The Plymford

How does the finances work with your team?  Are they required to pay for all their drivers gear plus how much of the transport costs?   Food, consumables, entry fee ?   
   Can you break out what a typical weekend costs each driver? 

MCCALL'S STINT - 10AM to 11:30AM

With 7 and a half hours of race time between green and checkered flags on Saturday, the plan was for each of the four drivers to take an hour and 45 minute stint.  This would leave time for fueling, driver changes, and checking the car over.  About 15 minutes before his scheduled stop, though, McCall showed up back in the pits.  He'd spun out, though luckily had not hit any cars or barriers.  He'd promptly come back to the Judges area where they went lenient on him for the team's first black flag, and was ready for me to take the helm.  After a cursory check, the tires seemed to be over-inflated, so we aired them down to about 50 psi or so.  Otherwise, Plymford seemed to be holding together well, so we fueled it up at the track pumps (using our gas cans- the track gas was about a dollar a gallon pricer than at Al's Corner Pumps just down the street) and I headed out for Stint #2 of Saturday.

MIKE'S STINT - 11:45PM to 1PM

On the track, I quickly came to the realization that everyone else out there was either way faster than me, or way slower.  Plymford would hold its own in the straights, the giant Ford mill churning up to 5,000 RPM at 3 or 4 places every laps, and the brakes were outstanding for what they were- braking around the 3 marker was possible once I got the feel for it.  But the other cars were half to 2/3 of the weight, and handled the curves better, so that's were I lost ground.  Trying to not be roadblock, while simultaneously racing hard and clean, in a car wide enough to almost legally require clearance lights, is challenging.  Plymford has de-powered steering, and the esses between turns 6 and 11 on the track were particularly tiring.  

A little over an hour into my shift, coming around Turn 14, I was trying to leave room on the inside for the #411 Integra, which had been waiting patiently to pass me through the afore-mentioned esses.  He seemed to misjudge the length of the barge he was overtaking, however, as he came back over a bit too soon, clipping the front right corner of the Plymford.  I swerved to miss the contact, but failed, and the two of us went careering off to the grassy area off to the left.  I saw the Integra flip 180 degrees, facing the direction of oncoming traffic, while Plymford skidded sideways to a stop.  I recall seeing the Integra slam the barrier on the passenger side, and prayed the Plymford would stop before contacting it- which it did.  I steered over to the Integra, to make sure the driver was OK, and, receiving a thumbs-up from him, continued to merge back onto the track and headed in to the Black Flag area.  

Judge Craig awaited me at the garage, peered in and expressed his extreme disappointment in seeing this fine racing machine in for 2 black flags in as many driver's stints.  He asked me what happened; I explained the incident, then he went to talk to the driver of the Integra, who had followed me in.  He came back and said he'd gotten a different story from him, so he was going to consider it an "everyone's at fault" incident.  More concerning, though, was the fact that the top of my helmet was apparently right at the top plane of the roll cage.  Another judge was called over, we tried to figure out why, since I'd raced this car several times before (the seat and roll cage were unchanged from racing the LTD).  I told him I was going to head back to the pits and swap drivers, that the remaining drivers were shorter than myself, and we'd sort out the problem tonight.  Satisfied, he released me.

I brought the freshly race-christened Plymford back to our pits, relayed my tale of black flag, and helped to get Dave and the car ready for the third stint.  The damage to the right front fender was noticeable, but not concern-causing.  I devoted approximately 15 seconds to pulling out the worst of the dent and then helped fuel the thirsty beast for Dave's run.  

DAVE'S STINT - 1:15 to 2:45PM

Since our schedule was thrown off a bit from the first two black flags, I told Dave to stay out a bit longer, but only if he felt OK doing so.  Despite having only having driven the Plymford long enough the previous evening to attract the ire of a track security person, Dave's other LeMons experience driving ungainly &/or horribly unpredictable machinery served him well.  He turned quick, clean laps and avoided any whiff of trouble.  After an hour ad a half he came back in for fuel and a driver change.  It was Matt's turn behind the wheel.  

