A Gulf-Livery Porsche.. Hybrid? Caffeine and Octane, December 2015

This past Sunday morning was reminiscent of a calm spring day in north Georgia. The only indication we were close to winter were the plush antlers peeking above the roof of a Ferrari 458. Mild temperatures and bright sunshine brought record numbers of crowds, and that seems to be a trend nowadays for Caffeine and Octane.

Since C&O moved to Perimeter Mall a couple years ago, I've noticed a surge in crowds that's only slightly masked by the increase in parking lot space. The new location, geographically, has a lot to do with that. Nightmarish traffic notwithstanding, Perimeter Mall is an ideal place to host a show that' just continuing to grow, not only by word of mouth, but now thanks to its own organization that offers merchandise and web content. The reality is, this location can be reached by anywhere in metro Atlanta in under an hour on Sunday morning, and that's important.

I started out, as always, on the outer fringes of the parking lot. It's a mixed bag here, mostly spectators' cars that range from stock Nissan Maximas to Land Rover Defenders and turbo Saabs.

It's interesting for me to see what kind of cars people are drawn to at shows. Not too long ago, I would have ogled at a stanced Miata, but nowadays I pay more attention to rarer stuff like this Alfa Romeo Giulia Super sedan. A car that I only imagine was extremely common in Italy, the Alfa represents an interesting phenomena. Many of them don't survive today given its commonality, and even fewer survive here in the states, since they weren't imported here when they were built.

Further down, a Ferrari 328 GTS looks sinister in black. A few rows down from that, a modern take on a classic Volkswagen. In the late 1970s, Volkswagen sold the Caddy (branded as the Rabbit Pickup in North America), essentially a Volkswagen Rabbit with a pickup bed. It wasn't hugely popular here, but it's enjoyed a comeback in recent years, and seems to have inspired this Jetta owner to turn his sedan into a small pickup.

Other unique showings included a pair of Alpina-tuned BMWs. I can only assume these 80s examples are fairly rare, as I've never seen any before.

Across the way, I noticed a giant crowd had gathered around a roped-off display. Powder blue and orange peeked through, and I finally saw what it was, a Porsche 918 in classic Gulf racing dress. A front-on photo was going to be impossible, so I employed some of what I learned in photojournalism and moved to where the people weren't. Or at least where there weren't as many.

And those kids I ragged on earlier for liking stanced Miatas? As I said, I can't blame them much, and furthermore, I shouldn't be so judgmental. They're carving out a future generation, just like I am at 22, of car lovers that will carry the torch of the hotrodders and club racers. For all the big money that shows up here, the Ferraris, the Bentleys, and the special Porsches, the real group that matters are the grassroots enthusiasts. These kids recognize that in the stanced Miata; it's just a car built by someone who truly loves cars and what they can stand for.

All throughout the "show field" you can see this juxstaposition. The businessmen who come out to impress, opening up their 458's engine compartment and giving it some revs; the Paulding county guys with homemade subwoofer boxes and broken bumpers; the guys who've been on the scene for 40, 50, even 60 years, graduating from Chevy Vegas to Corvettes to Malibus, then back to Chevelles again; everybody here has at least a baseline level of respect for everyone else, and that's what will keep this show growing far into the future.

Tracing Georgia's Road Racing Roots

The mercury swelled to a balmy 77-degrees-Fahrenheit on Thanksgiving Day, 1908 in Savannah, Georgia. Louis Wagner, a 26-year-old from the northeastern suburbs of Paris, sat alongside 19 other drivers awaiting the start of the third Grand Prix race in history, and the first to be held in the United States. Later that day, Wagner would go home with the gold after 16 laps, averaging 65mph in his Fiat through the moss-lined oaks of Savannah's now-historic district.

Automobile racing, like the automobile itself, was still in its infancy at this time. It cost more to buy an automobile than a single-family home. A logical conclusion, then, that the first organized automobile racing was headed off by rich, playboy characters of the era.

