The Hemi Hunter

Well drag racing fans, if you have been following our short blasts from the past, you will be familiar with some of the stories on towing and how folks get their nicknames. Those topics were all generated from our past experiences going back to the good old days some 30 years ago.

But hey! It's 2002, and it didn't take too long for an up to date story to present itself to the new partners in the Hemi Hunter. So here is the latest story, which involves the two topics I described above, towing, (my favorite part of drag racing, yuck), and how folks get that nickname.

We had accepted a date to take the HH to the "Show Shine Swine and Dine" nostalgia get together in Henderson, NC. From our home base in Allentown Pa., it is about a 7-hour tow to NC. We had been borrowing the Chevy truck from the dealership, they helps us with the car. This truck is well used, but has so far been reliable. But knowing what we know about towing, a 10-year-old truck is not exactly on our list of "wow is this thing cool." Along with that, it is only a 350 small block, and its tongue is usually hanging out.

We needed to drive around Baltimore, and Washington DC to get down to route 85 into Henderson. Somehow I pictured us stuck on one of the beltways around either of these major cities. You know the saying "been there, done that," and we should be older and wiser than that now. So what to do?

Fate steps in and we hear that a long time friend has just purchased a dually pick'um'up truck. 454 big block and all, just what we need to get us down south. Ron, (his nickname will come later) had worked for years at one of the local speed shops and we knew him for 45 years. We run into Ron at the Vargo reunion, and ask him if he would be so kind as to tow us to NC. We'll pay all his meals and rooms; give him a team shirt to wear along with gas money naturally.

Ron lights up like a Chrondike Christmas Tree, and he says he'd be more than willing. Gees, what a great guy, not only is he a life long friend; he always had a heart of gold. He buys a new hitch, rewires everything for our trailer and we're all ready to go. We decide to leave about 9AM in the morning, plenty of time to get to NC.

We heard Sox and Martin were displaying their car at a local Chrysler dealership in Henderson, so we thought it would be cool to take our little old rat motored car to the dealership too. Might as well have a little controversy to get the locals crank up. We should get there about 4PM in the afternoon, just enough time for our dealership showing before the reception at the hotel for all us old timers.

Experience, experience that's what it takes to get along with the towing gremlins. We were smart enough to check out the hook ups to Ron's truck the week before, who needs surprises at the last minute. We have spares of everything from Ron's also taking no chances. He had bodywork done the week before; his truck is all waxed and ready. He said he didn't want to pull down the HH reputation. I look at Carl and Adam, we all roll our eyes, and we hook up the trailer.

We plug in to Ron's truck and bingo! No lights. Can't figure that one out, they worked the week before. We check the brakes and they work, so were off, we'll check the lights in NC. I get into Ron's truck, the rest get into my truck (too light for towing) and off we go. Ron and I are shooting the bull about the last 30 years or so, laughing about all the crazy things and people we knew over the years. It's a beautiful day; the temperature is hanging around 90 degrees by the time we get past Baltimore.

Ron checks his gages and notices the trucks running a little warm on the temperature gage, about 220. Nothing to worry about I assure him; they always run high when towing. We'll check it out at the first gas stop.

We stop for gas just outside of DC. We check the lugs on the trailer's wheels with a torque wrench, look at the HH inside and check the truck. Everything looks fine and we're off again. Traffic is extremely heavy as we approach the DC beltway. All of a sudden, the temperature of the engine jumps up to 240. We keep going. Now the dash lights up telling us to check the engine. We pull over, and Carl who is driving my truck pulls over also.

Up goes the hood, the engines hot, but not cooking over. The gage shows 240 degrees. Traffic is flying by at 80 MPH. Get back in I said, and start driving. We turn the heater on full blast. The temperature drops to 210. It's a little hot in the truck, what with the 90 degree outside temperature, and it feels like my feet are on fire. I remove my shoes and put my feet up on the seat. We go up a big hill and the temp sores to 250. We coast down the backside of the hill to cool off the engine. The temp goes higher.

We slow down; hoping one of the semi's doesn't blow us off the road. If we stay at 60, with the heater at full blast, we can cruise along with the temp at 240. Ron's so mad, he can hardly apologize enough for all the trouble. I really don't care about the slow going; I just don't want my new Hush Puppies to melt to the rubber floor mats.

We finally pull into the hotel parking lot around 6:30PM. We missed our date with infamy at the dealership. Heck, we just made it for supper at the hotel. Nancy Wilson, the women responsible for the show, comes over and says sh's glad we made it. Dale walks over, he and Sally, his wife, went down the day before to have a little vacation, and time alone. I tell Dale and Nancy we had a little trouble with the truck overheating, about 9 hours worth of trouble.

Ron is still upset about his new truck's performance, and in typical racer fashion, we start ribbing him about the overheating problem. Carl tells Ron he's glad he didn't give him his team shirt when we left Allentown, Ron would probably have it all smelly by now. Ron says he's going to find a local auto store and get a new thermostat and replace it after supper.

We all go to our rooms to change, and I need a shower after the ride in the heat. Later, I go out to the truck and see a large puddle of antifreeze under the truck. Ron had decided to drain the coolant in preparation for the thermostat change. He used my truck to go for parts, funnels, gas treatment, and antifreeze.

Problem was, he under estimated the size of the catch can under the radiator drain plug, walked away and the result was a messy parking lot. We carry buckets of water from the swimming pool to wash away the antifreeze before it eats up the macadam surface. At supper that night, I tag Ron with his nickname, "The Leak."

We change the thermostat after supper, start the engine and fill the radiator with fresh water and antifreeze. We’re all set for tomorrow. Next morning we all meet in the lobby. Ron has his new uniform shirt on; we get into the truck and start to tow to the downtown area of Henderson. Guess what happens, by the time we get there, the truck is overheating.
We unload the car and setup the area for the folks who are coming by the thousands. Ron is grumbling under his breath, something about the stinking truck not cooperating. I tell him to say a little prayer to the towing gods, and that sometimes they demand a sacrifice to be appeased. Truthfully, we’re all stumped as to why that BBC won’t cool. New 4-core radiator and new hoses, was part of the Leaks preparation for the trip.

We return to the hotel that night, and the truck runs hot again. Next day we leave for the convention center for the second part of this wonderful gathering. I know it’s hard to believe, but the truck is still not working well. Ron is completely disturbed, and we keep telling him not to worry. We unload the car, I forget to latch the back door to the trailer, Ron goes to tow the trailer to the parking area, and he pulls away too fast, guess he was going to show that truck who’s boss.

The door fly’s open, and we’re chasing Ron across the parking lot with the rear door dragging and grinding away. I’m waving to Ron and he waves back, but keeps on going. He finally parks the rig, starts walking back and sees the door open. Good grief, what else can go wrong? The car show’s over and it is time to get everything reloaded for the tow back home. Just like the old days, we should get home about two AM in the morning.

Ron drives up to the curb, and grinds the side of the trailer against a tree branch. It’s a hot afternoon, so we all take off our team shirts and change into Hemi Hunter “T” shirts. Ron is standing by the tree and trailer, looking for damage. Carl walks up and asks Ron to remove his shirt. Ron changes into a “T” shirt, walks over to me and asks if he’s been fired.

We thank everyone for the wonderful hospitality shown to everyone for the two days, and we’re off. Down the road we go, we stop for fuel, check everything we can, and we start the long drive home. Thank goodness, the towing gremlins seem to have left, the truck is working fine. We decide to go home a different way, to avoid the DC and Baltimore corridor. We go right up through route 17, right through sniper territory. We weren’t even aware of the tragedy-taking place all around us.

It’s about 1 o’clock in the morning, time for our last fuel stop. Looking for a gas station we can get into and out of easily, we miss the road marker for the interstate turn. We’re on business 17 just outside of Martinsburg, looking for interstate 81 to Harrisburg Pa. We’re cruising along looking for a station, I look at the road, and the sign says DANGER BUMP AHEAD. I see the railroad tracks, I yell to Ron to slow down. I’m too late, over the tracks we go. Dale said there was 4 feet of air under the truck and trailer. Didn’t seem that bad from inside.

We pull over and check the hitch and the car inside the trailer, everything is fine. We spent a lot of money on the basket type strapping for the car’s tires, all four, along with one of those bladders under the oil pan. Money well spent. We get back into the truck and it starts to run hot again. We fuel up and start the last leg home. Right outside of Harrisburg, Pa. The whole dash lights up on the truck.

Lucky we were right by an exit with a truck stop gas station. We go shooting into the lot and shut the truck off. We get out, open the hood, and this time the old boy is cooking over. Carl pulls up behind us. Carl, Dale and Sally come walking over. Carl says to Ron, why don't we shut the truck off. I tell him it is shut off, that noise is just the oil boiling in the engine. He’ll get use to that BBC sound, once we get the HH running.

Ron and Dale go into the store and buy jugs of water. We pore water on the radiator to cool it down. Ron tries to start the engine but it won’t turn over. Probably so hot it’s sized. We wait and buy some more water. Pore more on the radiator to cool things off. We take the radiator cap off after it was cold to the touch. Not a drop of coolant in the thing. The Leak is living up to his name.

I go back to look for signs of coolant on the trailer, nothing. Were the heck did all the coolant go? We wait about 30 more minutes, and try to get the truck started. Ron turns the key and it fires right up. We fill the radiator with water. Sally looks at me and says; quote, now you know why you stopped doing these thing years ago. We all laugh but the Leak, he is totally disturbed. It’s now about 4 o’clock in the morning.

Guess if we leave right now, we can all get back to Allentown in time to go to work. Once again, some things never change with time. The truck works fine all the way home. We unhook Ron’s truck, load all the supplies into my truck, I rush home, change and make it to work on time.

Next morning I talk to everyone I know at work with the same combination for towing his or her trailers. I get all kinds of advice and suggestions. I call the Leak (love those nicknames) and relay the suggestions to him. He tells me not to worry; he’s going to get the dang thing straightened out if it kills him. He wants to tow us to Bruce Larsons gathering in November, that is if Carl gives him his team shirt back.

