Never Stop Driving #119: Crash!

I smashed the barrier at 54 miles per hour. The Mustang’s nose rode the wall skyward as my body squeezed into the belts. In those final few microseconds my emotions cycled through panic, fury, and, finally, guilt. I was sharing a car with two close friends and my wreck last weekend derailed not just my race, but theirs, too.  

When people ask why I devote considerable resources to car racing, I tell them about the thrill, but also that motorsports supplies all the richness of human emotions yet in the end has few life-altering consequences. A first place or a fast lap is like a lottery win and even though I’m far from a professional—I call myself a “pretty good mediocre driver”—I feel electrically charged after a race. A broken car or, far worse, a crash is awful to be sure, but assuming no injuries, which are thankfully rare, the weekend is a blip and life goes on.   

This crash, however, was different. I simply drove too fast entering Turn 6 at Watkins Glen raceway. At any other circuit, I likely would have harmlessly drifted wide and off the track, but the Glen punishes mistakes. Guardrails line the track and in some places are adjacent to the pavement. Turn 6 has a few feet of grass between the track and the wall, which is lined with a single layer of impact-absorbing tires. As the Mustang slid off the pavement, I thought I’d slowed enough that the hit might be a glancing blow. A second or so before impact, however, I reached 120 mph, and my internal speed compass was way off. BOOM! I barreled in and hit the barrier at 54 mph, according to the data recorder.  

To put that in context, if I’d hypothetically dropped the car from a seven-story balcony, it would be traveling at roughly 54 mph when it hit the ground. The impact bent several critical chassis parts. Our professional crew weren’t sure it was fixable. My mistake happened on Thursday afternoon, during practice for the weekend’s race. We were just getting started when I blew it.  

I need to paint a little backstory here.    

Two long-time friends and I gathered at Watkins Glen for a pair of eight-hour endurance races in which we would take turns driving the same car. The weekend was intended as a celebration of sorts, a recognition of the unexpected positions we, a trio of guys in our mid-50s, have found ourselves in.  

We got to know each other some 25 years ago while scraping nickels together to build and race cheap production-based economy cars in local Sports Car Club of America events. We shared equipment, advice, and labor before trying to beat each other on the track. One of the things that drew us together was our common gratitude. The people prowling the pits during any amateur race weekend always represent a wide range of fortunes, and we were in the barely-able-to-afford-it camp. Since we’d all come from modest means, just being there was our win, and we knew it.  

Families and careers largely paused our joint racing activities until this year, when we rented the Mustang for Watkins Glen. The rental came with luxuries like a pit crew, spare tires, and an air-conditioned trailer. Whoo-ahh! Remember, we reminisced, when we were lying in a muddy field to change an engine? 

So, a celebration for being together, for racing, and for reaching the point in our lives where we had the dough to pay for it. And then I got in the car.  

As I rode in the ambulance back to the pits, I predicted what would happen when I faced my buddies. They shrugged and said, “Eh, it happens. That’s racing.” Unquestioned forgiveness. I would do the same. We share a car because we trust each other, and I’ve never crashed this hard in 25 years of competing. The question I couldn’t answer in that ambulance was: Could I forgive myself? 

Good racing mechanics can fix almost anything with astonishing speed. As the crew mulled over a game plan, I silently prayed they’d decide that the car wasn’t fixable, and I could escape immediately. I was THAT GUY, the one who’d caused the trouble. An hour after impact, however, they’d already secured replacement parts and were tearing apart the front end of the car. I repeatedly apologized and sulked around the garage.  

A question burned in my mind: Could I practice what I preach? Earlier this year, my 21-year-old son slid a car off-track into a gravel trap. I watched, silently celebrating: He’d found the limit, a perfect learning opportunity. He returned spouting brutally harsh words about himself that I’d never heard before, stuff like “I’m worthless” and “how could I be so stupid.” That was upsetting to hear. I’m grateful he’s no narcissist but beating yourself up like that accomplishes nothing.  

My son and I share a 35-year-old Spec Racer Ford, a dedicated track car that’s worth maybe 10 grand. We can fix it, I told him, so drive it like you stole it. Also, I’ve repeatedly admonished, crashing is part of racing. After his off-track excursion I told him not to be so hard on himself. He’s not reckless and mistakes happen. Move on. And, of course, so should I.  

The next day, I told my friends that I was moving on but didn’t want them to think my smiling and joking around meant I didn’t understand how my actions affected them. Roughly 24 hours after impact, the car was back on track for the last qualifying sessions. While we missed a lot of practice time, we made both weekend races and even notched a top ten finish. It wasn’t the weekend we envisioned, but perhaps it was a richer one all the same. 

I brought the wrinkled Mustang fender home. I’m not sure if it’s a reminder of a bad experience or a positive reminder to my entire family that we’re all human and screw up now and then.  

In this space, I frequently ask you to support Hagerty’s free media efforts by joining the Hagerty Drivers Club. Membership includes a bi-monthly magazine, full access to Hagerty Valuation tools, events, discounts, and more. One of my favorite benefits is the roadside assistance, which I was thankful to have this past weekend. While driving back to Ann Arbor from Watkins Glen Sunday night, a tire blew. Naturally, I was in a remote area of New York state, 15 miles east of Jamestown. I called Hagerty roadside, and my car was on a flatbed within an hour. Whew. It’s great to have friends on call. 

Have a great weekend! 

Larry  

P.S.: Your feedback and comments are welcome.   

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