William Kissam Vanderbilt, son of the well-established Vanderbilt family railroad empire, spent most of his spare time breeding champion racehorses, but also took an interest in motor racing. Frustrated with American road racing's lack of visibility, Vanderbilt founded his own road racing series, the Vanderbilt Cup, in 1907. His first venue of choice was Long Island, New York, close to his family estate. Practices were held there for the inaugural event in 1907, but immediately ran into trouble in the form of handfuls of spectator injuries, and several spectator deaths. This would prove to be a dark, lingering cloud over early motor sport.

Officials cancelled the 1907 event, but this was far from the end of the infant racing series' quarrels. Rivaling automotive clubs fought over guidelines, but one thing was certain: the venue would have to be moved.

Indianapolis Motor Speedway and the Milwaukee Mile were among the only race tracks that existed in the United States around the turn of the century. Most early automobile racing instead took place on street circuits, usually appearing in big cities and drawing enormous crowds, the pedestrians being the earliest iteration of crash barriers.

The scene was no different in 1908, when the Vanderbilt Cup, now renamed the Grand Prize Race of the Automobile Club of America, started in it's new location on the streets of Savannah, Georgia. Curiously, this makes Savannah one of the earliest cradles of motor sport in the United States. Think about that next time you're stuck behind a horsedrawn carriage on Victory Drive, the former road course's main straightaway.

With the help of the Savannah Automobile Club, and a convict labor force authorized by Georgia's governor at the time, a 25-mile road course quickly took shape. To help ensure Long Island's tragedies didn't occur again, the governor also sent state militia troops to assist local police in crowd control.

A ticket for a 6-seat box at the Savannah race. This equals out to around $1,200 in today's money.

This, Vanderbilt's second attempt, proved a success-- only in the sense that a race actually took place this time. International attention focused on Savannah, but it would prove to be a double-edged sword. By 1910, when the sparse Grand Prix calendar landed back in Savannah, word had long spread across the country and overseas, and crowds outnumbered the ones at Long Island in 1907. Deaths of two mechanics at an earlier event that year threatened another cancellation, but the Savannah Automobile Club managed to save the event by proposing a shorter 17-mile course. Many of the European teams were not able to make it, but the race went on without incident.

Felice Navarro driving a Fiat in the 1910 Vanderbuilt Cup at Savannah.

1911, however, brought more tragedy. The increasing popularity of the automobile meant that not all public roads could be closed during race days. Two accidents occurred during practice, one resulting in the death of a driver. Making matters worse, Savannah residents weren't happy about the continued use of convict labor and militia forces used by the organizers of the event. Those residents quickly changed the tides, and Savannah backed out for 1912. However, safety, or lack thereof, continued to be a huge issue. The 1912 race, held on another street course in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, saw yet another tragic death during practice. And this trend would continue throughout the early years of motor racing.

Wagner's non-fatal accident during practice at the 1911 Vanderbilt Cup.

Savannah's road course would be the last purpose-made automotive venue in the state for some time. The story remained the same for most of the country. Throughout the 1920s and 30s, the only tracks to be found in the southeast were dirt ovals or rudimentary drag strips. With the exception of a handful of paved ovals which sprang up across the country, the 1940s were devoid of any sort of racing development. Georgia, and the rest of the country, would have to wait until the 1950s, when the road racing of early days finally made a comeback.

In 1944, the Sports Car Club of America was founded as an outlet for automotive enthusiasts. It took four years for the organization to move to sanctioned racing events, the first of which taking place at Watkins Glen, a village in upstate New York. SCCA was a grassroots organization, comprised originally of two brothers who raced the back roads of upstate. This marked a new beginning for automobile racing in the United States. Postwar cars were cheap, and hotrodding culture was in full bloom, not only in southern California, but all across the country from Kansas to Kennewick.

Watkins Glen Grand Prix, SCCA's inaugural racing event, took place on a street course that ran through the village of Watkins Glen, already a historic racing venue by that time. The 1948 event went off without incident, but officials knew that tragedy loomed unless an entirely different approach could be taken to Grand Prix racing. In 1951, SCCA formed the National Sports Car Championship from existing events like Watkins Glen, but turned towards the many air force bases left throughout the country. Air Force General Curtis LeMay, himself an automotive racing enthusiast, loaned Strategic Air Command facilities to the SCCA throughout the mid-1950s.

