Stage Racing Before It Was Cool
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I’ve
had my driver’s license for forty-five years now. In all that time I’ve driven a lot of
vehicles but never once have I ever driven a real race car. I’ve done karts in Pigeon Forge but I don’t
count that. Spent a lot of money logging
laps in Malibu’s open wheelers which is close (yeah I had to wear a helmet) but
not close enough.
But
I have won a race.
It
was in the unlikeliest of vehicles, against the unlikeliest of opponents on the
unlikeliest of “tracks” under the unlikeliest of circumstances, but I got to
the finish line first so guess what-I’m going to count it in my win
column.
The
“track” - Breckenridge Street in Owensboro, KY.
US 231 North. Two lanes
wide. One way. One of the major entrances into town. Runs all the way down Owensboro Grain on the
river and merges into Second St., Main St., US 60… the main westbound artery
into town. (Author’s note-no bigger
than the town is, it’s hard to call these roads arteries, but it sounds better
than capillaries. You get the
picture). That summer day it was like
one long drag strip.
The
“opponent” - a brand new Corvette convertible.
Shiny. Blue. Beautiful.
The perfect ride for its driver who looked like he had just stepped off a
magazine cover for a sailing magazine or something.
My
“ride” - My Dad’s beloved 1965 Ford Camper Special. Red and white. Twin I-Beam suspension. Nicknamed “Big
Red.”
“Red”
was like no other Camper Special after Dad got done with his tinker’s
magic. Custom camper tie-downs, small
convex mirrors attached to the trucker mirrors to eliminate blind spots,
fabricated extensions so the rear bumper could be easily extended out to form
the back step when the camper was loaded, a folding step attached to the bumper
to allow easy access in and out of the back.
And those easy tailgate removal systems you now find on tracks today,
where you drop the tailgate down halfway and lift out one end... “Red” had that
in 1966.
We
loved “Red” as it was a part of the family.
He carried my Dad to work at the steel mill five days a week. 8-4 & 12 as he worked swing shift his
entire career there. On his days off, it
was “Red” who carried us out weekend outings to campgrounds, fishing holes or
the race tracks, be it Salem, IN, DuQuoin IL or Bowling Green for the “faraway”
trips or to the local tracks at Princeton, IN, Central City, KY or just outside
of town to Windy Hollow.
Red
had crossed the Rockies twice, been to each ocean and the Gulf as well as to
the bottom of Lake Barkley (that’s another story).
I
loved that truck and loved driving it.
Other kids wanted cool cars; me, I hoped one day “Red” would be
mine. Because of that, whenever Dad
would let me drive it I did so with the greatest of care and respect... except for
this one time.
Not “Big Red” but Awfully Close
Dad
was working on a project and needed some supplies to finish it. He tossed me “Red’s” keys, told me what he
needed, gave me the parts list and some money and sent me to pick them up.
I
was in heaven.
I
was heading home, on Breckenridge Street waiting for the traffic light change
so I could turn right onto Old Hartford Road, when he rolled up to a stop in
the left lane. The ‘Vette... so shiny...
so blue. It looked fast sitting
still. It was hard to take my eyes off
of it.
The
lustful spell was broken when I heard its engine rev a couple of times. I looked over at the driver and he was
looking straight at me. When he caught
my eye, he blipped the engine a couple of more times.
OK,
I can see where this is going. I was
feeling pretty chippy, so in a moment of weakness and
sheer stupidity I discreetly slipped “Red” into Neutral and returned the
blips. I didn’t want him to know he I
had an automatic transmission. How
uncool would that be? He looked back
over, grinned and turned back to focus on the light that was about to turn
green.
So
here we have a street race between the unlikeliest of competitors-in the left
lane, the slick dude in his blue convertible ‘Vette and in the right, the
pimple faced teenager in his father’s red and white Ford Camper Special.
Green.
The
‘Vette sped away like he was shot from a cannon, going out of sight around the
bend at Blandford’s Tastee-Freeze. Before he got out of sight, I noticed he had
Warren County tags. Bowling Green. An out of towner. I took up the chase knowing I had the race
won. We were on my “home track.” The way he blasted away I knew he had never
been here before and because of that I knew this race was mine.
I
soon got “Big Red” up to “full song”, a skosh under 30 MPH. As I rounded Blandford’s bend I could see my
opponent dead ahead, trapped at the light on 18th Street. As I got closer I could see his head moving,
checking rear view mirrors and then the light, trying to see where I was.
As
I approached the intersection, the light changed and I rolled on through
without touching the brakes. A quick
glance into the rear view mirrors showed me in the lead as I heard him tromp
the accelerator, in hot pursuit.
