
Sliding behind the wheel of this low-slung, wide-open roadster is like stepping into an episode of “Speed Racer.” This thing seems more like a space ship than a sports car. Given a chance to go all out on the long course at legendary Sebring Raceway, I instantly realize that today is going to be different.
I can hop over the low doors. Rules most likely required them, since they’re as superfluous as teats on a bull.
Inside, the car is low, wide and easy for even a big guy to fit in. That said, even after removing the owner’s customized seat and sitting on the floor, my head is above the windshield. Presumably with a real seat fitted to my 6-foot, 250-pound frame, I’d be in a more laid-back driving position.
The tiny steering wheel can’t be more than 12 inches in diameter and looks like it’s from a gokart, not one of the most famous race cars ever built.
Oddly enough, despite all the differences from an average production car, the Smiths gauges look like they could be out of an MG or Triumph. Only the Stack tachometer looks out of place on the kit-car-looking fiberglass dashboard.
In fact, the whole effect of the interior is more kit car than production car. The fit, finish and design of most of the components quickly confirms the car’s hand-built origins.
The controls fall readily to hand–and foot. With racing shoes, at least, I have no issues with pedal size or placement.
The Lola is right-hand drive, but the shifter–a spindly steel-andaluminum affair–is positioned up and to my right. It seems almost too delicate to force this monster around a race track.
I flick the fuel pump and ignition to their “on” positions and hit the rubber-covered starter button. The kit-car looks of the Lola T70 vaporize, only to be replaced by the ear-shattering sound of an unmuffled, highly modified Cobra V8 engine.
“Do you have earplugs?” I hear someone yell. One blip of the throttle, and I quickly realize they’re a necessity if I want to spend any amount of time with this kind of power and noise directly behind my head.
With earplugs in place, I test the brakes and clutch. They’re extremely stiff. This car is not going to drive like a minivan.
I warm the engine and the Webers suck like eight shop vacs over my shoulder. The steering is also stiff. Wasn’t power steering invented in 1965? Sure, the wheel is small, but I’d expect a midengined car that weighs less than 2000 pounds to have very light steering. That’s not the case here.
I pull out of the pits, and despite the open cockpit, my HANS Device makes it tough to look left and right. I now learn that the steering, in addition to being dump-truck heavy, will only turn the car a small amount.
The gearing is so high that even in first gear I can’t do less than 20 to 25 mph and keep it running. This car is designed for only one thing, and it isn’t being comfortable or tooling around the paddock. Owner Brian Johnson had warned me that this thing was an evil son of a bitch to drive. He was right.
I had been warned about the shifting, too. Can-Am car driver Preston Ferrell told me I had two choices: Either shift it like I stole it, or double-clutch it and hope for the best.
Out on track I realize what he was talking about. I miss my first shift and have trouble getting any gear. I try double-clutching and that works better. As the four-speed transaxle warms up and I get used to it, shifting starts to feel easier.
So what kind of power does this thing have?
I start to run it up to about 5000 rpm in second. First the Webers clear, and then–holy E36 M3–all hell breaks loose. This thing pulls like a freight train. I’ve driven some quick cars in my day, and despite the big-track gearing, this thing rushes to redline so fast it nearly makes my head implode.
I test the brakes coming into Turn 1 and they are good. Despite the hard pedal effort, the cold brakes are rather confidence-inspiring. This thing may be old, but it’s apparent that it’s a real race car and not a mere converted street car.
I’ve been warned that bad, bad things can happen very, very quickly when this car is on cold tires. Guess what? That message comes through loud and clear right about now.
As the big Avon slicks warm up, I begin to explore the handling limits. Are there any limits? The chassis doesn’t seem to care how fast I pitch it through the esses or out of the hairpin. Not wanting to be the guy who crashes Brian Johnson’s half-million-dollar race car keeps me in check.
Still, I get more comfortable with every lap. By lap three, I really hammer down on Sebring’s legendary back straight. In a Miata or my TR3, I could do this while filing my nails, waving to the spectators, and contemplating where I’m going for dinner.
In a Lola T70 at well north of 160 mph, I barely have time to check the gauges. My helmet vibrates in the airflow and all I can hear is the sweet, sweet howl of that Cobra V8. Life is good. I drink it in. This could go on forever.
Suddenly comes the realization that Turn 17 is upon me and I have to figure out how to slow a car that’s traveling nearly 180 mph– some 50 mph hour more than most any small-bore production car can muster–to safely navigate this famous, relatively slow corner.
Surprisingly the brakes are up to the task. I shift smoothly into third, brace my neck muscles, and make the turn onto the front straight with remarkably little drama.
I get a few more laps to dial in this car. And then the most exciting drive of my life is over. As a lifelong small-block-Ford guy, I’m filled with euphoria.
I’m also filled with relief. This is the fastest I have ever gone in a race car. I lived, I loved, and I didn’t hurt myself or this amazing piece of racing history.
So this is the life of a rock star. Sign me up.