FEATURE: Notes From The Road - An Adventure With Rick Steinke
SICK THE MAG WRITER PHILLIP THOMAS SPENDS FOUR DAYS IN A ‘67 MALIBU IN SEARCH OF THE SOUL OF DRAG-AND-DRIVE.
At night, it’s like chasing starships across the universe - led only by the afterburner glow of tail lamps and a faint idea of what’s actually around you.
The road winds into the abyss, hiding the horizon behind endless white lines and floating objects. Houses, street lights, the world at large passing by like distant, unknown planets isolated from the rhythm of an internal combustion engine. The last night of Summit Racing’s Midwest Drags was the longest. Our flight plan had us tearing across from Indianapolis to Norwalk, heading back to home base for the final day of competition. But between here and there were four asylum escapees disguised as gearheads. Out of a black hole shoots a signal, a green road sign reading that our destination is just a few miles ahead.
These drag-and-drive events are like no other, a testament to humankind’s stubbornness behind the wheel. The concept is simple enough: a day of racing followed by a road trip, with a week of time slips averaged together into a final ET to score on. But it’s hardly won by just churning laps down track. The transit miles between tracks are the defining factor here, the real qualification of a street car in the eyes of many. The mechanical test is staggering enough, but it’s the consumption of the human spirit, more so than the unthinkable amounts of fuel and parts, that make this format of drag racing unique.
I was invited into the Malibu of Rick and Jackie Steinke, who had veteran Mark Sussino riding as crew. There was an environment of limited optimism when the week began in Norwalk. The decades of combined experience contained behind those four doors were prepared for anything, the morbid humor was testament to that, but with it came a vigilant dedication to the machine. That constant awareness meant every pop and shimmy in the car that broke rhythm was scrutinized, each mile would be hard-earned, and that eternal glory and success weren’t promised to anyone.
DAY ONE - OPTIMISM
As opening day began, the only thing moving fast over Summit Motorsports Park were the local crop dusters and a scattering of morning storms that had closed up the track’s lanes until the surface could dry out enough for prep. Most racers’ attention was on the week’s forecasts. The spattering of green, yellow, and red on the radar over Norwalk was moving on today, but the chances of rain over Edgewater were too solid to ignore. Tension built as the PA system shouted that there’d be a new update in just a few minutes, only to repeat the same hopeful promise as another band of rain marched by. The classic hurry up and wait. There was still tonight’s drive to the Cincinnati area, leaving every second lost to the delay as one stolen from the road.
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Once the call came, though, racers poured into line in a flash flood, with Rick near the front to make some of the earliest runs of the day. The main focus was to get a pair of clean 8.5 second passes as soon as possible, pack up camp, and then roll out to maximize time for the road. Rick rolled the dice a half-a-dozen times for his best two timeslips of 8.571/161.52mph and 8.588/153.54mph. Those were judged solid enough and it wasn’t before too long that the trailer was hitched and the drag radials were swapped for some more typical street tires. Rick and Mark marched in tight coordination while packing the trailer, getting everything situated like obsessed Tetris champs. They worked in all three dimensions to manage both accessibility and weight distribution. Heavy tools and spare parts that were less likely to be needed found their way low and towards the front of the trailer, while our bags and some quick items were kept by the trailer’s rear access door.
The pit area cleared, it was all aboard the Honk If Parts Fall Off Express to Edgewater. As soon as we hit the road out of Summit Raceway Park though, one thing became clear: the rear brake pads loved to sing while cold — every press on the brake was like a garbage truck coming to a stop behind us with its haggard drums squealing, Mark quipped.
The word Malibu hints at opulence, but passenger comforts were limited as the miles rolled by. While it was still a four-door with two bench seats, Honk did have to lose some convenience to safety, and the roll cage interfered with the all-precious air-conditioning system.
“If you need to open the wing vent, you’ll have to have the door open,” Rick advised. “But if you sit just right while wearing mesh shorts, it’s perfect!”
DAY TWO - TREPIDATION
“Looks like we’re sleeping in a little,” said my hotel roommate as he peaked out the window to a glassy parking lot. What we hoped would be isolated storms were turning into a constant drenching, and even with a late breakfast in the lobby the rain continued to fall sideways.
