Teri

Teri's Tales

Teri’s Tales

PUSHING THE LIMIT

By Teri Styers

We were watching one of those shows about car chases and how the police will bump one corner of the offending car and spin it off into the dirt. It reminded me of something…

Years ago we owned a general automotive repair shop with a used car lot. Cars within our budget (cheap) were difficult to find locally and because of the repair shop getting over to the Denver auctions made it even more difficult.

It may be because it was 20 years ago - or it may be because of the brain injury my husband inflicted on me that day – but whatever the reason the details are a little fuzzy to me…

Somehow we had gotten to Denver and purchased two cars and we were each going to drive one back. We made it to the edge of Denver when some small problem with one of them forced us to stop to buy a tool kit at Target. The weather got very blustery and while Doug was under the hood I was playing linebacker with shopping carts that came barreling at us from all directions. Whatever it was got fixed well enough to continue home – but now he was a little crabby.

From what I recall the next few hours went okay. We were in Glenwood Canyon when Doug’s car drifted to the side of the road and stopped. I pulled over and he walked back to me looking, well – even crabbier. "I’m out of gas." he said.

At this time I would like to point out that the gauge in his vehicle worked. He just didn’t notice. It was an innocent mistake and I was nice about it. I suggested that we drive to Glenwood Springs, buy gas, and return. He didn’t like that idea at all. We would have to purchase a gas can and a "turn around" point was miles out of our way. "Push me." he said.

Around our repair shop I had done this plenty of times. But I had used a truck and we were usually only going from the parking lot into a bay. (One time our truck jumped the bumper of a big old 1970’s Buick Electra and we spent an entire afternoon reassembling the humongous and impossible to find taillight lens and super gluing the 8 million pieces of it back together.)

Glenwood Springs was miles away and this canyon was narrow and curvy. I reluctantly agreed to try his idea. I eased up behind his car and we set off. On downhill spots his car would drift away from me. I would wait till he slowed to a crawl, ease up behind him again, and give him another little push. After a few rounds of this he rolled down his window and began gesturing for me to pull up even when he was coasting at 35 mph. I ignored him and continued my routine. He pulled over and stomped back to my car. He not so kindly informed me that we were never going to get there if I kept waiting for him to stop before I pushed him again. When he drifted away I was supposed to run up behind him and hit him again no matter how fast he was going.

I tried. I really did. But it was just so innately and instinctively wrong for me to purposely rear end someone. I would get inches from his bumper and then I’d chicken out and back off. He began gesturing again and now I could actually hear him screaming at me. After a few miles of this I passed him, glared at him, and then pulled over. He pulled past me and parked too. I was standing outside my car with my hands on my hips. He exited his car looking way past crabby now. I was defiant. "If you think it’s so easy then you push!" He stormed past me without a word and got in my car. I scrambled into his.

I knew I was in trouble when I heard his tires squeal. I had only a moment to look at him in the rear view mirror before the first impact. We reached speeds of 50 mph and the weight of his car on my bumper lifted the front end and I had little control over the steering. We came to a downhill grade and separated. Wham! He hit me again and this time I had enough speed to exit the interstate, turn onto the frontage road and actually had to use my brakes to get stopped at a gas pump.

Come to think of it… Doug used to be a cop.

LAS VEGAS part two:

Red Isn’t Doug’s Color

By Teri Styers

Doug was chasing Super Street points that year and we were at a Divisional event at the old Las Vegas Speedway. At the time we had a 1969 AMX that was AMC powered (I am pointing this out because parts for it were expensive and hard to find – an important point considering what was to happen later). Somehow we had farmed out all 4 children and were traveling alone – a rare occurrence.

Before The Strip was built the old track was interlaced with a stock car track and a road race course. Somewhere out in this maze was where we were to be teched. I waited in the pits while Doug drove out there. The tech line was long and he sat down on the ground using his car as shade while he waited. Finally they were ready for him and just as he was lifting the fiberglass hood off the car he felt something creeping up his leg inside his jeans. He slid his arm through the hood scoop lifting with one arm while making a slap just above his knee with the other. The creeping stopped and the tech guy began his inspection. Suddenly Doug felt it again even higher up his leg. He is a boxer wearing guy and the critter was getting close to a critical area. The tech guy turned to ask him a question and found Doug hopping around with the hood on one arm, shaking his leg, and pinching at his crotch – just like a 4 year old doing a pee-pee dance. Doug thought he had the problem solved until he was driving back to the pits. He felt it scurry again and this time it bit too – a hard, stinging bite.