I should note here that while belting Dave in, we figured out why my helmet had been so high relative to the roll cage.  The boat seat cushion we use for our shorter drivers was still in place, and I'd been sitting on it my whole stint.  We left it in for Dave, but reminded ourselves to make sure it came out later for Matt and myself.  

MATT'S STINT - 3 to 4:30PM

After the ignominious start with a blown fuse and a pair of black flags, things seemed to be looking up after Dave's successful stint.  Matt took over right where Dave left off, clicking off laps at a good pace and not hitting anything.  As a bonus, the weather had improved from the previous day, so those of us not driving took the opportunity to watch the race from various vantage points.  Every 2-1/2 or 3 minutes the giant teal-and-white whale would rumble past reassuringly.  The sun was battling off clouds for supremacy of the skies.  I had an icy cold Cheerwine, and a steaming Dixie cup of Dave's paddock chili.  Life was good.  

We knew that Matt wouldn't be able to do 2-1/2 hours in the Plymford to bring it home for the day- driving in an endurance race is physically and emotionally taxing, and ain't none of us young bucks anymore (well, except for our Crew Chief...but he wasn't driving).  It was decided, then, that since I'd done the shortest stint of the day, I would go out and bat cleanup Saturday evening.  Assuming all went well, we'd even out the seat time on Sunday.

MIKE'S 2nd STINT - 4:45 to 5:30PM

And so it was that I re-took the helm for the final 45 minutes of Saturday.  After a few laps,  I got back into my groove, with the goal of keeping clean and not hurting the car.  Again, there wasn't much out there that the Plymford seemed directly competitive with.  I passed all the slow stuff and got passed by the Class A rockets.  Still, it was fun to be out there, pushing the big 460 hard and chirping the meats every now and then.  Shortly after 5:30 the checkered flag flew, and after a cool down lap I paraded into the paddock with every other car that finished the day, throngs of fellow racers giving enthusiastic waves and thumbs' ups.  I idled into our paddock spot, gave the engine one last rev for good measure, and hit the kill switch.  

Saturday's race was in the books.  

frenchyd said:

How does the finances work with your team?  Are they required to pay for all their drivers gear plus how much of the transport costs?   Food, consumables, entry fee ?   
   Can you break out what a typical weekend costs each driver? 

I believe you've asked and I've answered this before, but I'll cover it after the race wrap up. 

Nice going.  Happy for you and the team.  Do the black flags follow you? Not too familiar with this.  Good luck on the wrap up.

"If you aint rubbin, you aint racin!"

Did you find out what the story from the Integra's POV was?

Mr_Asa said:

"If you aint rubbin, you aint racin!"

Did you find out what the story from the Integra's POV was?

"Rubbin" is strongly discouraged in LeMons, and in any rate, this transcended mere rubbing into a pretty wild spin, slide, and, in the case of the Integra, wall contact.

Regardless of fault, my standard procedure for a racing incident is to seek out the other driver at the end of the day, when the track and the beer is cold, and bring the latter as a peace offering.  This is racing, stuff happens, and there's no point in pointing fingers or holding grudges.  Yes, our cars got dented, but if I wasn't OK with the possibility of that, then Plymford shouldn't (and wouldn't) have been there. 

I walked the paddock from end to end, and asked a few folks if they'd seen the #411 car, but no dice.  They never came by our paddock space, either- and if they had, I'd have offered them some of the fantastic pork that Dave smoked up for supper that day.  I did see the car back on track Sunday.  But I never did get a chance to talk with the other driver. 

That car was up in the upper garages, next to us. 
 

plymford was a perfect class C car whenever I was near it, in our medium speed class B car, Mazda3, that was a substitute car mid day Saturday after the Z was retired for the weekend. 

In reply to Sonic :

Thanks.  As you know, it can be more challenging driving a slower car than a faster one, as the driver's attention inevitably gets split between the movie in the windshield and the one in the mirrors.  Plymford makes it even trickier, as it will out-drag half the field in the straights.