My
lead was short lived as he roared past, blowing me away before we got to the
railroad tracks at Lincoln Elementary.
Resisting the temptation to run with him (as if I could), I stayed
focused on my estimated 28 miles per hour.
It wasn’t long before I saw his brake lights come on as the 12th Street
light turned red, again trapping him.
Like
clockwork, the light turned green as I rolled through the intersection. A quick glance in the left trucker mirror
(had to have those to see when the camper was loaded) saw him peeling away from
his dead stop. He caught me as we cleared
Hall Street Baptist, pulled alongside, slowed, looked over and smiled before
blasting away, leaving me in his dust.
As I watched him get smaller and smaller I could only smile. The light at 9th was just ahead and would
erase his sizeable lead.
This
was my “track.” My friends and I had
made hundreds of trips down Breckenridge and running its length without getting
caught by the lights was one of our driving “games.” Let’s say I had plenty of notes for this
race.
Again,
the light changed as I rolled through the intersection, briefly reassuming the
lead. This time his takeoff was more
intense and when he went by this time he slowed but didn’t look over, staring
straight ahead, now up on the wheel, before roaring away.
The
4th Street light caught him and again allowed me to putt into the lead when it
changed as I roared through at my 28 MPH.
When he passed me this time he never even slowed, putting me in his rear
view before we passed the used car lot before merging with Leitchfield Rd. He
screamed to the final light, 2nd Street at the end of Breckenridge/Leitchfield,
our finish line, at what seemed to be at least 60 miles per hour faster than
me, I was counting on the final light to
be red and give me one final chance for the win.
As
I rounded the bend at the old Owensboro Wagon Factory, I could see him sitting
at the light, waiting for it to turn so he could make the left hand turn onto
2nd Street and claim Victory. This time
though he had switched lanes and was now sitting in the right lane, my
lane. I guess it was a little
gamesmanship to try and break my momentum.
I
had come too far to blow it now. I made
one final check of the speedometer as we crossed 3rd Street. C’mon “Red” don’t fail me now!
As
I got closer and closer the light seemed frozen on red. Is it going to change in time? Plus, he had switched lanes, taking away my
right lane, but opening up the inside, the left lane for the turn onto Second
St. In other racing the inside position on a turn would be prime, but it was
now a shorter path. Would it mess up my
timing? Should I lift?
I
held steady as I switched lanes and luckily the light changed just as I got there
just like it had at all the previous lights.
This time though, be it because of the shorter path or an adrenaline
laden foot I had cut it so close I
decided to lay on the horn as I rolled passed him one last time. The move was two-fold. One was if I cut it too fine to warn anyone
going through on Second St. that “Big Red” was a’coming
through. The other was to break his
concentration and slow his reaction time... just in case.
As
I made the left turn onto 2nd Street, I took one more look in the right mirror
and saw I had enough room to switch lanes, executing the perfect “slide
job.” This not only blocked his advance
but it insured we both knew who “won.” I
could hear him accelerate and then lift.
I snuck a peek in the left mirror to see him switch lanes again and get
back on the accelerator. He blew past me one last time, one hand on the wheel
and the other raised, saluting me on my Victory, acknowledging I was number
one... or something like that. Seeing
that raised middle finger disappear in the distance was better than any trophy
I could have ever won!
Ahhh... the sweet taste of Victory!
My
opponent in his shiny ‘Vette had convincingly won every “Stage” of our race but
I had won what was important - the Race.
He knew it and I knew it. It was
a Herman “The Turtle”
Beam kind of race. He would have
been so proud!
Herman “The Turtle” Beam Would’ve Been Proud
As
we rolled down 2nd Street I was so excited I forgot that Dad was waiting back
home for parts to be delivered. We
switched lanes and made the hard left turn onto Triplett Street and headed
south toward home.
“Hey,
‘Red,’ I’ve got five bucks in my pocket, how about let’s go celebrate like real
racers?”
The
Shell Station became our Victory Lane, an ice cold Dr. Pepper, my
champagne. “Red” got the rest of my five
bucks in Hi-Test. The extra fuel would
throw Dad’s religious fuel mileage calculations off but that’s OK - it was our
secret. “Red” earned it.
That
day, there were no trophies, no trophy girls, no TV crews, no photographers, no
adoring fans, autograph seekers or cheering crowds. There were no sponsors to thank, no “hat
dance” to perform, no crew members to celebrate with. There were no purses paid, no points earned
and certainly no Stage points awarded.
Just
a pimple faced teen, his borrowed but trusty ride and sweet memories from their
only win together, the “Great Breckenridge Street Race”, back before “Stage”
racing became cool.