He tells me he’s going to flush the radiator, remove the catalytic converter, and change the thermostat and coolant again, along with a new fuel pump. I call him next day in the afternoon to see how he made out. He tells me he just returned from the doctor. Seems he included with the flush, a bottle of acid to really help clean out the bad gobbly gremlins from the trucks coolant system. He started the truck up, got it to temperature and shut it down. Left it cook for a couple of hours, opened the cap to drain the stuff out, and it exploded into his face, and all over him.

By the time he got to the doctor, his face was pretty red, and his pants were starting to fall apart in shreds. Oh! I forgot to tell you about that black eye he had all weekend. Seems he tapped some fellow in the rear with his truck on the way over to pick us up Friday morning. Seems the fellow was pretty made at the Leak, and cold cocked him through his open window.

So I guess you figure this is the end to this little tale. Well, almost. Seems after the cooking juice ran out of the radiator, it ran across the ground and into a small stream in front of the Leaks house. Didn’t do the fish any good, lots of white bellies next to the Leaks red face. So, if you are coming to the reunion at Larson’s on November 9th, stop by and say hello to us all. The Leak will be in fine attire, and his face should be all healed up by then.

Let’s see it’s Halloween time and what did Dracula say? For someone who’s only lived one lifetime, you’re a wise man Professor Von Hielsing. Anybody know a chant to use to the towing gods at this time of the year, please, anybody know one? Thanks!

Gary

As most of the older drag racers will remember, a heated garage was a thing of luxury back in the old days. I'm sure we all spent many an evening working in the cold. If you read the last story from our adventures dated Jan 4th, you'll remember the owner of the garage we worked in to get the Hemi Hunter ready to race was called Herman the German. Well, originally the garage wasn't heated, but Herman came to us one night and said he would build and install a hot air oil burner if we would help, and pay a little extra each month for the rent. This sounded good to us, lets do it.

Now Herman was a maintenance man from the Bethlehem Steel Corporation in Bethlehem Pa. So we figure he has the knowledge to build the unit. One night he shows up with the unit he built from scratch, and we help him to install the burner onto the ceiling. We run the fuel line and stuff to the fuel tank he installed outside in the back of the garage. The garage was big, and could hold about 12 cars if needed.

We add our two cents and tell Herman we'll supply the blower for forcing the hot air through the pair of ceiling ducks we also hung. He wasn't the only one to show his expertise in providing heat. Now what do you think a bunch of top fuel racers would utilize for the blower. You got it, the Bower's 671 blower we banged when the car ran its first six second pass. This little pop bent the rotors, and I had to chuck them up in our lathe and turn the rotors down till they spun in the housing. The clearance from the rotors to the case ended up at about eighteen thousands. I guess it wasn't such a little pop after all. Now this meant the 2800 dollar blower wasn't good for the car anymore anyway. We get a V belt pulley (probably from a Chevy) and install it to an old blower pulley, find a belt and hook everything up to the electric motor Herman supplied. This all took several weeks of work.

Herman makes the sheet metal bottom to cover the output side of the 671, and bolts everything together. He's like a kid in a candy store, the big blower has him excited to fire up his AA oil burner. Herman is standing on a ladder and cracks the fuel line till oil flows to the burner unit. Knowing what we know about burning fuel and blowers, we stand back at the corner of the garage. The thermostat is turned up, and we wait for the unit to start. Nothing. Herman checks the fuel flow again, still nothing. He's scratching his head, and we go back to working on the car, in the cold.

Herman starts tracing wires etc., trying to find the problem. He's at it for about a half hour when he asks me if we have an electrical meter. I said sure and go to the tool box and go up a second latter to hand the meter to Herman. I look into the bottom of the oil burner housing an notice it has about an inch of fuel oil laying in the bottom. I ask Herman if this isn't dangerous. What if he gets the thing to spark to life. He just looks at me as if I didn't know a thing about fuel vapors and electrical sparks. This stuff isn't nitro you know, he tells me.

I quickly go down the latter, grab Jim and Danny, and tell them we're going for a beer at the bar up the street. They look at me funny, and ask what the heck I'm doing, we still had work to do on the car. We usually didn't get to the bar till after 10 o'clock, it was only around 8. I quickly tell them what I saw, and explained Herman was determined to get the thing lit. Next thing I know we're all sitting at the bar.

The bartender knew us, but was puzzled why we were at his place so early. We just told him we got thirsty, cold and needed a beer. We sat there sipping the beer waiting for what we thought would be a major explosion, sooner or later. I don't know, after about the 6th beer, it was either the beer or our conscience that made us make the next move. We didn't say much to each other, but after awhile we became concerned for Herman the German, and decided to return to the garage and stop him from experimenting. After all, we had all our worldly car and parts in that garage.

We slowly approach the garage and look through the door window, hoping now is not the time for the big bang. Herman is standing there in his under wear, waving at us to come in. We walk into the garage and the heat from the system has the garage toasty warm. The thing would only have to run for about 2 minutes to get the garage to 80 degrees. Herman removed his shirt and pants because he got them soaked with fuel oil. He thought that was a little dangerous, but was determined to get the thing running. I don't know if that unit is still in use today, no ones been back to the garage in 25 years. Herman passed away about 10 years ago, I saw his name in the paper. But if someone ever called in an oil burner company to fix the thing, they probably never saw a AA fuel heating system before.

Gary

His name was Billy Young. He hailed out of Philadelphia Pennsylvania. He always showed up at the track with his son, whom he called Little Huck, if my memory is correct. He ran a AA/FD called Green Onions. He was an African American and looked to me to be about 6 foot 4 inches tall. At one point in time, Little Huck did the driving. Billy was a unique character, who never seemed to get ruffled at the track.

He towed the trailer with a big station wagon with NAACP lettered across the doors. This was about the year 1961 or 62. The NAACP had printing under the big bold main letters that read, National Association for the Advancement of Chrysler Plymouth. Green Onions sported a early Hemi. Billy and friends also had a great sense of humor. Green Onions was a fairly good running car, but seemed to be plagued with the little things that allow the competition to go by you for the win.

I remember one time when Huck was driving. The car sounded healthy and left the line fairly hard. It was on a good run and I saw Huck shut her down. I'm watching for the chute, but there was none. I notice the car hopping around on its tires as Huck tried to get it stopped. Off into the corn field goes Huck and Green Onions. It appeared that he wasn't in serious trouble, just knocking down some corn stalks, as he disappeared into them.

Billy's standing on the starting line with me watching the action. The tracks rescue team is off after Huck in the tracks ambulance. I asked Billy if he wanted to jump in to get to the bottom of the track. He calmly smiled and said, What for, he was all right when he left, we didn't build it to stop. After the car returned, I saw that everyone was OK, no damage done.

The next time Billy and the crew showed up at the track, we had scheduled a wheel stander for the folks between the qualifying and actual race. Wouldn't you know it, the guy breaks, and we have no so called half time show. What to do? The track decides to run a foot race for its 1320 foot racing length. We announce the foot race, and open it up to anyone who wants to compete. First prize was a trophy and a few bucks to win.

About 40 or so guys and gales show up for the race along with Billy Young. One of the guys who came to the starting line was the local areas high school track champion. We line everyone up as best we can and we flag them off. All I can remember to this day is Billy trucking down the track in his engineering boots, with his pants legs rolled up, right behind the local track star who's decked out in shorts and sneakers.

Billy's right on the guy's heels all the way to the finish line. He comes in second. I don't remember the times turned by the winner. I just remember Billy's long legs with boots churning down that quarter mile. I never laughed so hard in my life.

Joe McNally does the work to schedule a yearly reunion at Vargo's Dragway. This past October, he told me that Billy was suppose to be there. Unfortunately, Billy never showed up. Hope everything's OK. This year, Joe is planning on the reunion again, and is hoping to have the Lehigh Valley Timing Association members attend. It will be the 50th reunion for the group. They started drag racing in the Lehigh Valley area, and ran Vargo's dragway.

So if your available and in the area, put this one down on your calendar. I don't think the date has been schedules as of today. Keep your eyes open, it will get posted on the web somewhere I'm sure. If Billy shows up, we're not going to run another foot race. Not that we're all to old, it's just that we'll all need to look through our piles of junk to see if anyone has the starting flag.

Gary

The race was going to be a hard one to win. It was the Summer Nationals at Englishtown Raceway Park. Heck, we were concerned about the qualifying before we could even worry about the racing. I for one didn't need any additional pressure placed on us for this weekend back in 1974.

All the killer cars were there as usual. The whole East Coast Pro-Fuel circuit was in attendance along with about 25 other Top Fuel cars to qualify for a sixteen car field. Back in those days, a good track like this could have a field of at lest 35 or 40 cars set to qualify.

There were all sorts of cars, from injected nitro burners, along with twin engine monsters on alcohol trying for those sixteen spots. Variety was the spice of life for the fans in the stands back in the old days. Alas, all gone now in the overall climate of today's Top Fuel kit cars. And the fans, well this story is more about them than anything.

We qualify in the first half of the sixteen car field, I think number three if I can remember correctly. Number one was the Jade Grenade, number two was Fearless Leader, Fred Forkner, both always a torn in our back sides. But, we were at lest not facing either of these two killers in the first round.

The pressure was off, or so I thought. We had been fooling around with our Crower Glide clutch system in the HH, and thought we might be unto something by not following the standard procedure for the normal clutch set-up. We were going just the opposite from the norm, and the car seemed to be reacting to the new settings.

The first round had us pitted against the Sparkling Burgundy car of the Lewis brothers with Satch Nottle driving. The HH left Satch setting on the line by a couple of car lengths instantly. He and Sparkling Burgundy never could make up that advantage. Round one is in our pockets. The HH runs a 6.43 at 218. Less pressure right?

We're in the pits checking the plugs, valves and clutch. One of the guys were racing walks over and says our car looked lazy off the line. I don't remember my reaction to his thoughts, but I do notice a rather thin fellow watching me from the other side of the car. I'm thinking to myself, how could the car be lazy off the line when it's leaving everyone sitting there by car lengths.

I'm going over the valves, and I notice number four exhaust has lost about five thousandths of clearance. Experience told me to open up the port nozzle by ten thousandths to correct the fuel flow balance to number four cylinder. This thin fellow walks over and asks me if everything is OK. I tell him we might have pinched a ring in number four, but the car should perform well.

