When you press the start button and it tells you 
So, I’ve gotten both my pushrod and my 40 valve versions down to 7.76 seconds, I realized why my cars were so heavy… -15 steel is lighter then +15 steel but it’s reversed for carbon fiber, which when I think about it makes perfect sense. So both cars went on crash diets, and both engines got a slight size tweak, now at 8.6 liters, maybe tomorrow I can close in some more on your new time.
Useful thing when you’re blowing tyres: check the listed top speed. The closer it is to your theoretical top speed, the closer your settings are to the tyres tolerating the power/traction. This way even if you are “blowing the tyres”, you can still tweak in hopes of fixing it.
Wow! I guess my engines are not powerful enough to blow tires! hahahahaha
Oh I’m sure your engine is powerful enough to blow tires… just not on the first run!
Maybe on the 100,000th run. 
Oh wow this is getting harder. What kind of power you running in that build? The block seems a fair bit heavier than mine!
Only in the 2420 range, 8.6 liter with iron heads gives that little extra power and helps keep the weight to the rear. I have a 2700 horse version but I just can’t get it to hook up right.
You have a 2700hp version? Can I see? 
Sure, anyone can take a crack at this, I’m really interested to see how low we can get.
To install be sure you use the larger midengine body with longitudinal rwd and a McPherson setup.
okay Strop, I know your delicate right hoof can unlock the potential of this engine.
8.6L 2728Rev0.lua (69.6 KB)
Okay, I’ve tried to make a little news article about this. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!
[size=200]Racing Shines in Tulsa[/size]
By Bill Haisten - Tulsa Gazette
Tulsa Raceway Park, in Oklahoma, is a lyric little relic of a dragstrip, a standing reminder of simpler, bygone days. Everything is in order and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg. It was built in 1953 and rebuilt in 2002, and offers, as do most Mid-Western artifacts, a compromise between Man’s velocity-fueled determinations and Nature’s beguiling irregularities. Its location is one of the most quaint in America; the high bleachers, constructed more than a half-century ago to seat ten thousand, virtually thrusts its fans onto the left-most lane of the asphalt. On the afternoon of Tuesday, September 30th, as I took a seat behind the racers, a uniformed worker was treading the top of the safety barrier, picking scraps of rubber and debris from a shallow pit alongside, like a mushroom gatherer seen in Wordsworthian perspective on the verge of a cliff. The day was overcast, chill, and uninspirational. This year had been a disastrous one for local motorsport, with eight untimely deaths casting their dismal shadow on the tarmac; the kind of shadows that are best seen without the light of the sun. A jangling medley of incompetent youth and aging competence, the few that remained racing had formed a troop of sorts, convening at even the most inopportune times to ply across the quarter mile. Very few muster up the will to even watch the dying sport acted out by the meager few with remaining faith in the time-trusted recipe of gasoline, rubber, and sheer talent.
I arrived early. The men were making adjustments to their automobiles, all with somber visages. The day before, there had been another one of the persistent crashes, and neither their body language nor their drab gray racing suits seemed very jovial. I wondered what divine spirit had influenced them to don their attire and make their way to these less-than-hallowed grounds. Between our heads and the lowering clouds, Randy Bachman’s frenzied, stuttering voice was thundering through, with an appositeness perhaps accidental, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, b-b-b-baby, you just ain’t seen n-n-nothing yet…”
The affair between this art and its practitioners has been no mere summer romance; it has been a marriage, composed of spats, mutual disappointments, and, toward the present, a mellowing hoard of shared memories. It falls into three stages, which may be termed Youth, Maturity, and Age; or Thesis, Antithesis, and Synthesis; or Jason, Achilles, and Antilochus.
The first soul to set foot, or perhaps rubber, on the strip is a young fellow by the name of Caleb Anderson, not a day older than 20; the purple of his racing helmet complementing the luster of his “Plum Crazy” 1971 Dodge Challenger, doubtlessly passed through generations of the family. Opposite him is his own polar opposite, Clarence Baker, a sedate pensioner who has been racing Tulsa since childhood, perhaps since the conception of the dragstrip itself. The “Christmas Tree” lights up, and goes green, and a well-rehearsed cheer is audible from the crowd as the brawn of two, large-block V8s are unleashed onto the bitumen. The supercharger mounted inside Baker’s Chevrolet El Camino starts to force air inside the 427ci engine; it careens down the 1/4th mile at a hurried clip. 9.876. A loud applause is heard from the gathering in the stands. 11.374. The elder statesman, has, on the first run of the day, made a pass under ten seconds. He raises his arm out of the window, and gives a slight wave to acknowledge the crowd of 500 strong, the same wave he has given for the past 61 years. A wave of triumph, achievement, and the slightest hint of joy. Anderson, a sophomore at the University of Tulsa who commutes from Pryor Creek, has no such established routine; he calmly pilots his machine back to the makeshift pits, presumably to discuss his run with a few of his acquaintances and local armchair racers who are sure to give him their own brand of advice. “Deflate those tires, son! More traction. . .” “Anderson, you’ll be better off if you’d tighten up your rear springs.” By now it is obvious to all, assuming that they have not witnessed this spectacle before, that this is not racing against another, this is racing against the all-holy chronometer of these 440 sacred yards. This is the epitome of what the sport stands for.
