Columnist Ron Kantowski: Winning Le Mans car has soul — and attitude

Thursday, July 24, 2003 | 9:33 a.m.

Ron Kantowski is a Las Vegas Sun sports writer. Reach him at ron@lasvegassun.com or (702) 259-4088.

I was just about to excuse myself from a reception honoring Las Vegas' newest world champion, Petersen Motorsports/White Lightning Racing, which won the GT Class at the prestigious 24 Hours of Le Mans last month, if for no other reason to put my Chevy S-10 out of its misery.

Parked among all those Porsches in the parking lot of the team's race shop in North Las Vegas, you could almost see my little pickup developing an inferiority complex.

Then I heard someone whisper to me -- in a psuedo-German accent that sounded a little like Werner Klemperer in Hogan's Heroes -- from the back of the shop.

Unless you grew up watching "Nightrider" or for you really old-timers, "My Mother the Car" on TV, you're probably not going to believe this. But it was the racecar trying to get my attention. It was "speaking" through an opening where the antenna for transmissions from the pits to the drivers goes on race day.

A little earlier, Dale White, who along with Westward Ho executive Mike Petersen owns the sports car racing team bearing their names, had told me the Porsche factory in Germany so badly wanted the brand new 911 to conquer Le Mans that it was fitted with more bells and whistles than a Spike Jones record.

But he didn't mention anything about a larynx.

"What do I call you? Kit the Second?" I asked the car.

"C'mon, quit pulling my exhaust pipe," the car replied. "Do I look like a freakin' Trans-Am? You must be from Kentucky."

"Close -- Indiana," I replied. "But I do have a fond spot for racecars that turn left and right, and especially for Le Mans, going back to when I saw the movie as a teenager. Best racing movie ever made."

"I know," said the racecar. "Remember that Gulf-Porsche 917 that Steve McQueen drove in the movie? That was my great-grandfather."

Now the 911 really had me going.

"So what do I call you?" I asked again. "It says here in the press kit your official name is 'Westward Ho Casino /MMPIE/PAWS/mail2web.com Porsche 911 GTS RS.' If I write that more than once, I'll be out of column inches."

"Don't blame me," the car spat back. "Racing sponsors weren't my idea. If it were up to me, I'd just run around with the No. 93 painted on my doors."

"Owing to your German ancestry, how about I call you "Deiter." Or "Ralf," as in Schumacher, Michael's kid brother."

The car clammed up, like Mister Ed when the neighbors came around Wilbur Post's barn. Finally, it spoke.

"How 'bout you just call me 911 and leave it at that?"

Fine, I said. By this time, members of the local Porsche club that had gathered to pay homage to the 911 and its Las Vegas owners had noticed that I was talking to the car, but they hardly raised an eyebrow. I guess most of them had seen "Days of Thunder," recalling when Robert Duvall asked that black Lumina to take care of Tom Cruise the night before the Daytona 500, and thinking that was normal.

There are drivers who say that every racecar has a soul, but the 911 said it was too young to appreciate the metaphysical side of the sport.

"You'll have to talk to Jackie Stewart about that," it said. "We're like racehorses. We just run as fast as we can for as long as we can. Only horses like oats, and we're kind of partial to champagne in victory lane."

Then the 911 belched a big bubble out of its exhaust.

"A souvenir from France," it said.

"Like those oil streaks on your doors and wheel wells?" I said, noting that the 911 didn't look very much like a racecar that had just won Le Mans. Its engine, capable of 435 horsepower at 8,250 rmp and straightway speeds of 175 mph, had been removed, as had all four of its "corners," where the suspension components and brakes reside. The six-speed transmission also was lying off to the side, as were the wheels and Michelin tires.

"What? So you think Pam Anderson gets up in the morning looking like she's ready to party?" sniffed the 911.

"If you think I look bad now, you should have seen me at the end of 24 hours. My gearshift level was broken, there was a hole in my radiator, they had to change my alternator and my bodywork looked like Liz Taylor, there were so many creases in it. I made more pit stops (21) than a guy driving his family to Disneyland on summer vacation."

I wondered aloud if the 911, in its stripped-down state, would be ready to roll by Sunday, in an American Le Mans race at Sears Point.

"No sweat," said the 911. "There was a delay in getting me back from France. Kent (Moore, crew chief) and Nico (Castellaccio, technician) have been working on me 15 hours a day since I got here. But they'll have me ready for Sears Point. We're gonna beat those Alex Job guys this week."

"Alex Job -- you guys are fierce rivals in the States, but didn't you team up for Le Mans?" I asked the 911.

"Sure did. Alex wanted to win LeMans as much as Mike and Dale did. So Alex prepped the car, and brought along his regular drivers. Mike and Dale provided the car -- me.

"Ah, the drivers," I said. "Those guys are pretty good. Sascha Maassen, Lucas Lohr and Emmanuel Collard are on the Porsche payroll, aren't they?"

"Ja," said the 911. "But my brake pads are still sore from those guys stomping on them for 24 hours. We completed 320 laps, and this isn't like NASCAR, where they only use the brakes to avoid Jimmy Spencer."

"Well," I said. "At least this week, you're going to have your regular drivers, Johnny Mowlem from England and that Californian, Craig Stanton. Since they're part of the team, and the race is only three hours, they probably won't be as hard on your equipment."

"Don't bet on it," said the 911. "Did you see the calves on Stanton? The guy is some sort of physical fitness freak."

Then the 911, ahem, switched gears.

"Hey, you've been asking all the questions, how about letting me ask one. Since I only just met Mike and Dale and the guys, what can you tell me about the team? I mean, it's not exactly like Las Vegas is the endurance racing capital of the world."

"Right," I said. "Well, I first became aware of Dale when he and Mike got started in off-raod racing in the 1980s."

"Off-road racing? What's that?" asked the 911.

"Kind of like rally racing," I said, searching for the European equivalent. "Only with a lot more dust."

"Anyway, as I was saying, Mike and Dale began off-road racing, because it was sort of affordable. They won championships and more than 50 races competing in organizations such as SODA, SCORE and SNORE. Won their class at Baja four times. But on the weekends they weren't racing, they'd take their Porsches out for a spin. On pavement. It was then they discovered they were really road racing enthusiasts at heart.

"So, to make a long story short, that's how they got into endurance racing. In 2001, they finished first in class, second overall, at the Rolex 24 at Daytona. Then last year, they were the runner-up at the Petit LeMans and started this year by finishing second in class at the 12 Hours of Sebring. That was in your sister car, the No. 31. Then they bought you, and won Le Mans in their very first try.

"Pretty amazing."

"Yeah, pretty amazing," said the 911. "But I'm hungry. It's been almost a month since I had a good belt of methanol. Hmmm, that's quite a spread they've got over there. They got any strudel? Or how about a croissant, that will remind me of Le Mans."

"Doesn't look like it," I said. "Just fruit and cookies and chips and some Subway sandwiches."

The 911 flashed its lights. "Did you say Subway sandwiches? Bring me one of those. I've got a race this weekend, and I wouldn't mind shedding a few pounds."

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