Weekend in Pits Fails to Deter Area Driver

The black go-kart sat on a tubular bench the size of a card table. Bending over the motor were mechanics Kevin Stratton and Greg Husby. Like surgeons engaged in a frantic life-or-death operation, they were trying to resuscitate the machine in time for the start of the La Verne Grand Prix. The prognosis wasn’t good.

“I’m thinking about dropping out,” said the kart’s owner-driver, Bill Clingen of Northridge. “I’m getting dubious whether it will ever run. Once one thing goes wrong, it affects everything else. The tolerance in these karts is that close.”

A clutch problem was only the latest in a streak of bad luck that plagued Clingen last weekend. On Saturday, he went out for his first practice lap and blew his 25-horsepower rotary engine, thereby ending his hopes of winning the unlimited class, in which he placed second last year. He could have gone home but decided instead to install another engine. The backup was smaller, meaning he would have to drop in class.

While other drivers attended an outdoor chapel service early Sunday morning, Clingen watched his mechanics, both from the Valley, torque the last bolt into place in the pit area. Until the substitute engine was tested, they would have no way of knowing whether six months of idleness had thrown something out of whack. But when Stratton pushed the starter, the two-stroke engine woke up roaring.

To the untrained ear, the sound was no different from the varrrooooms coming from dozens of other engines at that instant on the parking lot of the University of La Verne. But Clingen decided to call over the “motor man” for a second opinion. The specialist was Mike Manning, who owns a kart shop in Northridge. He opened the throttle and listened. The engine whined and the bench shook. Then he frowned.

“Sounds like you got an air leak,” he said. Clingen knew what that meant: diminished horsepower. “It’s all over,” he said with a shrug. “I’m starting in the back row as it is because I didn’t qualify yesterday, and now I won’t have as much power as everyone else in the race.”

But Clingen, 37, smiled. Winning wasn’t a big deal. “What the heck, I might as well compete,” he said. “This is just a fun race. There’s no prize money involved, so there’s really no pressure to have to win.”

Like the tiny karts, the La Verne Grand Prix is a miniature version of the real thing. For two days, the city closed off Third Street between D and C streets. A chain-link fence and bales of hay cordoned off a .27-mile course that had a 650-foot straightaway and three turns, including one of 180 degrees. During a long day of practice and racing Sunday, some 2,500 spectators sat on lawn chairs or stood and peered through the chain-link fence.

The grand prix, said to be the only one of its kind for karts in the country, began last year as a part of La Verne’s centennial celebration. It was originated by La Verne driver Randy Swaydan, who had jokingly said to his wife, “Why not block off downtown and have a race?” The event went over so well that the City Council voted unanimously to hold another grand prix this year. About 180 karts competed in 16 classes.

Clingen decided to take a few practice runs to see how badly the ailing engine would affect the kart’s performance. Clingen, a long-time racing enthusiast whose father, a minister, liked to do spin-outs on icy roads with the family automobile, has been a professional kart racer for about a year. He competed in a pro series, finishing ninth.

“I got into karting because it was much less money--$15,000 compared with $100,000--than other forms of racing,” said Clingen, an insurance salesman. “But I get a greater rush of speed in karting--my big engine can do 100 miles an hour--than I do in a full-blown racing machine. And the actual race is more bumper to bumper than any other kind. If you snooze, you lose.”

Wearing padding and a helmet, Clingen climbed into the kart, knees and elbows protruding from his 6-foot, 1-inch frame. Only 5-feet long, the kart, a Kali, rides just an inch off the ground on small, wide tires. There is no roll bar or seat belt--in a mishap, the idea is to come out of the kart and slide. Not to say that kart racing is dangerous: “It’s the safest racing in the world,” Clingen said, although “you can fracture ribs from the G-force. I’ve done it.”

Clingen wheeled the kart onto the track and accelerated into the flow. There were a dozen other machines skimming noisily over the asphalt, the combined racket sounding like the attack of the killer lawn mowers. Small children held their ears. After a few minutes, Clingen slowed and scooted back into the pits.

Stratton and Husby lifted the kart onto the bench and examined the motor. “The thing’s dying,” Clingen said. Stratton wiped his fingers around the clutch plate and found a coating of steel shavings. Once again, Clingen threw up his hands. “That’s no bueno ,” he said. “I may be a hazard if I race. A racer shouldn’t race just to save his ego.”

But Stratton was not ready to give up. “We’ll fix it,” he said. For the next two hours, the mechanics stood under a cruel sun and tried to repair the damage, their hands slimy with grease. The problem involved an internal spacer washer. Stratton had to replace it. He searched through a box of washers but was unable to find one the proper size, so he rigged a lathe with a power drill and filed down a large washer.

“If you’re ever stranded on a desert island, the guy to have with you is a race-car mechanic,” said Clingen, sitting on a lawn chair in the shade. “They will come up with ideas to keep you alive.”

But Clingen’s mechanics, who are paid a small salary, aren’t often called upon to save the day. Engine breakdowns were rare, Clingen said. “Usually, we spend our time polishing the kart.”

Finally, minutes before the race, the mechanics finished the clutch work and Clingen was able to test the kart in an alley adjacent to the pits. But oil leaked from the clutch, so Clingen called over another specialist, Richie Hearns. “A new clutch costs $160,” Clingen said. “I want to make sure it’s OK to race.”

Just as Hearns assured him that the clutch wouldn’t be permanently damaged, a voice on the PA system was announcing the start of the Piston Port Heavy class. Clingen quickly adjusted his jumpsuit and helmet and Stratton pushed the kart to the starting grid. Clingen wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence. “I expect to be lapped,” he said.

Clingen was close to making good on his prediction--he was last in an eight-kart field after 11 laps--when the clutch died. He was forced to quit with less than five laps left. In the pits, Stratton observed the smoking engine. “It could have been worse,” he joked. “At least it didn’t go up in flames.”

All that effort for nothing? “We sure worked our buns off,” Stratton said. “But it was fun.”