Hello Everyone,
A few weeks ago, I announced I would be benching my blog post titled Formula 1. It just didn’t feel like it was ready for prime time. However, I could not get myself to scrap it entirely. So, I made some changes, cut a few stories, and offer it up to you below. It is not that hateful (some plug) and hopefully it will bring back some of your own car related memories.
Best Regards,
Paul Tolejko
ALERT: It’s pill bug (aka roly-polies, sow-bugs) season here in Colorado. They are all over our sidewalks and trails. Perhaps where you are too. So, mind how you go.
I recently re-watched F1: The Movie with my youngest grandson Owen, in the comfort of his living room. It is a fast-paced, action-packed, if a tad loud, film about Formula 1 racing. It deserves to be experienced on the big screen which is why Deborah and I caught it when it premiered last summer. Fueled by Brad Pitt’s casual, sarcastic charisma, F1: The Movie is as good an action flick as I have ever seen. Pitt plays Sonny Hayes, an aging nomadic sports car racer, 30 years retired from the F1 circuit. It also stars Javier Bardem, the teams financially strapped owner, the Irish actress Kerry Condon and newcomer Damson Idris, the rookie partner. He slowly and begrudgingly accepts Sonny’s experience and advice. Many present-day F1 drivers, including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris and world champion Lewis Hamilton also appear in the film. Afterall, much of the filming takes place during actual races. Lewis’ now deceased Bulldog Roscoe, has a walk-on role.
I exited the theater wanting to be like Brad Pitt. Heck, I wanted to be Brad Pitt. He was the epitome of cool. My bubble burst when Deborah suggested I be Javier Bardem instead. Wait a minute. What? Should I be worried? I somewhat jokingly told my grandson Grady I wanted one of the white turtle-neck t-shirts worn buy all the F1 drivers… logos and all, for Christmas. He said sure, then snared, “you might also want to get fake plastic abs to wear underneath.” Ouch.
I wasn’t a fan of F1 until getting caught up in the popular Netflix documentary series, “Drive to Survive” a behind-the-scenes look into the entire world of F1 racing. Different racers are featured each season and it is very well done. A good friend of ours La Rue turned me on to the series while in its second season back in 2019. I began watching almost immediately, then continued into season 3. Somehow, I got sidetracked and fell behind, surprised to learn Season 8 began in February 2026. I have a lot of catching up to do. FYI, La Rue’s husband Keith, is a member of the Porsche Club of America and races his 718 Cayman S at various venues across Colorado, Kansas and wherever he feels like going. Rumor has It that a new set of tires is required for each and every race. That’s around $1600 a pop. Sorry La Rue.
Grady (my oldest grandson) binge watched the Netflix series once he found out about it through his classmates. He then made the leap to F1 Racing itself. A 24-race season spread across 10 months beginning each March and ending at Abu Dhabi in December. Ten teams consisting of 2 drivers each make up the 20-car grid. Cadillac is coming aboard this year expanding the grid to 22. Grady insists upon watching each race in real-time. Because all but 3 of the 24 Grand Prix events takes place outside the USA, he is up all hours of the night on Saturdays during the season.
I prefer to tape, excuse me, record, them and fast forward to the start, my favorite part of the usually 72-lap event. Why? Because it is exciting. All 20 cars are in their designated positions based on qualifying the day before. 5 red lights illuminate, one at a time and remain on a few seconds, building the anticipation for both the drivers and the audience. Then bam, all 5 lights go dark at once, and they’re off. Turn number one is always a nail biter. If you’re going to overtake someone, this is your best chance. Being aggressive at this point greatly increases the odds of a crash, spinout or bump and run. The cars are so sophisticated, the drivers all in top physical and mental condition, and their teams so highly trained that how you are positioned after the first turn is more often than not how you end up at the checkered flag. Barring of course the unforeseen or the unexpected, which happens less frequently these days.
I then skip ahead to a few different places in the race just to see if there’s been any changes in positioning. Also to check straightaway speeds which can top 220 mph. Occasional, I’ll watch the trophy presentation then leave when they begin the obligatory spraying of champaign from giant bottles. Seen it.
F1 racing enjoys a massive global fan base exceeding 800 million. Fielding an F1 team, by the way, doesn’t come cheap. Despite imposing a spending cap in 2021 of $140 million, a typical team’s spending for engines, salaries, logistics and facilities range between $300 to $500 million per year for the big names like Red Bull, Mercedes, Ferrari, and McLaren. The lesser brands like Williams, Haas and others can skimp by for a mere $150 to $300 million. Staff size for all 10 teams, exceeds 9000 people. No wonder they call this the sport of kings. No, that’s jousting. I mean horse racing. Make that deep pockets.
