It's about 3:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, June 9. High Plains Raceway in Colorado drones with the sound of the ongoing 24 Hours of Lemons. Me and teammates Rafi, Rick, and Marcus, along with our Cadillac Deville, sit in a circle. We're on camping chairs; the car is on jack stands. Our prematurely-ended B.F.E. GP has gone as badly as any first-time racing experience could, and we couldn't be more excited about coming back in October for the Get Yer Phil 500. We are the latest victims of the Lemons affliction, and we don't want no cure.

Murilee Martin

Genesis 1:1 In the beginning, Phil created the tech and BS inspection Friday, June 8. I arrived at High Plains Raceway, a racing oasis in the rural nothingness that is eastern Colorado, hence the B.F.E GP name (it stands for "Butt Fuck, Egypt"). The scenery is so dull that it may as well be Kansas, but the weather is decidedly Nevada: most daylight hours this weekend would be above 90 degrees. As soon as I found a parking space, Rafi and I donned our robes. Mine trimmed with golden crosses, his with First Order Stormtroopers. We're Holy Crap Racing: The Second Coming, named to celebrate the holy roller Cadillac's second race entry. I climbed in to the Caddy to pilot it down to tech and BS inspection. BS inspection is where a team presents its ledger for the car's construction and race preparation, which has to cost a net of $500, max. Our car, initially built and campaigned by a Texan team, was already kosher. Judge Phil adored the combination of car and costumes, and snapped photos for his Lemons archive. As part of BS inspection, teams are assigned classes based on anticipated competitiveness. Class A, for teams that may win; Class B, for those that may finish; Class C, for those with a snowball's chance in hell of either; and Class F, exclusively for automotive journalists. We narrowly avoid F and end up in C instead, due to our inexperience and ticking time bomb Cadillac Northstar V8. Tech inspection verifies that a car's safety equipment—roll cage, harnesses, seat, kill switch—is safe for racing. Here, we were less successful. The cage and all driver restraints cut the mustard, but the kill switch didn't do what its name implies. We were shooed away with the promise of a pass if we could make the switch functional.

James Gilboy

We set to work diagnosing why the kill switch was unruly. The idea is to have an accessible switch that cuts all power, from both the battery and alternator to the rest of the car, when there's a risk of fire. Probing with a multimeter revealed our switch was hooked up solely to the battery, and that when the kill switch was flipped with the engine running, the alternator continued to power the ignition system. The Caddy's constructors wired the switch incorrectly, and we suspect that they passed inspection using slight of hand, turning the key as they flipped the semi-functional kill switch. Rick and I consulted other teams in the paddock for solutions. We had limited wire, cable, and tools, and could only fudge so much. Salty Thunder Racing, who ran twin Pontiac Fieros, provided us with direction. Repair efforts were interrupted by the mandatory rookie meeting. The judges gave a briefing on race flags and the mistakes rookies often make. Overtaking during yellow flags, exuberant driving, and sojourns through the dirt are grounds for a black flag—a penalty. It's a five-strikes-you're-out system, the likes of which would benefit Giancarlo Stanton. According to the judges, rookies usually don't finish the race. A challenge. Meeting concluded, Rick crawled back beneath the Cadillac. Hours on, at 8:30, he signaled us to crank the car for a test of his fiddlings. The car rumbled to life, we flipped the kill switch, and it functioned as billed. The magical man that is Rick Frickin' Steinbauer has guaranteed us a place on track in the morning, when we pass our next trip through tech. We agreed in the fading light that our 2.5-mile track walk was best saved for the morning. Eighteen hours deep into the day, on minimal sleep, I was grateful for the decision. Up and down the paddock, teams that passed inspection celebrated over a beer, and those that failed mourned or worried, also over a beer.

