   
Location: North Australia | Found the story told by Junior. Car in the story was a Stude, and might still exist.
Virgil Exner, Jr.
We were loafing along at about 80 mph, no speedo, just the big 4 1/2" tach showing 2400 RPM. Our black lacquered beauty was purring on all 8 through the chromed 3" straight pipe, on an even straighter stretch of smooth concrete. There was hardly any traffic. We were eastbound for the SCCA’s (Sports Car Club of America's) summer event of the year at Thompson, Conn. A fuel stop was due at Somerset and we were nursing it a bit, as there was no gauge to go by. No fenders, either, just pure automobile!
ExnerDad
I noticed that Dad started to pay more attention to his cowl-side rear view mirror a ways after Laurel Hill. I ‘scootched’ up in my seat and took a quick look back over the tail. One had to be careful or the wind could blow your goggles off. “It’s a ‘41 Packard, Dad,” I said. He nodded. I looked again. It was gaining. Dad applied a little more throttle. There was no speed limit in 1948 on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
I looked again. The big black 180 four door was moving into the passing lane, and I noticed that the two gents appeared to be sitting bolt upright and were wearing black Homburg hats. We were now doing close to 90. The straining Packard inched on by, the gents’ heads unturned with their noses lifted higher. They stretched the distance until returning to our lane. Dad lifted a little, fell back to 2300 RPM, then, bang!, bang! he double de-clutched, shifting down into second, and put his foot in it! The 7.00 by 18" rears cheeped, then bit, and the revs soared rapidly as engine and gears screamed. He switched to the passing lane, and we pulled quickly alongside the brute. ****pit to front door, at 100, pow!, pow!, dad put her back in high! Again the Firestones burned and we streaked ahead. I looked back. The gents’ mouths were agape! Dad wound it up to 4100, close to 137 mph (the rev limit was 4500) and held her there until we got to the Somerset exit sign.
We parked, climbed out, removed our cloth helmets, and were taking off our kidney belts and WWII summer flying suits when the Packard pulled in next to us. As usual, a few onlookers were gathering. We were hot and hungry for lunch. So was she. The men got out, rushed over, and doffed their hats. One asked, "what is it, what’ll she do?" Dad said "Virgil..?" He always left it to me. I had it down pat.
“Be careful, the exhaust pipe is awfully hot!" I said. "It’s a 1932 Studebaker, two man Indianapolis race car. It has a 336 cubic inch straight eight engine with four Stromberg carburetors and 237 horsepower. It was one of ExnerDad Studebaker’s five-car racing team in the ‘30s, was driven to third place in ‘32 and 11th in ‘33 by Cliff Bergere, then to 10th in ‘37 by Louie Tomei. My dad has had her up to 148 mph, and she comes off the quarter mile in 12.97 seconds at just about a hundred!” The reaction was always the same:
Really? ... Wow!"
That fifth annual trek went on without a hitch. No fouled plugs, no blowouts, no overheating (no fan, for that matter), not even a tail dent. We stomped 'em in the trials on the Thompson half-mile and got the usual, "well, it’s a race car and not a true sports car" reaction from the foreign sporty ca’ lovers. Heck, we’d only just driven nearly 900 miles from South Bend through sun and rain to attend their snobby meet. If our mount didn’t qualify as a true sports car, nothing did! Besides, Dad probably knew more about their own cars than most of them. At least, members like Briggs Cunningham and Russ Sceli really appreciated our endeavor. Father was, after all, almost a founding member (1943) and the club’s first member west of Pittsburgh.
However, to me, the biggest thrill of the trip was that Dad actually let me drive 'our special' on the track. I was 15 and Mom had taught me to drive in our '41 Stude President when I was 13. It was about time! I already had over 8,000 miles in the 'riding mechanic's seat, but, that loud pedal was more sensitive than I had ever imagined. Dad had to hang on for dear life, for a change!
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Exner Junior.