Second round we are pitted against Ted Wolfe in Jim and Alison Lees car. Now these folks you could not fool around with. We decide to adjust the clutch again, just the opposite from were you would normally go. The HH once again leaves the competition standing on the line. As hard as Ted and the Lees' car could run, we just cross the finish line in front. Another 60 feet and the Lees would have spun the HH around with their top end charge. The HH runs a 6.39 at 221.

Back in the pits, the maintenance is repeated and once again I notice this tin fellow watching me. He again walks over and asks me how the car is. I tell him fine, it should run well. But that we had Fred in the next race. Now old Fred was the only car that had a winning score against us. He had a direct link to Mr. Big himself, and was always a top runner. He never made a mistake, you just needed to out run him.

More clutch adjustment and the HH leaves old Fred and his Quarter Horse standing on the line again. Win number three for the HH. We turn a 6.35 at 226. We're preparing for the last round against Greer and Greer. Here he is again, this thin fellow watching me. After I'm finished with another clutch adjustment, he asked, can we win? I tell him I think we can, all seems well and the car is running quicker each round.

He looks me in the eye and says that's good, there is about $12,000 dollars worth of bets riding on us for the final round. Now I knew the fans at Englishtown had a big so called gambling habit established on the pit side, but I always figured it was some what in line with bingo, not a horse racing track figure.

I tell Jim about this, but no one else, not even Roger Toth our driver at this time. No reason to get him more cranked up than he already was. Last thing we needed was to red light in the final. Wed probably disappear by the next race if we screwed up, and I picture us all with cement shoes in the bay off the shore line, which was not too far away.

We stage the HH into the fire up road area first like always, with Greer right behind. I'm really nervous now, and I just look at Jim and shake my head. I guess this type of thing always was going on in the stands, but I never had first hand knowledge of what the magnitude of the betting was. The track official waves us forward to start the race. I have my fingers crossed, along with everything else I had two of.

The HH roars to life, thank goodness it at lest started clean. Roger pulls away and as we go buy the grandstands, this huge roar erupts from the fans. I feebly stick my arms out of the window and wave to the crowd with my thumbs up. I felt like 20,000 eye balls were all focused on us. I'm really concentrating on the crew to make sure we make no mistakes. I have the cold sweats, and it was a hot day.

Roger lays down one of his patented burnouts, about half track. I'm thinking now is not the time to be showing off. Just stage the car and win, I'm thinking. Good grief, he does a big dry hop, he now thinks he's the Jungle man. What if the reverser jams or something worse, we lose fire. I'm thinking did we fuel up the old boy enough. Roger, stop fooling around, stage the dang think and race. Good grief, a staging line dual is next. I walk up and I'm waving like mad for Roger to stage first. I can see he's enjoying every minute of the dual. I can't watch anymore, I'm so wrung out.

Finally they stage and the green flashes on the tree, and the HH explodes off the line and carries the front end for 60 feet. Greer is right behind, but cannot make up the distance, we win with a 6.33 at 228 to their 6.43. The stands explode with a roar, and no wonder, half of the economy of the area is in their hands.

Back at the pits, I'm looking for the thin fellow to show up and congratulate us on the win. I'm thinking maybe he'd pass a few bucks onto us or something. I never saw him again. If you look at the picture on our web site of Charley Greer shaking Rogers hand, Im all the way on the right side of the picture with my Mickey Mouse T-shirt on. You'll notice I look a little rung out and tired. Now I know how Man of War felt after his races.

I never paid any attention to this form of Drag Racing after this episode on this day. I know the betting was always present, but for some reason it never bothered me again. Well I'm shortly going to be going to the Keystone Nationals at Maple Grove along with the new HH. We'll be in the Grove's forty year anniversary tent. Anyone care to bet $12,000 on Larry and the Miller car to win. Stop by and see us and place your bet. Sounds scary and foolish even today.

Gary

We were in the middle of the 1969 racing season. We were running our faithful little B dragster around the local tracks, having a fun time. One night as we hung out at the club garage, I casually said, I always wanted to build and race the ultimate dragster, a AA fueler. After I said it, I thought everyone has a dream they never quit achieve. Dale looks at me and says, you guys build it, and I'll drive it.

I look at Dale while I'm thinking to myself, what a dumb thing to say, he knows we'll never do it. I look at Jim, he shrugs his shoulders, and says lets do it. We start talking about how we could accomplish such a monumental task. Naturally, money is the main hurtle as always. We make a list of what we have, including the B dragster, and figure if we break down the car we could sell the parts to raise some cash.

The list shows we should have enough to get started, if we can sell all of the parts including the trailer. Next night we start tearing apart the car right in the middle of the 69 race season. The Mondello heads sell first, there's no turning around now. The short block goes next, sold to one of our acquaintances who plans on putting it in his Corvette. The injection is next and so on. We break everything down to the smallest denominator. It's racing season, and the parts go quickly. The car and trailer are the last to go.

It's late August by this time, and already we're bored. What to do till we start building the car. We have a game plan, we scheduled the car to be started by S&W, and had decided to run a BBC, based on the success of the USA-1 Funny Car owned and raced by Bruce Larson. We know what to do, we'll make a trip to Indy for the NHRA Nationals. We can go to the big one, hang around the AA/FD pits and learn a thing or two. To save money, we'll camp out. I once again borrow my Mother's car, we throw the sleeping bags in the trunk, and we're off.

We get to the track, watch the days qualifying, and it's time for the first nights stay. We grab some fast food and about 2 cases of beer to see us through the night. We're setup right outside of the track, along the main highway on the opposite side of the railroad tracks running along the road. About 8 o'clock we run out of beer. We go for more. This is the life, out among nature, right next to the greatest dragstrip East of the Mississippi.

Lots of folks had the same idea, and a pretty big party breaks out. We're all sitting around having a good time, the Tequila bottle is being past around. That's all I can remember. I wake up to the sound of the train's whistle. I knew the tracks were around our camp sight somewhere. I'm feeling all around my sleeping bag, hoping I don't feel the steel tracks. I have a slight headache, must have drank too much. All of a sudden I feel a pair of boots. I finally open my eyes and see the State Trooper standing by my sleeping bag.

Good morning he says, did you have a good sleep. I look up at him and sit up. Boy, Tequila really leaves a lousy taste in your mouth. I look around and see that I'm in the middle of the grass median strip of the highway. The suns shining in my eyes as I crawl out of my sleeping bag. Well at lest I had my under pants on. I grab my faithful Pennzoil hat laying on top of the rest of my cloths. It shields by eyes, and now I can see the line of cars as far as the eye could see.

A large cheer goes up from the folks in their cars. Boy, this fuel racing sure is great. The trooper says I have one minute to get out of there. I quickly get my cloths on and hurry to the side of the highway. Everyone else is standing or sitting there. I slowly realize how bad I feel. I can also tell I'm not alone. We finally get to the entrance and find our seats. Around the time for the first round of qualifying, I'm feeling much better. We're going to watch the qualifying, and than filter into the pits to observe the goings on.

Now if you're old enough and were at the 69 Nationals, you will remember this was an explosion packed race. Dale, Jim and I are sitting in the stands wondering what the heck we're getting into. Here comes the next pair. Everyone is actually ducking down in the stands on every run. Sure enough Ka-Boom goes one of the dragsters. He explodes a clutch right out of the car. I'm looking at something vertically sailing through the sky, straight up.
It's so high it's almost hard to see. It returns to earth, hits the track and shoots off in our direction. It goes right through the lower timing towers brick wall. Later that day when we return to my Mother's car, the car in front of us has a broken back window. Laying amongst the broken glass is another clutch disc.

That round of qualifying was complete. We're walking around the pits watching the crews thrashing their engines for the next qualifying round. Jim and I are standing next to a car. The engines down to a bare block. Melted pistons are laying around on the ground. One of the crew members is scrapping the melted aluminum off of the cylinder walls of the engine with a knife. I look at Jim and say, we're never going to be doing that. If we hurt our engine that bad, we're going home. Well I still have the pocket knife I used for many years to get the aluminum off the walls before you could run the hone through them. So much for that saying, never say never.

Years later, Dale told me after seeing the carnage at this race, that he had second thoughts about his statement that if we'd build it he'd drive it. Over the next Winter's building of the car, all of this was forgotten. The following year we were off to the races and created our own forms of carnage. Now that we're about to run the rebuilt HH down those beloved quarter mile tracks, if your at the track, come on over and ask me to show you that antique pocket knife, it's a beauty.

Gary

Now that I have some time and reflective moments to spare, and when I think of all the things associated with drag racing, the thing I remember with repugnance are the hours of towing. All you folks who are still at this game know what I mean. Dog tired, smelly and sticky from the days racing labors, and you can get a pretty good picture of this part of racing, and why it flat out stinks.

On top of that, it was always, and still is the most dangerous part of racing. No matter what you tow with, if you're the crew, it's not nice. Many cars and crews I'm sure have many tales to tell of late night thrills, and not the kind that just popped into you mind either, it never involved the ladies. BP has already posted one story about the fire on route 95. So here is another little story just to assure you of that famous saying, (are we having fun yet)?

It's late one balmy early morning and we are driving home from a match race in Maryland. The time is about 3 o'clock in the morning. We're driving up route 100 in Pennsylvania. Actually, it's a pretty road to drive on; it weaves through many small and picturesque villages. Well it did back in 1975. It's a two-lane road from West Chester all the way to our home base in Bethlehem, Pa. We were using Rogers tow truck, as we had sold our well-loved Chevy carry all to build the new car.

I hung in there as long as I could, but I needed to get some sleep. Roger was driving and I told him I was going into the back of his pick-up bed that had a cap on it. Jim was left in the front with Roger to help keep him awake. Roger's girl friend and another crewmember, Bobby, were already asleep in the back of the truck. I crawl through the sliding window and settle down for a long summer's nap. Along with the other two folks in the back was a large tool box full of tools.

I must have been asleep for a little while when I hear Roger yell, "Hang on were going in." I wake up instantly; knowing this is not good. We start to spin and I hear the tires screeching on the road. Everyone is awake and screaming at the top of his or her lungs. I can remember this very clearly to this day. All three of us in the back were in suspended animation, hanging in mid air. It seems the truck is doing loops down the road. We are all in the air along with the toolbox, just circling in the cap of the truck. I hear a loud crack and the back doors of the truck spring open.

