I entered Simola with what I genuinely believed was a racecar.
A 1971 Alfa Romeo 1750 GTV that had been daily driven into something that looked the part — stripped interior, roll cage, cut springs, noise. From the outside, it ticked the boxes. From the inside, it felt like commitment.
Reality arrived quickly.
Missing the shakedown should have been the first sign. Electrical rerouting issues meant I arrived underprepared before I even got there. But optimism carries you a long way when you don’t yet understand what you don’t know.
Scrutineering, the paddock, the other cars — that was the real education. There’s a difference between something that resembles a racecar and something that is engineered to be one. Mine was the former.
Then came the engine. A leak-down test confirmed what the rest of the weekend had already suggested — unacceptable compression. The motor came out. One thing led to another, as it always does.
What started as a social adventure turned into something more serious almost immediately. Not by choice, but by necessity.
Mortifying at the time.
Foundational in hindsight.