Everything Connecticut

Quite a number of emotions can be ushered when tearing through epic scenery on curvy mountain roads. At face value you have gazing views possibly interrupted by the next focal point of an apex, a heal and toe downshift and biting tires grasping for traction while accelerating out of the turn. Engine noise, smelly brakes and barking passengers can put a dent on the occasion, but not today.

The Connecticut country side on the way to Lime Rock Park silences all the above, allowing for a nostalgic trip on a more than perfect day. My mom and dad used to drive the family on the same roads nearly thirty years ago. Dad raced Formula cars (the series now celebrating 40 years of racing) while Mom ran the pits. I played with gear oil and my newly born sister probably smiled, cried and did all sorts of things newborns do. This was my first time back to Lime Rock since those days and after a great deal of nostalgic directions from Dad, I picked two routes maximizing racing both on and off the track.

Leaving bright and early, NYC traffic poses no problems as we head up 684 to Brewster. I’m always happily stunned how quick city turns to lush country in a matter of minutes. The rare chilled morning in August offers a fresh ride with the sunroof open and the heater on. A bit eager to leave the parkway, we take an early exit for route 22 and discover the meaning of a Westchester compound. Route 22 can certainly throw some curves, but the paparazzo in us keeps the speed slow in the car but fast on the shutter. The mansions thin out further north leaving room for scenery and a quick car wash to rid the hood of debris from a midnight bird bomb attack. The remains meddle with the blue sky reflection.
















From 22 we take Dad recommended Amenia Union Rd. I daydream of the family traveling in the yellow pickup with race car in tow or just going out on a cruise in the Saab 99 EMS. Dad more than likely wasn’t going at the same clip. Happy I set the KYB dampers up to level three of four, the arcs and curves are taken flat until the serious corners come about. Heavy braking and a racing engine alert the passenger while the ensuing g-forces wake the dog. I pay no attention. Conscious dreaming keeps me true to the road. However, age sets in and I think about owning a home up here and how upset I would be if some lowly Honda interrupted my morning brew at 90mph. A Ferrari or Porsche, OK, but not a Fast and Furious Honda, circa mid-90’s.
















Manners matter not until we enter Sharon, Connecticut, and discover lofty elm trees lining the road all the way to Mudge Pond. For racing fans, the name might ring a bell from Sam Posey’s book, Mudge Pond Express. Sam Posey’s autobiography details his racing career while in this area and we tip toe respectfully by the glistening lake. My dad says Mudge Pond is “Everything Connecticut,” and he’s right. Rounding a bend, time pauses. Two fishermen float effortlessly with the fog on the water while a faint breeze tickles the lake surface, leaving the fog intact. Viewed through the shore reeds, I shut the engine out of respect and take a photo to capture the moment. This certainly is “Everything Connecticut,” and we continue the ballerina dance through the fairytale local.

Once clear, I break loose the V-TECH to make up time and arrive at Lime Rock just as the first practice begins. At such speed, deer look like cows and wild turkeys look like peacocks. The dog stands me corrected while taking great interests in the visuals from the back seat.
















I have no visual memories of Lime Rock Park, just old photos and narrations from my parents. The photos and narrations detail tree lined hills, trees and more trees. This all comes true when you arrive at the raceway. No stands, no hideous buildings or garages, no gravel fields, no mud pits or stadium lights mare the view. It is as if the opening scene to the Sound of Music is rewritten with a race track circling Julie Andrews. It is just that. You won’t hear Andrews belting her chorus, but you will hear flat six Porsches, burbling V8 Vets and time honored Triumphs providing musical accompaniment.
















As the first practice of show room stock SCCA cars makes way around the track, the Honda’s doors open, clam shell hatch down, dog bowls out, food, water, leash attached to the tow hook, stretch of legs, pack the bag, bowls dumped, blanket removed, clam shell hatch closed, dog unhooked and off we go. You may now stop the Benny Hill theme music in your head.




If you want to see the track, you have to walk. Although there is a large hill where you can see the great majority of the track, some of the better turns and hills are just a few minutes’ walk away. The hill (we referred to it as Mount Andrews) is where you want to end up after walking the track and next time we’ll set up shop by one of the trees early. Shade becomes a premium when arriving to the final races late in the day. About turn six is a wicked off camber uphill jump that many cars take air on with one or two tires. That upsetting bit leads right into another off camber downhill turn. Unfortunately it is difficult to view this turn and we leave it for another time.















