Me? I’m a racer. No, not one of those professional racers, who has millions of dollars in sponsor money to waste. I’m a weekend warrior - an autocrosser - in Street Modified. That means that my car needs to weigh as little as possible, and I’ve gotten very good at counting every single gram.
When your average racer rolls up to the grid, maybe they check their tire pressure, throw out the occasional Tim Horton’s wrapper, remove their spare tire and jack to save weight. That’s real cute. I unbolt my wing mirrors, windshield wipers, headlights and both bumpers. You don’t need that shit unless the rulebook says so, and the rulebook says “go hog wild, you absolute stud.”
Remove the passenger seat? I don’t even have a driver’s seat. My ass sits directly on the floorboard - which I’ve drilled holes in for additional weight reduction and ass-cooling, no seventeen-pound air conditioning system here - and that ass turns in solid mid-pack PAX times. I could go even faster if they’d let me take off a few of the lug nuts: you don’t need all of them, they’re for other people. Slow people.
During the week, I meticulously analyze every ounce of food that’s going into me, and prior to each event I chug enough laxative to power-wash the walls of the campground toilet. Smells like victory. Pop quiz, hot shot: how many seconds can you shave off your time if you drink liquid yogourt for every meal instead of eating bread? One whole second on an 85-second course. I did the math.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to hit the gym. Not too much, though - muscle is dense as hell. I’ll have to wear my lightweight parka for the drive over, because I never reinstalled the side windows after last weekend.
