In September of 1997, the team owner I was driving for had me sign a contract for the following season. After many years of not having a clue what I was going to be racing the following season, knowing that I had a contract and was going to be paid to drive for another year not only made me feel relieved, I was ecstatic.
Early in the day on December 24th, I got a phone call from a business manager for the team owner informing me that the team was being sold and that I no longer had a contract. No job. No racing. Oh, and Merry Christmas.
This was the second year in a row that this had happened. In the fall of 1995, I had signed to drive for a team in the 1996 IMSA series, and that went so well the team happily agreed to have me race for them again in 1997. But on December 31st of that year, I was informed that team was being shut down. Fortunately, within a couple of weeks I had been hired by a new team for the '97 season, leading to my '98 contract signing in September and subsequent cancellation on Christmas Eve.
The sports car racing season at that time traditionally began the first weekend in January with a 3-day test (now called The Roar) at Daytona in preparation for the 24-hour race at the end of that month. As I had already planned to be there and had booked my flight, off I went to do what too many drivers do there: walk around looking for a team to hire me to drive.
For two and three-quarter days I wandered around the paddock area talking to team owners, mechanics I'd worked with in previous years, and friends. My goal was to find a team who would hire me based on my reputation. And I was competing for those jobs with drivers who had sponsorship or personal money they could offer the teams. I did not have money to pay for a ride, nor was I willing to at this stage in my career. For two and three-quarter days I got nowhere other than a lot of interest. Team owners respected what I could bring to their teams, but either there was no opening or the team needed a funded driver.
With one last one-hour practice session scheduled on the final afternoon, Tom Milner, the owner of PTG who ran the factory-supported BMW team told me he'd give me half a dozen laps in one of his three cars. I had been driving prototype sports cars over the past few years, and now I'd be jumping into a GT car for half a dozen laps to prove myself. The GT car is a slower car, but still it was different and no less difficult to find the ultimate speed from any other race car. While the car started life as a bare shell of stock BMW M3, the only thing stock now was the windshield and roof. Everything was custom fabricated and/or highly modified.
As I walked towards the silver, black, and red BMW sitting in pit lane, it dawned on me that it had been eleven years since I'd driven a race car with a windshield and roof. Every car I'd driven in that period of time had been open cockpit, like Indy cars and prototype sports cars. As I twisted my body to clear the roll cage and slip into the seat I felt a touch claustrophobic, completely enclosed in the shell. I didn't have the open view like I had in the open cockpit cars where it was only my helmet visor between me and the wind.
The team's regular driver was someone I knew just barely well enough to nod a hello while walking around the garages and paddock area, and he had given me a nod as he got out of the car to hand it off to me. I could guess what he was feeling, having been in a similar situation where my team was trying out another driver in my car: a mixed feeling of wanting the new guy (me, in this case) to do a good job because he might be a good co-driver for me, helping me win more; not wanting him to hurt my car; not wanting him to go a faster than me. It was "his" car and I respected that, but I was here to prove I belonged. The team had tested five or six other drivers over the course of the past couple of days, and I was getting the least number of laps to do what I needed to do.
The lead mechanic, to whom I had not even been introduced yet, gave me a ten second tutorial on where all the switches and data readouts were in the cockpit, and then I fired the engine. Another crew member waved me out, I revved the engine, quickly slipped the clutch and accelerated down pit lane.
My first lap was used to get comfortable with the controls, and on my second lap I began to push it a little to sense where the limits were. And there were limits! After years of driving faster cars, I quickly realized it was easy to over-drive this car. The brakes were strong, but I turned into the corners with too much speed, expecting it to do more. When I got back to power, it felt like the engine had a problem. The problem was simple though: it had about half the horsepower of an Indy car, and two-thirds of a prototype sports car. I was used to much more power, so I learned quickly I couldn't rely on more throttle to fix a driving error. I needed to be precise. I needed to be accurate. No mistakes. Smooth, tidy.
After my sixth lap the checkered flag was shown at the start-finish line. Damn. The practice session was over. I knew there was more there, that I could go faster still, but I felt I had a decent feel for the car already. I liked it a lot. And in the world of GT car racing, this was THE team to beat — and to be employed by. If you were a factory BMW driver, it didn't get much better than that.
I climbed out of the M3 and took my helmet off, expecting to do what I usually did after every session, which was to give my feedback about the car's handling to an engineer. Instead of an engineer, though, Tom Milner was standing there. I wondered if the routine on his team was to give feedback to him first. I also wondered, based on his emotion-less face, if I'd done something he didn't like.