It was our first trip to Pitt so I wasn't sure where all the garages were, and probably missed them because of that.  But when I encountered #411 on Sunday they were racing clean and we gave them plenty to room to pass.

volvoclearinghouse said:

frenchyd said:

How does the finances work with your team?  Are they required to pay for all their drivers gear plus how much of the transport costs?   Food, consumables, entry fee ?   
   Can you break out what a typical weekend costs each driver? 

I believe you've asked and I've answered this before, but I'll cover it after the race wrap up. 

Yes you did thank you, I remember it but can't remember the details and can't find it by searching.   Since I'm forming my own team I want to present as clear of a picture as possible to those joining me. 
 Later is just fine.  Thank you in advance.  

Check page 11 of this thread.

In reply to Entropyman :

Thank you.  That's exactly what I was looking for.  Didn't realize it would be so relatively recent. 

SATURDAY NIGHT

It was unanimously decided, at that exact moment, we were significantly more interested in getting our hands into some hot smoked pork action than fixing a hot race car, so we let Plymford cool off and dove into Dave's paddock feast.  Smoke pork, two ways, smoked stuffed peppers, smoke radishes, smoked cornbread, and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting.  It was delicious, and we were ravenous.  

Saturday's race session had left few scars on Plymford, apart form the tangle with #411.  The rear brakes were worn down to the backers, practically.  We had just replaced them before the race, so I hadn't packed any spares.  Luckily they were calipers off an '85 Monte Carlo front, so McCall quickly found a set and went to procure them.  The front pads looked hardly worn at all- Hawk HT-10 racing pads.  We suspect there's a brake imbalance, and the rears are getting more pressure than the front.  The car does seem a bit squiggly under hard braking.  But, we'd no intention of fiddling with it that night, and screwing something _else_ up.  It would be fine for Sunday's slightly shorter session.  To paraphrase Nike, we'd Just Deal With It.  

The BFG G-forces that were brand new this race were wearing well.  We had them off anyway, so we rotated them front-rear (they're directional tread, so we couldn't go side-side without a tire mounting machine), set the pressure, and torqued them back on.  All of the fluids were topped, consumption for the entire day was about a quart of Mobil1 15w-50.  For 7 hours of beating on a 1960's-design American pushrod V8, I'd say that's pretty damn acceptable. 

We decided to take advantage of the cold track and drive Plymford to the filling station, top off the fuel cell and fill the jerry cans.  I enjoy driving the old beast at night, too, the Hellas shining every which way and the cool night air blustering in from everywhere.  

With everything ready for Sunday's racing action, drinks were drank, socialization with well-wishers was enjoyed, and we shared what remained of the night's feast with any who wished to partake, including one of the Judges. 

Everyone save Dave headed back to the Ramada a bit before midnight, with dreams that the previous night's wedding revelry would not be bleeding over into tonight.  

Dirtydog (Forum Supporter) said:

Nice going.  Happy for you and the team.  Do the black flags follow you? Not too familiar with this.  Good luck on the wrap up.

The black flags are mostly at the Judges' discretion, but they follow the car, not the driver.  1 black flag usually results in a "get out of jail" absolution; 2 black flags will get you a stern admonishment and a longer conversation.  If a team gets 3 black flags in a day, they'll have to do something humiliating and time consuming.  4 flags in a day and you'll probably be parked for the day.  I'm not really clear what happens Sunday, if you got 4 flags on Saturday and start accumulating more of them...but the Judges tend to have loooong memories.  Best to race clean. 

For many reasons I wish I had been able to make that race. One of them is just the fact that I would have likely spent time on track with Randy Pobst. Check out the opening of his video! You guys are famous.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWPhhA5wbY&ab_channel=RandyPobst

The Plymford is looking amazing, btw.

In reply to AxeHealey :

I love watching him drive.  That editor's note at around 8:45 was just mean, though.

Sunday, April 18th.
6AM

The prospect of a new day of racing likely influenced my awakening prior to the alarm clock going off.  I puttered around the hotel room, packing up and clearing out- we'd be heading home after the race, so I needed to be out of the room before leaving for the track.  While waiting for the rest of the team, I strolled the pool area, taking in the used swimmy diapers, towels strewn everywhere, and general trash scattered like confetti.  There had been no party the previous night - a fact to be credited for my good night's sleep - but the hotel's patrons were clearly not of the caliber of people to treat their accommodations with decency.  Pity.  The hotel, while older, had clearly been a respectable establishment in it's day.  

