The Wall Street Journal

May 30, 1996

By Quentin Hardy

Tired of Gridlock? Nevada Speed fest is Just the Ticket

Lund Nevada – Clay Looney, a supermarket manager from Tyler, Texas eases his 1993 two-door Acura Integra toward a trail of skid marks and nods at the policeman standing beside a 70 miles per hour speed-limit sign. "Is it okay to burn a little rubber?" he asks politely.

Today it is. Mr. Looney is idling on Nevada State Highway 318, preparing for the ninth season of the Silver State Classic Challenge road events. He and about 100 others are ready to roar pedal-to-metal over 90 miles of public pavement, while lawmen smile and wave.

This is an amateur event, open to average people and average cars. It is run with the blessing of the state, despite the fact that two people have died in the event in past years. In the most recent running of the Silver State Classic, the highest average speed was 186.73 mph, faster than the 147.956 mph averaged by the winner of Sunday’s Indianapolis 500. Michele Doria, a pizzeria owner from Newport Beach, Calif., hit a peak 203 mph in her 1992 Corvette.

To some, this seems crazy. "How can you qualify somebody to go 200 miles an hour on a two-lane road? You can’t," says Pratt Cole, who ought to know. He swore off the Silver State after winning it in 1990. "I got out of my car at the end, and realized I had been going sideways at 180 miles an hour," he recalls. "It was the stupidest thing I ever did."

On the other hand, there are no speed traps and gridlock doesn’t exist. "Out of 260 million Americans, there is a tiny niche of people who want to run flat out," says Bob Butte, the event’s promoter. For them, he says, the event ‘is a lot of wish fulfillment."

The series – there is another event in September – began in 1988, when civic leaders in Whit Pine County here in Nevada’s high desert were seeking a boost to the local economy, laid low by a copper-mine shutdown. They came up with an anything-goes event, based on a similar event in Mexico. (The former mayor of nearby Ely, who helped hatch the event, still competes in his souped-up Mercedes.)

No Limit – The Rules are pretty simple: Drivers can compete in 13 different speed classes, ranging from 95 mph to "unlimited." This month’s entrants ranged from a 1989 Ford Taurus to a 1965 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Those come closest to averaging the speed set for their class for the entire event win a small trophy. (In the unlimited category, the highest speed wins.) Entry fees run as high as $675, which includes tickets to a slot-machine tournament and to a car beauty contest held at one of Ely’s legal brothels.

The main attraction, however, is speed. Mr. Looney, 26 years old, has competed in quarter-mile drag races. But most of his drive time is spent commuting, contending with fumes and stoplights. Beneath the hood of his $12,000 Acura, he believes purrs the motor of a champion. "It’s got great gas mileage," Mr. Looney says, "but I’ve just never seen how fast it can go."

Most entrants cars are slightly altered for the event – Mr. Looney, for example, has put a roll bar inside his. David and Fay Teal, of Aston, Pa., modified their 1994 Dodge Intrepid to run on propane gas in the 100-mph class. Larry Hall, a California motel owner, tinkers with a complete program to improve his pickup truck’s chances of averaging exactly 110 mph, his speed class. His laptop-toting daughter rides beside him. "This is an exercise in punctuality," says Mr. Hall, 52. "I’ve got 49 minutes and nine seconds to get there."

There were no computers – and far fewer rules – in the event’s early days. Crashes were common. The wife of one driver, acting as navigator, died in a 1989 accident. Another contestant was killed on the course in 1992, after travelling all night to get to the starting line. (All drivers in the event must sign a waiver taking responsibility for their own safety.)

But the event brought people and money to Ely, so organizers added some safety requirements and a mandatory two-hour instruction course for first-timers. Helmets are required. Anybody who gets a speeding ticket on the way to the event is disqualified.

"I feel safer in this event than I do during my commute," says Steve Frieson, a highway engineer from La Habra Heights, Calif., who puts duct tape around the edges of the hood of his 145 mph-class Chevrolet Camero to improve its aerodynamics. "Nobody is making a phone call, putting on makeup, or reading the newspaper."

Besides the police, safety permits just a few locals from Ely and a busload of Boy Scouts to watch the event. The Scouts help guard access roads onto the highway from unwitting trespassers in return for a few bucks and event T-shirts. "Napoleon new he could conquer the world when he saw men would die for medals," says Mr. Butte, the promoter. "He didn’t know about T-shirts."

As the event begins, Mr. Looney is all business, staring out at the waves of heat rising from the highway. The road is clear, not much chance of a change, really, from when it is open to the public. Highway 318 runs between U.S. 50, called "the loneliest road in America," and state route 375, dubbed "the extraterrestrial highway" because it gets so many UFO sightings. It is mostly flat, with 14-mile straight-aways, and just four houses over the 90 miles. Cattle are few, and jackrabbits generally know better than to get involved.

The green flag drops for Mr. Looney, and he burns the promised rubber. "I’m from Texas," he hoots. "We like to stick out a bit."

He is slanted back in his seat as the car screams past 120 miles an hour. As the speedometer nears 140 mph, the periphery becomes a blur, the road ahead a fixation. Mr. Looney is silent but for occasional yelps of "Don’t worry!" or "It’s under control!"

As minutes fly by, the triple-digit speed begins to seem almost normal, except for the stomach-wrenching lane shifts and life-threatening zephyrs that jerk the car off course. At the most treacherous part of the 39-minute ride – an "S" curve through a petroglyph-dotted canyon – the grocer downshifts to 110. Six broken-down cars are driven off to the side of the road, most of them from the fastest-racing classes.

Mr. Looney pushes the car’s limits in the final sprint to the checkered flag. He ends well before Mr. Hall and his daughter, who get third place in their group. Mr. Looney’s average speed is 132 mph, more than 10 mph above his class. He is disqualified.

Does he feel like a loser? Hardly. As he decelerates toward a crowd of fellow finishers and beer-proffering prostitutes, he lets loose a Texas whoop. "Aww, that was great!" he says, then looks around in confusion. "Now what am I going to do?"