Attendance Figures: Over 6.7 million fans attended F1 events in 2025, a new record. The largest number was at Silverstone (UK) with 500,00 in attendance. The least in Qatar with 163,000. The average attendance was 315,000. Watkins Glen averaged between 60,000 – 100,000 in the 1970’s.
Ticket Prices: Prices vary based on a variety of factors including demand, availability etc.
Most Expensive…Monaco and Las Vegas, China, Bahrain, Japanese GP weekends can be some of the most affordable. and some premium seats at U.S./European races often cost the most.
General Admission (most affordable) $100-300 for 3-day package. China-$67
Reserved Grandstand tickets: $400-$1000
Premium (food and drinks) $2500-$10,000+
Ultra-Paddock Club: $20,000+ Team members & FIA officials Media with credentials
Pit Stops:
Until 2010 drives would “pit” or as they now say “box” to change their tires and take on fuel. This dangerous practice is now avoided as each car begins the race with enough fuel to complete the race.
Pit Stops | Pre-2010 | Today |
Fuel Up + Tires | 20-60 seconds | NA |
Change Tires only | 15-25 seconds | 2.1-3 sec. (Record-1.8 seconds) |
I have a personal connection to F1 racing dating back to the early 1970s, and the *Watkins Glen Grand Prix. At that time, it was one of the Premier Events in F1 racing, usually the last event of the season. One year Dan Fragnito, his cousin Joey and Moi attended the 1971, 2, 3, 4 or 5 Watkins Glen Grand Prix. I can’t be sure of the year as I did not retain my ticket stub.
Note: Watkins Glen is 100 miles east, southeast of my hometown of Batavia, at the southern end of Seneca Lake, the largest of the Finger Lakes, about a half hour from Ithica New York, home of Cornell University and my first of two Jethro Tull concerts. How does it FEE, E, E, EEL, To Be Thick as a Brick.
Although well-organized, F1 racing back then lacked the security and restricted access that it has today. We were allowed to roam the entire infield. Able to enjoy a once in a generation motorsport experience on our own terms. There we were, the three of us wandering around, carting a pitcher of gin and tonics, (we could not afford champagne and beer was un-acceptable for such a prestigious event.) eager to experience every aspect of Grand Prix racing. The turns, the straightaways, the grandstands, the pits. Well not the pits. They don’t let you in there. Too much going on.
Of the few memories I have, two really stand out. They took place at the “toe,” turn #7. See map. We chose this location as our main viewing spot because we thought we could get a good look at the cars as they slowed to enter this the sharpest of all 11 turns. Although the straight-aways afforded a wider vista of the action, and you could watch as groups of cars made their way around the track, they were going too fast and gone in seconds. The “toe” is where we wanted to be.
When standing on the outside corner I could see and hear the cars gearing down to about 40 miles per hour. Faster than you or I can take a turn, but it felt reeeally slow. Once through the hairpin, each car punches it… broom, broom, broom, changing gears quickly as it accelerates at a breathtaking pace, hitting full stride as it disappears from view. What a thrill. Much like the Thunderbirds at the Vandenberg Air Show we talked about a few weeks ago. The smell of high-octane fuel and burning tires hung in the air as the whine of the engines and the roar of the crowd made for an unforgettable experience. What more could I ask for?
I did not have to wait long for an answer to that question. A group of guys off to the right, on our side of the “toe” began calling out to two girls hoisted on the top of what appeared to be their boyfriend’s shoulders, on the other side of the turn. “Show us your XXXS.” “Show us your XXXS.” The 2 girls sprouted big smiles and their boyfriends seemed to be caught up in the spirit of the moment. Perhaps not wanting to disappoint the eager crowd, the girls obliged the crowd. Hundreds of nearby race fans cheered and applauded, then turned their attention back to the race. I on the other hand needed a little extra time to process what was clearly not part of my Catholic upbringing.
Notice: Neither I nor Dan nor Joe were part of the group of “shouters.” We were merely innocent bystanders. I do not even remember if we looked. It was so long ago. I mention this particular event because omitting one of only 2 memories didn’t feel right, even at the risk of offending others or embarrassing myself. My grandsons better not be reading this.
So long Watkins Glen. I have no idea who won or for that matter who was racing. A quick search indicates many racing legends would have been there during those years. They include Emerson Fittipaldi, Niki Lauda and Jackie Stewart, to name a few.
