I glanced  at him, not really paying a lot of attention, Martians  could have been landing in the parking lot, I would not have noticed or cared. I was riveted on what was happening on the track. Over the years I have heard many similar themes, especially concerning Indianapolis. I have heard many wax nostalgic for the 30′s..then that gave way to the 50′s, the roadster era.  Same thing with Formula 1, and of course with NASCAR.  And lately I have been doing the same. You see, for those of us who follow the sport, and who have done so for a while, as time goes by, we create a “sweet spot” .

Just what is that sweet spot?  It’s a certain moment in time, in racing evolution, if you will, that is special for each and every one of us.  It varies. Depending on one’s interest, it might include professional series, just a particular short track, or something encompassing pieces of all of the above. The age in which we form that spot also varies. I have heard guys talk about when they were a little kid and went to the Indy 500, maybe in 1955, and always get that glazed look in their eyes when Watson Roadsters are mentioned.  I’m fairly certain that it’s tied to good times in the rest of our lives as well, even though tragedy might well be a part of things. Whatever it is, it’s sort of like what a judge once said about trying to define porn, “I may not be able to define it, but I know it when I see it”.

My special spot is from about 1965 to right around 1980. Age-wise it covers half my teens and all of my 20′s. Generally that’s a good time in our lives, I was lucky that it was so in mine as well. I was completely, totally, immersed in both cars and auto racing. I had been going to races since ’62, and payed close attention, I knew what was going on. I raced myself for most of that time period. I worked on cars for a living then, and I will bet that the number of Saturday nights that I was not at races of some sort during that time could be counted on my fingers and toes for sure, maybe just one or the other.  I lived for Saturday nights. I watched ABC’s Wide Word of Sports, cursing when the announcer would go “…….And now we are going to break from the Grand Prix of Belgium and go back to Podunk, Ohio for the world  tiddlywink championships”.  It did not matter,  it was all magic, all the time. And yes, some of it was very tragic as well.

The first Indy 500 that I ever listened to was 1964.  I remember wrapping tin foil around the antenna of a small black transistor radio, and listened to the horror of that terrible first lap crash.  When A.J. Foyt finally won, he was 50 feet tall to me.  Who could possibly be his equal, much less beat him there?  The next year I was dumbfounded when a British Driver named Jimmy Clark won the ’65  Indy 500…but not without AJ having something to say about that.  I listened to the thrilling wheel to wheel battle between Clark and Foyt, and shortly thereafter forever  became a fan of Formula 1.  And of Jimmy Clark.  Like I said, some of it’s tragic.  I first got to Indy  in 1969 to see Mario Andretti win his only Indy 500.

I had no problem with the rear engined cars, I loved them from the very beginning. I loved  the rear engined Indy cars of the 60′s, similar to their F1 cousins but with subtle differences. Then they slowly evolved as the  70′s began, soon sprouting  huge wings, giant noses,  angular bodies and massive turbochargers. They were all beautiful…and still are.  Even with  body panels  off, they glisten, their polished aluminum and perfectly spaced rivets and exquisitely machined parts a testament to the fertile creativity of the human brain. No computers designed Smoky Yunick’s radical  Sidecar. No internet was used to craft the four-wheel drive turbine car that came within 6 laps of racing’s greatest prize.  Dan Gurney had  2 designers and a shop of 10 fabricators  that built the Eagles that ruled the Speedway.   A.J. Foyt did not have a Twitter or  Facebook  account or focus group when he built his own chassis, created his own engine, and then drove that magnificent Coyote to victory in 1977.  I will repeat that…he built his own car, designed and built his own engine, and then drove that car and engine to victory in the Indy 500, becoming the first 4-time winner.  That is the greatest achievement in the history of racing, and it’s right close to the middle of my sweet spot.

I love the Formula 1 cars of the time.  I  know just about every line of the movie Grand Prix.  Every scene, every nuance. If you have not seen it, do so now.  If you have seen it, see it again.  Special cars and oh so brave and special drivers. 1966-1967, ‘nuf  said.  I got to see the 6 wheel Tyrrell race at Watkins Glen in 1980, have you  ever seen a 6 wheel race-car race?  It will never happen again, designers are not allowed to think anymore, just whatever the rules and computer will let them do, and no trips outside the box, thank you.  I got to see Gilles Villeneuve spend just about his entire  race that day sideways. And Mario Andretti in what would be his last race for Team Lotus. I love the Formula one cars from my sweet spot. And while you’re at it, check out Steve McQueen’s Le Mans. Those movies are in a dead heat for the greatest racing movie of all time.  On that subject, what does Ford consider to be its greatest achievement in racing? What do they always talk about? Their 1967 Le Mans victory, Fords greatest racing achievement.