Cars leave the starting line for the 1952 Watkins Glen Grand Prix.

Tragedy struck again in 1952, when a 7-year-old boy was killed while spectating at Watkins Glen. Several other spectators were also injured, and it was a nightmare for race organizers. Officials knew they'd have to act quickly if they wanted to keep sports car racing alive in the United States.

Road America was one of the first purpose-built asphalt road courses to appear as a result of the 1952 tragedy at Watkins Glen. Located in Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, a town that had also hosted its own road circuit, it set the example for courses like it. In 1956, a permanent circuit was built at Watkins Glen. Now-legendary courses--Lime Rock Park in Connecticut, Laguna Seca Raceway in California, and Virginia International Raceway in Virginia--were all built the following year.



In 1959, construction crews broke ground for a new racing circuit in Effingham County, about 20 miles outside of Savannah. Roebling Road Raceway is now named after Washington Roebling II, a competitor in the 1910 Grand Prix race in Savannah. The 2-mile course is unique in that it's owned by the local branch of the SCCA, and has no spectator accommodations. As a result, it's one of the least expensive tracks to run on in the United States. MotorWeek even films its winter track tests there. What more could you ask for?

Soon after Roebling Road was finished, enthusiasts in north Georgia wanted a world class circuit to call their own. Fast forward to 1969, and enter: David Sloyer, a salsa (party dip, not South American dance) entrepreneur; Earl Walker, an engineering graduate of Georgia Tech; and Arthur Montgomery, an Atlanta politician who was largely responsible for bringing professional sports to the city in the mid-60s. These three men eyed a 750-acre plot of land in rural Hall County, Georgia, and hurried to convert the former farmland into a world class race track in time for the 1970 Can-Am race. Six months and an incredible amount of elbow grease later, and the 2.5-mile, 12-corner course was ready for racing.

Stirling Moss acted as race Grand Marshal, and 75 laps later, Englishman Tony Dean brought home the first ever trophy earned on the Braselton, Georgia course. In the years following, hero-names like Dan Gurney, Mario Andretti, Paul Newman, and Mark Donohue left their rubber on the asphalt Grand Prix course. But the opening buzz would be short-lived. In 1978, due to ongoing financial problems, the track was sold. Road Atlanta then changed hands in rapid succession, each new owner seemingly less stable than the one who came before. By 1993, the track had officially declared bankruptcy.

Almost immediately, a group of executives purchased the track from the bank, but the road to recovery would be slow. It wasn't until Don Panoz, founder of the neighboring winery Chateau Elan and inventor of the nicotine patch, purchased the track in 1996 that there was any sort of clear future for Road Atlanta. Dr. Panoz saw huge potential in the track, and with his business holdings in northeast Georgia, the purchase made complete sense. Over the next decade, Panoz successfully improved the grounds, repaved and reconfigured portions of the circuit, and even funded his son Danny's efforts to build the Panoz Esperante, a Mustang V8-powered sports car with a hand-built aluminum body.

Above: The first car to come out of Panoz's Braselton, Georgia HQ: the Panoz Roadster. Below: A refined version of the Roadster, if you can call a beast with a 4.6L Mustang V8 refined: the Panoz Esperante.

In 1999, Dr. Panoz decided it was time to start his own sports car racing series. The American Le Mans series has since become immensely popular stateside and internationally. Road Atlanta's Petit Le Mans race, now a 10-hour endurance event, just celebrated its 17th year. American Le Mans has competed with the Grand-Am Rolex Series, backed by NASCAR, since its founding, but ALMS has long been the fan favorite. NASCAR solved this problem by purchasing the American Le Mans Series, along with Road Atlanta and Chateau Elan in 2014 for a reported $22 million. This effectively merged the American Le Mans and Grand-Am Rolex series,' and shuffled around both drivers and racing classes.

But where has that playboy-racer spirit gone in the state of Georgia? Sure, one could argue that Panoz and Road Atlanta embody that, and they certainly do to an extent. But the American Le Mans Series still retains a great amount of blue collar appeal. Infield camping is the most popular way of spectating the event. The parking lots have their fair share of 911s, but for each of those, there are probably three Chevrolet pickup trucks or Toyota SUVs. Don Panoz, who famously took up smoking again after seeing Mario Andretti crash at one of his races, still prefers to jet around in a Panoz Roadster. And if you've ever attended Formula Drift at the track, you'll understand it's not all expensive chardonnays and Belmont Stakes derby hats.