A few months after returning from Watkins Glen, I bought my first of two convertibles….to date. Sports cars to be sure. In order to do so, I traded in my 1962 Chevrolet Bel Air I purchase a few years back for 100 bucks. It had a sizeable hole in the passenger side floor. No worries, I covered it with a piece of plywood concealing it with the floor mat. Out of sight, out of mind. Best of all, the seats were covered in clear plastic, which I promptly removed, revealing brand new looking seats. This greatly enhanced its appeal even if it felt slightly dishonest.
It was a red, 1966 Fiat Sports Spider. Not your standard four on the floor. No siree. It had a 5-speed manual transmission. Only 90 horsepower but it sported chrome bumpers and real leather seats. It came with a second hardtop with side, port hole windows. A nice feature considering it was the middle of winter in western New York. Before mounting it, I took it for a quick spin. Ahh. There is really no greater feeling than that of driving a convertible. The open cockpit feeling is exhilarating, nearly transporting and difficult to describe. If you have had that experience, you know what I mean. Words like alive, unbridled, limitless and free come to mind. Happy face emoji.
I ignored the snowflakes and my mouth thawed out in no time at all.
There is no substitute for the convertible-experience. A moonroof doesn’t come close. The next best thing I suppose is a motorcycle. But that exposes you to the elements, not always in a good way. All the fun but without the safety and security of a four-wheel vehicle. I know because I had one. A Yamaha 80.
It was actually 73 CCs come to find out and sounded kind of tinny. Top speed was 50 mph or so. Pretty popular back then but if you wanted a real motorcycle, (relative to the Yamaha 80. I’m not suggesting it even comes close to a Harley) you had to step up to the Yamaha 100. Twin tail pipes added style and created a much smoother, deeper sound. My entry level Yamaha cost $400, requiring that I secure a bank loan. My Uncle Wayne was an officer at our towns largest bank. This probably helped, as I had no credit rating. My parents likely cosigned. Payments were $12 a month. I still cannot believe my mother allowed me to have a motorcycle.
Her younger brother Leo most likely played a part in twisting her arm. Lee was a Marine and Korean War veteran. Too Young at the time for World War II. Tough as nails with a smile that could melt butter. He taught me to ride that bike in own my backyard. Mostly shouting instructions while running behind me. “Give it some gas, pull in the clutch.” Where is the clutch? Yikes.
One not so fond memory I have of the Yamaha 80 was driving out to the Field House with Dan Fragnito seated behind me. The Fieldhouse, by the way, was a bar/restaurant on West Main Street that lived through a few iterations. It’s where I held the very first meeting of the Genessee County Touch Football league I created back in 1975. That’s an interesting story for another day.
Boom! The back tire blew. I went into survival mode, completely relying on instincts, which by the way are not taught in school. I attempted to slow down on this dark, four-lane highway, while struggling to keep the bike upright. Excessive, uneven breaking, especially to the rear tire, would not be good. The bike shook and shimmied as we went down, sliding on our fannies until we came to a stop in the opposite lane, occupied a few seconds earlier by a semi-truck. We had dodged a bullet but our blue jeans were worn down clean to our boxers. I dragged the bike to the shoulder of the road and we walked the remaining few hundred yards to the Field House. A bit shaken and none too anxious to deal with the bike. I suppose we had a beer.
Back to my Fiat
Come spring I removed the hardtop and patched a few holes in the cloth convertible top that had gone unnoticed. I decided that red was not my color and painted it blue. That was the car I drove to California in March of 1977 with Hank Falkowski riding shotgun. Actually, we towed my Fiat behind a station wagon all the way to Salt Lake City. Apparently, someone needed their car there but didn’t want to drive it all that way themselves. I was happy to spare the wear and tear on the Fiat while making a few bucks. At the time my entire net worth was about $1000 plus my car. It got pretty dicey traveling through Colorado during a blizzard. That also makes for a nice story.
The Fiat performed admirably my first year in Santa Barbara. We use it to explore our new home, secure an apartment, and get jobs. And of course, enjoy all that sun…top down. After a few false starts we both secured work. I ended up at St. Vincents, a school for the developmentally disabled, as a social worker. It was there I met the love of my life and future bride. It did take a bit of persuasion to even get a date. Deborah was working in the residence at St. Vincent’s while completing her studies at UCSB. It seems my Fiat was an obstacle. She saw it one day, parked near the administration building and thought to herself: “I’m not going out with this guy.” Why you ask? Let me explain. Better yet just look at the photo below. It says it all.