Speaking of  the 60′s …. In 1967 we went to the Daytona 500. Got there early Friday morning, there was qualifying going on. Parked in the parking lot. I went with a friend of mine down to the first turn area, and jumped the fence. My buddy hung back, “we’re going to be thrown out”, he said. I heard a  moaning cry of a racing engine at full song echoing off of the grandstands and as I clambered up the hill it roared past, as yet unseen. I popped my head over the wall right in the middle of the 1 and 2 turns, right at the “Daytona” lettering. A distant drone suddenly became a purposeful wail, and I saw a black and gold blur appear for a moment, disappear, and then reappear as a fast moving, rapidly growing black and gold Chevelle, nothing on the car but number 13. I had no time to digest any of this, as the car suddenly and  impossibly fast barreled into  turn 1.  Smoke poured off of the both outside  tires, the car leaned over,  simultaneously  sliding up the banks  straight at me, the burly driver manhandling the steering wheel, sawing away, the car teetered on the very edge  as one of NASCAR’s greatest drivers fought for control…I was assaulted by chunks of rubber, ears blasted by whatever crazy header system Smokey had on the thing, I inhaled some heady fumes of God knows what, and then, in a final blasting assaulting of the senses, Curtis Turner thundered around turn 2 and headed down the backstretch on the first ever 180 mph qualifying lap that put Smoky Yunick’s  Chevelle on the pole for the 1967 Daytona 500.  “Hey kid, are you fucking crazy, get down from there right now,” yelled a security guy in a golf cart that had obviously been dispatched to the scene of the intrusion. “I tried to tell you”, my prudent friend yelled.  No I did not get thrown out, just escorted to the gate, that’s all another story. I did sneak into the Daytona pits on several occasions, again that’s for another time. For now, its enough to say that I love the cars and drivers of what is now known as NASCAR’s golden era.

As wonderful as all of the big time racing is, for me its the short tracks where the sweetest of sweet spots lie. I did a fair amount of racing during this time. I drove my first race on my 16th birthday at Old Hollywood Speedway, that was the earliest that one could race then, even with a parents consent form signed and notarized. Of course I had #14 on the car, that was AJ’s number, what other number would I have run? I have raced with #14 on every racecar that was mine. Even when I was not racing, I was at one of the local tracks. Or at one of the out of town tracks. That’s far more than can be mentioned here. All I will say is, I love the tracks…and the drivers…and the cars…..and everything else that has to do with any of that from my sweet spot. I love the Supermodifed from the 60′s and the 70′s. And the sprint cars.  The racing from Old Hollywood Speedway, seeing Rod Perry win races driving with one hand, seeing Gene Wynn in the immaculate purple “RJ Whitney Special” sprint car carry the left front wheel virtually all the way around the track and all the great battles in all of the other classes that took place there every Saturday night.  Watching Larry Brazil and Dave Scarborough run most of an entire feature side by side at Tampa’s Golden Gate Speedway in their gorgeous pavement sprinters , neither one putting a wheel wrong.  Speaking of Golden Gate, watching the Governors Cup there every November when it was THE premier  race in the entire country. The late models slowly went from 57 Chevy’s, to Chevelles, then Camaro’s. They were all made of factory steel during my sweet spot. Watching Bobby Brack, Dickie Anderson, Billy Barnwell and all the rest body slamming each other every Saturday night at Hialeah. Seeing Gary Balough drive Hialeah Speedway like a dirt track.  Our  own Mini Stock racing at Florida City Speedway and Hialeah, way too much to start  here now. And its not that new memories are not still being created, I still go to races. I got to see the 50th Knoxville Nationals, pretty special for sure. lots of Daytona Races,  Indy cars, Sports cars, and many, many short tracks. And I don’t remember retiring from being behind the wheel either. But there is something about the locked in Sweet spot that is immune to tinkering. Its simply there, and I know it always will be.

