Well, what the hell. Looking back I don’t know whose fault it was, but I’ll bash the state of California for lack of a better victim. The road signs fooled me. The one that hung me up on this treacherous man-killer of a highway was one that indicated a straight-line charge followed by a hard hook to the right at the end of the turn. I adjusted my driving technique to accommodate this fun-drowning information to a sane speed and after making a none-too-difficult turn, I saw a new straightaway ahead and resumed my 110-mph speed. Sadly, that new straightaway was where the sign REALLY applied.
Suffice to say, I lost it and slammed into a retaining wall that cashed in the Ford Thunderbird to the last dollar. F*** me. NHRA buys a $12,000 car because of me. We somehow were espied by the local forest rangers, who informed us that what we hit was one of two such abutments on Highway 33 and that basically we were saved from about an 800-foot plunge that, coupled with a full tank of gas, would have meant the end of the Angeles Crest National Forest. I guess that also meant that the three of us in the car would have got our first taste of an eternity in hell.
We recovered nicely, while awaiting the hook, we quickly (about an hour) consumed our felonious picnic basket. A gram of coke, a baggie of Oaxaca’s finest, and two six-packs of Bohemia allowed us to pee all over ourselves on the way back to North Hollywood.
As the late great jazz tenor John Coltrane would describe the above two acts… “one up, one down.”
But to return to the Spanish flagstone patio, you can set yourself up for a lot of treachery. I have a tendency to go off on jags, and sometimes they can be a bit spirit-crushing. What do the above activities have in common? I’d say that the person doing the writing is capable of having moments that are off base. Ripped to the tits behind the wheel (we didn’t drive in reverse at Fremont although we might as well have), consuming massive amounts of flint, c’mon. You were friggin’ lucky, C. Bley Motorsports Au Go Go. You should be someone’s wife at Pelican Bay or Corcoran. (“Bitch, clean that cell!”) A tad irresponsible doncha think?
Forty-six straight years of this wall-bouncing. That’s occurred to me and I don’t know what to think really. I will say that if you’re sincerely trying to find the parachute then I haven’t shown much and this sometimes grabs you by the back of the neck and forces your head between your legs. Maybe I am a loser, possibly a colorful one, but one who should be known for an incredible run more than one who has made significant contributions to his sport of choice.
Well, where I’m staying there are a few drag racing fans and one or two have actually recalled a few etchings from this fool. Spurred on by those tweaks, I showed them some stuff I had brought with me: the November 200 Hot Rod Magazine that contained my “Route 66 Sandpainting.” (I believe Hot Rod’s first feature length prose-poem. That’s right, a two-page POEM.)
And a copy of my “Top Fuel Handbook,” the sport’s first Top Fuel history, which traced development of the class from Dick Kraft and Emory Cook to the late Scott Kalitta and Blaine Johnson. It had all the major HRA winners, best e.t.s and mph’s and tons of match racing history, like Bakersfield, Union Grove, Cordova’s World Series, the Irwindale Grand Prix, the PDSs, etc.
Those little perks caused me to do something that I thought might help me get in my recovery. Just what have you done, say, in what most people associate yourself with? Me and my Division 4 owl-hoot pals (and from various and other sundry places) did make noise, but was there any content to that? Or was it like one of thousands of sparklers that spit its sparks and evaporated into the air?
NNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO … I mean YEEESSSSS … DAMMITTT!!!
I did a little research based on that morning perk from my new friends for the expressed purpose of feeling good about myself and came up with the following lidlifters. A small cessation of the personally induced grief. I sat down and thought about my plusses and minuses.
(Note: When I use the term “history,” I don’t mean picture collections. I mean a book more prose than pix, taking a given class from A to Z, hitting the major event winners, the low e.t.s, top speeds, barrier breakers, etc.) It’s out and out history. This article would be where you go when you want to know the big stuff and, in a few cases, the minute stuff.
Check these hallucinations:
- 1. I wrote the first Top Fuel history, “The Top Fuel Handbook.” Bob Post’s superior book was the first real honest-to-god, high quality history of drag racing, but did not deal with the TF class exclusively.
2. In the late 1980s I wrote the First Funny Car history in Jim Kelso’s Popular Cars. Again, we’re not talking oldies nostalgia photos, etc., but a blow for blow from Jack Chrisman to the publication date.
- 3. Same for Pro Stock, also in Jim Kelso’s book. (Hey wise ass, how can you be so sure?) Because when I wrote that magazine pass, I tore up every source I could find to but to no avail. In general, and with the exception of Dave Densmore, Dave Wallace, Jon Asher and good old Bret Kepner, no one gave a shit about drag racing history.