(Note: This is not about current politics, so if you are only interested in that, please return to the other diaries. This is placed here for those on KOS who have said they enjoy my writing. This is the first time this piece has appeared anywhere. Thanks. Will.)
I’m six years old. Dad’s taking us to the races.
It’s a drive West out of Spokane, Washington, and turn right somewhere toward the Canadian Border.
It’s a dry dusty day hot Summer day and the parking lot is full of cars of the fifties.
We have a Chevrolet station wagon with giant shark fins and it is painted Pea Green.
You can hear old car motors roaring in the distance as we all jump out.
And then we’re at the bleachers and me and my brother are scrambling high up into them for the best view.
We sit our butts down and there in front of us is the most magnificent thing I had yet seen at that age:
A dirt racetrack.
And all along the inside front of the track drivers and crews are getting ready.
This is not your grandson’s 2010 Nascar racing..
This is 1959 Amateur Stock Car racing, at it’s dirtiest and dustiest,
None of these cars are new.
And none of them have advertisements on them for Crap Cola or whatever.
These are old cars from the thirties and forties that the owners don’t care to get a few bumps and bruises on.
And the numbers on them are hand painted, not expensive decals.
And the numbers are always good numbers, numbers to be desired.
You rarely see a lame number.
What you see are always these, with a few oddballs thrown in.
You see Number "1", and his enemy Number "3.# Then there’s lucky "7" and his cousin "77" and of course 3's cousin "13."
Then there’s "66" and "49" and "9" and "99."
But never a 666 or a 669.
And there is always somebody who has to be "0" and every now and then a joker shows up with a "?" painted on his door instead of a number.
There is never a number 2. Nobody wants to be second place.
You can be car number "99" and that’s alright. But don’t dare come in here with a two painted on your car, because that’s what you’ll always be: second place..
Sometimes there’s a "5" and 88 shows up occasionally...
And "16" is respectable.
But somehow when that checkered flag goes down...
You always know what’s gonna happen.
There’s going to be a battle between a good number and a bad number.
A battle to the end.
I don’t ever remember seeing "1" and "7" duke it out in the dust. Nor "3" and "33".
It’s always good versus bad.
Even out in the country on what seems to be a 10 mile long oval track to a six year old boy - but has to be a quarter mile or half mile track.
The cars line up by two’s... the line- up having previously been determined by the God’s that be.
And they now all have their motors on and the noise is deafening.
All waiting for that flag to drop.
All impatient to go like HELL.
Or at least as fast as their cars from the 30's will take them.
Because as I said, none of these are new cars. Nobody in 1959 Spokane, Washington is dumb enough or rich enough or fool enough to bring new cars out here to race.
And none of these are professional drivers.
These people are just mechanics and their friends out to race legally.
Once a week. For the thrill. For the trophy. And for the joy and memories of six year old boys like me.
You size them up while they are out there, waiting.
You pick the one you hope will win...
And they are off and they are going into that first turn of that 10 lap race and they are picking up top speed which is so slow in those days you feel you could run alongside them and help your favorite if they would just let you.
They go down that first straight way and the crowd is cheering, and something else is happening.
They are raising an incredible cloud of dust even in the first lap.
It rises like some giant Oklahoma dust bowl but for the most part stays over the track, 200 feet high...
And they are making another turn...
And there’s some bumping going on as they jockey for position
And somebody almost loses control
and white number "7" is way back at the pack and you think he’s never gonna make it to the front with just 8 laps to go, and orange 4, a 32 Ford, has got the lead, but black 13 is right on his trunk as they come out of the far left turn,
And it seems like 16 blue isn’t even trying but just getting in the way, as the rest of the pack has already lapped him once this race
and you hear the crowd and something is wrong and you look back to the right rear of the track and gray "8" has gone too high and is right up at the top of the banked track and now his far two wheels are over the edge and
Whoa! He has gone off the track and disappeared from the crowd into the unknown, and people run up and over the embankment and the yellow caution flag is brought out and the cars have to slow down and see if the driver survived the tumble down the other side.
It’s a scary few minutes. Then two men appear with the driver appear and the announcer gets on the megaphone and says those magic words, "He’s OK!"
So they get the cars lined up again and "Orange" is now at the flag, holding the inside front pole position with white "7" on the outside of him, and "11" and "8" and black "13" back in the pack and some others and then the flag is dropped again,
And blue "16" passes everybody but what does it matter because he was a lap behind so there is no way he could ever catch up...
and then black "13 " comes out of nowhere it seems and he also passes every Christian car in the race and takes the lead in the back stretch and now it seems it is just him and "7" as the others seem to fade away...