And  of course…you have your special sweet spot. That’s special to you. And as time goes by, it becomes more special, and oh so much sweeter. Like me, you probably love the street cars from your special time as well, I know I do. Another story, I’m not starting that now! And you know what? Right now, as we speak, there are sweet spots being created at the tracks. At the races. Jeff Gordon is special, who knows how many sweet spots he has created? He wrote high school papers about  Steve Kinser.  Lewis Hamilton grew up with Michael Schumacher posters on his wall.  No matter who we are, we all have our sweet  spot, our special time, where the cars will always look “right”, where the racing was perfect, a time when the drivers were hero’s, and life was good. That’s just one of the many things that makes this great sport special, because we create special memories for ourselves that define who we are. And over time, we grow very, very protective of our sweet spot and those memories, and that is as it should be. I have not yet become that old guy regaling the wide eyed kid, but I wonder if the inevitable  will happen. I’m going to try and fight it as long as I can.

Just as long as you know that….. MY racecars are better than YOUR  racecars.

Of course  that was after they had been consigned to the ages, so to speak. After the weekly acquisition,  there was the matter of information and news to absorb. As a avid reader, during the following week  I would consume the entire paper. It would move from my nightstand to the back of the commode, joining past issues and assorted racing magazines. I would read virtually every race result, learning about drivers and tracks I would never have known about otherwise. I would look at wonderment at oncoming races being advertised at  exotic racetracks far away, along with the purse breakdown.  Pore through the classifieds and day dream about the NESMRA Supermodfied for sale for 2,000 dollars, or the track champion late model for 1,500  or  maybe the 4 year old Indy car for 10 grand race ready, I could hit the big time, now where could I lay my hands on that 10 grand?  And usually in  a chunk or two, I always read every word of “From the Editor’s Notebook.” A great deal of the way I view the sport today  I owe to Chris Economaki and his wonderful paper.

But I feel very, very bad about something. And I think many of us have been guilty of what I am about to say, they just are not admitting it. Unlike them, I am going to Man up about it.  You see, I am one of those who succumbed to the lure of the paperless internet. I let my subscription to NSSN lapse, and get most of my racing news the same place most do nowadays,  on the great information superhighway.  I find it amusing that all of a sudden, everyone is posting, on the internet of course, about how they have all been faithful subscribers to Speed Sport News  since kindergarten. Right. Sure you have.  Just like  how everyone in S Florida supported Hialeah Speedway.  LOL..that’s  an internet expression…Btw.  The night they ran their last race, you could not get into the place. Cars out onto Okeechobee Road, standing room only, everyone wailing about how they had been coming here since the days of Red Farmer, how they  always supported the track, and how could this have happened? Three weeks earlier there were 50 people in the stands, if that. I’m sure that Chris and Corrine will sell a ton of the last issue of NSSN, how many copies of the one printed 3 weeks ago do you think they sold?

We assume things will last forever, the things that we love and care about anyway. But like love itself, they cannot last without being supported and cared for. Buying the last issue of a paper going out of business, like going to the last race at a closing racetrack is not what is going to save the things we care deeply about.  I know that my one, lonely subscription was not what made, or broke Chris and Corrine’s lifelong work . No, mine was just one, thin, strand; one thread of a rope…that gradually lost one strand after another and finally could not hang on any longer. Like newspapers across the land, one either joins the digital revolution or is trampled by it. Maybe someone in the racing community with deep pockets will come along and rescue things, and what does that say about the community? That our greatest paper needs charity to survive?

I have to say that this event triggered a small one around this homestead.  I subscribe to three car magazines;  Car and Driver, Road and track, and Autoweek. Its no secret, money is tight right now. And I have really been thinking about dropping Road and Track, in fact I have been known to have let my subscription lapse before. I had just gotten the absolute  last “final notice” this past  week, and just after that I got the shock  of the demise of Speed Sport News. That galvanized me into action, and I sent my subscription and check  to R&T the very next day….Like I could have done a few years ago with NSSN. Now its different.  I already have  the loss of one cherished paper on my conscience, and I will not have another one.

