An uproar can occur in different places and at different times. It can arrive disguised as a preacher of general welfare. Or wear the cloth of a rebel claiming freedom for all.
At a racetrack, it often rises following a race or, rarely, during a race. When the Can-Am cars visited the Glen, there was uproar before the race had even started. Before the cars had even turned one qualification lap.
And it came dressed as a Korean veteran who turned into a Tokyo tire merchant prior to building and running a Can-Am car. And in the guise of the Korean vet’s young driver, who did nothing to weaken the entrepreneur’s firm conviction of having a direct and private line with her royal highness the truth.
The Glen on which the Can-Am cars would run, was no longer that glorious rollercoaster devoted to unbridled speed. Carelessly rushing through the veins of upstate New York.
Someone somewhere had decided that the brilliant 2.35 miles Bill Milliken design no longer fitted contemporary Formula 1. Which was expected later in the year. And that an additional section, that would soon earn the nickname the Boot, was needed. Extending the track to 3.38 miles. I guess it must have been summertime when all this was decided.
The new extension was not ready when the Can-Am trailers arrived. But that had not stopped the Caterpillars and John Deere’s from ruining the track forever. The entire, once gorgeous, section from the Loop past the Chute and Big Bend to the 90 had been changed. No more blindingly fast rush to Big Bend, but just a short soulless straight leading into a spineless ninety degree left hander, immediately followed by an almost identical right-hander. And then, down to the 90. Which was now an almost banked bend.
Luckily, as if sometimes somewhere the heavens really display some mercy, the Esses still swerved heavenly up the hill. And the run to the Loop was still as mesmerizing as it had always been.
The Esses had received a whole new pavement of fresh shiny asphalt nevertheless. Gone were those legendary strips of concrete in the turns that procured a hint of banking. Slats of stone that kept memories of another era alive, fearlessly devoured by the great Graham Hill and by the even greater Jim Clark. Gone forever. Buried under a layer of asphalt that was smoother than the skin of any of The Supremes.
And so practice started. Pretty soon, the number 101 Shadow made it back to the pit. And called for a private meeting with the race organizers in their garage stall. Then, before the admins had even arrived, also invited every self-declared pundit holding a press accreditation to the meeting. Turning what had been presented as a friendly exchange of thoughts into a rather public trial.
The layer of new asphalt in the Esses had not been properly laid down, Ogonoski claimed. And was now loosening. He pointed at his car and at several alleged small spots of asphalt that had been thrown up against his bodywork. Of course, as his car was pitch black, no one else saw it.
So they dragged the entire party to the Haas box, where Gerard Ryon’s pristine white car was parked. The Belgian, blessed with that wonderful Belgian sense for reserve, was all but pleased with all that bustle in his garage. It did not stop Ogonoski from pointing at some small black specks on the Belgian’s car.
“Asphalt!” He victoriously squawked. Most of those around nevertheless remained convinced that it were just some dots of oil. But Ogonoski’s team-Don shipped in some raw fish loving expert engineers from Tokyo. Who still owed him a favor from the days he was selling tires in downtown Shin-koiwa. These man of expertise confirmed that the spots on the Carl Haas Lola were truly, beyond any doubt, asphalt.
And so no one could object any longer. And the Cats and Johns were rushed out of their temporary retirement to redo the asphalt in the Esses. A task that was dealt with in between free training and qualifying.
The entire anecdote had largely passed unnoticed by fuck-face Voigt.
He had clocked in some laps at the very early stages of free practice. Had changed the gearing of the car slightly and softened the rear a tad. Then felt comfortable with the car and felt no need for further practice. Old Marcelo mumbled something along the lines of: “Qué ayuda velas y gafas si el búho no quiere ver.”
I had no clue what the old man was on about. But Guzik translated it as something like: “What is the use of a candle and glasses, if the owl refuses to see.”
Anyway, Jon P. had gotten it in his head that, one day, there would be a modern double tower mixed complex with offices and a shopping mall on 10 Columbus Place. And that on the 4th floor of that mall, there would be a restaurant that would earn 3 Michelin stars. Which would then more or less be the 3-starred restaurant closest to the Glen. So he had gone of to find a restaurant on Columbus Place.
Where he had been eating oysters laying on a bed of foie-snow. And then frogfish accompanied by a fricassee of ox tongue hidden under an umbrella of seasoned onions. These, the dumb flop had stated, were dishes one should consume with the same delicacy and patience deployed when undressing a stunningly gorgeous woman. As if the fag had ever touched such a woman.
