I have loved you beyond all reason or rhyme, called your name out loud in the dead of night, cursed you and at times, even hated your guts. You have been the best and the worst of times. You have been my most treasured friend and my worst arch enemy, rivaled only by the dreaded John Patrick Fitzgerald, who I knocked clean out in our church basement right after Sunday school when I was in the sixth grade. My blood-stained Sunday best became a symbol of triumph.... Sometimes you can be the coldest brassy bitch of them all, but I always let you back into my life. You are a bug-eyed six year old boy sitting on his daddy's knee, he much younger than I am now-- me watching the lines on his handsome granite face darken and deepen as he witnessed the instant conversion. I was in love and there would be no turning back. I was gonna be a Sprint Car star, the best who ever lived and he knew he couldn't do a damn thing to stop me. He told me he didn't raise me to off myself in a Sprinter and laid it on extra thick by telling me sternly that my racing would surely break my mother's heart. I hate to admit it but I didn't care. My heroes had come to life at warp speed on that big black half mile of pure bliss and there could be no turning back now. I even executed a somersault off a picnic table in my own back yard when I was only five just to prove to myself that I was bad ass enough to be a champion like Jerry Richert, Scratch Daniels, the divine Jerry Blundy and Wichita's Harold Leep.
She is all-night white knuckle drives through blinding rain in ramshackle rides. As I carved through the darkness at 100 mph plus, I knew I was asking for it, but I can never seem to get to you soon enough. Three hundred and sixty-six nerve jangling miles to the pit gate and get the hell out of my way or for damn sure there's gonna be a high speed crack-up. The lady in black is calling my name once again and I must never betray her. The now dead as a doornail BatMobile and I once made the trip in just a tick over five hours on no sleep, 33 Marlboro reds and pure rock and roll adrenaline right after I had put the final touches of pop shimmer and brutality on the first and only White-Hot Tizzies release. She beckoned me and I came as I always have. I'm a slave to her powers but I don't mind. She is my seductress and she owns my soul and that's exactly the way we both want it. She is me wearing my poor mother clean out for two tortuous months until she ultimately buckled under my relentless pleas and consented to let me live in a pup tent for three whole days at the '71 Nats. I headed straight for Ernie's Bar and Tap in Ainsworth and scored two cases of iced down PBR. I abused my new found freedom something fierce and woke up on Saturday morning in a mound of hay at the sale barn with a throbbing skull and horse-flies the size of eight-balls having an all you can eat breakfast buffet on my face. I didn't give a damn cuz I'd found a new brand of religion in the form of Jan Opperman. I had met him face to face the night before and even though the GREAT ONE had rendered my star-struck ass completely speechless, all was right with the world. Twelve hours later gorilla-willed hillbilly Dick Gaines took Jan to school on the final lap in Karl Kinser's butt ugly white with red trim #11 and you better believe I took that crap seriously. I despised Gaines until I met him 15 years later, long after crashes and father time had eaten him half alive. Me and my bud Greg scored a gig stooging for Ron "the Barrel" Fischer after befriending a couple of dope smokin' frizzy haired fiends from the hills of Indiana known to us only as" Frog" and "Mummy." They were a blast and I'll forever be indebted to those beloved stoners for taking us under their wings into their brave and warped cartoon world.