"I want you to drive the 24-hour race for us," Tom said before telling me what he was willing to pay me. Then he explained his philosophy about drivers to me: "I hate all race drivers. There are just some I hate less than others."
Okay, it wasn't a warm and fuzzy welcome to the team, but I was ecstatic, as I had a job driving race cars. For BMW. For the team to beat. I could win with this team. I could prove myself.
The Daytona 24-hour race is one of the classic motorsport events in the world, and many of the all-time greats have driven and made a name for themselves in this race. Any 24-hour race is a huge challenge, and Daytona is no exception. Typically, a team runs with four drivers, which is what my car would have, including the regular driver and two drivers who were relatively inexperienced in endurance racing.
We ended up finishing in third place behind our two team cars. It was a 1-2-3 finish for the team, and everyone was happy. Well, most were. I wasn't completely happy since I didn't win. But an hour or so after the race Milner told me he wanted me to drive the next race, the Sebring 12-hour race. I didn't win, but at least I had another chance.
Because of the higher ambient temperatures in Sebring, Florida in the middle of March than we usually experience in Daytona at the end of January, and because the track is much more demanding — the surface is very bumpy and it has twice the number of turns —twelve hours at Sebring is more of a physical challenge than twenty-four at Daytona.
My car finished second at Sebring, once again following home what was considered the number one team car. And once again, Milner told me after the race he'd like me to drive the next race for his team. "Okay," I think, "Maybe I can piece together a season of employment as a driver, race by race, and I'll keep driving for BMW as long as they keep asking."
The third race of the season was in April in Las Vegas, and my co-driver and I finished second there, too. It was a pretty non-eventful race, other than my realization afterwards that I was trying too hard to be fast. I cared too much what others would think of me if I was even a hundredth of a second slower than my co-driver, so I pushed and pushed and pushed.... And that made me slower. I realized I needed to relax and trust myself to drive.
The next race was once again in Florida — three out of the first four races in the "Hot and Sticky" state (if that's not the motto they print on Florida license plates, it should be) — this one in Homestead, just south of Miami. The city of Homestead is most well-known for being destroyed by hurricanes every time one even thinks of blowing through, and then people rebuilding homes exactly where the next hurricane will leave a swath of destruction. I don't get it.
The team was running two cars in this race, and from the way qualifying went it was obvious the race would come down to just our team again. The rest of the competition was off our pace, so as long as we didn't mess things up, the race was ours to win. The only question was which of the two cars would do it.
Between Las Vegas and Homestead, I had thought a lot about how to improve my performance in the car. In the first three races my pace had been right there with my fastest teammates, but I was working really hard to do that. And after much analysis, I took some of my own coaching advice and went to Homestead with a plan to focus on relaxing in the car more, not trying so hard to be fast, and trusting myself to be quick without over-driving the car.
My co-driver started the race after qualifying in second place, and at the half distance point brought our car down pit lane to hand it off to me to finish the race. At this point we were nearly twenty seconds behind our team car, so as I left pit lane, I knew I had to drive the wheels off the car to even get close. And I needed some help from traffic. With two laps left in the race I had caught up and was glued to the rear bumper of our team car. That's when Milner's orders prior to the race echoed in my head: "You can race each other as hard as you want, but if you damage either car you're fired." Tom was like that: warm, comforting, and confidence-inspiring.
I looked for an opportunity to pass my teammate and got one exiting Turn 5, only to be blocked by a slower car we were lapping, and having to pull back in line. Unfortunately, that cost me a couple of seconds and with a lap and a half to go I wondered if I'd missed my only chance. Making up two seconds in a lap in a half was a tall order, but something that I'd told many of the drivers I coached popped into my head: "You have to be close to take advantage of luck." I needed to push as hard as I could to get as close as possible in case he got blocked by traffic.
For the previous forty laps, I had made a small lift of the throttle through the very fast Turn 9, but if I was ever going to get a chance of making a last lap pass I would need to find more speed, and this was the place to do it. Turn 9 was the fastest corner on the track: a left-hander sweeping off the back straight of the oval, and it had a slight bump right at the apex. I would normally turn in with my foot flat to the floor on the throttle and then have to lift just a bit to avoid sliding off the track in what would be a very big crash.
