The Spec Stage II Clutch (http://www.specclutch.com) is a mild clutch upgrade that uses a segmented disc. The disc, made of Kevlar, is identical to the disc in the Southbend TZ. The pressure plate is rated at 478 ft-lbs. For comparison, the tried-and-true RPS Max pressure plate (with stock disc) is rated at 580 ft-lbs.

I chose the Spec II over the RPS Max and the Southbend clutches because I wanted a solid compromise clutch. I didn’t want to spend the 550 or more for the RPS Max, and I didn’t want a pucked disc because my VR-4 is not a dedicated drag car. The segmented disc, decent torque capability, and advertised stock-like feel were exactly what I wanted.

I’ve put about 7k on this clutch and am generally disappointed. It certainly holds all the power I’m making (which is, admittedly, not that much). However, it chatters considerably during engagement and the pedal feel is very poor. There is little perceptible change when the clutch begins to engage–quite the opposite of the positive engagement feel of the stock clutch. Starts from a stop are infuriating, as is clutching on normal upshifts during street driving. After over a year with this clutch, I still feel as if I’m fumbling with the engagement.

Next time out I’m going to use something with a full-faced disc and a high-clamp pressure plate.

I’m constantly amazed at how wrong people are when quoting specifications for the Mitsubishi 3000GT VR-4 and its sister car, the Dodge Stealth Twin Turbo. In general I’m surprised at how often 3000GT / Stealth facts are misrepresented in one way or another. Most people misquote 3000GT curb weight, but surprisingly engine specs are often incorrectly stated also. I intend to set the record straight. For easy browsing:

All Years, All Models:

Models Overview:

*1997-1999 base 3000GT has SOHC 12v engine

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I was, in the purest sense of the term, on patrol last week. Humptulips is a town–an area, really–on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, northwest of Aberdeen, East of Moclips, and South of Forks. The town center is a gas station (where each pump has a single grade of fuel and you must manually reset the counter by raising a lever) and a post office. Note that the hours for the post office have been generously increased. They once closed at 4, but now close at 4:15. How’s that for service!

I have no further comment. Humptulips speaks for itself.

As if there weren’t enough reasons already to own a stick over an automatic, here is yet another reason:

Surprise! Looks like owning a stick saved this car from being carjacked!

Up to this point, we have dealt exclusively with the dry line. When the track becomes wet, however, the dry lines is generally NOT the fastest way around the track. The reason for this is because when wet, the dry line generally has less grip than the off-line parts of the pavement.

Why does the Dry Line become so slick?
Since the dry line is the fastest line around a track, the cars driving on the track tend to drive that line. Over the course of months and years, the steady flow of cars over the same area polishes the pavement down and makes it smooth. When this area becomes wet, it becomes slick.

Additionally, cars are dirty, and deposit all sorts of nastiness on the ground. Bits of oil, rubber, and other nasty fluids all find their way onto the dry line just in the course of regular driving. When a car has an “issue,” and dumps gallons of fluids on the track, the problems compound. When it starts to rain, the water draws these fluids and oils out of the track, and they tend to float on the water. For this reason, the dry line is especially slick for the first few minutes of a rain shower, until the bulk of these oils and fluids get washed away. There still remains trace or significant amounts of fluid and nasties on the dry line even after heavy rain, so it remains slick. Read the rest of this entry »

There’s nothing particularly special about this ricemobile:

It has tremendous wheels. It has an off-color door. It has a loose bumper and, as far as I can tell, some “mad tyte” tints.

Only one thing sets this grain apart from the paddy: Whoever replaced the door decided, for some reason, to retain the stock door handle. Look closely and you’ll see that the handle is the same burgundy as the rest of the car. Now, usually when you get a junkyard door (as this one seems to be), you take the handle too and just install the whole thing.

Who can know the deepest motivations of a man like this, the forces that motivate him and the ties that bind him, and…yes, well, whatever.