Bobby starts to slide out of the opening were the doors use to be. I grab him by his belt and get my hand on the handle of the toolbox. I pull with all my might, and he flips back into the truck. Seconds latter, the trailer slams into the back of the truck, as the tow hitch was torn off of the under side of the truck. And the truck and trailer were doing a ballet down this narrow two-lane road.

I'm waiting for the big crash, but nothing happens. We come to a sudden stop. We all get out of the truck; it was easy, there was no back left on the bed or cap. I look down the road and see the skid marks from the truck and trailer. I also see the tow hitch and bumper from the truck lying in the road. There are no other vehicles to be seen. I look around and can't believe what we have just been through.

Wait a minute, something is missing. Were the heck is the trailer? Were running around picking up the pieces of the truck on the road. It was misty that early morning. Thank goodness, no body was hurt, just some minor cuts and bruises. The toolbox had some of its drawers pulled open and tools are scattered about on the road. I'm walking down the road looking for the trailer. What a way for the poor Hemi Hunter to come to it's end. It wouldn't be the first time for a car to end up this way.

Pictures enter my mind of the trailer being torn to pieces with the car wrapped around a tree. I keep looking through the mist, and the whole thing has disappeared. Am I dreaming this whole thing? I walk some more and then I see what looks to be the trailer. But that can't be it, it's parked in this fellows driveway. I walk some more and sure enough I see the familiar name on the side of the trailer.

I see the marks on the road, and see that the trailer had spun along the road, and went right down the driveway. The driveway had a telephone pole on one side and a mailbox on the other side. The trailer had spun on an ark, and entered the driveway between the pole and mailbox, and stopped inches short of the fellows garage doors. The electric brakes, had been applied by the breakaway switch. The trailer was perfectly lined up in the driveway, simply amazing. Neither the pole nor the Mailbox was touched. I had better check for damage. I walked from side to side looking for damage, there is none. The hitch just had the ball from the trailer hitch sticking in the coupler, and the wires were torn off.

We all gather around the trailer and cannot believe what we see. I talked about the racing Gods in some of the other stories. Well there also must be a towing God, cause he was with us that morning. We open the trailer's side door to see how badly the car is damaged. All that happened was a front axle weight had torn off of the rack on the wall and dented the nosepiece.

To this day I still feel something mysterious took place that night. It just couldn't happen that way. We went back for the trailer next day with a friend's truck. In the light, I looked at the distance we traveled down that road spinning in the truck with the trailer following. You couldn't back that long trailer in that driveway if you tried. No one ever came out of the house. Not that night, or the following day. The people living in that house must have been away on vacation.

Now that we bought a new trailer for the new Hemi Hunter, I just want to remind the trailer gods that we still love and respect them. Boy, all of a sudden that song "On the Road Again," springs into my brain, along with the image of Willie Nelson. If you live on the right coast, and see us tooling down the road in the near future, give us a wave, and say a little prayer for us. I really don't want to write anymore trailer and towing stories.

Gary

This story is from the year 1984, 5 years after I had stopped having interest in drag racing or even cars for that matter. I would still visit Jim at his house were he was still fooling around with cars, mostly street rod types. My wife Peg and myself, had always wanted to own a Jaguar sedan. But being a motor head for most of my life, I knew the draw back to owning one. They had bad reputations for not running from day to day. Mr. Lucas had a funny way with the electronics.

Since this car was to be Peg's, I knew I would have to figure out a way to make one reliable. Well what do you think I would do to solve this problem? You bet, tear out that 12 cylinder "I don't like damp weather" Jag engine, and install a Chevrolet in it. I find a decent sedan, and Peg has high hopes of fulfilling a life long dream. She calls me one day at work and tells me she worked with a fellow who had a 454 Chevy engine for sale. Could we use a big block for the convergence?

Now I was really getting interested in doing this, big blocks were right up my alley. To tell you the truth, I wasn't too keen on getting back into working on cars again. My hands, knees and elbows were just about looking normal again, you know, no more imbedded dirt in the folds of you skin. I talk to Jim and he says lets do it, it will be fun. Were have I heard this before? It takes me about a week to get the engine and trans out of the Jag. Who in their right mind would work on one of these things for a living.

I bought the big block and decided to do a good job on re-building it. The pistons were 10.5 to one ratio, too high a compression for the street. I mill them down to 9.3. I decide to port and polish the heads, do a trick valve job, and equalize all the combustion chambers. You know, the whole blue print thing. Child's play for an old hot rodder like myself. A turbo 400 trans was rebuilt by Jim, and I decide to go with a high speed stall converter. What the heck, I don't want Peg to be left at the street lights by some Toyota or something. A Crane cam and valve gear finished the package.

Things are going surprisingly well for a project of this size. I'm actually having fun, and Peg is going along to the garage some nights to help clean parts and such. Now that's one thing she never did for all the years I raced. She always went along to the races, but I don't ever remember her touching any of the cars. To shorten down the story line here and the many little nuisances that crop up when doing a project like this, the day arrives to fire up the engine for the first time. A couple of the old guys are present, just to lend support. The thing turns over and instantly fires. Jim and I look at each other and smile. We didn't loose our skills, the thing sounds great. I'm standing there looking at the Jag, which is shaking with its newfound power. I start thinking maybe we should have put a blower on it. Nah, Peg would never have driven it that way.

The big blocks running as smooth as can be, I can't wait to get it down on the floor for a test drive. But I promised Peg I wouldn't go without her. I'm standing there cutting the bull with the guys, kind of feeling proud when I see the oil running out from under the wheel well. Not a lot of oil, just a line leaking or a loose filter maybe. Jim says not to worry, it's a new piece, shut her down and look for the leak. I'm laying under the car, and see that the oil is coming from a bad spot. Out of the bell housing. Don't tell me the rear seal is faulty.

Can't pull the pan without removing the Jag's suspension and steering parts, I'll need to practice those long forgotten racing skills and pull the motor. Four hours later, the engines back in the engine stand with Jim's help, just like the old racing days. I pull the pan, and remove the pump and rear bearing cap. Now you must realize that we built about two of these engines almost every week for many years when we raced. You know I never put one half of the rear seal in backwards before. Would have been no problem in the dragster, could have fixed the seal in a heart beat.

Two weeks later, after Peg stops laughing, were ready for the test drive. Jim opens the garage door, jumps in and we're off. The trans won't shift. How the heck can that be, we tricked up the valve body to make it snap through the gears better? Back to the garage and back up on the wheel stands she goes. Peg jumps back in her VW beetle shaking her head, and she leaves. Off comes the transmission pan, and we switch the valve body with another one Jim's working on.

I call Peg to tell her to come back, all's well that ends well, we're ready to go again. She tells me to have fun, she's keeping the beetle, she says I've lost it again. Gees, a few minor setbacks and she looses faith. The cars now working great, we drive it around for about an hour, taking turns behind the wheel. It's a good thing that the rules at the drags have changed, we figure a little pass down that quarter mile track would be in order. The Jag has tons of power. Time to try out the trick converter. I throw the switch, stand on the brakes, the tachometer comes up to about 3200 RPM, I release the switch and mash the gas pedal. Good thing I was on a back road, that long sedan takes up both lanes when it's sideways. Lots of tire smoke too, I hope Peg can handle this thing, maybe I should have stuck with a small block.

I get out of the throttle and straighten out the car for a second try. Do you know that the Jag Engineers only had the center drive shaft bearing support attached to the unit body sheet medal floor for the two piece driveshaft. No frame anywhere to be seen. It was real easy to see this, especially when you tear the center support right out from under the car. The driveshaft thumped real bad against the floor when we slowly drove back to the garage. Good thing I was smart enough to try this on the road in front of Jim's house.

After I finished our Jag, Jim decides to build one himself, only he was going to use a 500 inch Caddy engine. He had one stuffed in the corner of his garage. After he finished his, we decide to take them to a car show. We're driving out the highway together, early in the morning, doing the Nascar thing by running along at about 100 MPH. I'm drafting him, about a foot from his bumper. We go roaring by two car loads of fellows. Probably on the way to the show.

We're sitting at the show with the hoods up when a group of guys walk over and look at the two Jags. One of them walks over to us and says, Gees, we thought you guys really knew something, you went buy us on route 78 about two hours ago like we were standing still. I said at the time to the guys in our car, look at that, those guys must really be sharp, they got two Jags running on the same day.

We kept the Jag for about 4 years. I did calm it down by removing the 400 transmission and installing a later model 700 with over drive. Got it a nice black cherry paint job also over the years. What a cruiser. The thing could do about 95 MPH tacking only 2000 RPM, well that's what the State Trouper said I was doing when he stopped me on route 81 in Virginia. He did have to chuckle when he read the front license plate though. It said, "Lucas, the man who invented darkness."

Right after that, Jim moved away to Florida, and started making kits to install Chevy engines in Jags. He told me several weeks ago he sold his 2000 kit. So there you go, there are that many folks out there who see the value in this type of fun. Oh, by the way, Peg never did drive the thing, all that work almost went for nothing.

Gary

We had just finalized our deal with Briggs Chevrolet. They had contacted us, and expressed interest in backing our car. We were not that excited at the prospect, we were doing OK for a bunch of local guys who just ran our little old fuel car for fun. Sponsorship would mean commitment to who ever spent money on us. But what the heck, nothing ventured nothing gained. We explained to them that the HH was a racecar, and our first priority was to race. It was all done on a hand shake, pretty dumb, huh.

Sure enough, they repainted our trailer and car, and we add their name to the HH and also the trailer. They also would supplied us with all the Chevy parts we wanted, so they said. No money available, must have given it all to the Jungle man, who rightly deserved it. Next thing you know we get a call to show up at the Coliseum for the new car show in NYC. It was early spring anyway, and no tracks were operating yet, too early in the year. So we get the car ready for a car show. That would mean really cleaning up the old boy, even though he had a new paint job.

It's time to go so Dale and Jim and I get the HH loaded into the trailer and we're off for the big apple. Now I don't remember today exactly what street the New York Coliseum is on, but I do remember driving down past Times Square. Jim's driving, I'm in the back seat and Dale is in the passenger's seat. All of a sudden, a garbage truck pulls out after we're halfway past him. He didn't see that we were towing the trailer. He runs right into the front axle of the trailer, and bends it right back into the second axle. Jim pulls over and stops the truck.

