A work of fiction by “Anonymous”
As I drove west on Highway 23 into the setting sun that
Saturday night in my two-tone grey Oldsmobile, I looked forward to finally see
some racing. About five miles out of town, just as Eddie as said, there were a
few cars that turned south onto a narrow road - Union Road.
I followed a dusty
1934 Ford sedan for half a mile until turned it left into a small dirt lot
already halfway filled with cars. In the distance I could see the top rows of open grandstands and I heard the roar of racing engines being tuned in the
distance so I knew I had arrived at Union Speedway.
As I approached the tiny ticket booth, I heard the pretty
blonde inside exclaim “Hi Yankee boy! I see you found us!” I realized that it
was Louise, the cashier at Hubin’s Rexall Drugstore whom I had unsuccessfully
asked out earlier in the week. Now I
understood that she had been truthful when she told me she was busy on Saturday
night.
After I greeted her and paid the $2.00 admission, she said
“if you’ve have asked I’d have given you a free pass. My Daddy runs the
spectator side of things here, while my Uncle Dub runs the track operation for
the owner your boss Mr. Johnson” I mumbled my thanks and as I walked away, she
called out “Enjoy the races, and ask me out for some other night sometime.”
Once inside the gate, I walked past the restrooms and
concession stand then clambered up a rickety grandstand to the right of the
flag stand, which hung out over the track just above the low block retaining
wall. I found a seat and surveyed the facility, which was pretty primitive even
for 1955.
The ¼-mile track built in an open field had little banking in the
turns and the only retaining wall was on the front stretch to protect the
spectators. There were a row of lights strung along each of the straightaways
from poles, with one big light mounted on poles in the infield at the center of each of the
turns.
I counted two dozen jalopy race
cars and ten more sleeker-looking hot rods and roadsters in the infield as their
respectively crews clad in t-shirts and white pants toiled over them.
After a few minutes the public address speakers
crackled to life and the announcer said “Welcome folks this is your announcer
Fats Harrison. I’ll be here all night to call the exciting race action.” After a pause, he said “Okay boys let’s get
this program started- line them cars up to go work the track before we start
racing.”
As the cars slowly tooled
around the track, Eddie the postman walked up the grandstand. “Hey, glad to see
you! If you want you can come and set with me and my family we're just a couple
rows behind you.” Under his breath, Eddie added, “I got a flask with some hard
stuff.” I gladly accepted Eddie’s offer not so I could drink but so I could get the “inside scoop” on the night’s races.
The night was a whirlwind of racing; as I had observed there
were two classes which Eddie described as ”stock” and “modified.” The stock
class cars looked to my eye to be escapees from a junkyard, while some of the
better modified cars were similar to the Mutual Roadsters I’d seen a few times
back home in Indiana. Eddie’s wife Martha told me that ‘Fats’ was a radio
announcer down at the state capitol and not fat at all, “in fact” she
giggled “he’s very handsome,” which earned her a dirty look from her husband.
As darkness fell, my eyes adjusted to the dim track
lighting, but I had to wonder how much the drivers saw on the track. The ‘stock
car’ heat races and feature were mostly of the “slam bang” variety with a lot
of spins and crashes which brought the crowd of 500 fans to their feet.
By
comparison the ‘modified’ cars were faster and they raced clean for the
most part. I say for the most part, because the driver of one car, the number
#5 a white cut-down flathead-powered 1940 Ford coupe treated his fellow racers
pretty roughly and ‘Fats’ pointed out each bump to murmuring crowd.
Even though he clearly had a superior car, at the start of
the 15-lap feature he bulled his way towards the front. A few laps later the
number #5 ran second to the pale blue #34 1930 Ford roadster driven by Eddie’s
brother. As the pair entered turn three, the #5 car locked onto the bumper of the
leading roadster and spun him into the dusty infield.
After he got the lead, the #5 car led the rest of the way and lapped about
half of the remaining cars. After the checkered flag fell and the #5 car pulled
to a stop in front of the grandstands, the crowd heartily booed as the driver
climbed out.
As he removed his Cromwell helmet, I recognized the scowl
and long greasy black hair of “Sims” the attendant at the Pure Oil station in
town. As the flagman scampered down from the flag stand onto the track to hand the
winner the checkered flag, the booing continued, and after he was handed the
flag, “Sims” snapped it in half, threw it on the ground and stamped on it.
I thought there
would be a riot as “Sims” climbed back in his car, fired it up and drove it
back to his pit. Once there he began to attach it to the tow bar behind his pickup
truck as the catcalls rained down. Eddie drunkenly yelled in my ear
“That Sims! What a bum! They ought to have kicked that cracker out of the race for how he done my brother.”
I was curious to learn more about the local racing scene,
but as excited (and drunk) as everyone was, I knew I wouldn’t get straight answers to my
questions tonight, I could ask around town next week, so I climbed into my Olds and headed for home.
The author is anxious to judge the racing history community's reaction to his fictional work. If there is enough interest, he's promised to continue his story.............
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