The photo of Joey Fragnito, Dan’s cousin, leaning on my car was taken while visiting me in Santa Barbara. Notice it’s blue now. I let him borrow it to do some sightseeing. I could catch a ride to work with Dan Collie. Yes that Dan. He was an instructor at St Vincent’s. While cautiously exiting my driveway on a very busy Foothill Road, Joey was clobbered by an oncoming car. No one was injured. I took it in stride. But this is the car Deborah Ann saw before turning me down. I suppose I might have been frightened off as well, had the roles been reversed. Nah. If you know or have met Deborah Ann you know what I’m saying. Way out of my league and well worth my best efforts. Strike one. I will skip strike 2 because it’s no one else’s business. Besides it was just a misunderstanding. I think.
I soon purchased a new sports car. A 1965 Austin-Healey Mark III. I plucked down the $3,000 I had borrowed from Crocker Bank into the hands of a UCSB student out in Isla Vista. He handed me the keys, and left, as did I in my new Healey. I was headed toward the freeway on a feeder road when I heard pop, pop, pop. The engine cut out forcing me to pull over. Great. I had owned this car a total of 3 minutes. What the heck is going on. I collected myself, turned the key, noting the gas tank read 1/4 full. The battery seemed fine but there was that popping sound again. It seemed to coming from below the tiny rear seat just behind me. I flipped it up to discover the fuel pump doing its best but not finding anything to pump. The owner apparently neglected to tell me about the defective fuel gauge. The gas tank was empty. Argh. The trials and tribulations I suppose of owning a used sports car.
Deborah didn’t know about this minor defect with my new car, so I was pretty confident when I pulled up to ask, once again, for a date. She turned me down. Strike three. What? I was wearing a sports coat and tie (my work clothes). My new car was a stunning Austin Healey Mark III for God’s sake. How could she? I later learned that my offer to go away for the weekend to San Francisco, was a bit over the top. Not what a proper girl would agree to for a first date. So, I drove up the coast on Route 1 all by myself. Top down, with the heater on (it’s cold along the Pacific especially at night) listening to some jazz and the sound of the wind and the waves. I stopped to visit Dan Fragnito in San Jose for a few hours then continued on to San Francisco. Mainly to say I did it, before returning to my new life in Southern California, eager to reverse my previous rejections. Never say die. The 4th time turned out to be a charm.
Flashback- 1962-1965
Remember back in the day when each year in September new cars were debuted at their respective car dealerships? Every brand had their own showroom and you could walk around and get a look at the future. Well, a few months into it anyway. What a treat for a 10- or 12-year-old imagining what it would be like to own a brand new shiny Cadilac or Mustang or perhaps a GTO. I felt very conspicuous as it felt like the salesmen were keeping a close eye on me. Especially as I thumbed through the glossy brochures highlighting each make and model. They smelled as brand new as the cars themselves. Of course, if I asked their permission to take a few, I would be denied. Too expensive for a non-buying kid. I would occasionally borrow what I could, take them home and add them to my bedroom library. My imagination would do its work, converting fantasy into reality, without spending a dime.
Although, he lived right across the street from Sacred Heart School and church which I attended, Richie went to St. Anthony’s, not too far away. Somehow, we met and spent the summer months doing what boys did back then…we played sandlot baseball, football and just hung out. We both ended up going to Notre Dame High.
Richie’s father owned A-Z Garage, an auto repair shop somewhat incongruous to the surrounding residential neighborhood but popular with the locals. Sometime during our sophomore year together at Notre Dame, perhaps even as freshman we drank our first beers together. (Full disclosure: I am pretty sure I had experienced a sip or two of the God-awful wine used during mass, as an altar boy.) It was a Friday evening and I met Richie at the entrance to his dad’s garage. He greeted me sporting a 6-pack of Colt 45. Fairly new to the market Colt 45 boasted an alcohol content of 5.6%. It wasn’t just beer…it was malt liquor. Yikes, high test booze my first time out. Richie had the key and we slipped in through the fence gate, walked to the rear of the lot where numerous vehicles were awaiting repair. We hopped in one of them and each of us opened our very first can of…beer. We sat and talked about who knows what for perhaps an hour and a half or so. Long enough for each of us to have consumed 3-12 oz. cans each. More than enough alcohol to alter my perspective and make me a bit tipsy. I walked home under cover of darkness, snuck up to my room, undetected, and slept like a baby.