So I know something about racing in Florida during the 70′s, and this year there really was a 70′s flavor to things down here.  East Bay Raceway went back to its roots, so to speak with a non 410 sprint car series that brought a distinct grass roots feel to the program. Back in the Mid 70s’ that was the feel there and the place sure got back to it this year. The Non Winged sprinters of USAC put on a great show at Ocala, just like the non winged cars of the IMCA used to do at the Tampa Fairgrounds around that time of the year. I saw the sprinters of USAC run the new Hollywood Speedway  pavement  track in the early 70′s, Gary Bettenhausen won the feature the one night they ran there.   Over at New Smyrna the annual Richie Evans memorial race was run, the greatest Modified racer of all time was a regular at that track every year. And over at the “big Track”, the jump in speed for the two car draft, the repaving of the track, the incredible ways the radio use revolutionized itself right before our eyes, all of this was  absolutely reminiscent of the shake-up of the Plymouth Superbirds and Dodge Daytona’s of the early 70′s. And Buzzie Reutimann was a regular near the front  in his open wheeled modified on the Dirt, now I ask you, is there anything more 70′s than that??

But for true 70′s nostalgia, nothing could top the Volusia County Speedway on Feb 11th,12th and 13th.  Because from about 1975 on, if there was a big money Sprint Car show anywhere other than USAC you had to deal with a stocky Blonde racer from Bloomington, Indiana  who absolutely decimated the field year in and year out down here in February.  And at the World of Outlaws opening series in 2011, we all took a trip back in time to 1978. I don’t know how he does it, no-one does. I doubt he knows. He is beating good young racers who were not even alive in 1978. And yes, there is a weight limit nowadays in the World of Outlaws, but that is recent news. Steve was deep in his 50′s and winning races beating guys not only young enough to be his son but who weighed 100 pounds or more less. Remember, this is a sport where thousands of dollars will be spend to machine 15 lbs off of an aluminum block for Christ’s sake. Where holes are drilled in steering wheels.  And there sits the king of the Outlaws in all his mid life glory. Come to think if it, that’s how many race car drivers LOOKED in the 70′s.

And when he got behind the wheel, Steve Kinser showed everyone that the magic of the 70′s was still there. He came out Volusia leading in points with two wins and a second, and soon had another win.  His Nemesis Sammy Swindell, who also has been kicking  ass down here in February for decades  as well  has also picked up a win. And as I write this, I hear Jimi Hendrix on the radio blasting out “Purple Haze”. If I turn on the TV and see Nixon scowling the immortal  “I am not a crook,” I  will  truly  maintain this time traveling mode ……and freak out!

The bottom line here is that for a very long time me and a whole lot of other folks have been enjoying the yearly ritual of, one way or the other, getting to at least one racetrack in Florida in February. For many its “down in Florida”. For us lucky folks its; “heading over to…….” Or “goin’ up to….”. It could be the two and a half mile world famous Daytona International Speedway, the oh so racy East Bay Raceway just south of Tampa,  an asphalt Speedbowl like New Smyrna Speedway, or maybe someplace else. No matter, there will be old friends wherever you go, and always new ones as well. And of course, great racing.  Perhaps you, like us have  a favorite restaurant, perhaps a familiar bar, and there will always be the unexpected, unplanned nugget of an experience to be treasured. That great Jimmy Buffet song,  “Stories we could tell” comes to mind.” There is a line in it that goes; “….and if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel, you do it for the stories you can tell.”  How true that is.  It feels right to be at a racetrack in Florida in February, and when something feels right it generally is. I’m going to paraphrase a quote from the late great Sprint car chauffeur Gary Patterson; “If I am not at a Florida racetrack  in February you’ll know I’m dead.”

And after what they do is described as ‘easy’, more often than not something will follow like ,”and they never  compete when they are hurt, not like other sports like football, for instance.” Maybe followed with; “yeah, they are pussies, for sure.” The stick and ball set might be onto something here. They are right, race car drivers do not play hurt the way the other sports do, no they certainly do not. They drive and compete with injuries that would put the stick and ball boys on the sidelines, if not sitting in their Barcalounger  on game day. We make light of it,  calling  it “race track rheumatism” at times, but it can be so much more. Here are a couple of examples .