And every time "7" makes a run to pass "13" "13" moves in front of him and won’t let him and there is only two laps to go and now EVERYBODY is up standing on their feet in the bleachers as they see Orange "4" trying desperately to get into the race but getting tangled up with gray "8" and now gray "8" is turning, turning, and by God he is flipping over and rolling side over side and comes to a stop sideways in the track where he is almost T -boned by yellow "77" and as yellow flames shoot out his engine. It’s on FIRE!" and blue "16" goes on by him like a streak.
Then the gray car’s crew runs toward him with fire extinguishers as the caution flag goes out again...
With ONLY ONE LAP TO GO in the whole race.
One foams the flames out, and two more pull him out and he’s ok, just a little dizzy.
"HE"S OK, FOLKS!" and there is a great big round of applause for his bravery, and right on schedule a wrecker pulls up and men turn the car back over on it’s wheels, and push him off the track, the wrecker not needed this time.
And everybody in the known world is now staring down at the starting point to see how the cars are going to be lined up,
fulling knowing it will be black "13" on the inside and white "7" next to him, and whoever the rest is doesn’t really matter, because you know when that flag is dropped to start, both drivers are going to stomp a hole through the floorboard trying to get as much gas into that carburator as is humanly and machinely possible.
And the green flag is dropped and they both shoot out like slow moving rockets and the rest of the world ceases to exist...
As "13" hugs close into the turn but white "7" swings high and you just know when he comes out of that second turn he is going to dive bomb right in front of "13 or die trying,’ and then there is a gasp from the crowd because where in the you know what did THAT blue "16" come from? "As he is now on "7's" tail so close it is as if he were being towed by the white car!"
And "7" doesn’t even know it! Neither does "13!"
And when "7" does dive bomb "13" and "13" moves up to block him "16" dives down below BOTH "7" and "13" and NOW TAKES THE LEAD
And "7" and "13" can’t believe it that they are now tied for second place going into the third turn but they are NOT GOING TO TAKE IT and I am jumping up and down in the bleachers forgetting who it was I was rooting for in the first place but now pulling for that scoundrel in blue "16" who had been acting like a don’t care dummy for the whole race but who when I wasn’t looking caught up a missed lap and now was going into the final turn with "7" and "13" now so close on either side of him they look like they could pick his pockets and they are giving it everything they have including two kitchen sinks each and
Coming into the straightaway THEY ARE ALL THREE NOSE TO NOSE and the SCREAMING IS SO LOUD I can’t hear the roar of the motors any more, and it is all in slow motion now as they come across the finish line looking like one car made out of three and the checkered flag goes down and the announcer is YELLING OUT, "HOLY MOSES! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT FINISH? I DON"T KNOW WHO IN THE HELL WON! - WE’LL HAVE TO CHECK THE PHOTO!
And they’ve got some way of doing that and you see them doing that and ALL three of the drivers have left their cars running and are running toward the judges and you see some head shaking going on and some people arguing and white "7" throws his helmet down on the ground and kicks it out into the raceway and black "13" just walks back to his car and you know just as the announcer says it, "IT’s BLUE 16!" and tells the name of the driver and all his crew are rushing over and picking him up and they grab the checkered flag and they take him over to his car and he takes his victory lap, his arm holding the flag out the window...
And I breath a sigh of relief.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
But I know there are a lot more races to come today
and it’s time for a hot dog and a coke
while more cars still arrive
being pulled on long trailers.
There’s green "11" and brown "52."
And some guy with a Question mark instead of a number
And smart ass zero just pulled in
And it’s going to be a helluva great day!
And I know then, even at a young age...
I ain’t never counting out an underdog ever again.
Even myself.
The dust has settled down, and now the peace of all the drivers having turned off their motors for a few minutes at once
is once again shattered...
As is my epiphany.
By the loud noise of power waiting to be unleashed in the form of brute speed.
Ladies and Gentlemen
It is race time in Spokane, Washington
in the Summer of 1959.
And the cars are starting to line up again.
And you have to be this old to remember this.
It’s time to pick a winner.
It’s time to pick who I will be.
It’s time to give it all they have
and teach me how to do it, too.
Not with rich sponsors putting their name all over your ass.
But just you and whatever friends you have
trying to win with whatever rusted out piece of junkyard dog
you can make a winning chariot out of.
Always coming from behind.
Always being counted out.
Something always catching fire
Sometimes always being pushed to the side and over the edge.
But always jumping up and shaking it off,
wiping the dirt off and coughing out the dust...
And trying one more time.
Til my engine will no longer start.
And all that is remembered of me is
my name number.
And that I tried.
I’m a memory.
But once I was alive...
Trying to do my best.
With what I had.
Racing slowly
toward the finish line.
May 11, 2010.
WillBevis.com