right hand moves to the parachutes because in less time than it takes you to read this sentence, I’m going to need ’em. Still in the groove, still accelerating, still don’t see the car in the other lane… and there goes the finish line. I’m really haulin’ the mail now. I pop the laundry and wait for the intense negative G’s and rapid deceleration that follows. Uuhh, there it is. My body is now experiencing the near exact opposite of what it felt leaving the starting line – my whole being is thrown forward in the cockpit and my head is heavy on my neck. Wow, that’ll get your attention.
As I coast through the shut down area, I begin the shut down process - I gently apply brake, slowing the car evenly but not aggressively and I see the win light on my side of the guardrail. Ok, I met the first part of my goal, I won. But what’s the ET? The car continues to slow as I push in the clutch and shut off the fuel and begin looking for my director at the top end. I spot him and he directs me into the shut down area ahead of the car in the other lane. Making the turn I see a small group of folks coming over to my car and I’m beginning to feel the pre-race pressure again. Did we impress the sponsor? Did I leave anything on the track? The exuberant Alan Reinhart approaches me with the TV crew and a microphone as I climb out and remove my helmet. The excitement is overwhelming and I struggle with the strap, but finally get it. He asks me what I thought it ran and I tell him I knew it was “on one” but I wasn’t sure – “a .52 maybe?” After a slight pause he tells me it ran a 4.455 at 329.92 M.P.H.!
And this, my friends, is what dreams are made of…
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