The little shit made it back to the track just in time for the qualifying session. To avoid him panicking, we decided to not tell him anything about the revamped asphalt in the Esses.
Then, the new asphalt turned out to be much slower then what had previously been laid down. Several drivers declared to find less grip through the Esses. As if someone had scrubbed some caked make-up off Mamie Van Doren to cover the old strips of concrete with.
Voigt did not seem to feel the difference. At first, he was about two seconds a lap off his earlier pace. But did not seem to have a clue as to the whys or hows. During qualifying, he narrowed the gap down but still remained a full second below his initial times.
Most of the other drivers also seemed to struggle with the new pavement. Only Sabre managing a lap sub 1 minute and 3 seconds in the McLaren. Which handed him pole. Plaçais put the Ferrari on the second spot, nearly a second a lap slower than Sabre. At this stage, it looked as if we were in for another McLaren dominated race.
One who seemed to suffer particularly from the new pavement was Ogonoski. The very one who had made the whole fuzz about the road surface in the Esses. He only managed a 9th spot on the grid, further back than common for him. Had I not long lost my belief in any kind of justice, I could have suspected some kind of bitter justice.
It was thus Sabre leading the field to the rolling start.
As the green flag dropped, Plaçais used his inside line starting position to immediately grab the lead into turn 2. He held on to first spot through the Esses. But then, on the long uphill straight leading to the Loop, Sabre slackened the reigns on his mighty V8 Chevy. And thundered past the Ferrari of Plaçais. The lead was his again.
Behind Ogonoski was already up to sixth and was now challenging Jaques. Maybe the Edmontonian was making his way through the field a bit too swiftly…
Things started to turn sour in turn 6. The ever amicable Scott Urick went wide and slightly sideways coming out of the turn, loosing every ounce of momentum in his McLaren. That put Gerard Ryon hot on his heels. The McLaren and the Haas ran Lola sped down towards turn 7, nearly side-by-side.
Both of them also rounded turn 7 side-by-side. With Ogonoski now almost summersaulting over both their cars. Onto the pit straight, Ogonoski saw a gap between Urick and Ryon large enough for him to wriggle through. No one else saw it. But hesitation never having been high in Austin’s books, he promptly went for it.
Only to find out that the gap was really not there.
He bumped into the side of Ryon, which prevented him from moving sufficiently to the right of the track, and lead to him slightly nudging the rear right of Urick’s car. It was however sufficient to unsettle the McLaren. Urick’s car started sliding and went onto the grass, further adding to the fast disappearing stability of the McLaren. The Ohioan was struggling to find some desperately needed grip and slid back into the Shadow, that was by now almost along side the orange McLaren.
Ogonoski’s car in turn went spinning wildly. The McLaren was now also spinning. And an entire stampede of rumbling engines came storming down on them. The result was utter chaos. Pure and simple. Urick was out. Ogonoski attempted to continue but soon understood that his day was done. Adamovich and Maattanen were also out.
Others, such as David Jaques, found themselves at the back of the field, facing a long struggle back to the front, struggling with their damaged cars. Again others endured so much damage that lengthy repairs in the pits were required. Tony Dean was one of those unfortunates.
Lap 1 was not entirely completed and already the dynamics of the race had been shuffled.
Remarkable thing was that Ogonoski, generally not known to mince his words, did not utter one comment. Not as much as a syllable.
The result was that at the front, Sabre and Plaçais had the track to themselves, the McLaren still leading the Ferrari. Raul Jereb followed in third in the Motschenbacher McLaren, but had already conceded about 4 seconds to Sabre. It seemed that the action would have to come from the Canadian and the Frenchman.
Jon P. “Bonehead” miraculously succeeded in avoiding all the mayhem and was, with merely 2 laps of race dispensed with, already in the top 20. The faster drivers were however quickly gaining ground on him and he was rapidly falling back through the standings.
Races that produce so much excitement in the opening laps, often quickly degrade to a bore once the dust settles. The race at the Glen seemed to be turning into another one adding to that statistic.
At the front, Sabre seemed to tightly control the situation, benefitting from a small but sufficiently safe gap on Plaçais. Jereb was even further back in third. Still, third was a brilliant achievement for Jereb, who seems to get more at ease with these Can-Am beasts as the races pass.