The AMX had a very distinctive sounding motor and I could always hear it coming. This time I noticed it appeared to be approaching very quickly. I looked up from my book just in time to see it skid into our pit space and Doug to clamber out fast. He was unzipping his jeans, grabbing at his privates, and running towards me. My first reaction was that despite the fact we were childless, and in Vegas, that this wasn’t going to happen right now no matter what he thought. He hurled himself into the van and dropped his jeans. Out scurried the world’s largest red ant leaving behind an even larger red welt on Doug’s upper thigh.

As I said, this was a Divisional event and you made your time trials on one day with eliminations the next. There were hundreds of cars there and it took hours to complete one set of time trials. Each class was to get three. Doug made his first time trial and then did a little tweaking under the hood; including checking spark plugs. He made a second time trial and the car was right on - yanking the tires several feet off the ground. This motor had a tendency to run hot and he had designed a big air box that covered most of the motor – obscuring it from view. After the second time trial he noticed that he was missing a set of red handled pliers. We searched all over and decided that he had left them on the valve cover after checking the plugs and that they had fallen out when he drove to the staging lanes. He lined up for his third set and was one of 4 cars remaining in his class when they shut us down. It was time to run the fuel classes. We begged the staging lanes guy to send the rest of us instead of making us wait several hours longer. No luck – they had a schedule and they were sticking to it.

Now we had a dilemma. There was a comedy show we wanted to attend. If we waited for our third time trial we would miss the show. If we left for the show we would miss our third time trial. Doug decided that he was satisfied with the car’s performance and we would go to the show.

Even leaving when we did we barely made it to the show on time. We were dehydrated from a hot day at the track and hadn’t had any supper. I don’t remember a lot about the show other than the two drink minimum. I have vague recollections of laughing really hard – but couldn’t tell you a thing about the acts.

The next morning we were called to the lanes for first round. Doug had a great light, the AMX lifted better than ever, and he had the guy covered – first gear, second gear, - then something was wrong. He never shifted out of second gear. I could hear the motor wrapping higher and higher. He had a lousy run and he lost badly. By the time I got to the pits Doug had already parked and was headed toward the tower to waive his points (he won a Wally that year and finished in the top five – no thanks to this race). He hadn’t removed the hood, the fan wasn’t on, and the engine was smoking hot. I suggested he cool the car first but he stormed off yelling "let it burn".

Well, that was not going to happen if I could help it. The hood was too big for me to lift without dragging across the fenders so I sought help from Jim Hughes who was pitted nearby. I turned on the fan. I cooled the motor. Mike Coe came by and said it had sounded like a tranny problem to him – no third gear – and that Doug had definitely floated the valves. In fact, he over revved the motor causing the valves to float, and blown a power valve – all while desperately trying to force third gear and stay ahead of his opponent.

Doug returned and we got the car onto the trailer. We had another night in Vegas and he thought we should just leave the track and go gamble. We were in the casino parking lot when he thought about those red pliers. He climbed under the car and sure enough, those pliers had worked their way down the bell housing and were lodged in the linkage of the transmission. Had we stayed for our third time trial we would have figured it out. He worked them free and dramatically threw them in our motel wastebasket – declaring them bad luck. While he showered I retrieved them and put them in my purse. We owned our own repair shop and car lot back then. We faithfully made payments to the Mac Tool man every week and there was no way I was going to throw out a perfectly good set of pliers that would just have to be replaced. When we got home I put them back in Doug’s toolbox.

We’d been home several days when I heard Doug shriek a little out in his shop. I found him standing about 10 feet from his toolbox. He was pale and the drawer with the pliers was hanging open. He honestly thought they had come back to haunt him.

LAS VEGAS: Part One

Too Much of a Bad Thing

By Teri Styers

I’ll admit it was my idea. A whole group of us from WCDR traveled to Las Vegas one November to race. Doug’s brother rode his motorcycle up from Phoenix to watch. I was the one who read all the brochures to find us fun things to do when we weren’t racing. We saw New York, New York and some rode the roller coaster. We watched the pirates sink the English at Treasure Island. We gambled, ate cheap food and drank in moderation. But the highlight of our trip was planned for Saturday night when the races were over.