Spectators pack the hill above turn 5, an area that gives an excellent view of "the esses" at Road Atlanta.

Atlanta Motorsports Park, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, seeks to solve that need. Opened in 2013, AMP is considered a "motor sports country club." Memberships range from the plebeian Karting/Mini-Moto all the way up to Diamond, which allows those willing to pay the $45,000 initiation fee up to 180 days of track time annually. It can also be assured these members will enjoy the track's various ammenities, which include horseback riding, a tennis club, fitness center, pool, and hiking and mountain biking trails. Now we're talking.

The 2-mile road circuit has at least two corners that were heavily inspired by both the Spa-Francochamp's circuit in Belgium and the famously-bumpy Carousel from the Nurburgring in Germany. And the CEO's didn't skimp when it came to a designer, either. Hermann Tilke, a former Formula One driver and one of only four circuit designers recognized by the FIA (International Automobile Federation), is responsible for north Georgia's racing country club. Tilke is also responsible for the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas, site of the only race on the Formula One calendar in the United States.

Tilke hasn't been without criticism though. Several Formula One stars, most notably Jackie Stewart and Mark Webber, haven't held back, describing Tilke's courses as "carbon copies of one another," (Stewart, in The Daily Telegraph, 2011) and built in such a way that they fail to penalize driver's mistakes. AMP hasn't been without its criticism either. Motorsports enthusiasts are wary of the high costs of membership, which seem to ward of a big segment of the racing community. Hopefully though, initial members will build up the capital needed for track owners to pay down development costs, and hopefully that will translate to the track becoming more accessible. But only time will tell.

Georgia's racing history has been a silent contender. We'll never get the acclaim that comes with California, or upstate New York's Watkins Glen. And to be quite honest, I don't think our facilities warrant the same sort of acclaim. But motor sport still has firm footing in the land of peaches and weird-tasting onions. In 1997, Savannah tried to revive the spirits of the 1910's with the first--and last--Indy Lights calendar race. Officials hastily constructed a 2-mile course on Hutchinson Island, across the Savannah River. Much like the early Vanderbilt Cup races, the series quickly fell apart, and now the Hutchinson Island Road Course is an out-of-place footnote on the Westin Savannah Harbor Resort's web page. Its only use comes from the occasional guest, and the yearly Savannah Speed Classic vintage races.

An early model 911 dives into a corner on the Hutchinson Island Road Course.

Standing on River Street in late October, you might catch the riotous sound of a dozen flat-sixes fighting away out of sight across the water. It's only then that you can imagine what it might have been like on Thanksgiving Day in 1908, the moss-lined streets clogged with spectators, greasy team mechanics, and moustached French racing drivers ready to wind their way around the bluff where Oglethorpe landed some 170 years prior. And you can smile, knowing that the racket is echoing all the way up, nearly to Tennessee, and reminding us what a fine place we live in.

Adventures in the Beehive State (And a history of Utah's Interstate 70)

"We have to turn back," he said.

Asa was right. We pulled off at a rest stop, the only speck of human development for at least twenty miles. But this wasn't like any rest stop I had ever stopped at before. This one overlooked a magnificent valley, and a highway--the one we'd been on-- that zig-zagged gracefully through an impossibly small opening between two peaks. 

A woman sold jewelry laid out on a Navajo blanket behind an F-150, and we walked past her, out onto a narrow rock outcropping that gave us a closer view of the ridge in front of us.

We were looking at Spotted Wolf Canyon, a small part of the San Rafael Reef, a geographical feature that stretched 45 miles across the horizon. But what we were also seeing was an engineering marvel; what one engineer called "one of the most significant highway feats of its time." We had blasted through this fascinating reason without so much as a cruise control dip, and we needed to explore.