James Gilboy

Hebrews 12:1 Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us Overnight, I learned to identify every power tool known to man by the sound it makes. Lesson learned: don't try to sleep near the pits as late arrivals grind away at their Plymouth Arrows. Come six-something in the morning, my brain saw daylight, and gave up on further rest. We set off on our 2.5-mile hike of High Plains Raceway before the morning's driver meeting. Of us four, only Marcus had any racing experience, from his SCCA sprint days. The rest of us had no track driving experience whatsoever, let alone a history of endurance racing. Nevertheless, our track walk left us with confidence. Sure, with a V8 and front-wheel-drive, handling suffers, but with what's under the hood, we could keep pace with the Saturn V down the back straight. Our unparalleled stability could even the odds through High Plains' infamous turn 10, a short downhill braking zone into a slow square right, known for catching out overconfident drivers. The drivers' meeting reiterated the rules, and offered an overview of track specifics, like the locations of flag stations and the onsite fuel pump. Set free to prepare for the race, teams got to work suiting up their drivers for the first stint of the race, due to start at 10:00. We agreed on a driver order based on the order in which we joined the team: Rafi, myself, Rick, Marcus. All fronted money to get here, but as the car's owner, Rafi had the greatest investment in the weekend. He would start the race, and with everyone else's chance for seat time on his shoulders, he knew not to ruin it for his team by rolling the car. We helped him suit up, and once in the car, he lined up with the rest of the race starters.

James Gilboy

A race marshal waved Rafi out on the track for two slow parade laps, allowing the cars to reach operating temperature. The green flag fell at 10:00, beginning the B.F.E. GP. Rafi spent his first lap finding footing, and his second making good use of it: his second-ever lap of High Plains Raceway would be the fastest our team would record over the entire weekend, a 2:51.662. The confidence he gained from his lap came back to bite him soon thereafter, and at 10:10, he became one of the race's first black flag recipients after a slip-up in turn one. The number 81 Ford Pinto of C*R*A*S*H captured his misadventure in its dash cam. Concerned about the condition of the car's brakes after his mishap, Rafi radioed in to tell us he would return to the pits to serve his time in the penalty box, and have us inspect the brakes. While we lifted the car on jack stands, Rafi extricated himself to help check for overheating or brake drag. The pedal felt fine, he said, and we found neither drag nor cause for alarm. Come 10:26, Rafi's back in the car, cranking the Northstar before a return to the track. At 10:35, the Saturn of Team Lemo'ktoberfest two pits down announced its return with a cloud of smoke and the drumming of rod knock, only five laps in.

Murilee Martin

Rafi makes mention of power loss over the radio, but his tone doesn't suggest a critical situation. At 10:45, he goes off the track again, earning black flag number two, this time after the back straight. He doesn't express concern for the brakes, but having sat in the car for over an hour, he volunteers a driver swap ahead of our predicted one-hour rotations. As the next man in line, I don't object. Already suited up, I'm strapped in by my teammates, and clip a radio to my pocket, its headset snaking into my helmet. The marshal checks for a driver wristband at the pit exit and waves me out for my first taste of track driving.

Murilee Martin

2 Peter 1:6 And knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness As I trundle out to the track on the pit road, an undercurrent of anxiety burbles in my brain. It's the middle of a race, and I have no track experience, let alone racing experience. My time behind the wheel of this car totals less than 15 minutes, and Lemons rules dictate that a third black flag means a one-hour campout in the penalty box. If I make one mistake, my teammates will lose track time. No pressure. Exiting the pit road, I check my mirrors for cars to wave past. There are plenty. While my right arm works the marshmallowy power steering, my left hangs out the window, pointing pursuers past me. This language is understood by all but the drivers of Team Scream, assembled from multiple Car & Driver staff, past and present. How they too dodged Class F I can't fathom. Yes, this is shade I'm throwing their way. I wrangle the unwilling Cadillac as I learn my way around High Plains Raceway. The only response the Deville's front end returns is the constant, audible protest of its tiny tires, which object to the burdens of steering, braking, and acceleration. The brakes are not reassuring; they slow the car, but often shudder the wheel as they do so. With new rotors, I can rule out warpage, and as there is no ABS, I suspect wheel hop. Our only weapon—the 200 and change horsepower of the Northstar—is blunted by an automatic transmission that someone presumably filled with NyQuil instead of Dexron. Double-tapping the go pedal to force a downshift works only half the time, and even if it succeeds at downshifting, there's no guarantee it will shift back up again. I do a lot of hanging out at the rev limit on straights, waiting to see if the transmission will shift. When all is well, I can keep up with the fastest cars out there on the straights, many of whom reported later to me that they saw speeds of around 100 at the end of the back straight. Our sole gauge is a multimeter hooked to the fuel sender, so I have no guess as to how fast the Caddy could go.