All the spins and incidents in the first laps resulted in the tail of the field being far behind. So much behind that, barely 5 laps into the race, Sabre was already preparing to lap Kowalski driving an older Lola.
Fourth place was however a fiercely contested piece of real estate at this stage of the race. Ray Riddall in the Kazato Lola had inherited the place by avoiding all the opening chaos. But he was now under intense pressure from Steve Parker. Parkman had a look under braking for turn 7, but Riddall firmly shut the door. Parker wisely backed off slightly. Knowing that other opportunities might come.
Meanwhile, the lap 1 disaster was still yielding its consequences. Grant Riddall had been soldiering on in his heavily damaged Porsche. The handling of the car had become so bad, that he flipped in the Loop. He entered the pits with an even more damaged Porsche. And retired the German car. It was now entirely up to us to defend the Porsche honors. Which must have been small consolation in Zuffenhausen.
Parker somehow managed to get passed Ray Riddall and was now running fourth.
With less than half a quarter of the race ran, the leaders were already fully engaged in lapping back-markers. That produced some hairy moments but nothing the mighty Sabre and the flying Plaçais could not handle.
As they lapped Voigt in the desperately underpowered Porschetta, the turd took a wide line through turn 7, giving the fast men plenty of room on the inside. Sabre went buy fine, but powering out of the turn on a slightly more inside line, Plaçais went sideways, nearly losing the rear of the Fezza. He kept it together in the end, but lost momentum, allowing Sabre to head out.
As a result of the opening shenanigans, some of the common front runners were still in positions much lower than what they were used to. And were hard at work gaining back lost ground and moving up through the field. Jaques and Fredriksson had formed a little speed train doing that. The two of them vying for the position of the other. While at the same time both gaining positions on other drivers. As if they were on a tandem ride.
The BRM however soon proved to be no match for the power of the brutal Chevy powered McLaren. Jaques powered by on the run to the Loop and continued his ascension alone. Both driver’s efforts were the more laudable, as their cars had sustained severe damage in the opening stages. And were now handling even more frantic than their normal, already peculiar, behavior. Controlling these wounded beasts while spurring them around a track at pace requires qualities not gifted to every man. Jaques and Fredriksson had however received an abundance of talent.
Whited showed a bit of his talent when passing Brian Janik for 10th in the Loop. On an outside line. Masterful.
At the front, Sabre was increasing his lead over Plaçais. It seemed as if, while in contact with Sabre, the French driver could compensate the lack of power in his Maranello-car by the tow offered by Sabre’s car. But when he lost contact when passing Voigt, he lost that opportunity and was now slowly loosing ground.
Sabre was hitting heavy back-marker traffic however. With Plaçais having a reputation for being very at ease with lapping slower cars, many wondered whether that would allow the Ferrari to reel the McLaren in.
The field was in general relatively spread out. It looked pretty much like a procession of power vomiting space monsters. A very swift procession it was certainly, but a procession still.
Some excitement was to be noted in the Esses as Steve Parker set his engine on fire. The rescue services rushed to his aid but the Briton’s race was over. He lost out on a solid fourth spot.
With 18 of the 83 laps gone, Sabre now enjoyed a 5 second lead over Plaçais running in second. Jereb still held on to an impressive third. He was about 15 seconds behind the Ferrari, but enjoyed a similar advantage on Ray Riddall, who was now running fourth. Gabriel Sterr and Juha Bos were fifth and sixth respectively, with only about 1 second between them. Hackman, Ryon, Whited and Janik made up the rest of the top ten.
Honza Mild’s car then oversteered under braking for the Loop. Mild corrected but the car flipped around the other side and veered sideways of the track. At virtually unabated speed. The car smashed into the barriers sideways. Hard. Very hard. And got launched in the air. The race had one less contestant. It was a small miracle that the contestant concerned was still part of the living.
Another phenomenon providing distraction at this stage of the race was many drivers hitting trouble in the last turn, the turn that had once been “the 90”. In its revised state, the bend had a very pronounced inwards camber. Almost resembling a banked curve. There however seemed to be some differences in the level of grip between different parts of the surface in the bend. How had Ogonoski missed that, we wondered.
And as the cars were becoming lighter, as a result of fuel being burned, and the tires started to wear a bit, many drivers got caught out. And spun or nearly spun their cars in the bend.