We all jump out to confront the driver. Oh, I forgot to mention it was raining very hard that day. So we're standing at the crossroads of the world getting soaked, right by all the movie theaters and at that time the porno shops. Jim runs off to find a policeman, I'm inspecting the trailer, Dale's arguing with the truck driver. Dales one hand is waving in the air, the other one is behind his back, holding a tire iron. This is not good; I know who's in charge of all the garbage truck traffic in the world. I picture us all sitting in the bottom of the East River, and I knew we wouldn't be on our way to see Miss Liberty.

The garbage truck driver is yelling at Dale, with a string of profanity that made several of the ladies patrolling the side walks blush. The driver jumps in his truck, backs up around our trailer and he's gone. I'm already starting to remove the wheel and tire from the bent axle so we can get to the show. I'm kneeling in the street, and I look up at the street sign and it says 42nd street. The old song runs through my brain, and I picture Ruby and the chorus line of girls dancing across the stage. I look over my shoulder and all I see are street people looking at me. I look like a drowned rat, fitting for the show and a car with a rat motor in it. We should have known that this was not one of our better days.

We're on our way again and arrive at the Coliseum. We find a spot to unload the car, and we're pushing it towards the front door. Two guards stop us. We're told we can't move the car any further. Because the Coliseum workers were union, they would need to move the car throughout the building. Two maintenance men show up, and move the car towards the elevator. The show was on the second floor. They push the car into the elevator, but it's too long and we can't close the doors. We'll need to remove the front end and prop the front frame up in one corner against the ceiling, and then it might fit.

Naturally we can't do any of the work. The two maintenance men show up with a toolbox and with our directions, unbolt the front axle and radius rods. We all grab hold of the front axle, lift the frame over our heads and walk it into the elevator's corner. It's good we only made the car 205 inches long, a couple more and it wouldn't have fit.

We all reverse the process and roll the car to its spot. We than realize we'll need to do this a second time to get the car back out and loaded into the trailer to go home. We thank the maintenance men for doing a good job. They tell us they saw us race at Englishtown many times. They normally don't pay that much attention to detail when doing this type of work. They even worked through their break to help out. We stand around the show for the rest of the day and evening, drive home that night and return the following day and repeat the show part and loading of the car to return to our home base. I was more tired than if we raced and changed pistons every round.

Briggs must have thought we did a good job for them at the show, a large box of parts shows up at our garage. High deck block, crank, heads, pan and pump etc. We can build a fresh engine for the car. We work to get it together for a big AA/FD show in two weeks at Englishtown. A fresh piece will be wonderful; we always had fairly used parts in the old boy, most times. Knowing the first pass on any fuel motor is the best one; we load up for bear on the first qualifying run. Dale leaves the line, and I can see the car is charging hard. It pulled both front wheels in the air, set the left one down, but carried the right one to half-track. At about the 800-foot mark the crank came through the oil pan. There's a huge explosion and Dale has the chutes out early. I watch the ET lights flash a 6.8 second pass at 108 MPH.

Boy, fresh goodies really work, even though there were none left in one piece. We help the track crew pick up the pieces from the track surface. We return to the pits and start to remove what's left of Briggs new engine. The crank was in about 6 pieces; the rods and pistons were totally gone, hardly recognizable. All we salvage from the engine are the head studs. Everything else is scrap. Jim's looking at the crank pieces and sees the part number on the counter weight. They did not send us an L88 crank. We were too stupid to check the part number. I guess we were in too much of a hurry. I can't believe I went through all the work to add the heavy metal to the crank, weld it in place, and balance the whole thing without noticing any difference. Cutting the keyways also should have given me a clue.

One of the fellows from Briggs was at the track that day watching the racing. He comes over to us and asks if we want to make a list up of what we need; he'll take it back with him. We never received anything else from them. We did get another call to return to the Coliseum for another show, about 3 weeks later. It conflicted with a race date and we told them that the racing came first. End of sponsorship, but freedom to do what we want. While we were still at the track that day, Vinney came up to us and handed Jim 600 bucks. He told us we were worth the money, we made a super run, even though it only lasted for about 800 feet. We were the only car in the sixes for the first round of qualifying. The car carried its self and us for the next 7 years. About that time Corporate America saw some value in drag racing. We retired, there was no way a Chevy was going to compete once the Amatos and crew type folks started showing up. I guess we could have looked for a sponsor and switched to a Hemi, or tried an after market engine like a Rodek, but we choose not to.

For all you Chevy folks out there, this is the only engine we physically broke in ten years of Top Fuel racing. We sent some blowers into the air from time to time, no trick valve gear available back then, and push rods were always a problem. We also broke a few rods in two other engines. And naturally we ruined lots of pistons, about three fifty-five gallon drums full of them. But the internal parts always served us well right down to the nylon cam gear, real cheap too. Boy now that I reflect back on those days, wasn't that Ruby a cutie pies. Come on now once, just kidding, we aren't that old.

Gary

Jim was one of the crew of our Top Fuel car and the type of person you could never rush no matter what. Steady and methodical are the two words best used to describe his character. Dale our driver, along with me, always looked for an opportunity to at least try to get Jim to move faster, even during a thrash between rounds. It couldn't be done, no matter what the occasion.

One night at the garage, we were getting the Hemi Hunter ready for the next race that weekend. In the garage, we had a dartboard we used for minor contests, such as who would run up to the local bar for the night's steak sandwiches and beer. We would all take a turn shooting darts, the loser making the run to the bar.

That night, Jim's laying on the creeper torquing up the rod bolts as I shoved the pistons down the bore. I hand the next piston to Dale, go over to the dartboard, grab a dart and sneak over to Jim on the creeper. He has his legs spread apart to help steady him as he pulled on the torque wrench. I carefully stick the dart between his spread legs, as close as I could to what Jim called the favorite part of his anatomy. Dale's watching intently for my next move.

I take a nut, which I had also gathered on my way to the dartboard, and bounce it off the creeper. I say to Dale, "Pay me the five bucks. I told you I wouldn't hit him; he moves too slow." Well Jim wonders what the heck we are talking about, and we both point to the dart ½ an inch from you know what. Jim stretches his neck to look where we are pointing. He sees the dart he thinks he heard stick in the wood of the creeper when the nut hit it, and thinks I threw the dart on a dare.

This is the fastest we ever saw Jim move, as he quickly accelerated out from under the engine in an effort to grab me and even the score. Needless to say I was quick of foot and ran that night up to the local bar to get the sandwiches and beer. By the time I got back, Dale had explained to Jim our little joke. He had cooled down. He ate his steak and drank a couple of beers. He never, ever, torqued the rod bolts again in eight years of racing. But we did find out he could move with the best of them, when aroused correctly.

Gary

For this little short story we need to go back to 1961. We had just finished building our A Dragster along with its trailer. After that little exercise, we were naturally out of money. Well now that I think about it, we were out of money when we started this project. But back in the old days, it was nothing to start a project like this just to get something on the drag strip to race. You would start building a frame, someone would come along with some parts you needed, another guy with an engine but no car, and before you knew what happened, a drag team was formed.

We needed a tow vehicle. I had a sports car and Tom had a Morris Minor. Will you guys stop laughing. I guess you're wondering what a bunch of Hot Rod guys did to deserve every day cars like those. Tom and myself reach into our pockets and each pull out a five dollar bill. What the heck could you do with ten bucks. The following week, I go down to the garage and Tom's waiting for me. Lets go he says, one of the guys that worked with him told Tom his Grandfather had a car for us. I ask how much, and Tom says five bucks. Gees, we just saved half of our bank roll.

We pull up in front of the mans house, and there in the back yard is the car. A 1953 Desoto four door with the big V8 emblem on the quarter fender and a powder blue paint job. We hand the fellow the five bucks and he hands us the title. We tell him we'll look her over, get what we need and move it out of his yard that Saturday. He tells us its been there for about 2 years, but when he parked it, it ran fine. He also warns us that his wife wants it gone. If we didn't get it Saturday he was going to call the scrap yard. Boy how can you figure out women. A nice piece like that to see out of your kitchen window while you do the dishes, and all of a sudden it's off to the scrap heap. We lift the hood, and there are those big valve covers from the Hemi engine.

We both visualize a 671 blower on top, look at each other and just smile. We go over the car and make a list of what we might need to get her running. Air in the tires and a fresh battery would be a good start. We'll change the oil and filter, check all of the other fluid levels, put some fresh gas in her along with about three cans of dry gas and see if she will start. The transmission is a fluid drive type, and can be driven like an automatic or as a stick shift, too cool. We both get in the front seat and notice that the interior is in excellent shape. It smells a little musty, so an old bottle of after shave should also be included on our list. Wow! How about a bottle of Evening In Paris perfume, sounds exotic. A little wax along with white wall tires, and we could have a regular pick-up machine on our hands.

I wake up Saturday morning and it's raining cats and dogs. We had gotten the battery from a friend who owned a junk yard and scrounged the rest of the goodies we needed. We bought Capitol motor oil in a five gallon can for $2.87 cents. Nothing too good for what had become known as the BIG D. I also realized that I had spent all my money and it was my future wife's birthday. Yes folks, the same one who has put up with all these stories and happenings for 43 years. I talk to Tom and ask him if I can give the big D to her for her birthday present. He tells me as long as she allows us to tow with it why not, after all she has never owned a car, she just turned sixteen.

We are driving over to the next town were the big D is waiting for us. It starts to rain even harder than we ever thought possible. We put on our ponchos that we always wore to look around in junk yards on rainy days. Best time to wonder through the goodies, even the dogs would stay away when it rained. We start working on the car and in no time are totally soaked. It just keeps on raining. Everything is completed except to check and clean the plugs, and check the points to make sure he'll start. We had even made a T wrench to remove the plugs, just like the pros at the drags. Just how much fun can you have on a rainy day?