Murilee Martin

Trying to stay in contact with my team, I cue the radio with the wire-mounted button and report systems normal, save for the transmission. No responses but the occasional beep. Radio contact was spotty during Rafi's stint, and apparently, gone entirely for mine. As I settled in, I had to wave cars past less and less often. Sure, some indecisive and impatient drivers couldn't decide whether to heed my finger (pointer) telling them to pass on the right or left, but most figured it out fast enough. I came close to collisions a couple times when cars snuck in behind those I waved past, invisible in my mirrors at the back of the group. I waved by some poor sap in the Rattenpakung Racing #111 BMW 318ti through turn 10, only to watch him spin off into the dirt after stomping the throttle. For his bravado, he was awarded a black flag. 1 John 1:9 If we confess our sins, Phil is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness Between the 90 degree heat, high altitude, dehydration, and breathing plenty of carbon monoxide, I was feeling plenty queasy. With no clock in the car or working radio, I had no clue how long I had spent in the car, or how many laps I had completed. After a small brake lockup that came close to sending me off the track, I saw the corner marshals waving a black flag next to a sign with our car number, 316. Though the judges like us, and didn't enforce an embarrassing punishment as promised for Rafi after his second detour, flag three was no good, and called for a visit to the penalty box. Entering the pits, I pondered the injustice of being penalized having made a punishable mistake. Arguing with the judges does no good in Lemons, so I decided to take it on the chin. When I arrived to check why I was flagged, the marshal said I had no penalty, and that a pit stop had been requested by my team, with a black flag being a reliable way to get me into the pits. My teammates were befuddled when I asked whose idea it was to give me that heart attack. They said they never went to race officials to request a pit stop, and were discussing how to bring me in when I arrived. I think it was a miracle, an act of the Lord. For my piety regarding track limits, I was blessed with bottled water. I felt too hungover to wish it were wine.

Murilee Martin

Book of Job I was told my stint lasted an hour and ten, ending at about 12:10, which isn't bad. Though slow, I cranked out consistent laps, putting us in 48th place. We're not doing well per se, but I succeeded at not adding to our black flag tally. Rick promises a similar cruising-to-church performance before we pack him into the car, and ship him out onto the track for what would too be his first track drive. Rafi and I corroborate our findings of weak power and reluctant shifting. We toy with the idea of a Getrag five-speed manual swap for our next race, as some Fiero owners add when swapping Northstar V8s into their cars. Both of us are convinced that despite our weak handling, consistent access to our horsepower would keep us in play for more of the lap. The Cadillac is among the fastest cars on the back straight, and a responsive transmission would surely give us some overtaking opportunities. As we converse, Rick radioes in to report weak acceleration. We think nothing of it, having both experienced such firsthand. What we didn't experience was a total shutdown of the engine—accompanied by clouds of steam—that Rick did shortly thereafter. He reported the issue via radio at 12:45 before coasting in to the pits, transmission in neutral. Once in our pit box, we tried the starter, but the Northstar refused to crank. Bad juju. Pulling up the hood reveals the lower radiator hose has popped off the block. Presumably, we ran the engine dry of coolant, and it shut down to save itself. How thoughtful. Rafi volunteers as fall guy, saying he may not have correctly reinstalled the hose clamp when we changed out the car's coolant for distilled water before the race. We brought plenty of spare distilled water, so no biggie, but Rick's concerned. As a former BMW master technician, he has, as the Bavarians say, seen some Scheiße. Sure, the clamp may have worked itself loose, but an unsavory possibility has crossed his mind. Coolant hoses can blow themselves off if system pressure gets too high, such as when coolant passages are somehow exposed to combustion pressures. He drops the bomb we haven't prepared for: a blown head gasket. Northstars are notorious for this problem, owing to factory head bolts that stretch out either over time, or when the engine is overheated. The team that built this car said it installed aftermarket head studs that prevent this problem, and they successfully raced in the summer heat of Houston last year, so we believe them. We didn't expect this to be a problem for us, and it's one we are not equipped to handle—mentally, or with tools and parts. With my two years' community college automotive program experience, I chime in that we may instead have a cracked cylinder head. This does morale no favor. I'm glad I didn't mention the possibility of a cracked block.

Rafi Ward