Dale Earnhardt was a racer’s racer. Respected by everyone in the garage, he was probably the greatest pure stock car driver that there ever has been. Stock car racers have always been previewed as being tough, and nobody lived up to that moniker better than the plain spoken, blue collar racer from a small mill town in North Carolina with a God given talent for car control and a toughness instilled from a lifetime of bullring competition. But there was a series of racing events that took place some years ago that could only have been done by someone truly different from everyone else.

Midway through the 1996 season, on a sunny day in late July at Talladega, “swervin’” Ernie Irvin caused yet another one of his multi car pileup’s his career was peppered with. This one turned Dale Earnhardt’s black #3 into the front stretch wall at 200mph. That in itself was enough to destroy the car. But at those speeds it takes a long time to stop wrecking. The car  barrel rolled down the front straightaway, tearing itself to pieces while being hit hard by numerous cars caught up in the dreaded big one. The demolished racecar  came to rest a crumpled smoking heap with everyone holding  their collective breaths. But out came Dale, in obvious pain, clutching his left chest, even managing a thumbs up. Very quickly it was determined that Earnhardt had suffered a broken Sternum; that’s the big bone across your chest that hold many important parts together, for you non doctor types. Just the act of breathing is painful. Walking is virtually impossible. And this was not a crack, one of the violent hits Dale’s Monte Carlo had absorbed had broken this vital bone completely in half.  But that was not all, Dale also had broken his collarbone, and had a badly bruised pelvis. Not to mention the bruising of the aforementioned ‘race track rheumatism. The healing time was a minimum of 6 weeks, no other racer would have been  behind the wheel again until the leaves of autumn were on the trees, and the stick and ball set would have been done for season. But this was not just a racer, and certainly not a stick and ball jock playing a game. This was Dale Earnhardt.

The following week was the Brickyard 400 at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, one of the most important races of the year. NASCAR rules state that in order to get driver points, the driver must start the race. Just 7 days from a terrible crash that had left him battered, bruised, but unbeaten, Dale Earnhardt started the Brickyard 400. He turned the car over to Mike Skinner and was white with pain when he climbed out of the car and sat on the pit wall. Dale had done the impossible,  driving a racecar with a completely broken sternum and collarbone.  how could he possibly top that?

Just a week later, 14 days after the crash, was the road course of Watkins Gen, NY.  A place where 1 and a ½ tons of antique racecars known as NASCAR’s stock cars hurdle themselves around a track designed in the early 50’s for sports car and open wheel F1 racing.  Just watch a lap, one lap at this historic track and imagine what it would be like to manhandle a racecar around the place  if it caused pain just to breath. Slamming left and right thru the esses, hard braking into the chicane with more hurdling left and right, slamming over rumble strips, constant shifting, how could a human being with a broken chest bone, collar bone, and a nasty hip pointer for good measure even run half speed around this place? Surely   even Dale Earnhardt   would sit this one out…right? Well, not exactly.

First thing, Dale puts the 3 car on pole. The garage sprouted “hurts so good” T-shirts, what could everyone do but wear his shirt?  Racers are not strangers to competing with broken bones, but this was something else, this was beyond that. Kenny Schrader said; “ I have had that exact injury, I broke both my Sternum and collar bone at the same time, I could not even walk, the pain was so bad. It was three weeks before I got in a car again, and that was to drive to the grocery store, much less race again. I have no idea how he is doing this.”  Rusty Wallace said; “he’s not like the rest of us, he’s at a different level.” Jeff Gordon perhaps said it best when he said; “there is nothing you can say about this.”

Race day rolled around quickly. Of course,  Dale would have to get out of the car, its just  that no-one knew when. A relief driver was standing by, helmet on. There were assorted bets and a pool going around the garage as to when this would  happen. The prevailing thought around there that Sunday morning was that  he would exit by the first pit stop at the latest.  And it would be perfectly acceptable to drop back when the green flag dropped…and then the green flag did, in fact drop. And  Dale left everyone in the dust, in more ways than one.

Under the most impossible and painful conditions imaginable, Dale Earnhardt completely dominated the race that day.  He led most of the day, relinquishing the lead occasionally on pit stops, then storming back to the front.  By the final pit stop the forgotten relief driver was nowhere in sight. At the very end, he faded slightly, finishing 6^th on that special Sunday afternoon. Getting the five bonus points for leading the most laps. To say he was better that everyone else does not do justice to that phrase. The great drivers have something extra, beyond the skill sets that are obvious,  and that intangible was on display for the entire world to see that day. He was literally white with pain as he got out of the car afterwards, saying “guess the car went away a bit at the end there.” He had fully expected to win that race! After the race  Dale Jarrett  said; “he’s Dale Earnhardt, and the rest of us are not.” As Jeff Gordon had said the day before..” there is nothing you can say about this.”