The now defunct Sahara Casino was located way down at one end of the Strip and offered an attraction called "Speed World". We racers were going to Speed World to kick butt.

Our hotel was off the strip; miles from the Sahara. We took a free shuttle to the Strip, and ate at a buffet. Not one of us had any alcohol with dinner. In fact, I had a glass of milk – a decision I was to regret later on. After dinner we began walking down Las Vegas Boulevard toward the Sahara with the hopes of catching the shuttle somewhere along the way. We never connected with it and ended up walking the entire distance. But that was okay and we were in good spirits when we arrived.

Speed World offered two attractions. The first was a 3-D movie filmed from inside an Indy car. We were seated in chairs on a moving platform which gave the sensation of being inside the car while it careened around the track. The ride was $3 and was okay – but none of us was overly impressed.

The second ride was a full sized Indy car simulator and cost us $8 each. We were led into a room where we watched a film giving very detailed instructions on how to operate these cars. The shifting is on the steering wheel; the canopy must be locked in the correct position; your side mirrors had digital displays showing your speed and time remaining. You were in constant contact with a pit crew; who instructed you when to make stops for repairs. The movie warned you several times that this ride was not for sissies. We were psyched – and somewhat cocky. We were race car drivers and Vegas was going to know we’d been there.

There were 6 of us; 5 race car drivers and Doug’s brother. The only other woman in the group chose not to ride. We were assigned cars. We would race against each other. Top speed attainable was 215 mph.

I locked myself in and the ride began. I immediately knew something was wrong. Instead of a "real" screen what I saw was some sort of digitalized computer cartoon – like a video game (which I hate). The steering was incredibly touchy, and the brakes and accelerator were very stiff; nothing like the real thing. Because all 6 of us were linked via computer, mistakes made by one could affect another. Almost immediately one of the other drivers hit me and I was called into the pits for repair. I ventured back out on "the track". The screen seemed blurry and unreal. The other cars looked like toys. I tried very hard to focus while fighting with the steering. I hit the wall and was struck by another driver. Back to the pits. And so went the ride. I kept trying to concentrate; but it was so fake. I had about two minutes remaining when I began to feel queasy. The movie had warned us about this: STOP THE RIDE! But I have never had a problem with motion sickness, and I was the only woman, and I wasn’t going to quit if the guys were still going. Big mistake.

The ride ended and I staggered out. Two other drivers exited with me – one was green – the other was Doug’s brother (the non-racer) and he was fine. The others drivers had bailed out at various points during the competition. I found Doug in the bar with a glass of 7-UP pressed to his forehead. Dale Umberger was in the bathroom throwing up. The thick cigarette smoke was making me gag. I had to get outside.

We were a sorry group at the trolley stop. Dale tied a knot in his jacket sleeve so he’d have something to throw up in again. I quietly moved all the contents of my purse into one pouch so I’d have my own "vomit vessel". But when the trolley arrived Doug and I were just too ill to dare a ride. So we began to walk even though it was miles back to our hotel.

Every step we took was further curdling the milk in my belly; but the fresh air was making Doug feel better. He left me on the sidewalk to enter a drugstore and purchase gum. I was standing alone on the sidewalk when a man about my age approached. "Hey pretty lady are you having fun? What’s the matter blue eyes – can’t you smile for me?" Normally I could politely brush off a friendly drunk. But I wasn’t up to it. "Go away." was all I could say.

Doug was getting better and I was barely holding my own until we passed the fish & chips place. The smell sent me over the edge and we ended up stopping on a major corner where I sat on a large rock and puked into a little flower bed. Doug stood next to a light pole a few feet away with his back to me pretending like he didn’t know me. I was in full view of hundreds of cars and pedestrians. It was Saturday night in Las Vegas and I know everyone thought I was just another drunk tourist. I was so sick I didn’t care.

After that we flagged a cab and arrived at the hotel about the same time as the rest of our group who had boarded the free trolley. We were all still ill and done for the night – except Doug’s brother – the non-racer - who went off to find the ice cream parlor!

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