The Question Was "Why?"
~ The Answer...
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I
have often told the story of how my Grandfather Dewey, and my Uncle Bobby, 11
years older than I, took me to The Columbia Speedway one Thursday evening in
late August or early September, 1952. I
would turn six in October of that year.
I have a very distinct memory of the sounds of the first race I
watched. I had heard race cars, or a
race car before, as the Pure Oil Station about a mile from my house had a race
car and Uncle Bobby would put me on his Cushman scooter and take me around
there in the evenings as the car was being worked on. Truth be known, looking back, there was more
race TALK than the engine being tuned, but every time that one engine fired up,
so did my little 5 year old heart. The one
engine made beautiful music to my ears, but I was not really prepared for the
full orchestra that would play for me that night of my first race.
My
memory of that first race was the discussion between Bobby and my Grandfather
in the front seat as we headed for the speedway. They always went in the
infield to watch the race but my grandfather was insistent that it would be the
grandstands on this night because he anticipated that I would be scared by the
noise and they would probably have to leave by the end of the first race. My Grandfather was a wise man, but he sure
missed it on that one.
We
took our seats in the wooden grandstands, maybe 10 rows up and just before the
flag stand. We have a really good view
of the half-mile clay track and looked right down into the pits where there
were oh so many race cars being unloaded or were already unloaded and awaiting
practice time. I recall watching the old
water truck chug its way around the track in the opposite direction from which
the cars would run as the water sprinkled from the back of the truck. I couldn't quite understand why they were
wetting the track so I asked my Uncle Bobby.
One thing about old Bobby, he loved to toy with me about
everything. His answer was something
like they were watering the corn that was planted. As hard as my eyes searched I never found
even one corn stalk on that track.
The
sun was behind our backs and the shadow of the grandstands was shading the
front straight of the track as the cars fired up for practice. Was I scared?
Sorry, Granddaddy, but fear never entered the mind of this kid. The sound was so awesome I never wanted it to
stop. Although I didn't know it at the
time, most of the engines were the flat head Fords that had been the bane of
stock car racing before it was ever organized.
Even so, the sound was magnificent to my young ears. I watched intently as car after car left the
pits and entered the very wet and very slick red clay track. Slowly they circled in an effort to dry out
the track and work in the racing grooves. I would learn, in later years that this was
known as ironing out the track.
What
I remember about that race was the wonderful sound of the cars, the smell of
combined gasoline fumes and tire rubber drifting up into the stands. There was a purple car, one my uncle called a
"Coach", with yellow 37s on the doors. I have no idea who was driving it but I
pulled for him because the car was unique.
I seem to recall Dink Widenhouse being in that
race and there were two brothers with the last name of Dangerfield in the
race. Now those names caught my
attention. Maybe one of them drove that
purple car but I don't know. After all,
I was only five years old.
By
the time the feature race rolled around even my five year old mind had figured
out that the water truck was NOT watering the corn, but had been out there to
wet the track to keep down the dust.
That may have worked for a while, but by feature time the red dust had
enveloped everything, a fact my mother would bring to my attention when I got
home and shed my clothes. She shook her
head in amazement as I undressed on the back porch and red dust was still
permeating the air. But, that is a story
for another time.
After
the races were over, we walked down into the pits. For me that was likened to being in Oz
without the Wicked Witch, in Wonderland without the wicked Queen, or in
Neverland without Captain Hook. I
touched the cars. I felt the heat from
the engines. One tall driver mussed my hair as he laughed at the look on my
face. Another driver offered me the
chance to sit in his car which was an offer I accepted without a thought. It was quite the adventure for me and even as
I sit here 66 years later I can feel that "tingle" of excitement from
all that happened that night.
The
dew was heavy on the grass of the parking area as we made our way back to the
black '41 Plymouth that would carry us home.
As I climbed in the back seat and closed the door, Granddad got behind
the wheel and started the car. He asked
me if I enjoyed the race. Although I
don't remember the exact words in response to that query, I do know it ended with
"can we come back next week?"
My
uncle Bobby, once more tormenting me with his joking, which I would come to love
in later life, asked me "why?"
I don't remember if I answered him or not and if I did I don't remember
what the answer was. As it was, there
was only one race left in the season and we didn't get to go back because my
Granddad wasn't able to take us.
I
don't know how long I pondered the "why" question but I knew deep within
me that I had found the one thing in my life that would occupy my interest from
that night on. And it has. I have, since that night so long ago,
attended thousands upon thousands of races.
I have enjoyed every one, whether my driver won or not. I was at the Columbia Speedway in July, 1958,
when the tall and lanky kid from NC ran his first race. I met him after the race and got his
autograph. He is on record as saying I
got the first autograph he ever signed as a driver and with his memory I can't
argue that point, but since that night I have obtained so many of his
autographs that they line the walls of my studio/office.
But
the point of this story is the "WHY."
What was it about this sport that so entangled me into a world where I
could experience the excitement of the sport, the joy of the victory of my
favorite and the disappointment when my favorite lost? Why did this sport have such a hold on
me? To be honest, I can't even today,
give a totally definitive answer but I will try:
First,
the sounds and the smells of the sport seemed to touch my soul in such a way
that nothing else could. Those were the
sensory measures of the sport which had me hooked like an addictive drug.
Secondly,
having those drivers, on my very first visit to the pits, treat me in such a
special way left an impression on me that has not been matched by any other
participant in any other sport. That
first car I sat in that night had a steering wheel bigger than I was but I was
sitting in a race car!!! In those early
years it seemed every driver I met and interacted with went out of their way to
see that I was given a minute or two of special attention. I didn't demand it; I was just there and I
guess it was pretty obvious that I loved the sport.
Thirdly,
racing was exciting, whether on the dirt tracks or, in the later year on all
the tracks. Because of that excitement,
the other sports have absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever. I don't care to discuss The Super Bowl, the
World Series, the NBA Championships or even the National Championship
Tiddlywinks playoffs.
Fourthly,
it connected my Uncle Bobby and me in a very special way. The Sunday before he passed away, I was
sitting in his hospital room watching the big race, although I don't remember
which one. Being only 11 years apart
gave us a close friendship and I would accompany him to every race he attended
and that was EVERY race within a 200-mile radius of our house in the early
days.
But,
as for the overall "Why", I still can't pin it down. I do know that through racing I've had an
incredibly exciting life, met incredible people and have more friends through
racing connections than any other source.
I believe in the sport and in spite of the on-going problems within
NASCAR these days, I will not abandon the sport that hooked me as a toddler,
nurtured me as a teenager, and matured me as an adult. In the overall, I guess the "Why"
doesn't matter; it's just the fact that I have those memories and am still
making more!