A few minutes after 7, Matt and I met Ethan at his Excursion, McCall swung by in the rental Rouge, and we headed to the track, where sunshine was burning off the early morning fog, and breakfast, and Dave, awaited us.

Race order:  Matt - Mike - Dave - McCall

Matt had gotten short-shift the prior day in his driving time, so we suited him up to take the green flag Sunday morning.  Unfortunately, there was a problem:  when we'd hooked the trickle charger up to Plymford's battery, it read 68% full.  The engine fired up willingly, but a check to the alternator confirmed our fears- it wasn't charging.  

A bit of digression here:  Plymford started out it's life back in 1975, rolling off Ford's malaise-era assembly line in a fog of cigar smoke and gin fumes as an LTD Landau.  It's original owner, the grandfather of one of our team members, bought it new and drove it until sometime in the late 2000's.  After he passed, the car was gifted to us, under the guarantee that we'd use it as a LeMons car- which we did.  A few years back, the body of the 1950 Plymouth was grafted on, creating The Plymford.  The drivetrain started off as the iron lump of a turd that was the 400 "medium block" V-8, which we couldn't kill, but eventually scrapped in favor of a more energetic but slightly more temperamental 460 Big Block.  We did kill 2 or 3 of these 460's prior to the Plymford conversion.  However, one thing that was still original to the car since, as far as we know, 1975, was...the alternator.  

This alternator, being Ford's first attempt at turning spinnies into chargies that _wasn't_ a generator, used an external regulator.  Which could also be suspect.  The wiring was 46 years old.  So it could be suspect.  And, of course, the alternator (a "1g", for "first gen"), having been subjected to 120,000 miles of street driving and over a thousand miles of LeMons racing, was really suspect.  McCall found a "rebuilt" one at a local auto part store and went to go get it while we sent Matt out to go run the battery down as slowly as possible on the race track.  

MATT'S STINT - 9:00AM to 10:30AM

Unfortunately, as I'm writing this 3 weeks after the race, my memory on some of this stuff is getting a bit foggy already.  My recollection here is that Matt came back in after about an hour and a half with the car sputtering.  Figuring the battery was about ready to pack it in, he'd made the smart decision to get it back to the paddock under it's own juice, rather than elect to get a free flatbed ride.  At this point, McCall had shown up with the rebuilt alternator, and we decided to roll the dice with a quick exchange.  Unfortunately, while attempting to extract the old unit, a bolt interfered with the radiator, and could not be pulled out all the way...without removing the radiator.  This was the (OK, my) fault of relocating the radiator (and the whole drivetrain) back about 6", which was necessitated by the shortened 1950 Plymouth bodywork riding on top of the LTD's running gear.  Unfortunately, I hadn't given attention to something as mundane as "alternator servicing", so now we were stuck with a dead battery and alternator replacement projected to take up the better part of 2 hours.

And here is where Dave had a brilliant idea.  He had a large ammunition can that he'd rigged full of batteries as a deep cycle supply for his RV, to be charged with a solar panel.  Why not rig up the battery can and run the race car without a functional charging system?  There was some discussion about even mounting the solar array to the roof, but after running the calculations, I figured the battery can would have enough juice to run the minimal electrics of the Plymford for the remaining 4 or 5 hours of the race, so, reluctantly, we shelved the solar panel idea (although it would have looked really cool running around with a massive solar panel on the roof of a 1950's car!).  

Dave headed up the effort to wire in his RV battery can to the passenger seat area of the Plymford, ratchet strapped it down, and I eagerly suited up and belted in to try this contraption out.  I switched on the main power, clicked on the ignition, hit the starter toggle, and....

Click.  Nothing.  

