Horsepower-Addled Observations From My First 24 Hours of Daytona
"It's impossible to take in everything going on at the 24 Hours of Daytona." That was the wisdom given to me by countless knowledgable folks when I told them I'd be attending the legendary endurance race for the very first time. They were right. But armed with a pocket notebook, a press pass, and a memorized map of every caffeine source at the Daytona International Speedway, I still endeavored to experience everything I could during my first visit to the Rolex 24. These are my observations, jotted down during coffee breaks, furtive naps, and any time something magical happened on the way to the checkered flag.
After a Thursday so rain-soaked we expected Noah's Ark to attempt a qualifying lap, the weather ahead of the green flag on Saturday was absolutely pristine. Campers, car clubs, and revelers of all sorts were pumped and ready when I arrived at the track around 11 a.m.
As the crews got in their last-minute adjustments and the cars lined up on the grid, there was plenty of noise-from the garages, from the crowds, from the announcements over the PA system. In hindsight, though, the hour leading up to the start of the race was probably the last chance to enjoy some relative quiet. Once they waved that green flag, we'd be in for a steady 24 hours of aural assault.
As a first-timer, the sound was astonishing. I'd attended practice earlier in the week, which gave a taste of the action, but nothing prepared me for the full effect of 54 vehicles representing four racing classes attacking the track.
It was loud. Not just NASCAR loud, or IndyCar loud, or Formula 1, or even NHRA loud. In each of those series, you have similar-sounding cars running somewhat close together for a relatively short period of time. At Daytona, four-cylinder turbocharged Mazda prototypes share the track with the twin-turbo V6 Ford GT and the naturally aspirated V8 Corvettes. It's a symphony of motors, ranging from thundering bass to wailing soprano, spreading from a tightly packed throng at the start of the race to a course-wide wall of noise as the space between competitors widened.
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About two hours into the race, I put my foot on the bumper of my car, parked pretty much dead-center in the infield, to tie my shoe. I could feel the engine noises vibrating through the car and into the sole of my boot. That's how loud it was.
After awhile at Daytona, you start to memorize the sound of the various cars. The Corvette Daytona Prototypes (like Action Express Racing's No. 5, shown above) and the factory-backed Corvette C7.Rs both use the same naturally aspirated 5.5-liter pushrod V8; the open-cockpit Prototype Challenge racers all used Chevy V8 power as well. In a field of screaming prototypes and howling GT cars, the Chevy-powered machines sounded less like exotic racers and more like lost NASCAR Sprint Cup cars. They sounded like they were hard at work doing serious business, unconcerned with the playthings around them.
The twin-turbo V6 used in Ford's two factory-backed GTs (shown above) and Chip Ganassi's two Ford-powered Riley Daytona Prototypes had an equally distinctive aural signature. Call it a mid-range moan. In the heavy braking zone coming into Turn 1, the downshift-blipping Fords sounded like a car hitting the rumble strips at the end of a highway off-ramp; accelerating off of the Turn 3 horseshoe, their slightly tinny exhaust note and short gearing combined to make a sound not unlike a throaty four-stroke dirtbike.
Despite all the wild machinery of the Prototype class, the most exotic sounding cars in the field were the relatively production-based Porsche 911 GT3 RSRs in the GT Le Mans class. While the turbocharged competitors bellowed in the middle of the scale, the naturally aspirated Porsche Motorsports North America factory racers positively shrieked. Of all the cars out there, the Porsches sounded the most like what you expected from European race cars.
To us snowbound northerners, a weekend in Daytona in January sounds like a tropical vacation. Blessedly, the weather cooperated with this fantasy, providing the kind of sunny mid-60s weather that makes snowbelt dads whip out their cargo shorts. But even though I'm in Florida, it's still January-on Saturday, the sun sets at 6 o'clock on the dot, not to return for more than 13 hours. Make no mistake, friends: This is a nighttime race.
The sunset helped fix the reality of the next 20 hours in my mind. I'm used to the rhythms of a standard-length race, three to five hours and a checkered flag. As the sky took on tropical splashes and the cars kept rumbling by, I settled in for a long, loud night.
The race takes on a completely different character after dark. As the temperature drops, campfires dot the infield; golf carts putter around carrying revelers and racing professionals alike, their eerie cyclops-like central headlights piercing the night.
This year, the racing teams went all-out with the LED character lighting on their cars. Originally done to help distinguish between a team's two cars at a distance, the illuminated highlights on this year's contenders approached SEMA show car levels of outlandishness. Screaming across the Florida night, the fluorescent glowing streaks made the race feel otherworldly.
At some point late into the night, I crawled into my borrowed car for a quick nap. When I awoke, the first thing my eyes focused on was the red-orange glow of hot brake rotors as the racers scrubbed speed heading into the Bus Stop, the left-right chicane inserted into the back straight of Daytona International Speedway's NASCAR tri-oval. It was mesmerizing.
As night wore on, the atmosphere became businesslike. The parties in the camp sites died down; the lights in the RVs went out; a lone band playing in Daytona's newly constructed infield Fan Zone trudged through the last few numbers and started packing up. The spectator areas felt like a bar 20 minutes after last call, a handful of stragglers trying to make the night last.
Over in the pits, the teams were settling in for a long night of work.
There's never a break in the action in pit row. Crew members would rotate out and try to catch a moment's rest between pit stops. Given the constant, thundering noise all around, these cat-naps were hard fought.
Going in, I talked a big game about my plans to stay awake for the full 24 hours of the race. By 1 a.m., I was reconsidering. Compared to the heroes who drove and wrenched through the night, I was weak. I scuttled back to my hotel for a few brief hours of sleep. Thankfully, photographer DW Burnett stuck around.
Sunrise at the 24 Hours of Daytona inverts everything you ever knew about early morning. The peacefulness of arising before the sun starts to fragment as you approach the track. From two miles away, the red-blooded roar of the Corvettes reverberates into your skull. You have to get a mile closer to hear any of the other competitors.
Pulling into the infield, walking up to the catch fence at the horseshoe, and being blasted by the sound of Prototypes and GT Le Mans cars going full throttle is a wakeup kick that no caffeinated beverage can match.
The pit crews, now on their 18th straight hour on the job, were still astoundingly fast and precise in their work. The crews, and the cars themselves, wore the dirt and grime of unending hard work. I watched a mechanic remove a front wheel from a GT Le Mans car, dumping out a softball-sized pile of brake dust on his feet.
Judging by the noses of these cars, the insect population of Daytona Beach is decimated at the end of January each year.
The last hour of the race took me by surprise. Having spent an entire afternoon, evening, and morning living in a reality dominated by the constant sound of engines running at the ragged edge, it jarred me to realize it was all soon to end. I scrambled to absorb everything, commit it to memory. The smell of mesquite campfires. The rubber and racing fuel aroma of pit lane so thick in the air you could nearly taste it. The way the Porsches spit tiny flames on upshift, and the Lamborghinis crackled on downshift.
Soon-seemingly too soon-it was all over. The checkered flag dropped on some of the closest racing we've ever seen, and the 24-hour adventure drew to an end. Before I knew it, I was at the airport, ears ringing, shirt smelling of campfire smoke and racing fuel.
At home in my bed in Brooklyn that night, the silence seemed eerie. My mind superimposed screaming racing engines over the sound of each passing car. Before I fell asleep, I opened the calendar on my phone.
I've already got a reminder set for 2017.
