A family member of a prominent racing family was injured today when a propane tank exploded. This family has done a great deal of good in our community within its 50+ years of existence, not only with jobs and charities, but with great races and building a sense of community. In fact, looking at video footage of the raceway, I couldn't help remember my time there as a "groupie."
My brother and a group of his friends decided to go to the speedway one Friday night because anyone who wanted to pay the entry fee could race a car. I didn't have anything to do, and I had a vicious crush on one of his friends, so I tagged along. Within minutes, I was smitten, both with the guy and with 1/4 mile racing as a whole. I loved the sound of the engines as they revved at the tree. I loved the smell of burning rubber as cars revved their engines and locked their brakes. I especially loved the sound of a muffer-less car flying down the track. It was exciting!
The current speedway is the updated, modernized version of the place where I once hung out. Then, it was a simple track with several lanes, a snack shack next to the staging lanes, and the ability to stand near the start to simply see, hear, and experience the thrill of the race. When it rained, the entire track became a river, making it hard to run to our cars. The pits were filled with guys in my age group and their fathers, stinking of cigarettes, oil, and sweat, a smell I grew to appreciate.
I had friends who raced, so it was exciting to stand in the staging lanes with them before their races, watching their other buddies head down the track. Occasionally, someone would let me ride along as they raced, which was always fun. We'd often walk the pits, looking for someone a friend of mine knew, or visiting with other gearheads as they readied themselves for the next race. Once, we were so far into the pits and my friend's race was due, we crowded into some guy's race car and headed up to the staging lanes. I sat, straddling the transmission.
Because I went so often, I knew the guy at the gate, who'd wave me through without paying my 5.00. I'm sure it's more than five bucks now, but then, five bucks was a lot of money, especially when I worked in a restaurant. My shift seemed to take forever on Fridays, and I often ate dinner in the car as I hurried to the speedway. Once racing was over, it was time to eat. Pizza Hut or Village Inn were our preferred choices. It was usually me and five or more guys at a table (my mother was scandalized), and if it was pizza, they'd wait for me to take what I wanted before they dove in, often polishing off a couple of pizzas in a matter of minutes while downing pitchers of pop faster than the server could bring them. Naturally, being young men, there was a great deal of belching that took place, each guy trying to outbelch the others.
After a few years, we all went our separate ways, grew up, moved elsewhere. But sometimes, when I sit in my backyard and can hear the engines revving and smell the rubber burning, I send a silent thank you to Gomer, Ogre, Mike, and Chris for taking me under their wings and making my Friday nights filled with fun and laughter.