Under the hotel’s portico, where you’d normally find some rich guy’s Bentley, rested the flat-black and patina Malibu with its hood up. It was the only shelter from the rain as Rick and Mark worked under the hood chasing a misfire that had chipped away at everyone’s sanity. No amount of tweaking cells in the Holley ECU had solved it, so spare injectors were procured from the trailer. Data logs had pointed at two possible culprits, so they were rotated out with new units.
The call to cancel the race for day two came without surprise shortly after, though the ignition hiccup kept returning under throttle after making the required photo stop at Edgewater Raceway and getting on the road to Indianapolis. Right around highway speeds, at about three- quarter throttle, a quick skip would develop. It wasn’t consistent enough to be mechanical, nor enough to stop the trip. The miles kept stacking on, while occasionally pooling together data logs and making tweaks during the next fuel stop.
The biggest issue was really Rick’s obsession with torturing his passengers with the brakes. We’d somehow made a roadtrip game of squealing karaoke, with the screaming pads wailing out vague facsimiles of whatever was brewing in our pilot’s head. Two long stabs with a quick short blast on the brakes twice, three medium stomps and two fast taps — mimicking the syllables of jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Or was it Metallica’s Master of Puppets? Anything was fine to distract us from the underlying stress: tomorrow wasn’t certain, and losing another day to rain would’ve taken half the event from underneath us.
DAY THREE - EXHAUSTION
Indianapolis. Mother Nature couldn’t let us start too early today, either. Though it had come in lighter than the previous days, the mirrors of rain in the concrete were key signs that nothing was moving fast any time soon. The miles and friends are great, sure, but we’re here to race — and everyone was just a little weary after the soaked road miles. While everyone prepped and dried cars out by lunch, Lucas Oil Raceway had blown and glued the track, betting against the lingering clouds.
Honk wasn’t hurt, but we weren’t setting the 8.50 tech index of the class on fire either. Randall Reed, along with others in our convoy like Tim Flanders and Jason Rousseau, were starting to sort out their domination of the class. The misfire we’d experience on the road would largely disappear under power, and fighting against the fly-weight Fox-bodies and G-bodies was a lofty cause. More rounds were made before Rick realized he was starting to make the mistake of chasing a number that was going to be just out of reach, effort be damned — 8.598/155.15mph and an 8.563/161.07mph after four hits.
As the trailer was packed for the third time this week, silence had begun to contain the stress. Leaving behind the war of attrition at Lucas Oil Raceway — fellow entrants’ engines were scattered through the parking lot — we entered the last road trip of the week with brewing fatigue. Blasts of laughter would still rock from the crew cab Chevelle as we clicked each mile, though everything was weighed against the longest trek of the event.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that everything was to end soon that catapulted everyone into introspection late in the week. There’s a recognition that this bubble we’re in will soon burst and allow the outside world to return, and maybe a slight loss of attention span for brake squeal karaoke. As we pass through small towns, each with their own quirks and landmarks, the absurdity of what’s taking place becomes tangible as locals peep back at us with wonder, and maybe a little confusion. “Nice fuckin’ car, sir!” a random kid calls out.
With more than six hours of driving and darkness having long descended, even a minor break-down at the gas station, a broken starter wire, was met not with frustration, but slow paced methodology on the grounds of exhaustion alone.
DAY FOUR - ETERNAL GLORY
Rolling into the hotel the previous night felt like its own victory, but everyone knows that it’s that final day’s timeslip that secures the true glory of completion. Weeks have been lost at this stage. The gates of Summit Motorsports Park were the final stretch, and Friday started off refreshingly dry. Another four tosses of the dice down track, and a set of 8.539/164.33mph and 8.591/156.83mph time slips would be good for fourth in class. The potential to place was there, surely. And maybe it really mattered something, too — but you wouldn’t be able to tell on anyone’s face. Two of our convoy, Tim and Jason, placed second and third respectively, earning a few bragging rights for sharing the road with them.
These races bring everyone together for more than just the competition. Camaraderie and shared struggle are the basis of human evolution, and racing is just a conduit for these experiences. With the necessary survivalism for any effort to be worth it, it brings people together with a focus on fighting battles on the track, and not on the sidelines and rulebooks. The toxic technicality-winning mantra of organized motorsports, that cut-throat atmosphere where the ends justify the means, just isn’t apparent here.
As we cruise the highways, side by side with our racing kin, the soul of these events is laid bare. A knowing glance at 80mph: “Isn’t this awesome?”
It was never about the cars, it was always about the people.