Gary Patterson was another racer’s racer. An original Outlaw before such activity was sanctioned by a club and the name trademarked by stuffed suits in a boardroom, this tough as nails dirt track sprint car driver criss-crossed the country, going wherever the competition was the hardest and the purses the biggest.  A fixture at the Knoxville Nationals for decades, “the Preacher”, as he was known, had a saying,” when I don’t show up at Knoxville you’ll know I’m dead.”  Sprint cars are constantly trying to kill or maim those who try to master them, and the racing gods seemed to look at GP as a special case. One night at Ascot Park in a non winged sprinter, Patterson took a nasty tumble in the heat, the violent impact cracked 6 ribs. As emergency repairs went on, Patterson made a quick decision, that was always his trademark.  For this one, he  ordered his crew to tape him with duct tape. As he grimaced in pain, his stunned crew did what he asked, and the he was lowered into the car, as he could not bend over at all.  The Preacher went out and ran in the top 5 in the 40 lap main event. If you have ever cracked a rib you know how painful just moving a bit can be. Now imagine wrestling the bucking bronco of a non winged sprinter around a rough dirt track with 6 of them. Competitively. A pretty incredible event. But that was nothing………..

It was a hot, sweltering summer’s night in the mid 70’s, somewhere in California as 24 non winged sprinters lined up and were pushed off for the 30 lap main event. The preacher was buried deep in the field, and as the cars banged wheels and pulled sliders on each other early on, someone sent  Patterson hard into the wooden fence. The fence splintered, Patterson’s car staggered, then recovered and sped on, the race stayed green. Patterson came hard through the field, but with a few laps to do started wavering a bit, there seemed to be something amiss. The race ended and Patterson came into the  pits, as he approached his pit, he slumped over in the car. His crew ran over, and with stunned looks saw the cockpit and suit covered in blood. Then everyone saw why: there was a massive splinter of wooden fence that was driven through the side panel and into the Preachers gut. Patterson had driven the entire race with this horrifying injury, never once letting up, never occurring to him that was compete insanity to compete with an injury like that, and  it was only the loss of blood that finally slowed him. A very special tough guy  for sure, who did things his way.  Right to the end. On May 29, 1983 on  Memorial day,  the Preacher made another decision. Midway through the feature he had a choice of crashing into a wrecked competitor, or taking his chances with the wall of the Calistoga speedway in his non winged sprint car. Yet again there was no hesitation. The way it was told to me by someone who was there;….. “he went over 19 times and the roll cage tore loose   somewhere around number 12.” Gary Patterson missed the Knoxville Nationals in 1983.

When you talk about great racecar drivers, and tough racecar drivers at the same time, the name AJ Foyt might well come up.  One of the very great drivers of all time, Foyt had many injuries and close calls over the 5 decades of competition. But one in particular, towards the very end of his great career personifies the almost super human ability that some possess. On Sept 23, 1990 at Elkhart Lake’s Famed Road America, the brakes failed on Foyt’s Lola Indy car. At 190 mph, Foyt sailed off the end of the straightaway and into a sand embankment.  At the time Foy’s injuries, while bad, sounded fairly routine, more or less typical of the injuries Indy car drivers of the day suffered. Among other things, it was reported that Super Tex had a broken left knee and a crushed upper left foot. Here is what was NOT reported….it was his left foot that was crushed on top of his left knee, thereby shattering his kneecap and crushing his foot. Ok, stop reading. Stand up, and look down at your feet and knees. Now imagine the top of your foot crushing your kneecap. Joe Theismann  got an injury similar to this during a Mon night football game that ended his career. It is terrible to watch. Foyt’s injury must have STARTED like that.  At age 36, Joe Theismann’s career was finished. AJ Foyt was 55 years old when he received the injuries that would have ended the career of most drivers. Or at least broke the streak of Indy 500’s that stood at 32 consecutive starts. How could anyone possibly drive a race car again in just 7 short months after injuries like that; hell  even walking on  crutches would have been a major achievement by May of 1991! And what did this great champion have to prove, anyway? He had won Indy 4 times, the Daytona 500 and the 24 hours of Lemans, countless other races and championships along the way. A survivor from the days of the roadsters and non roll caged  sprinters, Foyt had been racing at a championship level for well over 30 years, everyone close to him was urging  him to hang up his helmet. But as AJ would later put it, “ I did not want to go out that way.”  And further stated, “ I was not going to walk on crutches to a race car.” So at the tender age of 55, Foyt underwent a series of operations, followed by a 7 day a week workout schedule that would have broken lesser mortals.  He became a regular fixture at the Houston Oiler’s training facility where the players whispered among themselves about the old guy with the shocking leg scars pushing himself so very hard.