After a few minutes of head (and possibly other body parts...) scratching, we tried jumping the starter off Ethan's Excursion.  The wiring in his truck was almost as sketchy as that of the Plymford, but after some fiddling we finally got the 460 to motivate.  It was theorized that the deep cycle battery setup couldn't supply enough current to spin over 7  and a half liters of internal combustion, though it seemed to run fine enough once under way.  We tidied everything up and I went out on track to try out the full-loss electrical system.   

MIKE'S STINT - 11:00 to 11:45

I'd done two stints the day before, with over 2 hours of driving time, so my goal for Sunday, now, was to verify that the battery was keeping the Ford Ignition Module well fed with electrons and prevent anything else from breaking on the car.  I'm happy to report that I succeeded in both of these tasks.  I was also pleased to note that a few laps into my stint, our NEMESIS, the supercharged Buick V-6 powered 1948 Plymouth, rolled onto the track a few cars ahead of me...

The previous evening, the captain of the 1948 Plymouth team had come by our pit space, and while comparing our experiences campaigning these crapulent old buggies, we entered into a bit of a gentlemens' wager- whichever of the two cars turned the most laps by the end of the weekend, that team's captain could select one (non-critical, non-valuable) part of the other team's car as a trophy.  We'd both been *slightly* inebriated, and neither one of us knew who was ahead Saturday night anyway, so we shook on the agreement. 

It was extremely fitting, then, that we should meet each other in combat, on the battlefield.  

We diced it up for more than a few laps.  To be honest, I didn't really _want_ to pass him.  I was having fun roaring up on him in the straights, and then backing off and letting him lead through the twists and turns.  I didn't want to make a forced pass, and risk an incident.  I also figured we'd make a helluva photo op for whoever was watching.  Finally, though, an opportunity presented itself, and I was able to make full use of the 460's might to put the '48 Plymouth behind us.  Suprisingly, once I'd cleared him, he rapidly disappeared in the rearview mirror, and I was dealing with other traffic.  I decided to have a few more laps of fun, and then bring the car in so Dave and McCall could enjoy it the rest of the day.  

DAVE'S STINT - 12:00PM to 1:30PM

With the Plymford back in the pits, we checked the deep cycle battery's health.  72% capacity remaining meant we were in good shape to finish the race.  There was still the hassle of having to jump start the Plymford with one of our other cars, but as we were gassing up at the track pumps, this was a relatively trivial inconvenience.  With the fuel cell full and the battery at about 3/4 so, Dave went out to replicate his moves from Saturday, keeping it clean, and pushing the Plymford just fast enough to keep us moving up the standings.  I was intentionally not paying attention to how well we were doing; all I can control in the race situation is myself and how we react to what happens.  Wherever we end up is a matter of luck, and some combination of everything else we do.  No point in stressing over it.  

While Dave was out dicing it up, the rest of us decided to go check out the drift competition that was underway at the big open end of the parking lot.  I'd never seen one in person, and while the cars were a bit wild for my tastes, I certainly gained an appreciation for their preparation and the car control involved.  Different tastes, still gearheads.  

Around the end of Dave's planned racing time, he pitted, reporting the transmission was doing something funky.  The initial undercar check showed the undercarriage soaked in something red, so we knew there was a leak.  The dipstick was about dry, too.  The Plymford was promptly put on jack stands, and Matt and I crawled around on the asphalt looking for obvious leaks.  Finding none, we hollered for ratchets and sockets, and snugged up the C6 pan bolts, which had seemed pretty loose.  With time falling away and wanting to get McCall out for what would hopefully be the final bit of the race, we dropped the car back down, topped off the shift juice, went through the whole "check battery-shut down engine-gas-belt in driver-jump start" routine, and away went driver and car to finish things up.

MCCALL'S STINT - 2:30 to 4PM

In retrospect, McCall was probably the best choice for the final driver Sunday.  He's a historically been a careful driver (Saturday's black flag being an abberation), and especially attuned to mechanical sympathy.  One of the earlier races with the LTD, with a flailing transmission, he kept the car going seemingly without any transmission fluid at all, turning stately, consistent laps at approximately 53 mph.  And so it went for the final part of Sunday.  Plymford wasn't winning any speed contests, but it was definitely going faster than the now-sizable chunk of the field that wasn't even on the track.  We all let out a collective exhale at 4 o'clock when the big old whale cruised under the checkered flag.  McCall had taken it home.  We'd finished.  

