As I sauntered up to the track, the antique Midget racer
jumped; its Model A Ford engine coughed, and then it roared to life. Its proud
owner eased it around the improvised dirt track for a couple of laps to warm it
up, and then shot down the straightaway like a spit-out watermelon seed and
snapped into a roaring power slide at the turn. I was surprised at how fast the
tiny racer could go. But then that engine did have 200 cubic inches to play
with, and had been souped up, as they used to say.
I had stumbled onto a get-together of a club of guys who
collect and race old dirt-track cars. Most of the machines were painted in
vintage schemes, often with the names of famous drivers on them. There was one
outfitted with an early Chevy straight-six sporting three carbs, and there were
also a couple of Thirties-era cars with Ford V-8 60s in them making that
wonderful sonorous roar that only a vintage flathead produces.
One of the members of the club was a dairy farmer who had
cleared a track in his pasture with a scraper and invited the guys over. I was
cruising along a nearby highway when I glimpsed one of the machines screaming
down a straightaway in the distance. To my wife's chagrin, I turned off and
found the farmer's driveway. Being an old-school reporter, I kept going until
someone stopped me.
No one did.
Actually, the guys were happy to show off their machines.
The sounds, along with the smells of gasoline, alcohol, oil and rubber, took me
back to my childhood, when my father and my uncle Benny used to take me to the
speedway on Saturday night. And each May, we used to cluster around the radio
to listen to the Indianapolis 500. I was a little kid, but I remember the era
well.
Many of the early Midgets, Sprint Cars, and Indy
roadsters--especially the Offenhauser-powered ones--made awesome power and
could be over-driven quite easily, with tragic results. Hot rods of the time
were much the same: The rodders of yesteryear were better at making cars go
fast than they were at making them handle or stop. Those refinements came
later. And in reality, until the middle of the last century, most race cars
were actually "specials" or hot rods, not high-tech purpose-built
machines that cost easily seven figures.
It was so heartening to see and hear those old race cars
again. I have an enduring fondness for American backyard specials, whether
they're dirt track machines or lakesters. Don't get me wrong: I deplore seeing
restorable vintage cars made into hot rods today, but I am glad people are
restoring the historic rods and race cars of yesteryear and putting them back
the way they were in the old days.
You can easily spot the old originals. They don't look like
today's lollipops with their Chevy small-blocks, Turbo 350 transmissions,
chrome differential covers and absurdly fat tires. In fact, in the old days,
they usually had tall rear tires in order to get top end performance out of the
old flathead V-8s coupled to low rearend ratios.
For instance, at a swap meet awhile back, I saw a nearly
perfect original track rod. It was a 1934 Ford fenderless highboy roadster with
a later Mercury flathead engine, tall, thin rear wheels, and no interior except
for a seat. The welds on the chassis were sloppy, the paint was a faded baby
blue, and the whole car had the look of what was called a jalopy in the
Forties. It was an authentic, original backyard special. And just so you'd
know, in the front seat of this blast-from-the-past was a hand-lettered sign
that said "It IS restored, ****head."
Years ago, most race cars in the U.S. were cobbled together
specials made out of standard production cars. Even the Indianapolis 500 was
full of Studebaker, Ford and GMC stock-block engines and running gear. It was a
creative and innovative time when the automobile was still being
perfected--unlike today, when the race entrants are all stultifyingly identical
cars and everything revolves around corporate sponsors.
We've forgotten that Indy started out as an endurance race,
hence the 500 miles. The pits in those days were holes in the ground in which
mechanics could stand and work on the cars. Daring drivers were much admired
back then, but the race was more about the cars.
As evidence of what I am talking about, at Indy, you still
qualify the car, not the driver. A team can switch drivers before the race if
it chooses, but a driver can't substitute his backup car at the last minute the
way he can in other modern races. And I must confess, I like it that way.
I will watch the 500 again this year, as I have followed it
every year since 1955, when I was listening to it on the radio with my dad as
we polished the family Pontiac. I remember it well because it was the year
Vukie (Bill Vukovich Sr.) was killed in a horrific crash. But now, sadly, the
race doesn't mean much to me. Now it's all about strategy.
Gone are the days when Freddie Agabashian put a Cummins
Diesel-powered car on the pole. (He failed to win because his car was so heavy
that he couldn't keep tires on it.) That was 1952. Back when the cars--and some
of the drivers--were loud, smelly brutes. Back before the pretty boys and girls
in their corporate logo-plastered driving suits, with their identical cars
costing astronomical sums, preened in front of the cameras.
I still follow racing, but I'd rather watch a Ford
60-powered Midget painted up in Gilmore racing livery, driven by an
enthusiastic amateur around a farmer's paddock, than go to a major event.
That's how it all started, and that was when racing was at its most
unpredictable, exciting best.
Keep American auto racing alive. Restore a backyard special.
This article originally appeared in the July, 2009 issue of
Hemmings Classic Car.
from Hemmings Classic Car
No comments:
Post a Comment