The San Rafael Reef is part of the San Rafael Valley, which sprawls out over most of Eastern-central Utah. It's one of the most sparsely-populated regions in the state and before construction of I-70, which began in 1957, the few residents who lived in the area were very nearly landlocked, with only rudimentary roads connecting them to larger cities outside the valley. Much of the land, which is now kept under the watchful eye of the Bureau of Land Management, contains some of the oldest rocks on earth--some dating back as far as 2.2 billion years.

Connecting this desolate region to the rest of the United States was far from a new idea, even in 1957. The earliest plans were for a transcontinental railroad, which would link southern California to the east coast. Portions of the railroad were built in other states, but no ground was ever broken in the San Rafael Swell, due to the difficulty of the terrain. These railroad plans would later prove vital in the construction of I-70, one of the only interstates in the country to be built where no roads had been before.

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Exploration. Adventure. These were the reasons we'd set out on this trip ten days earlier with minimal camping equipment, a few changes of clothes each, and two seventy-count boxes of Nature Valley Sweet and Salty Nut bars. We'd been through no fewer than five state parks and geographic regions ranging from the Mississippi River Delta to the high desert. Charging through this picturesque landscape felt like an undeniable wrong, but a wrong that we would soon make right.

After snapping some photos which would easily look at home on a $9.99 calendar, we headed back the way we came, towards a geological formation that bears shocking resemblance to a human breast. The Wickiup, named for a one-room Native American dwelling found in the southwest, should not be confused with the more deliberately-named Mary's Nipple, an 11,000-foot peak in central Utah, though. Wickiup, a much smaller peak, stands out dramatically against the backdrop of the valley--its bright red summit composed of Moenkopi Shale, possible evidence of past volcanic activity.

Soon, we reached the exit. A dirt-road paralleling the interstate and a mound of gravel are the only signs human civilization has ever been through here. Then we see the trail. It's an unpaved, rocky tract that looks more suitable for four-wheelers than for cars, and dips down and snakes into the valley below. To the west, the sky starts to darken, and we have another decision to make. 

The car that accompanied us on our Pick Your Own Adventure trip wasn't exactly the most suited for the job. Our KIA Sorento was produced close to home in West Point, Georgia, but far from the sandstone fields of rural Utah. The Lambda II V6, a 276-horsepower unit mated to a brilliantly-ratioed 6-speed gearbox, wheezed as it tried to keep up with the 90-mph cruise control settings we demanded through much of the southwest. If we wanted to take this trail, we'd have to make due with the KIA's front-wheel drive and an engine that produced massive amounts of torque steer.

The Sorento hides in a different desert, this one's north of Phoenix.

Lightning struck far in the distance, but we decided to press on. I could see where a slight trail wound its way through outcrops of craggy rocks and spindly trees. It took quite a bit of back and forth to snake the SUV through, but soon we approached the heavily-rutted trail head. The first obstacle was a steep downhill dogleg scattered with sharp rocks. Asa jumped out to clear a path, and I eyed a strange button on the KIA's dashboard.

Next to the traction control button, an illustration of a car on a 45-degree slope. I knew what it meant. It was some sort of hill descent mode, a computerized system that uses the brakes and low gears to gently guide the family-hauler down steep embankments. Of course, I'd never had to use it before, and this seemed like the perfect time to try it out.

This photo, taken inside a fancier KIA with parking sensors, shows the hill descent button.

Asa stood at the bottom of the hill ready to guide me through, making sure I dodged some of the bigger, sharper rocks that wouldn't budge. With hill descent engaged, I let go of the brakes, and instantly realized I had made a big mistake. The Sorento lunged down the hill in a freefall until the brakes finally grabbed, jerking the car to a halt. But by that time, I had already reached the bottom of the hill in a cloud of dust. KIA's off-road division, if there is such a thing, has some wrinkles to iron out.

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We were slowly but steadily leaving the interstate behind, blazing our way through landscape that looked, at times, more Mars than wild west. And our only markers were the rutted paths from those who came before us. Once you pass through Richfield and Salina, I-70 climbs to the top of Wassatch plateau. At 7,923 feet, it marks the highest point in Utah's interstate highway system.