The crowds lined up to cheer the parade of racers off the track; we managed to work our way down to right at the track exit, where, according to tradition, McCall paused briefly and the whole team piled on the car for the paddock cruise back to our pits.  High-fives were given, cheers shouted, congratulations with outer teams shared.  Back at our nearly-packed up pit space, McCall left the car running, and I hopped in to drive it onto the trailer- before anything else could go wrong!  Safely perched atop the car hauler, I silenced the 460 for the final time that weekend, and we strapped and packed what was left into the various vehicles and headed for the awards ceremony.  We hadn't been selected for anything, but we enjoyed the celebration anyway, laughed and applauded for all the well-deserved winners.  And we'd finished the race, car intact and everyone safe and smiling.  That's a good reward right there. 

HEADING HOME - Sunday Night

About an hour after the race's conclusion, all traces of our existence had been removed from the paddock space Dave had secured us for the weekend.  Well wishes were exchanged, along with encouragement that we need to do this again, sooner than 2-1/2 years from now.  Then, we scattered, like rods from an over-revved Honda, to our respective corners of the East coast.  Matt and I settled into the BST and motored on out of Pittsburgh International Race Complex, the big block sputtering and backfiring through the somewhat concerning exhaust leak.  Dave had provided a spare spark plug wire to replace the one we'd cooked, which we hoped would get us home.

The road out of the track was long, steep, and downhill, and as I engine-braked down slowly in 2nd gear, the engine popped violently.   Matt claimed he saw flames coming out the exhaust.  At the bottom we pulled over, and with the truck idling I crawled underneath to check it out.  Everything was still there, and the engine was still running...ok...ish...so we decided to press on.  I merged the rig onto the Pennsylvania turnpike where we motored east in the slow lane.  After about 15 minutes the truck lost a bit of power and ran perceptibly rougher; I'd assumed the "new" spark plug wire had cooked and was done.  Still we motored on, making perhaps 55 mph on the flats, and chugging up grades as best we could- maybe 40 mph.  

It was going to be a long ride home.

We stopped for gas and a cool down after an hour or so.  Everything underhood was HOT, though the temperature gauge, at least, didn't indicate anything wrong.  Likely that exhaust leak at the manifold was just baking everything.  We pressed on, endeavoring to persevere.

Then we got to Breezewood.  It was US-30 East from here to Gettysburg, and all the hills we'd gone up and down on the way here, now faced us from the opposite way.  At least we were in two wheel drive mode this time, and the "net" elevation was somewhat downhill.  Darkness crept in.  I managed the limping engine and ear-pounding exhaust and 30 year old brakes as best I could.

Going up one grade of grueling length and steepness, I'd shifted down into 3rd, but the engine wasn't having it.  I watched the revs drop....2000...1700...1500.  The crest should be right up ahead of that curve.  Except it wasn't, the road curved off to the right, and kept going up.  1300 RPM.  I could hear the individual hits of the cylinders as they pumped away.  I was going to have to go for second.  I pressed the clutch...

I said, I pressed the clutch.

I mean, I PRESSED THE CLUTCH.  

...

And the clutch pedal went to the floor, limp.  Oh.  my.  I had no clutch.  1000 RPM, and dropping.  Just one thing for it.  I sucked in my breath, blipped the throttle, and yanked the lever dog-leg down towards 2nd gear.  And found it.  I let out my breath, and jammed the skinny pedal to the floor.  The revs picked back up, and started climbing.  We made the grade.  

I suspected that on the long, hard, full throttle run up the hill the leaky exhaust had boiled the clutch fluid.  Indeed, on the coast down the grade in 3rd, I was able to pump up the clutch enough for it to work again, sort of.  The worst of the hills were put behind us, with the addition of "must not use the clutch" to my mental post-it notes of driving instructions for this rolling E36 M3 show.