Accelerating towards Turn 9 only one thought was in my mind: "Flat." In other words, I needed to keep my right foot flat to the floor on the throttle all the way through the turn. No lift of the throttle. I'd deal with the consequences of carrying too much speed later — at the exit of the corner. For now, I needed to do everything I could to get as close as possible to my teammate. Flat.
Clipping past the apex, feeling the car sink in the dip in the track, the car jumped about five feet sideways, the tail hanging out at about a ten percent angle, me dialing in opposite lock with the steering. Flat. No lift. All I could think about was looking ahead at where my teammate was entering the next turn already. Milner's "damage the car and you're fired" orders might as well have been in California.
With my foot pushing as hard as possible on the throttle while counter-steering, my right-side tires slid over the yellow and white curbing and dropped into the sandy Florida dirt on the outside of the turn but the thought of lifting never once entered my mind. I had one thing in my target, and it was almost one full turn ahead of me on the track. Through the last couple of turns and onto the front straight, I was nearly a second behind as we began the last lap. If I was a TV commentator, I would probably have said something like, "Well, it's one thing to catch another driver, but it's another to actually get past. With no traffic in front of them, it will take a miracle for Bentley to get the lead now."
I'm not a TV commentator. I was a race driver. I was determined to do everything I could to get as close as possible to take advantage of luck. Through the first eight turns I barely took fractions of a second off the lead, but then we were heading towards Turn 9 again. Being the fastest corner on the track it had the most to gain and lose from. Flat.
Exiting Turn 9 with the right-side tires kicking up sandy dirt again, I almost hit the back of the other M3. I was there. I had caught him with two turns to go. But these were the tight corners that were next to impossible to pass on.
There is a sense of heightened awareness when one is totally in the zone behind the wheel of a race car. It's a very Zen-like feeling, where one feels completely in control, and time seems to slow down. While you're working hard, it's almost effortless — you don't have to try, you just do. You're completely in the moment, with not an ounce of thought of the past or future in your mind. You're more than confident. You just know for sure what is going to happen, almost as if you can predict the future. But even more than predicting the future, you can control the future. You see every detail of all that's going on around you.
I could see my teammate's eyes in his mirror. He looked to see where I was. As I appeared very large and near in his mirror, I caught his attention, when it should have been on the last corner of the track. In that fraction of a fraction of second, he ran a couple of feet wide of where he should have had his car placed. That was my chance.
I turned in hard and slowly released the brake pedal to make the car rotate aggressively. I was pointed onto the front straight about half a car's length behind. But having run a little wide of the turn, his right-side tires were not on the grippy part of the track surface. As we both stood on the throttle, my car accelerated faster. We were now in an all-out drag race to the finish line only a few hundred feet ahead of us.
Crossing the finish line half a car's length ahead, my lead mechanic yelled over the radio, "Yes!"
Coasting into Turn 1, my teammate and I were side-by-side. We looked at and gave each other a thumbs up, but I knew he couldn't have been happy. Not as happy as me. Sure, it was a great race, but anytime a driver loses, theyʻre not happy. And especially when the change for the lead happens within sight of the finish line... Well, I was glad I was me.
Slowly making my way back to pit lane and the victory lane, I keyed my radio to talk to the whole team, "Thank you guys! That was the most fun I've had in a long time, and that's because this car is awesome — thanks to you guys for making it that way. And Tom, thanks for giving me the opportunity. YES!"
During the victory lane celebrations, I was interviewed for the TV coverage and the reporter asked, "How does it feel to be leading the championship now?"
The possibility of that had not even been remotely in my mind, so I stumbled for a few seconds to come up with an answer, but then replied, "Really?! That’s amazing. At the beginning of the season, just four races ago, I didn't have a drive. Then Tom and BMW gave me a chance. Wow, to think that I'm now leading the championship is very cool. Of course, that's because they've given me the best car with the best team supporting me and my teammates, so a big thank you goes to all of them. So, we'll celebrate this position for a day or so, and then go back to preparing for the next race. We have a lot of races to go still."
Back in the trailer an hour later, after an interview in the track media room and having finally changed from my sweaty (and now champagne-soaked) driving suit into my regular clothes, Tom walked in and with the same unemotional facial expression he had when he first hired me to drive Daytona. He said, "Since you're leading the championship, I guess you're driving the rest of the season." He then turned and walked out of the trailer.
It was early May and I had finally secured a job for the season.
Excellent read thank you Ross. More of these please!
Felt like I was there. Great writing.