Ziggy LaRossa is next, the odd one out. He prefers to run the distance on the two wheels of a motorcycle, and by no means a sluggish one. 10.681. Next to him is Ricky Cooper; his 1969 Mustang runs a 9.991.
I walk my way back to the pits, hoping to strike up a conversation with a driver or mechanic. My chance of such an encounter are slim, as each person is focused as a man can be, hoping to strike the perfect balance of factors that will inevitably lead to a personal-best time for them. Over to one corner of the competitors’ area is Nick Maloney, a 25 year-old racer from the Northeast. He’s lived in town for a couple of years now, and it is quite obvious to most observers that he is one of the more capable mechanics, and one of the best drag drivers as well. He has his car “Dreadnought”, nearly out of sight, or as hidden as one can get in an open lot. No doubt he’s concocted something for tonight, he seems to be on an interminable crusade to run the fastest time that he can. While on the topic of speed, one must not neglect to mention Stroppy McHorseguy, another twenty-something racer with a mid-engined rocket of a drag car. He, too is preparing his vehicle to run soon, if not at once. Coming back out to the strip, the competitors have cycled through, and the young Caleb Anderson is back at the line. Alongside him is McHorseguy; the sound of the turbocharged V8 in his machine loud enough to attract the crowd’s attention. The tree lights up, and both go off the line in a small blanket of vaporized rubber. The supporters have already gone mad by the time Anderson crosses the line in 11.129 seconds. More than three seconds after McHorseguy.
“7.882,” The tall fellow just looks at him while Nick Maloney shakes his head in utter disbelief of what he just saw. “7.882,” repeats Maloney. “He’s just knocked nearly half a second off his previous personal best. . .” The other man nods his head again. “Nick, focus on your own run. You’ve not once run the ‘Dreadnought’ today, and you are getting worried about someone else’s car!”
As the clouds loom even more menacingly, tragedy befalls another racer. Stanley Harrington’s motor had blown on the run directly after the record-setting one by McHorseguy. It is a shame, as always, to watch a competitor harm their prize possession in such a luckless manner. The afternoon grew so glowering that by 2:00PM the floodlights were turned on—always a wan sight in the daytime, like the burning headlights of a funeral procession. This, then, may not turn out to be a good day for racing at Tulsa, as a light mist begins to coat the asphalt, effectively reversing the grip provided by the previously deposited rubber.
3:10PM. Nick Maloney lines up “Dreadnought” at the tree, pearlescent red paint glimmering from whatever brave streaks of light from the feeble sun manage to penetrate the cloud layer. This is a run bred from the desperation of Maloney, the fear that this might be his last chance, that the omnipresent storm clouds will force the event to be adjourned. He does a burnout to warm his tyres, which in turn has the welcome side effect of removing any unwanted moisture from the starting area. The tree lights up on the left side; no one else cares to partake in these conditions just yet. A slight moment of wheelspin, and he’s literally flying down the track.The gathered crowd lets a cheer escape themselves, and as they see Maloney’s time, the cheer turns into a full-on eruption from the bleachers.The clock shows 7.846. Drag racing is back in Tulsa tonight.
Ricky Cooper is up again now, and he, running solo, opts to use the left lane. 9.677. A personal best. The spectators are getting back into it, and Cooper can feel the energy; a fist-pump is seen from the driver’s seat as he acknowledges the enthusiasm of the cheering masses. Ziggy LaRossa rolls up to the line now, not questioning at all the dangers of running on two wheels on a slightly slick surface. But now, the crowd, veritably buzzing from the two runs that have just taken place, starts to rise, and a hearty cheer is heard as Stroppy McHorseguy pulls his “Sleipnir” up to the start. On the right-hand side. The do their burnouts; McHorseguy, curiously, does a second one. And the ever-dependable tree lights up once more. LaRossa loses traction almost immediately; he’s forced to abandon his run. No rest for the weary.
None of this misfortune matters to the crowd, or anyone for that matter. McHorseguy has just run a 7.821.
This has gone beyond what would be expected from a day of racing the clock at the dragstrip. This is a competition, and one between two very determined men; both alike in dreams of speed and victory. And the crowd loves it.
