1986, or When I was the Car-less Racer

Me in 1985 or 1986, roughly around when this took place

“Is it a Turbo?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You should race him.”

“You can’t tell if it’s a Turbo or not?”

I looked again through the passenger side window at the red Porsche 944 next to us, stopped at a traffic light. I knew that any boosted Porsche had the word “Turbo” written on the back in their traditional cursive font, but the rear of the car wasn’t visible. Heck, I couldn’t even see the side. For whatever reason, he had stopped where his front bumper lined up with our rear wheel.

We were in Jeff Caliendo’s 1984 Chevy Camaro Berlinetta. Not a Z28, but with a V8 it had some punch. It was certainly faster than what I drove, which was nothing. And, a normally aspirated Porsche 944 was simply a four banger known for its great handling, so we’d have a chance. Not so against a 944 Turbo, which was blisteringly fast for a four pot.

He definitely did not want to race a 944 Turbo, and he knew it.

“Is it a Turbo or not?” Jeff asked again.

“I really don’t think it’s a Turbo,” I said.

I was lying. I wanted to race.

***

I met Jeff in 1986 in Mr. Galek’s Algebra class during sophomore year at Cape Coral High School. I don’t remember how we ended up sitting next to each other, but we immediately bonded over cars. We’d bring copies of Car and Driver or Motor Trend or Road and Track to class, and argue over which was better between the Camaro and the Pontiac Firebird. We’d also argue about the Porsche 911 vs. the 928, the Lamborghini Countach vs. the Ferrari Testarossa, and Motley Crue vs. Ratt. Actually, we pretty much debated on every subject except Mr. Galek’s Algebra. We both agreed that sucked.

While I certainly loved cars, Jeff took it to an extreme. Once, during our senior year, he introduced me to his new girlfriend, whose name escapes me. Jeff was a good looking guy who always dated hot girls, but this one was heavy-set and very average looking. When she was out of earshot, he said, “She has a Z28 with the 5.0 High Output engine! She lets me drive it!”

“Are you seriously dating a girl because of her car?”

“Dude, it’s a five speed.”

“Get out of here! Really?” The conversation then turned to how rare a manual transmission was on Camaros, never again revisiting his current relationship.

We went for a ride in her car later with Jeff driving, me in the passenger seat, and name-escapes-me girl in the back.

“I beat Larry Gawronski in a race the other day,” he said. Larry was a super nice kid at Cape High who had a Chevy Camaro IROC-Z, then considered the best and fastest of Camaros. Certainly faster than Jeff’s Berlinetta. “You should’ve seen the look on his face.”

“I wish I was there,” I said. “It’s cool that your girlfriend lets you drive this.”

Name-escapes-me girl reach up front and played with Jeff’s long hair. “Oh, I’ll do anything to make my man happy,” she said.

Jeff seemed irritated and pulled his hair away.

Man, I thought. I would never date an unattractive girl for a car.

And I’m car-less.

***

Jeff started revving his engine, trying to coax the Porsche to race him at green light. The 944 just stayed there, about a half car-length behind us.

“Is he going to race?” Asked Jeff.

“I think so,” I lied again. “Just make sure to gun it.”

We had a huge advantage, if he were even interested in racing. Our cars were on Cape Coral Parkway, stopped at the Del Prado intersection, heading towards the bridge. We were in the middle lane, he was on the right, which ended within a tenth of a mile, requiring him to merge into our lane. Even if he got a half car length ahead of us, he’d be forced to slow down to merge. So we could actually win by cheating. And that’s if he even wanted to race in the fir—

The light turned green.

Jeff nailed it. His tires screeched as the small block chevy V-8 came to life. I had a big shit-eating grin on my face.

Until I saw the Porsche beside us.

Then pass us.

Then, in the ultimate humiliation, merged into our lane in front of us.

Then became smaller and smaller in our windshield. So small I could barely read where it clearly said “Turbo” in Porsche’s traditional font.

“Dammit, I thought you said it wasn’t a Turbo!”

I shrugged. “My mistake, man.”

Hey, it’s not like I lost a race. I didn’t even own a car.