Gerard Ryon decided to follow Parker’s example and blew his engine on the straight in front of the new pit complex. Dickhead Voigt blasted by in the slender Porsche. For a minute, it almost looked as if he were executing a brilliant pass. But in reality, he was just unlapping himself and did not even gain a position at this stage.
While as the leader of the race, he decided to join those letting “the 90” get the better of them. On lap 23, he spun wildly out of the turn. Completing two complete revolutions around his axis. He avoided damaging the car, but the time lost allowed Plaçais through. It suddenly looked as if we had a race on our hands again.
It was only a question of laps before the Brit recaptured the ground lost. But getting by the Ferrari was another matter all together. And the Ferrari-driver had no intention whatsoever to unroll the red carpet for the McLaren.
The Aussi car had a massive power advantage, but Plaçais used the fine handling of the Ferrari to be faster through the Esses and then keeping just enough of an advantage on the run to the Loop. It looked like the gracious features of Claudia Cardinale darted through the Esses, staying out of the reach of the more ostensible features of la Mamie Van Doren.
La Cardinale could however not win this battle. And eventually had to cede for the brutal curves of la Van Doren. The running order was reestablished.
Sabre did not take any chances and immediately started opening a gap on Plaçais. He initially got hampered in doing so by another small moment in “the 90”. But then he unstoppably started to stretch it out into a solid lead.
Adam Hackman and Jason Whited were trying to decide who, between the both of them, deserved seventh the most. Hackman was keeping his Bob Brown Racing McLaren planted well in front of Whited’s slightly older car. Still, some of the defensive lines he was taking betrayed that he was not entirely immune to the pressure mounted by Whited.
Whited was too fast. After some laps of intense close range observation of the Bob Brown McLaren’s rear, Hackman lost some momentum out of turn 6. It was all Whited needed to pull alongside on the short run down to turn 7. The American was past. To soon ease away into the distance.
Had Hackman been planning on gently coasting home from there, he could shelve those intentions straight away. As behind “Speedy Davy” Jaques was on the approach.
Another battle was raging higher up. Sterr, getting ever more confident in his McLaren M8C, had managed to close the gap between him and Ray Riddall. The German and the Brit were now both claiming ownership over fourth spot.
Just past the halfway mark in the race, the standings thus were: Sabre leading, cool as snow. While Plaçais seemed to settle for second. Jereb, in third, was way behind and seemed no longer able to upset the numbers one and two.
Jereb did not have to worry for his podium spot though. Fourth placed Riddall and fifth place Sterr in turn being well behind. Riddall and Sterr were moreover on the verge of entering combat, which was likely to slow them down.
Then followed Juha Bos in an excellent sixth spot. The Belgian was driving a discrete but very strong race.
Whited was now up to seventh with Hackman in eight, Jaques and Janik completing the top 10.
Speedy Davy did not waste any time crawling up Hackman’s gearbox. He planted his bright orange McLaren well in sight of Hackman, putting the American driver under pressure once more. Hackman went slightly wide out of turn 7, losing traction in the process. It was all Jaques needed to blast by on the straight lining the pits. The Canadian duly taking eight.
Through all that action, I almost forgot to watch out for our boy. And that while Voigt was, against all odds, doing pretty good. He had managed to not spin the car once, nor did he have any off. Actually, he had not been involved in any incident worth mentioning.
That had him running 15th now. Not even last of the cars still on track. Philippe Henrique was behind him and seemed to actually want to race our boy.
The Brazilian was running one of the power barfing McLarens. On the straights he thus easily made up ground on or underpowered Porsche. In the twisty parts, my man however compensated with everything he and the Porka had. A thought that I had held for completely impossible before, then crossed my mind. The idea that brain fade Voigt actually had more skill than this samba dancer in his McLaren.
Old Marcelo was meanwhile getting particularly nervous.
“That Brazilian is out-of-control. Overdriving his car the whole time. It’s a potential liability let loose.”
I put it down as just another of the maniac’s obsessions, but then started following the purple McLaren. And could but notice that Henrique was, on average, spinning once every two laps. The potential for collateral damage was high. And our nimble Porsche was often within distance to share in that damage.
For a brief instance, I felt like retreating to the garage box and holding hands with Marcelo. Like two scared kids. But then, I manned up. Stepped out onto the edge of the track, and started waving an M16 that happened to be within reach at Henrique. As menacing as I could.