The month of May, 1991 came quickly, and soon it was qualifying day. Pole day. All eyes were on the #14. And limping to his car with nary a crutch in sight came the man who’s knee cap was crushed by his foot just 6 months previously. The crew watched in silence as he slowly worked his way into the sleek  turbocharged missile that a state of the art  Indy car was in the early 90’s.  A few minuets later and AJ Foyt had put his Lola in the middle of the front row for his 33 consecutive Indy 500. An incredible comeback by one of the great immortals.  As Smokey Yunick put it, “ there was not a dry eye in the place.”

There are so many more examples of guts and perseverance in this sport of ours. And its not just the men who complete, they have no exclusive on depth of character and intestinal fortitude. Top Fuel ace Shirley Mouldowney shattered her body when her dragster crashed at over 250mph. As she put it, “it would be easier to say what I did not break or crack.” Besides breaking almost every bone in her body, her deep wounds were so packed full of dirt and grime they had to be scraped with a wire brush. And being allergic to morphine resulted in it being almost 6 months until a pain killer was found that she could take. Just imagine that. And she came back to race and win again.  There are so many more, they date back to the very beginning of the sport and continue to this day. There are some who will do whatever it takes to remain a part of this,  and  that speaks  volumes.

I always have the thought in the back of my mind, ‘be careful what you wish for’. Perhaps its just as well that the incredible feats of mental and physical  toughness that our competitions go through at times remain   unknown by most. We live in a society that seems to want to stamp such things out…..for our own protection, of course.  Racing is hard, its tough, its exhilarating , and at times it is tragic. Somehow all of this threads itself together, those of us who understand and get this, we  arrange it all  in our own way.  Maybe we need to leave things just like that.

To many casual observers of our sport, auto racing looks easy. That is especially true of the couch potato racing fan.  Or the stick and ball jocks.  They still use the time worn phrase, “they are just driving around in a car, anyone can do that.”  Or…..”that looks so easy”. How often have you heard that? And how much auto racing coverage does your local TV station give? Have they ever mentioned your local short track? That toothy, grinning beefcake jabbering about  basketball, showing a half full area built with 100’s of millions of dollars of public tax money is a jock wannabe who hates what we do, and can barely hide it.   While there are some exceptions for sure,  the average jock, amateur or professional,  has little respect for our sport and I have always thought  there are several reasons why.

Have you ever noticed how  many athletes crash their cars?  Whether or not alcohol is involved or not. Back some time ago  there was a high end paint and body shop not too far from my  foreign car garage I had in  Hollywood, FL. They did great work there, and  it became the place to go for the Miami Dolphins, as well as other stick and ball jocks that lived in the area. The  automotive carnage that was in that shop on a regular basis was unbelievable. Everything from simple fender benders to major collisions, all done on some of the worlds greatest cars. Most of the players cars got wrecked over and over again until they were discarded for the next crashmobile. As a car guy, it broke my heart to see the disfigured Ferrari’s and Lamborghini’s there on a regular basis. Many were the casual sort of accidents so easily avoidable. Most all of the larger accidents were the sort that comes from loosing control and creaming your car. For whatever reason(s) it seems that the skill sets that are used to hit a ball, throw one, run thought defenders, etc are not the same skills that give a human being the ability to four wheel drift a F1 car in the rain at 175mph…lap after lap. Or hurdle into turn 3 at Atlanta inches away from a fellow competitor at 200 mph…. lap after lap. Rim riding at Knoxville Raceway also comes to mind,  and in 100 years just how many men have drank the milk at the Indy 500?   And if you want to see something truly eye-popping, look up Isle of Mann TT and see if you can catch some on-bike footage somewhere.  Its an incredible skill set that is necessary for sustained  automotive and two wheeled  competition  at the highest level, one that is not shared with many other athletes in other sports at all. The stick and ball jocks sense this, and being rather self centered, they do not like this at all.