With a population of 2,393, Salina is the last town before Fruita, Colorado--195 miles to the east-- with a population of more than a few hundred people. On the opposite side of Wassatch plateau sit the town of Emery and the unincorporated community, Moore. Green River, the next closest town, is 70 miles away. From Green River to Fruita, there are a handful of unincorporated communities, census designated places, and ghost towns--the highest populations among these couldn't fill a city bus.

Remnants of Cisco, Utah, a ghost town 25 miles from the Colorado border which was once a water-refilling stop for steam locomotives.

The Utah Department of Transportation estimates that the I-70 project, totaling 231 miles, cost $183.5 million to complete. It's one of the longest portions of highway constructed at one time, and 3.5 million cubic yards of rock had to be excavated just to carve through Spotted Wolf Canyon. The final portion of I-70 in Utah follows the Book Cliffs, and is included as part of the Dinosaur Diamond Historic Byway, which follows the Old Spanish Trail, a trading route used from Native American times up through the late 19th century. This route, made up of several Utah highways the run north to south, encompasses six national parks, which include Arches National Park and Flaming Gorge National park; it also passes through several national forests. The entire interstate, not just the Utah portion, runs 2160 miles in total, finding its end on the western edge of Baltimore, Maryland.

Delicate Arch, the most recognized in Arches National Park outside of Moab, has become a symbol of Utah. It's been featured on the state's license plates since 1992.

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But we were still plundering away in the back country of Emery County, where the population density hovers around two people per square mile. Asa stood on the passenger's side running board, taking turns Snapchatting our adventure and hopping off to clear jagged rock piles. To avoid beaching the KIA, with its modest 7.5-inch ground clearance (a Subaru Outback has 8.7), required some delicate maneuvering. The thunder rumbled closer, and the sky was getting darker, but we kept moving. Soon, we reached a gate.

We expected to see a sign that read along the lines of: "You've already come too far, turn around to avoid certain execution. No one will find you out here. No one will even know you're gone. We're the only ones who hear what happens in the valley."

Instead, the sign read more to the tine of: "Be sure to close the gate behind you. Four-wheel-drive or all-wheel-drive is recommended beyond this point."It was downright egging us on. But the encroaching storm was worrisome. Whatever off-road disadvantages the KIA had made up with torque and my aggressive approach would be lost if the rain started to come down. I pictured the Sorento wallowing around like a pig in the mud, front wheels spinning angrily, hopelessly, the engine wailing into the abyss and no one would even hear it.

An ominous view to our southwest, as dark clouds encroach on a nearby peak.

We decided to turn back, but the trip back up, as is usually the case, would be tougher. The washboard, level sections were fine, but soon, I reached the first hill. I'd need to use a different strategy for going uphill; I feared what would happen if the KIA's thin summer tires gave too much slip halfway up. My solution was to charge the hill. It's like ripping off a band-aid, right?

The KIA bounced and thrashed around, but somehow made it up the steep hill without much slip. It was a cake walk from there, and soon we were back where we started, ready to rejoin I-70 once again and head back toward the Reef.

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In 2002, government officials from Emery County, along with Utah's then-governor Mike Leavitt, joined in hopes of creating a national park in the San Rafael Valley. Area residents hated the idea, referencing the 1996 dedication of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah. President Bill Clinton was then campaigning for re-election, and dedicated the park at a ceremony held at Grand Canyon National Park in Arizona. Clinton had used the Antiquities Act, a 1906 Congressional act giving the president the right to create national monuments from areas of public land. Boundaries for the new park were drawn without knowledge or consent of local residents, and memory of the incident was still fresh in the minds of rural Utah residents in 2002.

San Rafael Swell National Monument would have been authorized by the Antiquities Act under then-president George W. Bush. Predictably, the effort made little momentum, and a referendum proposed by the governor to Emery County residents did not pass. 

And so the San Rafael Valley remains largely unchanged, the same as it's been for hundreds, even thousands of years. I-70 and Emery County's handful of residents are the only things occupying the wild landscape.

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Late in the afternoon we reached Green River, the first sign of civilization for the past hundred miles. The dark clouds had moved out, leaving only a clear, jonquil sky. 

Asa and I paused at the gas station to take another look at our KIA. It had a new layer of dust caked on. And we had added another adventure to our list.