A Wild Ride- chapter one
A work of fiction by “Anonymous”
I was born in Terre Haute Indiana in July 1934, and grew up
on a corn farm in Fountain County near the town of Covington, the hometown of
my racing hero, Forrest Parker. My Dad was a racing fan, and I became one too
at a really young age. I fondly remember that he and I visited many dusty dirt
tracks as I grew up and of course, every May we made the trip to see ‘the big
one’ in Indianapolis. My first ‘500’ was in 1941, and the war years were hard
for me with no racing. Dad and I missed the 1946 ‘500’ because he didn’t think
it would be worth it because “that old place has got to be falling down,
son.” We went again in 1947 and I saw all
the 500-mile races through college.
During the summer of 1954 in between my sophomore and junior
years of college at Purdue University, I went into partnership with a couple of
buddies, Hal and Sam, to buy and race a ¾ midget powered by a tired little Crosley
engine. I did most of the mechanical work on the purple ‘HCS Special,’ but we took
turns driving. Sam, whose Dad’s 1952 International pickup hauled the car, spun
out twice in Plymouth Indiana, and I drove okay at Mount Lawn Speedway near New
Castle, but then in the third race at Rushville, with Hal driving, the
crankshaft broke.
With no money to fix the ruined engine, we sold the car at a
big loss which temporarily ended my dream of becoming big-time racing driver.
Hal and Sam both lost all interest in racing after the tragedies during the terrible
summer of 1955, with Vuky, Jack McGrath, and all those people killed at LeMans
France. Not me, though; I was a
life-long racing fan no matter what happened.
After I graduated from Purdue in 1956 with my Industrial
Engineering degree, I took a job with a furniture building company in the Deep
South. It was my first time ever below the Mason-Dixon Line, and I’ll tell you
that it took some adjustment for a Hoosier what with the different foods, the
heat and the accents. The engineering work at Mr. Johnson’s factories came easy
to me, and not surprisingly, my nickname at work was “Yank,” short for Yankee
which everyone (but me) found hilarious.
After I lived in the downtown hotel a few weeks, I rented a
little furnished house complete with a carport to protect my prized 1947
Oldsmobile ‘Series 66’ Club Coupe my high school graduation present. With my
new adult responsibilities I grew up a lot over the next few months as I
learned what it was like to live as an adult. Outside of the movies once a
week, I stayed home and saved my money but I sure missed going to races.
One Saturday morning in mid-September, I was listening to the
radio and checking over the Olds when a heard steps. It was the postman about
ten years older than me who handed me my mail that included the latest editions
of my connections to the racing world - Speed Age magazine and National
Speed Sport News. “Say, I been meaning to welcome y’all to town, since I
couldn’t help but notice you’re a race fan, too. My name’s Eddie.”
After a few pleasantries about races and tracks we (mostly
I) had seen, Eddie asked “Y’all ever been to either of our local tracks?” I
confessed to my new friend that I hadn’t heard of them. “Well,” Eddie said
“They’re running tonight at Union Speedway, out five miles west of town on Union
Road off Highway 23. It ain’t no Indianapolis Speedway but y’all ought to come.
The fun all starts at 6 o’clock.”
Distracted, I told Eddie I would think about it, and turned
to go in the house, but not before Eddie gestured at the copy of National
Speed Sport News in my hand. “Heard of that new kid on the cover- Foyt? I wonder
if he’s as hot as they say he is? I read my copy last night and it says he won a bunch of them ‘midget
car’ races in Texas and just won an IMCA ‘big car’ feature.”
I coughed instead of snorting “I don’t know Eddie, never
heard of him, but he’s probably just another of those guys that’s a flash in
the pan.” Eddie grimaced “you may be right. I’ve never seen a midget or big car
race like you so I wouldn’t know.” As he
turned and walked across the dusty lawn towards my neighbor’s house Eddie said
over his shoulder “Well, hope to see to y’all out there at Union tonight.”
Later that afternoon my mind kept drifting back to Eddie’s
invitation as I read the Speed Age article on Charlie Sacks’ Hal Ford ‘Offy
Killer.’ What with graduation, moving, and starting my job, I couldn’t remember
the last time I’d heard the roar of a racing engine, so I changed into my Bardahl
t-shirt and grabbed the car keys.
Please feel free to offer your comments, either good or bad. The second installment will be posted on October 1 2014.