About 10 minutes from home, coasting through a tiny, tucked-in town in southern Pennsylvania, the only traffic light in said town turned red.  I popped the gearbox into neutral and coasted to a stop.  At the green light, I pressed onto an alarmingly flaccid clutch and grabbed granny gear to take off.  Going for second, though, I missed the revs, the clutch pedal dropped to the floor, and the truck went slower, and slower, and slower, as I furiously revved the engine and tried through sheer force of will to find a cog.  The truck ground to a halt with the trailer, and Plymford on it, blocking the intersection.  

With the truck idling, I pumped the clutch as vigorously as I could.  Getting nothing, I raised the hood and found the master cylinder for it dry.  The race car fluids tote was buried in the bed, but a few minute's worth of digging produced a $20 bottle of racing brake fluid.  I was genuinely panicked at this point- I did NOT want to be explaining all of this to a stupefied and/or suspicious law enforcement agent at 10 o'clock on a Sunday night.  Dumping in the precious fluid and some more left leg exercising proved fruitful, however.  I hollered at Matt to get back in, and we took off.  I don't think I used the clutch the rest of the way home, until the truck and trailer were in the driveway.  Relieved, we transferred Matt's belongings into his waiting car, had a "thank God we made it home" celebratory shot, and headed off to our respective sleeping quarters.  Matt would take off for his home early next morning.

Your clutch story brings back bad memories of my own recent CA to NC journey with failing clutch hydraulics. I do not envy you having to do it with a loaded trailer.

It's not dissimilar from how my towing-with-a-manual-trans experience ended.  Something popped in traffic in upstate NY near Watkins Glen (there was a tractor or something idk).  Suddenly no clutch.  A few pumps and....clutch again.  hm.  k.  guess we'll keep going.  Made it to the event, made it 4 hrs home, occasionally the clutch felt super weird but it did always work eventually.   Dropped the trailer back at the storage location, got home, pulled into the driveway and the clutch blew the berkeley up.  And it turns out that 'pop' had been the clutch fork/TOB interface partially breaking but it mostly jammed itself into place most of the time so we could get home.  That was handy.

Ended up not needing a tow vehicle since due to a reduced travel schedule and street legal racecar.  But it was oddly fun.  Hope to get back to it soon.

I finally got the BST fixed a little over a week ago.  I replaced the entire clutch hydraulics, figuring it had been cooked and was of unknown quality now.  Turns out GM used a _plastic_ hose to go from the clutch master to just above the exhaust manifold, then crimped it to a metal line that went down to the slave.  Of course, it leaked right at that junction, where it melted.  I bet GM saved 3 cents per truck on that stupid plastic hose.

Replaced both exhaust donuts, and bought a new set of spark plug wires.  I put an asbestos bootie over that #1 plug wire that keeps getting cooked, we'll see how well that lasts. 

Long term, though, I think it's about time for another truck.  This one has 232k on it, the interior is baked, the dash is falling apart, the heater doesn't work, the front suspension needs overhaul, the tires are date coded 10 years ago (even though they still have about 90% tread), and, most importantly, Mrs. VCH won't drive it because she can't physically work the clutch (she's 5'2" and petite).  Not in a hurry, now that it's fixed BST will be fine for the around-town stuff I do with it, but sometime before the next race I should get a new tow vehicle. 

In reply to volvoclearinghouse :

So what do you think your car/trailer/spares and tools weigh? SWAG  

Given the 37% appreciation of used trucks over the last year, I'd look seriously at fixing yours over buying a replacement. 

Will the cycle continue?

D250 tows great but wife can't drive it

F350 is a Ford and acts as such

K3500 tows great but wife can't drive it

What's the next in the series?

Luckily, when the E36M3 hit the fan, you didn't get a face full.   All's well, that ends well.  Just add the truck to a never ending list of things to do.  Glad you and your crew made it home safely, albeit, with a tale to tell.

In reply to buzzboy :

I'm thinking Chevy, '96 - '14 years, auto, 2500-3500, non dually, 4x4, gasser, crew cab, long bed.  I figure the market will cool off eventually, and I'm not in a hurry.