By the time the church bells ring to signify that it is now 4:00 PM,the clouds have dissipated, leaving in their wake nothing less than a beautiful, late-summer afternoon in the Mid-West. We’ve witnessed another cycle through the competitors, and now we have Nick Maloney ready to run. He doesn’t. He lets Anderson take his spot. Now, in a run hearkening back to the very onset of today’s racing, the young man faces the Chevrolet of Clarence Baker once more. Anderson gets a great start and runs a 10.963, the first time in his short life that he has made a pass under 11 seconds. The public address announcer acknowledges this, and the spectators, now numbering many more than 500, give Anderson a rousing ovation, the 19 year-old beaming from ear to ear. Bake, who has just completed the quarter mile in 9.745 seconds, smiles at the kid, more than 50 years his lesser, and reckons back to his own childhood at this very dragstrip, one gone by in a blur of speed and passion. Then he gives his trademark wave to the crowd, and drives back to the pits, with a hint of jubilation in his manner.
McHorseguy is now lined up alongside Maloney, over four-thousand horsepower at a gentle slumber. Stroppy glances to his left and gives Nick a slight nod, only to receive one in return. This is the first genuine “race” of the day. The tree flashes yellow three times. Then green.
With much vigor, the two turbocharged engines on each side of the strip spool up to full power, and the fury of internal combustion is loosed on the unsuspecting tarmac. Alongside each other off the line. Alongside each other down the track. Alongside each other at the finish. The times flash. 7.796. 7.832.
Maloney silently drives back to his tent under the thunderous sound of the fans. His expression is an amalgam of emotions, and he doesn’t seem quite sure which one to show. McHorseguy pulls up next to him in the drivers area, and Maloney’s face contorts into the proper emotion. Pure, filthy, unadulterated smugness. He manages to restrain himself to one sentence.
“Nice run, buddy.”
McHorseguy is steaming now, but he can never let that show in front of Maloney. After making his way to his own tent, he steps out of his vehicle, and slams his fist into the carbon fibre body panel of “Sleipnir”. A muffled groan follows.
This time, it is McHorseguy who waits back to get a race with Maloney. Same lanes, same cars, radically different mindsets. Any vitriol that either man would be inclined to bellow would be immediately drowned by the roar of the crowd from the rickety bleachers, now numbering well over 1,000. The lights run down their interminable sequence.
Stroppy McHorseguy makes the same drive alongside the furor in the stands that Maloney does, and like Maloney, he is a canister of emotion, yet for McHorseguy, one emotion stands out amongst the rest.
The deep baritone voice of the public address announcer boomed over the stands, “Mr. McHorseguy’s time is now official. 7.753 seconds.”
What we have now, is the quintessence of the sport of drag racing. Two men, each in a furious battle with themselves and their machines, if only to extract the performance necessary to charge headlong into a clash with each other.
When both are ready, they head out to the line. They point their machines to the end of the dragstrip, the hearts of fans, and the promise of victory. Like an elaborate religious ritual, they cross the pre-stage line. Now, one at a time, they crawl forward the required seven inches to start the countdown. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Both vehicles are propelled forth by a blend of racing gasoline, passion, and labor. On the right side is McHorseguy’s time. 7.729. On the left is Maloney’s. 7.700.
“Nick! How’s the family doing?”
“Very well, thanks for asking. I’m sure they had quite the time watching us tonight.”
“Yeah. . . Great stuff.”
“You coming again on Friday?”
“Most likely, if my schedule permits it.”
“Well, I’ll see you then. . .”
MALOOOONNNNEEEEEEYYYYYYY!!!
I’ll get that time back, I will!
EDIT: Thanks to some tuning tips and engine pointers from nialloftara (a.k.a. Maloney), I whacked the engine in and tweaked the aero a bit, and managed to match the time while maintaining my rather different approach to downforce. The question now is to see if we can find a way past this!
Wrenching, tweaking, sweating, cursing, and bleeding for that last hundredth, I swapped turbos, changed up the ride height, pulled a little tape off to let the now upgraded 2580 horsepower motor breath, replaced a few ratios in the transmission, and altered the wings. blew so many tires…
Dammit, right after I had written the article…
I think you have reached the peak of performance by now…
Originally, I didn´t want to compete in one of my own series, but i was bored, so i made a little car for Class E.
It uses one of my production engines with a larger turbocharger, race intake and exhaust and loads of boost.
btw. that article is pretty nice!
well, that’s pretty much exactly the opposite of what engine i use for my Class E car (even though i don’t take this very seriously). But here it is:
In case you missed it, my entry is on page 3. It’s 1 second slower than your car, but then it weighs almost 600kg more. Again, i could have built a much smaller and lighter car than i did, but i thought putting a 10.0L in it would be more fun 
Damn your car hooks up fast, those are amazing times for the first 2 sections. Looks like I’ll be tweaking again after work maybe shift my ballast around.
I know right!? I’m going to re-engineer myself. The good top end has a limited advantage dictated by air resistance and slower initial sections.
How do you guys make it so you don’t blow your tyres? Every time i put an engine with more than 2khp into the car and try to test it, the tyres blow. Does it have something to do with rim size or tyre profile maybe? What rim size are you running?