I'm checking the radiator and notice there is no water in it. No problem there, there was plenty of water all around us. I fill her up and replace the cap. The moment of truth is at hand. A cup of gas down the carb, and Tom turns her over. Slowly the big D sputters and comes to life. And Peggy told me we would never get her present running till her next birthday. We check the lights, the wipers and Tom puts it in gear. We slowly back out of the yard. The folks who gave away this perfectly good car, wave to us as we pulled away from the house. The wife is laughing like heck, but I thought I saw a tear in the old mans eye, probably the rain. This is too good to be true. Everything works fine, even the radio plays. All we need to do is get it inspected, some day. We go about four miles, the big D bucks and shuts off. No problem, probably some bad gas. We get out in the pouring rain again and lift the hood. We check everything over, get back in and it fires right up, and we're off again. A couple of miles and it shuts down again. To make a long drive shorter, this continues till we get to the club garage, about 15 miles away.

The garage is in an alley, and the open spot in the club garage is taken by another fellow who decided to tune up his car on this raining day. We park the big D half on the pavement to get it out of the alley. We're wet anyway so what difference does it make. We start going over everything again. We find nothing that could make it lose fire. I open the radiator and see that there is no water in it. I'm scratching my head, cause I thought I filled it up, in fact I knew I filled it up. Oh well, probably an air pocket. I get the hose and start to fill the radiator again. I hear water rushing onto the ground. I look under the car and see it running into the gutter. I crawl under the car and see that a couple of the freeze out plugs are gone.

The reason the big D was shutting down was it was overheating. We were having such a good time checking everything out we never noticed that when it came up to temperature, the plugs popped out. They had probably loosened from the block freezing over the years. Now what do we do? I see an old baseball bat in the corner of the garage. I measure the freeze out plugs hole diameter and cut some plugs out of the baseball bats tapered handle. We smutch them up with permatex, and I go under the car again. Now I'm laying in the gutter and the rain water is going down my neck and out through my pants leg. I hammer the wooden plugs into the block. We fill it up with water, and start him up. We watch the temperature gauge and everything is fine. It comes up to temperature and keeps running. And there are no water leaks, great.

Two years have passed and the big D is spectacular. What a birthday present Peggy got. We had added the usual equipment like a push board and a tow hitch for the racing part. The wooden freeze out plugs are still in place. We decide to go run a race at Numedia Dragway, way up in the mountains from were we lived. A long hard pull for the big D. We get to a long hill and I start to hear a pinging sound from that faithful Hemi. Tom and his new wife are in the front seat, Peggy and myself are in the back seat. Dale is following us in his car, with a couple of other guys. The pinging gets louder. Tom and I say it at the same time, rod bearing. We pull over on the side of the road and check the oil. Right on the mark.

We get to the track and race all day. The big D's pinging continues. The racing is over and we load up for home. We go down the road about 50 miles and the pinging becomes a knocking. The knocking becomes a sound rivaling the chorus from the anvil symphony by about five blacksmiths. The car is shaking and the hammering continues. All of a sudden we hear a big bang, and the noise is gone. What a car, he fixed himself. Probably snapped the rod clean off. At lest he'll get us home. We look back to signal Dale with a thumbs up. Wow! There's a little smoke coming from the big D. Steam starts to pouring out from under the hood. We pull over to the side of the road. We lift the hood, and the radiators boiling over, the exhaust manifolds are glowing red. The big Hemi is starting to hammer again. We take all the oil in the trunk and fill up the engine with all we had.

We had about 35 miles to go to reach home. We slam the hood and start down the road. Floored, we could only get the car up to about 15 MPH. It sounded like someone was banging on every metal part in the car. Smoke is filling the car and both girls get sick from the fumes. I look back and red hot parts are flying out of the exhaust pipe. Dales car is so full of oil, he has the windshield wipers going to see through the oil. We get to this little town which was in a valley between two large hills. The big D keeps hammering along. We coast down one side of the towns hill, and slowly creep up the other side. I looked back again, and everyone in that town was standing on their front porch to see what the heck is happening. Let me tell you, there wasn't a bug alive in that town for two weeks. When I looked back, the whole street and valley was full of smoke. We keep going and finally get as far as Cooper's Speed Shop in Allentown.

We take the trailer off of the big D and hook it up to Dale's car. We pull the big D around the back of the speed shop and shut it off. We get out and just stare at the car in disbelief. How in the heck did it keep running for over three hours with no water and oil in it. Right then and there we had respect for that Hemi engine. The next day I get out of work and drive out to the speed shop. I walk in and the guys ask what the big D is doing there. I tell them the story and ask if anyone could tow me out the road to one of the local junk yards.

One of the guys said he would do it for me if I couldn't drive it myself. I just laughed, I told him there is no way that that engine will even turn over much less start. Everyone walks out to the car, I get in and turn the key on. The starter kicks in and the big D roars to life, unbelievable. I wave to the guys and start driving out the road to the junk yard, one of them follows me to bring me back. I pull in and hand the title to the junk yards owner and tell him I want to junk the car, what's it worth. He walks out and looks at the poor big D. He asks how we got the whole back of the car so full of oil. I take a last look at the car and see that from the back doors to the back bumper, it's totally covered in black oil. He tells me it worth fifteen dollars. He hands me the money and I tap the big D on the hood and slowly walk away. I hear the guy from the junk yard get in, fire up the car and drive away. I never looked back. I knew if I did look back, I would probably ask the junk yard owner if he had a engine for the old boy.

In the two years we towed with the Big D, we changed the oil and filter, did a couple of tune ups, put a set of exhaust manifold gaskets in for inspection and that was it. What a deal, pay five dollars for a car, spend maybe a hundred bucks on stuff for two years, and get the dragster and us to the drag strips almost every weekend. Turn around and get fifteen dollars for him when we laid him to rest. Plus, it was probably one of the most comfortable cars we ever towed in. I have movies of the old boy tooling down the road with the dragster in tow. Sure wish I could find another one today for say, maybe a thousand dollars. Just a thought, after all, Peg's birthday is just around the corner.

Gary

Time to tell a few little secrets from the days we all worked at the drags back in the early 60's. The group we all belong to worked at Vargo's Dragway, and was known as the Lehigh Valley Timing Association. Our piece of the action was to work the track itself. We ran the timing tower, starting line and finish line functions.

Now this was before all the electronic timing equipment was available. So we used a flagman starting system, along with someone sitting at the finish line to relay to the timing tower who won the race. The ET slips were relayed from one side of the track to the other with a pad that was electrically hooked to another pad with a stylist which wrote out the ET and MPH. We figured this was pretty sophisticated stuff back in 1960.

So the way it went was, the ET and MPH was recorded in the timing tower with electric eyes hooked up to some kind of timing devise. We had a chart that converted the time over 64 feet to the MPH. The guy in the tower wrote onto the pad with the electronic pen the ET and MPH. This electrically operated the pen at the bottom of the return road, on the opposite side of the track, and duplicated what the person in the timing tower wrote on his pad. The slip was torn off and given to each driver by the person working there.

One day I'm working the timing tower part, and George is working the return road part. The timing tower was about 8 feet off the ground, and had a 4 step ladder to get up into the timing tower. I'm sitting in the tower, blabbing away on the PA system, and doodling with the pen on the pad for the time slips. I really wasn't aware of what I was doing. At the other end, the pen that wrote the times on the return roads paper pad is going nuts from my doodling. It's flying all over the paper.

Now George was usually a very calm and collected young man. But he took his part of the job seriously. After all, he gave each competitor his beloved time slip. George is looking at the machine's pad and pen. The pen is scribbling and jumping all over the pad from my doodling. I'm setting in the tower, and all of a sudden I see George come charging over the track. I announce to the guys on the starting line to hold up the next pair of cars. I tell them George is nuts or something, that his is right in the middle of the two lanes, charging toward the tower.

George leaps up the ladder two steps at a time, grabs me by my neck, rips the pen from my hand, and calmly says, don't do that again. He turns around and takes one giant step out of the tower. I'm afraid to look, I figured he broke all the bones in his legs, or his hips would be up under his arms pits. I see George walking calmly back across the track to his station. Everyone in the tower is amazed, and we start laughing uncontrollably. Evidently, George's adrenaline level was high enough that he didn't hurt himself. To this day I still never doodle with a pad and pencil.

Now that we have all you folks back in the 60's, here's another little tale about this drag strip that was inside information to the bunch of guys working and racing there. Since we worked the track, we started noticing that some of the consistent running cars would periodically run a better time, or knock a couple of tens off their best times. We started getting suspicious, and finally one of the guys who had an electrical back ground, put a meter on the power source for the ET timers. Sure enough low voltage.

Now the track utilized a generator for its power supply. So we started looking for the drain on the ET clocks, which slowed them down. Results were better ET's. We found out after several months the culprit was the French fryer in the refreshment stand. When ever that little baby fired up, that was the time to make your run. It was good for about 2 to 3 tenths, and the French fries were also delicious.

We never worried about this little drama because nobody in those days qualified for a race. You just ran everyone until there were only two cars left in each class. After each class had a winner, you spotted a car length for each of the classes difference, and ran until there were winners for each eliminator class. Example, an A Gas car spotted the B Gas car one car length. You would eventually wind up with a Top Gas eliminator winner.

So if your not to old to remember the best ET's you ran at Vargo's, don't feel too proud of that old hot rod or your expert driving ability. You probably owe it to that big General Electric fryer. By the way, the potatoes were locally grown and cooked in pure lard. Exceptional flavor, and I still carry the roll around my waist from eating them all those years.

Gary

I would think that everyone who lived through the 50's and 60's as a teenager has seen the movie American Graffiti. It pretty well covered the cruising and car scene back then. I'm also well aware that just about every town and city in America had a local hangout for all the motor heads like in the movie. Well in the Allentown area it was called, The Ritz Barbecue. It is still operating today, and is located in the Allentown Fair Grounds. Back in the fifties, the Fair Grounds were somewhat at the outskirts of the town. Today, it's considered almost in the center of town.

Now just about anyone who had a car, or knew anyone with a car, hung out at the Ritz. Not only was it the perfect hangout, the food was exceptional and they made their own ice-cream. They still do today. So eventually, as you drove the circuit down town and back, you would wind up at the Ritz. Not only that, the Fair Grounds had a half mile dirt oval race track, and back then they ran drag races on the straight away. A one sixteenth mile long track. There was also the same type tracks for drag racing at Nazareth, 20 miles away and Hatfield, Pa. 35 miles away. The schedule went like this. Wednesday we would race at Nazareth, Thursday night at the Fair grounds and Friday night at Hatfield. There were also 3 other short tracks that you could alternate with during the week, all within 15 miles.

