There's a Sign Post Up Ahead
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I
borrow this line from the opening segment of Rod Serling's
"Twilight Zone" television show from the 1960s for a reason. Let me
set the stage; my Uncle Bobby, who introduced me to racing when I was weeks
away from turning 6 years old, was a spur-of-the moment guy. I mean REALLY
spur-of-the moment. He had taken me to
races all over South Carolina, Georgia, North Carolina and even into Tennessee.
When Bill France built Daytona Speedway
and we listened to the first Daytona 500, which was won by Bobby's favorite, he
made the comment that "We need to go there one day".
That
day came, finally, in 1962, when Bobby decided the Thursday before the 500 that
we would leave Friday after he got off work and catch the modified-sportsman on
Saturday and the 500 on Sunday. I could
not believe that I would finally experience the magic state of Florida where
everyone was tanned and lived on the beach, and I was hyped. Now, as for the Rod Serling
reference, Bobby's wife Mary, Mary Ruth as she was known, and I were big fans
of "The Twilight Zone", which came on at 10:00 pm Friday
evenings. As Mary and Bobby lived just
across the street from me, I always went over to their house on Friday to watch
the show with her. She convinced Bobby
that since he wouldn't be home from work until about 7 pm and would then need
dinner, a couple hours more and we could see our show and then hit the
road. There were no DVRs or VCR's in
those days so you either saw it when it was on or you missed it.
As
soon as Bobby came in from work, Mary Ruth was sitting him down to dinner and I
was packing our things in the 1957 green and white Plymouth Belvedere for the
trip. It was soon all packed, everything
but the ice chest with the food, and Mary Ruth and I settled in to see our
show. Not sure what the episode was
about that Friday night because all I could think of was seeing the cars race
on Daytona. I had been to Darlington
several times by then, but trying to envision a two and a half mile track was
beyond even my imagination.
At
10:40 pm, after last minute bathroom visits, we piled into that Plymouth and
pulled out of the driveway to head for the highway. Oh, I failed to mention that Bobby and Mary
Ruth had a little girl, Debbie. At my age then (15) and her age (about 6) we
did not get along. Thankfully, we would
later become very close and remain so today.
So, based on the inability of Debbie and me to sit next to one another
for an extended period, Bobby would drive, with me in the front seat, and later
Mary would driver while Bobby slept in the back seat. I was perfectly fine with that arrangement as
I was a front seat kind of person.
The
Plymouth had an AM radio, which was the only source for music then. As we traveled down US 321 and then US 17,
the music faded in and out to the point it was mostly static. But, as Bobby and
Mary both opined, the constantly running mouth of Timmy kept them
entertained. And believe me, when we
were headed to a race, I had no shortage of subject matter.
Soon
after entering Georgia on US 17, the fog became so thick we could barely see
the chrome fender markers on each fender of the Plymouth. Mary was driving then and peering ahead cautiously
as we moved along, alone of the highway, and at times searching for the lines
on the highway to be certain we weren't in the ocean. Mary told me to keep close watch for the road
signs so we didn't take a wrong turn. I
took that job very seriously because I wanted to be in Daytona in time for the
race.
After
several hours in the car, having stopped only once for gas, in what was then a
rare instance of gas stations staying open all night, the fog thinned just a
bit to see perhaps a half mile ahead of us.
Mary and I both saw the sign post but couldn't quite make it out until
we were right upon it. The significance
of that sign post was the lettering that read "Jacksonville, 20
miles". Very soon after was the
billboard sign saying "Welcome to Florida, The Sunshine State".
The
morning sky was just beginning to show signs of the glow of the rising sun when
we came to the roadside park. We pulled
in, being the only humans in the place, and had our breakfast, which consisted
of Cocoa-Krispy Cereal and doughnuts. We
quickly consumed those goodies and were back in the car heading to Daytona,
keeping even closer watch on the road signs not to miss our destination.
We
started to encounter signs indicating we were close to Daytona and then, as if
an illusion, there it appeared. Nothing
as it looks today, but distinctively a race track the proportions of which
could take the breath away from a kid who grew up on half-mile and quarter-mile
tracks with a twice a year visit to Darlington.
We entered the line of cars, not very long, to buy tickets to go into
the infield. Very quickly we descended
into the depths of the dark tunnel under turn four and popped out into the
bright sunshine. Bobby was driving then
and he slowed to look at the majesty of the sight. I know my eyes must have been as big a
saucers. We were there. We were in Daytona International Speedway,
with only hours to the Modified-Sportsman Race.
As
soon as we parked along the banks of Lake Lloyd from which we could see most of
turns one and two, the entire back straight, and with good eyes the tri-oval, I
wanted out to head to the pit fence to see what I could see. Bobby and Mary decided to take a nap but said
Debbie and I could walk over there. I
was not necessarily excited about dragging that little brat along, but I told
her to hold my hand, stay with me, and don't talk. So, together, Debbie and I walked through the
wet grass towards to pits. It was a
little further than it appeared from out Lake Lloyd vantage point, but we made
it.