I know, it’s been done. Back to the Future, DeLorean’s financial issues and general failure, countless pictures. Still, it’s always nice to see a DeLorean, especially a 5-speed with a black interior.

Several years back I thought about getting one of these. I never got so far as to test-drive one, but I did research what aftermarket power upgrades were available (the DeLorean has a maximum speed of 113mph from the stock Renault/Volvo V6; for those young-uns reading, that as much as anything else is what makes the DeLorean time machine funny). I discovered a local and now defunct company close to me called the Turbo Manifold Company. It was originally one guy who developed and sold a turbo kit for DeLoreans. When I called to get price and availability, the guy’s wife answered. She explained that her husband had died and that she was simply selling off the last few remaining kits. Her understanding of the product was quite good, but I can’t remember any of it. Instead, I remember thinking that this was very befitting the DeLorean.

On my drive back from the track last week, I saw three accidents, including this overturned Eclipse on interstate 93. As far as I could tell, he drifted to the left, mounted the New Jersey barriers, and flipped. He may have been forced over there, or he may just have been careless. As I passed by, I thought (well, I took the picture first, and then I thought), I’ve reached the point where I feel much safer driving on the track than I do driving on the street.

It’s an odd paradox. During a track day people follow each other so closely that even the worst tailgater would gasp. People exceed 100 miles an hour, slide through corners, spin onto the grass, skid, and lock up brakes. I personally have turned up the hill at Lime Rock only to see, in my rear-view mirror, an Elise overshoot the turn and hit the tire wall. Yet I’m not on edge—not in the same way, or to the same degree. On track I don’t have to worry about people making phone calls or checking directions or being in a bad mood about their boring jobs or the snippy service they got at Dunkin’ Donuts. I also know that, on track, a person who spins out is likely to remain calm and get out of the way. And, should I spin, I know that the drivers coming up on me are attentive, aware, and most likely able to control their cars and move around me. On the street, one out-of-control car usually turns into 3 or 4.

But this paradox of safety is hardly foreign. We all feel “safe” doing sports or hobbies or jobs that the average person—an outsider—sees as unsafe by definition: Racing cars. Riding motorcycles. Surfing. Boxing (well, maybe not boxing. Even the average boxer knows it’s not a good idea to take punches in the head). But driving cars on racetracks—in part because it’s uncommon, and in part because it’s an extension of something that all of us do every day—seems to present the paradox in a unique extreme. People see someone sky-diving, understand it as dangerous, and reject it outright. Not driving.

Whenever I drive somewhere, I see people look at the numbers on my car. I know they’re probably thinking three things: Does he actually race that car? Does he know how dangerous that is? Is he going to do some sort of “racing maneuver”? And meanwhile, I’m gingerly driving by, hoping no one does anything crazy, waiting until I can get to the safety of the track.

Ask people to imagine a “race car” and they’ll think of a dragster, or some disgusting NASCAR thing, or a Corvette, or an F1 car. They’ll picture something expensive, with wide tires and a loud exhaust, that goes very, very fast. Even the average car enthusiast has some preconceived ideas: the car should be rear wheel drive, perhaps. Or the car should at least be a coupe. And it is these preconcieved ideas, precisely, that makes doing a track day in a disgusting beastie-piece like my ’94 Mazda Protégé DX an experience that everyone interested in road racing should have.

This is my beastie-piece. It has 232,000 miles right now. It has 102 horsepower (for the uninitiated, that’s not a lot). I do not change the oil. I do not rotate the tires. I do not flush the coolant or replace the air filter or wash the exterior or vacuum the carpet. It clunks over bumps. It burns, leaks, or otherwise consumes oil somehow. The shifter rattles constantly and is almost falling out of the car. But it’s also lightweight, tossable, and possessed of surprisingly good cornering grip—a lot more grip than it ought to have—because it has some basic suspension upgrades. On a short and technical course like the roval at NHIS, where I was this past Tuesday, this old beast can fly.

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