The one at the Allentown Fair Grounds was the best for me, right in my back yard. I lived 1 block away. We would race what ever we had running, and afterwards sit at the Ritz and socialize. Lots of neat cars, and pretty girls. What more could you ask for. So all through High School and for years after, you could find me there. We would stand around and eat steak sandwiches and ice cream. No one bothered anyone ever; I can't even remember a fight between anyone. The owners of the Ritz had a captured customer base, and the police knew were all the so-called hooligans hung out. At any one time, you would find as many as 50 folks and their cars parked there. Race night there would be 200.

Like I said, I lived at this place. Myself and my best friend Karl, had a 39 Plymouth we drove on the street and drag raced. It had a V8 Olds with a B&M hydro and 456 gears in the rear. A killer combo on the short dirt tracks. Later we took the car off the street and just raced it. So we usually were sitting around in our Corvettes. We both had them, me a 57 and Karl a 59. A constant stream of cars would pass through the parking lot. And anyone who knew you would stop and chew the fat. The subject was always cars and girls. Lots of guys would ask us what we thought about this speed secret or which parts to use. The local Speed Shop was also just 1 mile away. So here is a little story I remember well from those days.

I was sitting at the Ritz by myself one Saturday night; the rest of the guys had dates. One of the guys I knew pulls up beside me. He has a 52 Chevy with a small block Chevy V8 in it. It was a good running car, but only had a three speed manual transmission. We're talking about cars and drag racing when Jim says, boy I'd love to go down to Vargo's tomorrow and run the ¼ mile. That's all I needed to hear, I say what's stopping you. He tells me he has a worn clutch and it's slipping. No problem I said, let's go down to our club garage. I have a new disc and pressure plate setting down there. I was in the middle of building a dragster but didn't need the clutch till later. We can use that clutch and you can replace it later. He said fine lets do it.

It was about 8 o'clock at night. We could easily go to the garage, swap out the clutch, go for a late breakfast, go up behind the football stadium and try out the clutch to make sure everything is working for tomorrow. Ah! The exuberance of youth. We thought nothing of tackling such a chore. Now the club members had a rule at the garage. You always had to leave a spot open for anyone who had such an emergency. We get to the garage and I open the door and Jim pulls his car in. We jack up the car, and start to take things apart. He still had a torque tube rear in the car, so it was a little more work than I thought. You had to remove the rear to remove the transmission. No big deal, just another hour or so. Next thing you know, the Trans is ready to pull to get at the clutch.

Jim's removing the Trans and I'm pulling the lower part of the bell housing down. No sense removing the bell housing along with the rear motor mounts. I crawl out from under the car. Jim's finished with the Trans and unbolts the pressure plate. Jim hands me the old clutch and I hand him the new pieces. He has the clutch disc and pressure plate held together in his hands and slides them up into the empty bell housing. This is all going very well; we should be finished in no time. Jim said, what the heck is wrong, the thing is jammed. I slide under the car and look at the clutch assembly stuffed up into the opening. He has it cocked and its hung up on something. I said I'll get you a screwdriver, see if you can pry it loose.

I crawl out from under the car and go to my toolbox for a screwdriver. Jim's lying under the car right under the clutch assembly, holding a drop light and looking at the clutch parts. I bend down to hand Jim the screwdriver. He's still looking up at the clutch. Just as I was about to hand him the screw driver, the whole pressure plate and disc falls down and hits Jim right across the bridge of his nose. It had kind of a dull thud as it hit him. Jim comes out from under the car in about one second. He doesn't say anything, he looks right at me, his eyes are tearing, and I could watch the black and blue marks form from his nose across his cheeks. It looked like animation in a cartoon. I never saw anything like it before or since then. Surprisingly, there was very little bleeding.

We never made it to the drags next day. In fact we never finished the car that night. I had to go down next day and finish the job, and missed working at the drags. I didn't want to break any club rules by leaving Jim's car in the transient garage space. Two things would get you kicked out of the Hot Rod club. Taking up that space and drag racing on the public streets. How disgraceful that would be. Not everyone could become a member, and no one took the chance of loosing his membership. Along with that, you wouldn't get to work at the drags as a member of the local timing association.

Years later I saw Jim. The time before that meeting was when I dropped him off at the local hospital. He told me I didn't need to hang around; he could walk home from the Hospital. The hospital was only a couple of blocks from his house. He married right after that clutch accident, and sold the car with our clutch in it. I never had the nerve to ask him to pay for it. The last time I saw him, he still had a big bump on the bridge of his nose. It couldn't have turn his girl friend off back then, they got married and had a bunch of kids. Today that bump is probably a handy thing; it would keep your glasses from slipping down in our old age.

Today the kids or teens are not allowed to park at the Ritz for more than 15 minutes. You can go in once a night. Something about kids hanging around with weapons and drugs and such. We hung around, and our weapons were and Isky cam and a Hurst shifter and Bucrone tires. A policeman is always stationed at the Ritz, or a cruiser car patrols the parking lot. You also cannot drive up the main drag through town more than twice a day. Some kind of nascence law was passed to stop the traffic. They do hold a cruise night once a month for the street rod folks in the summer time. I might go this summer just to check it out.

Now lets see, were can I get a pair of peg pants, a pair of flag flyer shoes and a Coopers Speed Shop T shirt? Oh, I forgot how about a 50,000-dollar loan for a Corvette. Along with all of that, it will probably take a minimum of 3 months for the crew cut to grow out. Wow, I can still remember this one girl with pants so tight we called her "paint a pants." You could read the day of the week on her underwear.

Gary

Well kiddies, and I do mean you younger folks, this is how and why us old folks started out building dragsters and such back in the Stone Age. You older folks will relate to this also, but you've probably been there yourselves. This is a short tale of how one day; a leisurely drive got us back into the sport of drag racing.

Tom Rose and myself had known each other since 1959. We both belonged to a hot rod club called the Piston Pushers. Originally he had worked on a 1932 Ford sedan that he owned since his days in the Airforce. He was building it for the street and strip, but was running the car as a B Altered, as he never quite got it street ready. Also another club member, Karl Santa, and myself had just sold our first dragster after Karl took it through a ticket booth at a local track. I'm not quite sure what Tom had done with the 32 Ford, but it was also gone.

So all three of us are out of the racing scene again, but still traveled together. One day Tom and I decided to take a drive up into the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. It was early spring and not much going on. We all worked at a local drag strip through the hot rod club. The track wasn't going to start racing for two more months. Tom and I jump into my 57 Corvette, (yes we really drove them every day, I paid 1800 dollars for it in 1961) and headed up route 145 north. We were cruising along right outside of Palmerton, Pa. right past a car salvage yard. Tom looks over and says, turn around, I think I saw an old Crossly piled up in the yard. If it's an English version, it will be right hand drive. The steering gear is perfect for a dragster. You just couldn't pass up such an opportunity, could we?

I loop around and we stop into the junkyard. We stay clear of the dogs, and walk into the garage. We ask one of the guys if we can take a look at the Crossly. If it has right hand drive, how much for the steering gear. He tells us it is right hand drive and if we pull it, it would cost 5 bucks. Out of the back of my Corvette comes the little toolbox I always carried. We pull the gear instead of taking the drive to the mountains. Next we're ordering the steel for the frame the following week. And we're back into the racing scene again. Innocent enough, what do you think?

We make a list of what we needed, and started trying to figure out were the heck we're going to get the money from. Hey, when you get a deal on a prize like that steering gear for 5 bucks, what's to stop you from spending an additional 5 thousand or so, to make it all worth while. Karl and I still had the motor out of the B dragster we sold as a rolling chassis to some club members. It was an Olds V8, 324 cubic inches. The other guys who bought the chassis wanted to run a Chevy. What good would 327 cubic inches be in a dragster, we thought? We were sticking with an Oldsmobile. We also sold the 324 cubic inch Olds engine to another club member for 450 dollars complete, injection to pan. We were going for more cubes. So here is the part that might be of interest to you youngsters.

We're building the whole frame from scratch ourselves. Cost of the steel and aluminum about 300 dollars. We pick up a rear from another junkyard, a 58 Oldsmobile, 15 dollars, and the complete engine for another 35 bucks. It's off to the man we called the baby factory. He had about 13 kids, and a small machine shop behind his home. He would narrow the rear and re-spline the axles for 25 bucks. That's right 25 bucks. We buy 4:30 gears from the speed shop, and set up the gears ourselves. Another 80 bucks spent. A torsion bar out of a VW beetle for a front axle we make ourselves, and we're just about finished spending money on the chassis, except for wheels and tires. We buy a 39 LaSalle transmission from another club member for 20 bucks. It would bolt right up to the Olds bell housing. We take it apart and pull first gear out of it. We will run 2nd and 3rd only. We build a steel blow shield for the bell housing.

Now came the bad part, we needed an engine. We tear down the stock engine, and take it to the speed shop. We clean it up in the hot tank, bore it .250 over and install new cam bearing and freeze out plugs etc. Cost about 125 bucks. Now for the important internal goodies. We order a 5/8th inch welded stroker crank, Chrysler boxed steel rods, 13 to one forged pistons and an Angle cam, just like Stone Woods and Cook ran. Total cost, about 1200 hundred dollars. This resulted in a 460 cubic inch engine. A set of Hilborn injection and a magneto are next, about another 1000 dollars. I cash in about 7 years of savings bonds for my share along with the cash from the old dragster's engine.

Tom comes into the garage one day with a set of head gaskets. I ask him what they are for. He says he picked them up at the Olds dealership. They are from a 60 Oldsmobile. He checked the parts manual, and saw that the 60 heads had bigger valves than a 58 Olds. Would they fit on the 58 Olds block? We take the gaskets over to the block and lay them on the head surface. Sure enough, the bores match perfectly, only the push rod holes mis-aligned along with two end water holes on the heads that stuck out further than the matching holes in the block. No big deal, with the availability of a little hot rodding ingenuity. We install the cam and lifters and try the push rods. The push rods hit the head bolt hole bosses in the block. I get my trusty pencil grinder going and spend about a week grinding the clearance for the push rods. We wash the block down with soap and water.