I
clung to the fence to see the cars being fueled and pushed out. I had never seen so many sleek Studebakers in
my life. Debbie wanted to know if they
were called that because they were used to bake "Studes". Absolute truth on that. The other modified cars were sometimes not
distinguishable from their on-the-road counterparts but each one excited me to
see. We walked on down the fence and
THERE THEY WERE. The Grand National Cars
(now called Cup). I immediately spotted
that blue number 43 Plymouth which had my allegiance for Sunday. Not far from the 43 was the fearsome looking
black and gold number 22 Pontiac. I
didn't know at the time what a part those two would play in the race on Sunday.
I
remember the sounds and smell of the modified race, but not much more about it,
really. I was there for the Sunday race
to see my man run. I was awe struck by
the track and by everything I saw, and the modified race was a part of the
experience. When the track became silent, it was time to eat our supper,
pimento cheese sandwiches Mary Ruth had made before we left home, along with
Oreos. Most of the ice in the chest had
melted so the milk had spoiled, leading us to an infield concession stand for
Cokes.
As
the sun began to disappear from the sky, I realized, for the first time, that I
had been awake for the better part of 35 hours.
Bobby and Mary Ruth had napped during the morning and Debbie had slept
most of the way down to Daytona. As
darkness enveloped us, we climbed in the Plymouth where I actually fell asleep
with my head against the passenger's side window. Throughout the night I could hear some of the
rowdier fans making excessive noise but I was somewhat accustomed to that from
Darlington days.
The
sun came up Sunday morning indicating a beautiful day for racing. But, as I unwrapped myself from the blanket
under which I had slept, I felt quite a chill. WHAT???? This was Florida, it isn't supposed to be cold,
but it was. I'm not sure what time it
was when I awoke, but the sun was above the third turn. I immediately asked Bobby if I could head to
the pits. Mary asked about breakfast and
I told her I was too excited to eat. (I don't have that problem these days).
As
I went to the trunk of the Plymouth to retrieve my jacket, the same jacket I
had argued with my Mother that I would never need in sunny Florida, I thought
to myself "My Mother is really smart". I pulled on the jacket and headed west to the
pits. When I approached the fence, every
sense of my being tingled with the excitement of what was before me. Cars of every color, seeming even more
colorful than at Darlington. One would
fire up and it was like music to my ears.
Then another, then another. Soon
the entire symphony would bring that beautiful music that was racing to all
around.
I
think the race started at noon, but in those days I didn't wear a watch and
there weren't cell phones to remind you of every passing minute. But when the cars were given the command to
start engines, I literally ran across the infield to take my place by Lake
Lloyd. The sight and sound of those cars
coming off turn two, behind a pace car with yellow flags flapping from the rear
bumper remains a clear memory of my youth.
The second pace lap seemed to pick up speed as they came by us.
Looking
hard at the flag stand all the way across the infield, I saw the green flag
waving the field to race. There are no
words to describe the sound and fury of the cars coming by at speed. The ground shook from the pounding of those
48 powerful engines in cars driven by the finest race drivers in the
world. I remember Joe Weatherly led lap
one, the Fireball took over, then Junior Johnson I think and Cotton Owens was
in the mix, all in Pontiacs. If there
was one brand a Plymouth man disliked more than Fords back then, it was those
darned Pontiacs.
I
kept my eye on Richard Petty as he made that small, under powered Plymouth a
pain in the rear ends of those Pontiacs as that little Plymouth would tuck
right in behind those "Wide Track Pontiacs" and draft along at the
Pontiacs' speeds. Lap after lap I kept
my eye on that blue Plymouth. At one
point he was actually leading the race and I had to get down off the trunk of
Bobby's car so I could jump up and down with excitement.
The
race wound down with Fireball winning in the Smokey Yunick Pontiac. Although it was a beautiful car, I absolutely
detested a Pontiac that day. Richard
Petty was second so I guess that was pretty good, especially after the 1961 fiasco
for the Petty team that year. As always,
I ventured into the pits, and as always I found Richard sitting there signing
autographs. He looked up and saw me and
made the comment something like "you are a long way from home". Maybe, Richard, but race tracks had sort of
become my home by that point in my life.
We
inched our way out of the infield to hit the highway home. It was then we heard on the radio that the
Petty team had filed a protest against Fireball for having too many men over
the wall on a pit stop. So, there was
hope we did win!!!! Didn't happen but
it was nice to dream about. But Richard
would go on to win SEVEN Daytona 500s.
And I would be there for all seven of them. I finally stayed home in 1987 and haven't
been back since, but I never miss that race on television.
There
are many memories from that trip in 1962.
As we started back up the road to Columbia, the darkness set in and both
Bobby and Mary Ruth were tired and I was too young to legally drive although I
had been driving with Bobby for a number of years. Bobby decided to stop at this little roadside
motel just out of St. Augustine. I went
in with him to see about a room and there were rooms available. Bobby asked "how much for the
night" and the guy told him "$19.00" Bobby, not known to use curse words often
responded, and I remember this very clearly, "I didn't want to buy the
damn place, I just wanted to spend the night". So it was back in the car heading north.
Just
outside or Jacksonville, on the south side, we came up a motel with a flashing
sign reading "Slappy's Motel". By this time sleep was a priority for the two
drivers so we pulled in. Once more I
went in with Bobby and we were told the room rent was $7.00 for the night since
it was so late. So began our "Slappy's Motel" experience. But that's a story for another time.