However, this is something else that factors in here. And while I have never heard anyone ever say this out loud, this one cuts right to the core. There seem to be  some who really dislike the sport, it’s almost a  visceral reaction. Personal, as it were. And this one goes way back to everyone’s formative years, the high school days. Remember the hot chicks back then?  The ones everyone always had a ‘crush’ on? Ever notice who they generally were with? Hint, it was not necessarily the school quarterback. More often than not it was the guy with the cool car. Reality: Chicks dig guys with cool cars…and that would mean FAST cars. And if the guy built it himself, so much the better.  See, while throwing a ball around is certainly a noble skill, I think that the ladies understand that making a fast trip to the hospital, perhaps with a pregnant passenger riding shotgun,  without getting killed on the way might also be a noble skill. Not to mention changing a tire on a deserted stretch of highway at midnight. Or being able to do a quick repair in the heat of the blazing sun. These are very much real world skills, and they are respected, maybe at times on a subconscious  level, but respected by some nonetheless. It seems that being a car guy can has its rewards. Like everything, that has a flip side,  and there are those among us who, while they might not be able to articulate it, very much resent that fact. I personally think  it goes way back to the formative days when a jock would  take  to the field, and, after leading the Fighting Flying Squirrels to an upset win over the Terrifying Terrapins for county pigskin domination he  watched his blond hottie ride off into the sunset with that grease monkey from shop class in his home-built, candy apple red , Boss 302 Mustang.  Or, instead of fawning over his exploits on the field, the girl he wanted spent her Saturday nights with that little short kid who sits behind  him  in math class,  110 lbs soaking wet, who is leading in points at the local short track in the Late Model division. Or was  wheeling a sprint car around a dirt bullring, while the hot chick that he wanted and her girlfriends hang out in the pits of that scrawny runt. Throw in not being able to drive fast without creaming dad’s car, along with being a clear and present danger to anything automotive with a wrench in their meaty hand, and you have a recipe for a lifetime of intense dislike. And never mind what  the effects the Female gender of racecar drivers have on the jocks nowadays! See, it does not matter if you are a jock, or a computer geek, a budding lawyer, or the next great plastic surgeon, the cool girls are going to be with the guys with the hot cars and especially the guys who can handle and control them the best  every time, it’s the law of the jungle! Exciting, thrilling, and oh so practical, cars and racing push every button we possess as a special way that  nothing else can. Because only auto racing blends primeval skills of competition, reflexes, courage and just plain guts  with the cutting edge of the technology that our modern lives depend on. Throwing a spear, running with…say..a large inflated leather ball,  hitting an object with a chunk of wood, even riding a horse well are not the skills of modern life.  While we do love to watch the modern gladiators compete, the skill set is about as relevant to modern life as the horse and buggy is today.  Of course,  the high school jocks have always had their followers as well, and some of them grow up to become….you guessed it, local sportswriters and sports TV anchors, who, after all these years, are still bashing  those car guys and racers who got their girls.

So when you hear a jock, or anyone else for that matter, attack auto racing in general, followed up inevitably on  race car drivers in particular, casually take a look at what they happen to drive. Odds are it will be some dull and boring soulless transportation module of some sort. Or some bling encrusted ‘hotrod’. His garage, if he has one, might have a cheap little Home Depot tackle box with some cheap tools with nary a scratch on them, but that is.  The man has been neutered, and does not even know it, yet strikes out at those who live life to the fullest.  I suppose we should be thankful, where would we put all of those folks if they saw the light and headed to the track? Many do not, and will not ever understand what this sport contributes, what it takes to succeed at any level, in any and all capacities. From the  kid pushing a broom in the race shop  after school to the Jimmy Johnson’s, Steve Kinser’s, Michael Schumacher’s,  and everyone in between, all are a breed apart. As the great Earnest Hemingway said, “Auto Racing and bullfighting are the only true sports, everything else is just a game.”