Number 83

For ten years from the mid-eighties through the early nineties the IMSA (International Motor Sports Association) was one of the strongest, highly entertaining sports car racing series in the world. It was also one of the most competitive from a manufacturer's standpoint with the GTP class (Grand Touring Prototype) boasting a lineup consisting of teams representing Toyota, Nissan, Mazda, Chevrolet, Jaguar, Porsche, Lola, Ford, and even Buick.

During practice or qualifying for the Twenty-Four Hours of Daytona Sam and I liked to stand on the outside of the International Horseshoe . The GTP cars would bomb around the NASCRAP banking from the back straight chicane full tilt at well over 200 mph. Then they'd shut it down take the left at turn one in probably second gear and make the run towards the Horseshoe, straight at us. On the short chute from turn one they'd reach probably 140 mph in the blink of an eye. But the real eye-opener was the exit of the Horseshoe.

Once the corner was squared off and they were banging through the gearbox (with the twin turbochargers skittering and screeching crazily) toward the infield kink, the GTP cars would go away from you so quickly that your eyes would not be able to focus on them. They'd seriously outrun your eyeballs ability to freaking keep up with them. Especially the Number 83 Nissan. It was amazing.

This particular example is owned by the Nissan Corp. and is currently on display at The Lane Motor Museum with several other important Nissan racing machines. Alas, it is only a replicated mock-up. Trust me, I crawled under it.....

But, if you'd like to be better acquainted with old Number 83 I happen to know that she has been completely restored and is for sale HERE for a cool $895,000 USD. Boy that would make a helluva Christmas in July present, wouldn't it?

Strange Call

So, I've got a couple of extra passes to the NAMM Show at the convention center in Nash-Vegas for Sunday. On Saturday evening I call my buddy Stevie's cell to see if maybe he'd like to use one. He got me a pass last year and I thought I'd repay the favor.

A lady answers the phone and proceeds to give me quite a bit of the third degree. Strange. "Who IS this?" A lady answering his phone was the first red flag, since he was several years divorced, and as far as I know didn't have a steady enough lady that would be answering his cell.

"Well, this is Pee Wee calling for Stevie."

"For who?" she says, hostile as hell.

"For Stevie, er, ah, Mark (none of his folks call him Stevie, only people that ever worked with him). I'm a friend of his."

"Mark's dead" she states flatly.

Duhhhh......Stunned silence on my end. My mind is going "What? What? Mayday!". "Are you still there?" she asks. Insert Verizon guy, "Can you hear me now?" She has to say it a couple or three times.

I'm not sure I am here, I'm thinking. "Yeah, I guess I am here." I say blindly.

She, "We found him on July twelfth, he'd been dead since the first." Again she asks, "Who IS this?" My brain is barely able at this point to produce a coherent sentence (yeah, I know, what's different about that). "Uh, my names Pee Wee, I worked with him for years at Q.I." I'm stammering at this point. That seemed to settle her a bit. Turns out I was talking to Stevie's sister-in-law.

"Well his brother, my husband, found him on the 12th. He was laid back in his recliner with the television blasting and the T.V. remote control on his chest. He smelled pretty bad."

Great. Now, I don't know about you, but that last bit of info I could have done without. The images I already had going on in my day-mare video mind were pretty wild.

"We buried him on Thursday the sixteenth. We're still waiting on the toxicology reports."

As of now I have no idea how I got off the phone with her, or of any of the rest of our conversation. She told me her name but I do not have a clue as to what it was.

Now, it's 3 days later as I type-peck this into the computer. I'm still kind of numb. I think about it out of the blue during the day and it kind of stops me in my tracks. Stevie was five years my junior. He was a funny as hell guy, a disc-jockey that always had a zinger at the ready, with an infectious laugh. I truly hate that kind of shit that makes me have to think of my own mortality.

But, I will tell you this. Enjoy what you do. Enjoy your folks, your pets, your friends and your family. And, you're only only gonna' get one fucking shot to do these things, and to tell them how you feel about them. You better do it. Now.

Peace.

A Cat and His Hammer

Devil cat Zeke, the fourteen pounder. This is one of his new favorite toys. One of the other favorites is a shift lever off a motocross bike. Whenever he's chuckin' them around it sounds like somebody throwing bricks into a trash barrel. What a nut.....