The fact that Richie’s dad was also a mechanic may have something to do with his getting a 1963 white Chevrolet Impala when he turned 16. He called it “Captain America.” The Captain for short. Richie loved that car. He must have washed it twice a week. The interior was immaculate. Every now and then Richie would take the captain out to the country for a speed test. Down Creek Road and then onto Francis Rd., a remote stretch of highway with gently rolling hills. What better place to sail along at 100+ mph. In effect it was a roller coaster ride. I know because I had done it once when it was just the two of us. That was also the last time. I did not like the feeling of having no control I suppose. Or as they would have said back then, I was chicken. BTW, it was 1965 and Chevy began putting lap belts into their cars the prior year, 1964. Richys being a ’63, had none. Then again neither did roller coasters, until the 70’s.
Fast forward- 2025 & 24 HOURS OF LEMONS
It was around 4pm on a Friday when I got the call. It was Graydon, my 17-year-old grandson.
Me: Hi Grady. What’s up?
Grady: I need a favor.
Me: Ookayy.
Grady: I need a ride to Ft. Collins (1 hour north of here) to pick up a car for the *24 Hours at Lemons’ Race. Get it? (I had heard about the project and it seemed a little dicey for anyone, let alone a teenager.)
Me: Does it run?
Grady: I don’t know.
Me: Can’t this wait until Monday or at least tomorrow. It’s late in the day and…
Grady: The owner said it has to be now.
Me: (hesitantly) Does your mother know about this? Is she ok with it?
Grady: She knows. He’s asking $500 but I’m bringing $400 so he can’t say no.
Me: (Hmmm. What could go wrong?) But what if he does?
Grady: He can’t. There’s no one else and he needs it gone today. By the way, we need to stop on the way and rent a trailer. Ah, to haul it back here.
Me: Great. so, it doesn’t run. Let me get back to you in a few minutes. I need to check with Deborah. (I’m calling his mother).
Natalie, Grady’s mom, was actually calling me on the other line. I summarized our conversation and she said she would get back to me. Don’t worry about Grady. But I did worry because he may never call me again. Not after betraying him. At least that is how I thought he would interpret my actions. Nuts.
As it turned out, Grady went up to Ft. Collins the next day with the father of one of his Lemon Teammates who owned a trailer. They brought it to Nederland, a small-town due west in the mountains near the Eldora ski resort. They paid the full asking price…$500. It is a 1981 Honda Prelude.
A few days later Grady posted a photo of him atop a small Kubota style excavator. He was digging a trench that would enable them to work on the engine from beneath, without needing a lift or ramp. They could simply push the “lemon” over the hole. Natalliieee!
*The 24 Hours of Lemons requires teams to buy and build a race car for a maximum of $500 (excluding safety gear, brakes, and wheels). Vehicles must pass strict safety inspections, including a roll cage, fire system, and race harness. It is an endurance race with a focus on fun, affordability, and severe penalties for unsafe driving. Sorry to be a curmudgeon but they are not using the word lemon correctly (even if it allows for a nice play on words with the noted car race- 24 Hours at Lemans). That’s not a lemon. A car worthy of the term breaks down repeatedly, often for the same issue, and repairs are frequent, expensive, or ineffective. A lemon is not simply an old junker. You must meet the high standards I just enumerated to achieve this designation.
The beat goes on…the next generation
Gotta go. Owen and Natalie are at the door. There here to use our Toyota Highland, which will most likely me Owens when he turns 16 later this year, for his very first driving experience. I hope this one goes better than mine did with Natalie’s when she was Owen’s age. That one ended in tears.
The End
TJ
I left my home in the small Western New York city of Batavia in March 1977 vowing never to shovel snow again. Never say never. Settling for 38 years in what was for me the "promised land" of Santa Barbara, California. I married, helped raise a family, started a business, traveled and live a wonderful life. We spent the last 10 years of our west coast journey in the small, quiet, picturesque town of Ojai. My oldest friends call me TJ.
My wife Deborah and I moved to Colorado in 2015 to be near our daughter, her husband and 2 growing grand-boys. Add 2 bulldogs (French & English) to the mix and our hands and hearts are full. We all reside in Niwot, a small quaint town 15 minutes north of Boulder. The mighty Rocky Mountains are at our doorstep.
I am a man, son, brother, cousin, friend, husband, father, uncle, grand father, in-law and mostly retired Coloradan. You can read more about me on the About Page. If you are curious about my professional life you can visit my Career at Venture Horizon.
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