By this point, Sterr and Riddall had switched to all out assault mode. Sterr tried every trick in the book on Riddall and eventually managed to get by. Mister Ray was however not about to give up just like that. The Lola’s nose stuck to the back of the McLaren’s skull like butter to warm toast. Sterr could be assured of one thing. The tiniest mistake on his behalf would be mercilessly punished.
Henrique lost the very last ounce of restrain he still had and finally succeeded in spinning him self into the barriers. Into irreparable damage and retirement. Our Porsche had some more breathing room. For a brief while at least.
Another to retire following an incident was Jan Titz.
Lady Tragedy then felt like giving us a first small kiss of adversity. It all started when Jaques prepared to lap Bruno Chacon in the Esses. There was a slight misunderstanding with the McLaren slightly nudging the exhaust system of the March. The fast Canadian could continue at almost unabated speed, but the March ended up sideways on the track. With speed zero.
As Chacon was trying to reverse of the track, Plaçais arrived at top speed. The Ferrari slammed into the March and hit the barriers. Jereb also failed to avoid Chacon and the March got a second hit. Just as Jon P. Voigt came charging through turn 1, hitting the brakes hard. But it was too little too late and he bumped into the rear of the Motschenbacher McLaren.
Plaçais could, as by miracle, continue the race. He even kept second. Jereb also continued, still in third. Our Porsche was soon on its way again, be it with a heavily damaged front. For Chacon’s March, the two impacts had however been one bridge too far. The Brazilian driver retired the car.
The incident had allowed Tony Dean to close the gap to our Voigt further down. Dean had quiet easily unlapped himself some 15 laps earlier and was now reeling our car in. Looking at the rate at which the gap reduced, it was only a matter of laps before Dean and Voigt would be sparring. And this time, it would be for position.
Meanwhile, Sterr and Riddall were still lapping like inseparable soldiers in arms, the German still leading the Brit.
Sabre’s lead just grew to be more convincing as the laps went by. As did Plaçais’ second place and Jereb’s third. The podium, at least, seemed set in stone.
Dean had now caught up with Voigt. I expected screw-up to yield, then brewing up a bunch of excuses about the power of the Chevy engine post race. But no. With only about twenty laps to go, Jonny P. fartman decided on defending his position. And took very defensive lines.
I cheered him on but to no avail. After a lap our three, Dean irresistibly powered by on the outside in the Loop. Not even the very defensive line, overly defensive according to Marcelo, of our man could prevent that. The blue McLaren immediately stretched out.
There still was not much love lost between Sterr and Riddall. Sterr’s tires seemed more worn than Riddall’s with about a quarter of the race remaining. In one lap, the German went wide in the Loop and Riddall almost pulled alongside on the run to turn 6. Sterr however managed to stay ahead. Riddall putting pressure on Sterr exiting the Loop was turning in a pattern however.
With only 20 laps left, Adam Hackman’s big block Chevy started to pour a lot of smoke. More than seemed healthy. And pretty soon, the engine let go all together, the car coming to a stop in the Loop. Hackman’s race was over. My pretty little fuck-face was up to 13th again. Marcelo was convinced that that could but bring us bad luck. I shut his mouth with a can of Budweiser.
Plaçais seemed to be handling his prancing horse with silk gloves now. In fact, he had decreased his rhythm so much that third placed Jereb could unlap himself. I’m pretty certain I heard a hoarse “ma fanculo” echoing through the Ferrari pit. That grey Enzo would certainly appreciate the wisdom to not risk second to no avail, but the obviousness was hurting his ego.
Sterr had now been sitting so long in fourth place, that he did not hear the warning. He seemed to be waiting for a checkered flag to drop while, behind him, Riddall was moving around in different situations. Hoping that his time would come, before both their tires would tear apart. Witnessing how they each emptied their hearts and minds. Till only their struggle remained amidst howling engines and screeching tires. It is what racers need. It was what I need.
On almost every lap now, the Lola seemed to mount an attack exiting the Esses towards the Loop. The canny German however was on to it and adopted a defensive inside line approaching the Loop. Making it impossible for Riddall to exploit his advantage in that part of the track.
Sabre had now entered the last ten laps and the race was approaching its grand finale. It seemed only Plaçais would still be on the same lap to share that majestic endnote. Something I expected to provide some consolation for his stark faced Italian principal.