It's off to the junkyard again to look for a 60 Oldsmobile wreck. Now remember, this is 1962, so that's an almost new car. We finally find one after about 2 weeks of searching, and the heads cost us another 100 bucks. Wow, that new stuff is sure expensive I'm thinking. I ported and polished the heads and did a complete valve job. Cost was nothing, zero for the labor. We make our own copper gaskets for the heads to eliminate the end water holes. We finish the car and spend about an additional 1000 dollars for wheels and tires, fuel tank and hoses, new brake pads and safety stuff like a parachute and leather jacket and helmet. We paint the whole thing ourselves and letter the cowl. We build a flat bed trailer for about another 500 dollars and we're ready to go racing.

So my friends, your part of this story is to add up all the costs to see what it took to go drag racing in 1962 with an A gas dragster. The car ran for a couple of years in the high 9-second range, at about 145 miles per hour. We sure had fun with this car, and we learned a lot. The engine lasted till we tried to step up to run Nitro one weekend. Welded crankshafts and steel rods couldn't handle that combo. We retired again, licked our wounds, and sold off what was left, and waited for the next little urge to strike us. It didn't take too long, this time it was a Fiat steering gear we found.

Sure would be nice for you young folks to contribute to the history lessons, I just think you don't need to sell the farm to get a dragster on the track. I'll bet if you looked around for some used parts though, and found a used chassis, put a little elbow grease to work, you could write your own story in about 40 years. You don't need to be a big winner right away. You can play sandlot baseball; you don't need uniforms and a little league with managers to play baseball. Go ahead, have some fun, you'll come out ahead of the folks wasting their time on the other foolish stuff that goes on today. I just saw a complete rolling chassis for 3100 dollars. Its front engined, and only 118 inches long, but it will work. I'd buy a big cubic inch motor like a 455 inch Buick, stuff it in and go have some fun. I'll bet you didn't know that a 455 cubic inch Buick engine in a Buick car was the quickest factory hot rod straight from the big three ever. Gees, I wonder what one would turn in a quarter mile in that little dragster. See you at the races. If you see us, come on over and say hello. We'll be easy to spot; we'll probably be the guys with all the used stuff.

Gary

I thought it was time to take a look at some of the East Coast racing folks and the inner circle of stories surrounding these dedicated, but highly controversial souls. Running Nitro in a drag car, definitely produced some strange personalities, although always good-natured and mostly harmless. Of course, they are folks I knew personally, and the rest of you should tell your own tales, as I'm sure this strange club is not limited just to the Nitro crowd.

So here's the first fellow and the reason I remember him. If you were around in the sixties and seventies and knew him, you will relate to these stories about him, I'm sure. His name is Dave Robinson. Now Dave had a Top Fuel car for many years, and some of the best shoes around drove for him over those years. Dave came from Honeybrook, Penna. He was known affectionately to all the crews as the Honeybrook Flash. He always ran a 392 Chrysler, and when money became a problem, he would collect all the parts everyone else discarded. He somehow got his car together, and always made the show. He had lots of experience and determination, so you could never take running him lightly. Just when you thought you had him covered, he'd go roaring by you.

We're at the Grove one-day, and had just finished qualifying. We were setting around the trailer watching the Honeybrook Flash pushing his car back and forth on the pits lower return road trying to get it to fire. Bang, pop, cough, sputter went the engine time after time. He finally gives up trying, and walks over to us. I can see him to this day. Always had on a racing T shirt with Ed Pink on it, cut off jeans and tan sneakers, full of holes, and no socks. On top of the sneakers he had an L for left and an R for right across the toes. Now dont get me wrong, I'm not implying he didn't know what was going on, he was dumb like a fox. He just did it his way. He was coming over to chat, and he needed to burrow some fuel.

It seems the day before; he had some visitors to his garage. Now Dave was a good storyteller, and usually was hanging around the garage with who ever would stop in. That day he's talking to a crew from another top fuel car who stopped buy. He's siphoning nitro from the 55-gallon drum into plastic bottles. He's talking away, the phone rings, and he goes to answer it. Another bull session starts, and he forgets about the Nitro. The other folks are walking around the garage, taking in the piles of parts. All the Nitro that was left in that drum is running across his garage floor, and it's a dirt floor. Dave finally sees it, just shakes his head, hangs up the phone, and everyone grabs shop rags and towels and start to blot up what fuel they can save. Dave filters what Nitro he could out of the slurry and mud. No wonder he was short on fuel. What he was trying to get his car to run on was probably unusable. Who knows what else was on the floor in his garage? This didn't stop old Dave from trying though.

Speaking of Dave's garage, we visited him one night. I think we took a set of our slicks down to Dave for his usage. Everyone told us we just had to see his shop just one time. It was worth the trip. Dave had every part he ever ran for maybe ten years, good or bad, he never threw anything away. Parts that looked bad and unusable one year looked better than what he ran this year. But the thing that really was a mystery to me was this. He had a regular car lift in the garage, which was bent about halfway up the center shaft, so you couldn't lower it down. I mean it was badly bent. The shaft was about ten inches in diameter, and I wondered how in the heck you would bend it. On top of the lift were boxes of stuff, at about a 20 degree angle stacked almost to the ceiling. How the boxes didn't fall off the lift was also a mystery. I thought we should ask him how the heck that happened, but we just left it ride. To this day when I see some of the guys, I just say, how about that car lift in the Honeybrook Flashes garage. It's worth about 2 minutes of laughter to this day. I understand Dave has moved to Florida for retirement. If you read this and are from his area, and hear of him, check out the garage. I'd bet five gallons of Nitro, nothing much has changed.

One more while I'm reminiscing. Everyone remembers Charley Hill. His Filthy Forty-Ford car was famous back in the old days. He also had one of the hardest charging AA Fuel Altereds of all times, bar none. This car was down right amazing and nasty. A 48 Fiat, blown 426 Hemi, always set on kill. He would have qualified at most of the Top Fuel shows back in the early seventies. The dang thing would run in the 6's and usually used up both lanes to do it. I remember when Wild Willie and the Bad Habit had a match race. If anyone would have that show on film, it would be worth almost any sum of money today. I remember talking to Willie at that race. He couldn't believe Charley and his gang showed up with two of everything, just in case. No one was going to up stage the Bad Habit.

Anyway, Charley was one the characters you could never forget. He was a big man, who loved to eat. He would get his car into the show, and stroll around the pits amongst the Nitro crowd. He had a fondness for two kinds of desert. One was a cake called a Red Velvet Cake. The other was a Cherry cheesecake. He had found the best places to buy either one, no matter were he raced. He would come strolling through the pits with a big cake in his arms. He'd walk over to you, and ask you if you wanted any cake. If you said yes, he'd reach down and tear off a big piece for you with his hand, and scrape it into your hand. No plates for the cake ever entered Charley's mind. Male or female, that's the way it came. He would lick his fingers and walk over to the next crewmember to repeat the operation.

Now if you insulted Charley, by not partaking of his offer, I think he would tell his driver, Parmer, to make sure if you ever ran the Bad Habit, he should run through the traps with your car in the same lane. I don't know that for a fact, but it sure happened more than once. When you got the opportunity to run Parmer and the Bad Habit you had too choices. You could try to outrun him and get way out in front, (almost impossible), or you could let him leave on you. Then your driver would most likely be running through the Bad Habits tire smoke, wondering which lane Parmer was in. By the way, the cake was always delicious; we would always eat two pieces.

Both Charley and Parmer are gone, off to the big dragway, like so many racing friends. As you can tell by all the postings out in cyber space, it seems to happen every week. It's probably just my own imagination. But I have started to return to some tracks in the last few years. I always walk around alone at some point, and most times a little shiver twitches through me. This past summer I returned to a little track I started to work at back in 1959. It was called Vargo's Dragway, in Elephant Penna. There was a thirty-year reunion celebration going on. Lots of old drag cars and street rods. I walked down the track alone last summer towards dusk.

It has large cracks in it surface, with plants growing up through it at places, but it's still there. It's where I saw my first fuel car, the Nacentino and Vane car. Everyone else was standing around the starting line. I walked down the quarter mile alone, and stopped at the finish line. I remembered sitting at that very spot years ago on a folding chair. My job was judging the winners of the race. I was seventeen years old and dumb enough to sit there. Sure enough that little shiver ran down my spine, the lump came up in my throat, I looked around and the tears gathered in my eyes, probably sinus problems, all those weeds. I hope no body saw me, I didn't want to look foolish. It only lasted for a couple of seconds. I shook it off, and wondered what that was all about. Was it just and older man, remembering his youth, was it ghosts and hobgoblins, or something more?

I continued my walk to the end of the shutdown area. I looked out over the cornfield, still at the end of the track. I remembered the time I drove our A dragster down the track for a time run, and than shutting it down. We were pushing the car back up the return road. I noticed the brakes didn't seem as responsive as I remembered. Just needed bleeding I thought, they felt mushy. We'd take care of it for next round. Next pass my partner Tom drove the car. I see the chute out, the dust fly, and he's off into the cornfield. I arrived at the end of the track with our truck we called Gentle Ben. It took me 5 minutes to find Tom amongst the corn stalks and tow him out. He had big welts all over his face and arms from the corn stalks whipping him. He hands me the brake handle. Little did I know that on my run, I had bent the handle forward, and the hole holding the eyebolt stretched, and when Tom hit the brakes the handle broke off. We just laughed together and started wondering how we would fix it for my next run. Just another fun filled day at the races.

Our car ran about 155 MPH back then on a good day. I then remembered that many a car ran over 200 MPH at this track. I'm standing and thinking all these thoughts, turn on my heels and start walking up the return road, back to the crowd at the starting line. Many of the folks standing around helped to run that track every week for many years, and we still raced our own cars while we worked. I never ever heard anyone complain. The hard work and the time involved were part of the formula. Get the car ready for some racing during the week. Get up early Sunday morning and tow to the track, work and race and help make the show flow for the paying fans. Now that I have time to think about it, I feel a little better. I realize that the emotions I felt on my walk down the track were not that strange. Fond memories and time gone by can create some powerful emotions. I can only remember good things. There must have been some bad experiences, but today none seem possible. I just can't remember any. I think the difference between good or bad memories has to do with friendship and the people you loved, and the things you loved doing. In this case it was all three of these things, and of course the characters with character.

Gary