The pits may stink in life, but they’re the best place to be at the race track. The Formula 1 boys have the best racing kits with big rigs, gourmet buffets, cover models and twelve or more laptops working the telemetry of just one car. The car sits in the middle of it all under an awning with master mechanics working precision tools on top of plush carpet. To seal the deal, fancy metal chains, usually white, keep the rift raft at bay like an exclusive club on the Riviera.

This isn’t the case with amateur racing and the better for it. At the extreme you might have a big rig but no carpet or fancy crowd control, not even a buffet. At the norm, you have the SUV towing a trailer with all the kit in the SUV or stacked somewhere (even in the race car) on the trailer. A couple jack stands and folding chairs mark off the work area but in this league, those markers are just as effective as the large Mediterranean bouncers at Formula One. My favorite is the showroom stock racers that race what they brought and pray for an outcome that will at least let them run the car home under its own power. I raced this way while import drag racing in Palmdale, CA. A long way from West Hollywood, every redline shift to the quarter mile marker was cause for concern. But only just.















A brief break for food gives us enough energy to tour more of the pits and make it to the far side of the track. Vintage Porsches and Jaguars break up the monotony of the reproducing Miata’s and allow pause to consider the cost and focus required to turn a classic into a racing car. That E-Type won’t bring in millions at the auction now. The loss of appreciation alone shows dedication to the car and the hobby.

The grassy hill on the outside of the track across from the pits is empty and copious. We let the dog loose and watch him frolic in the grass while we listening to an Alfa GTV work down the gears into the turn one carousel. Determined to find a viewing spot for the off camber hill leading to the front straight, we head for the stream bordering the same area and let the dog do the rest. We can’t reach the intended area due to brush, but the dog has no problems finding a water hole to cool off in. Yet another body of water Hugo the dog can claim his own. I need to get some signs that say, “Hugo swam here!”

After watching the Miata class run, its back to Andrew’s Peak and claim the last area of shade to watch the showroom stock class battle. A Miata and Acura Integra battle for supremacy with the Miata winning out after the carousel threw the front drive Integra into an understeer nightmare. Dad’s Formula racers and Triumphs compiled the last races. The previously mentioned vintage E-type Jag sounds stunning running 10/10ths around Lime Rock. You can’t see the driver’s face, but you know there’s a proper grin. There is on mine.














The racing blood boils. I want on the track. With cars, dancing with the limit of adhesion is my magic moment. In drag racing, the launch causes me to exhale and focus on the inputs from the car to get the maximum power through the wheels to the ground. In autocrossing, flinging 3000 pounds of car around a corner allows a tango of under, over and uber-steer all balanced by the steering wheel, throttle and break at the same time. Get it right and your heart melts. Get it wrong and it skips a beat.














Ready to bring my blood temperature down a bit, I have all intentions of blasting through the country side back to NYC. Don’t blame the logy motor home in front. I’m going slower. The scenery along route 7 to Cornwall and Kent is inspiring. With blissful thoughts and undiscovered discontent for Brooklyn, every mile is taken with a longing for the next visit. Yes, this road could be an 8/10ths bravery competition, but why would you? Thankful for the sunroof, the 360 degree view of the area even has the dog turning circles in the back seat. Or does he need out?

Not taking any chances with the puppy, we pull over by the mountain river following us to Kent. Another “Everything Connecticut,” moment occurs and time stops as Hugo bounces along the river boulders and dives into the currents. We cool our feet in the mountain water while the trees provide enchanting songs of rustling leaves. Succeeding in coaxing wet puppy back in the car, Kent arrives in good time and we slow to paparazzi speed. Road side tea houses, red painted train depots and ghastly expensive antique shops put Kent on our “must see” list for a later date. The covered bridge at Cornwall is an accessory to the day’s sights but we drive through it anyway just because.

Rustic brilliance turns to urban drudgery as fast moving traffic ushers us from “Everything Connecticut” to “Fagetaboutit Brooklyn.” It all happens far too quickly. The rest of the evening is spent on the Internet looking at homes in Connecticut. I day dream of twisty roads, running down the gears to the perfect apex and fishing on morning calm lakes, while the dog dreams of grass. It isn’t often you visit a race track, a state, a village or even a road providing such a sense of occasion.