The tandem Sterr-Riddall celebrated the last ten laps by entering into traffic. But it did not stop them from charging. Their antics were now approaching sheer madness. The Lola at times sticking it’s nose straight under the McLaren’s gearbox. Could this end well?
Through the screen of the wire fence, the eyes of those standing outside were now looking on. The bystanders seemed to be seeing things; in darkness, not in learning. Hoping now that the race would pass, the tension cease. Returning to their lives downtown, wasting years but never changing. While the drivers whished this day would last. So that they would never show their age, watch until their beauty fades. They need it. I need it.
With six laps to go, one last fit of madness hit our Porsche straight in the face. A faster car came up to lap us approaching the Loop, but somewhat misjudged the braking distances. Our car got a hard blow in the rear and shot of the track. Voigt could continue, be it with a crippled car.
Not that it mattered anymore. Chapman by now seemed in trouble and had to pit. Without the Loop-incident, Voigt would probably have caught him, gaining a place. But what would it have changed. Twelfth did not bring any more points than thirteenth. So it really did not matter at all. This was probably the closest we would ever get to scoring a point, and we blew it. Section 501(c)7 our not, the team would need some thorough brainstorming post race. And I would enjoy every second of ramming it in their heads.
With five laps remaining, Riddall decided that all bets were off and released the shackles on car number 51. He put his car next to the McLaren in the Esses, pushing Sterr to a slightly more outside line. Then used that to almost come along side on the run to the Loop. Sterr only just managed to stay ahead.
Next lap, same place. Out of the Esses Riddall uses the tow of Sterr’s car to again pull alongside. They almost round the entire Loop side by side. The German driver now needed all his wit on him to stay ahead.
Sabre had caught up with these two several laps earlier. But rather then trying to lap and mingling in with these two crazy maniacs, he stayed safely behind and took no risk. I imagined the German McLaren driver cursing David Sabre for that decision. As it meant he had to deal with the inhumane pressure of Riddall for one more lap.
On their penultimate lap, the Brit tried several tricks from the book in turns 6 and 7, but to no avail. As David Sabre took his second win of the season, the two protagonists prepared for their last lap of dueling.
Riddall however had a bad exit out of the ninety. Which ensured Sterr of just enough breathing room to salvage a hard fought fourth place. But what a brawl it had been.
The Glen thus produced a second season victory for David Sabre in the McLaren. Yves Plaçais on Ferrari and Raul Jereb on a Motschenbacher McLaren completed the podium. Behind followed Sterr in fourth, Ray Riddall in fifth, Jason Whited, driving the second Motschenbacher car, in sixth and David Jacques. The Canadian had succeeded a fantastic recovery race in a McLaren that sustained substantial damage in the opening altercations. Juha Bos, Brian Janik and Matthias Weber rounded out the top ten.
Championship wise, Sabre now enjoys a small gap of eight points over Plaçais’ Ferrari. Third standing man Jaques is already another eleven points down the order. His early retirement in the race does not stop Ogonoski from holding on to fourth place in the Shadow. The Motschenbacher duo of Jereb and Whited share a joint fifth place.
The thrill of the race had somewhat subdued the emotions that had flared prior to the race over the pavement in the Esses, as well as any grudges that might have resulted from the first lap scramble. Now that the dust had settled over the rolling hills of upstate New York, questions however resurfaced.
This championship has already seen it’s fair share of controversy –suffice to remember the Road Atlanta arguments- and anyone claiming that the admins did not relentlessly try to address these with sound and considered judgment, is a plain liar. The admins therefore felt that the reproaches regarding the road surface in the Esses, which were not entirely their responsibility to start with, were out of order. The combination of the timing, the very public fashion in which the statement was made and the language used to convey the message, justifiably, left the admins feeling snubbed.
Excluding the entire Shadow-team would obviously depreciate the entire series, and was hard to consider. It was moreover felt that the Shadow team had been primarily tagged along by a zealot driver. Whom several post race comments moreover accused of being to eager in the first lap. Contributing to the first lap mess.
After long and thoughtful deliberation, the admins thus decided to exclude Austin Ogonoski from all further participation in the series. The melee had however been of such magnitude, that it was impossible to put all the blame on just one driver. And thus warnings were issued for Titz, Jaques and Chacon.
The series will now head to Mid-Ohio. Hope is that everyone will cool down by then, as the nature of the Mid-Ohio track does not allow for silliness.