Neither wild Arkansas razorback pigs, a summer long sentence for smashing the family '67 Mustang into a barn when I gassed her just a wee bit too deep into a mid July dry/slickee or a pissed beyond reason mama could keep me away the following August, and I immediately betrayed her already flimsy trust in my judgment by stumble bumming into the Arizona Barn and discovering up close and personal how the racers of the day spent their "down-time." I don't mind tellin' ya-- it was pure poetry to behold, decadence in its purest form. Hell yes, gimme all ya got and then some. The likes of Darin' Darrell Dockery, Billy Shuman, Jay Woodside and Big Dick Sutcliffe played high stakes poker with dough stacked a foot high while making goo-goo eyes with the painted lady tramps of the evening. It seemed to me that these ladies were up for just about anything-- just as long as you spent your Saturday nights draped in Nomex and skid lids. Meanwhile, no bullshit Kenny Weld was busy obsessing over Bob Weikert's already iconic Beefmobile, his blacksmith forearms buried deep in the entrails of their home-built grain-fed hog. Wow! Kenny Weld. Say his star-crossed name in hushed tones, damn it all to hell and back. And thus began my lifelong love/hate with Kansas City's brightest shining star. My distaste didn't melt an ounce until a few years ago when I was told that old Kenny had slogged through a driving rain in the downright freaky forests of Montana mountain country to tell Jan that his little bro Jay had been smashed to death at 27 in a heat race during his Knoxville debut. I introduced myself to Kenny right after he got out of the federal pen on cocaine and gun charges and let's just say he was anything but friendly and leave it at that. I was wounded but I bore no grudges. By then, I had sussed out that Weld wasn't being a prick, his fertile mind simply percolated on whatever plane an anti-social super-genius operates on, and he flat didn't relate to mere mortals on any level unless you could help him get fast again. The sport had passed him by and his rad new creation handled like a dog sled and was a major buzz kill at the pay window, although it remains one of the most innovative and downright awe inspiring beasts ever built. There's a photo of the proud new papa sitting in his just completed baby and Kenny never looked more at peace with the world. In 1973, while Oppie partied with his carnie drug buddies, Kenny kept his freakishly pointed nose to the proverbial grindstone and dominated the field to earn his fourth and final Nats title. With or without those brutish wings, Kansas City Kenny had their sorry asses covered big time. I hated the winged wonders at once and 37 years has done little to soften my stance on the subject. Then as now, the damn beasts are so greased lightning rapid they can barely even race. These days, the doggone things are more guided missle than race car and you point 'em more than drive' em. Granted, wings have saved hundreds of lives and extended many a career, I'll give 'em that, but wings are little more than fuel for a bonfire to this old-skool boy from the hinterlands of Mt. Pleasant, Iowa. Heroes turned to zeroes and legends and pretenders alike got airmailed to that great racetrack in the sky. The fast guys came and went, as did my idols. Lonnie Jensen, good old Ray Lee, Earl "the Pearl" Wagner, Fast Eddie Leavitt, burly Des Moines blacksmith Ralph Blacket and hell bent for leather Roger Rager. Hell, even Gary Dunkle was fast for a New York minute. T.J. Giddings suddenly got life in the exreme lane figured out and Rocky Hodges could scare the bee-jeezuz out of Beezlebub himself. The Wolfgang era kicked in and Randy Smith didn't let a little old thing like being blind in one eye stop him from snaring seven track titles, nor did the daily reminder that Smith's own daddy had gotten his arm torn off by one of these surly bitches. Gary Scott's gory front stretch nightmare proved to be the final nail in the casket and signaled the end of a brutal and macabre last chapter to a beyond colorful era that we shall never see the likes of again. These were MEN baby!
Then one day I looked up from my twenty-something stupor and realized that some of these heroes had become my friends. I moved the incomparable Jerry Blundy to tears of pride with tales of his impact on my life as a hick from the sticks who wanted to grow up to be just like him. My words became weapons and upon graduating from a Missouri cow college, I would gaze forlornly at the back chute from my last row perch in Section M and wonder just what in the hell I was gonna do with my life. My beloved mom and pop are both gone now and I've fallen in and out of love dozens of times, raised a model son and toured the eastern hemisphere in a beat up Volkswagen van, playing my songs to hipsters, geeks, drugged up zombies and pretentious Euro-trash. I recently found the love of my life and the very first thing I'm gonna do is bring my ravishing beauty of a bride straight to Knoxville so she can find out what I am really made of. Jesus Christ Almighty God, now I know what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna come back to Knoxville and then someday I will die.
Nov 29, 2010
Oct 25, 2010
Even When the Racing Sux, Racing Doesn't Suck
The big and bad World of Outlaws are an easy target, especially for scribes like me with anger management problems, but strike me dead in my trax if the racing itself hasn't been beyond stellar all season long. Granted, Outlaw brass practically beg to be turned into punch lines for such shennanigans as referring to the DIRT trailer as COMMAND CENTRAL, but in the even dozen WoO shows I eyeballed in 2010, only a MANZY (r.i.p.) rubber downer in hots failed to deliver the knockout blow.
Yes indeedy, God bless GoodYear and their ultra crappy Sprint Car tires. With a whole field of fire-breathers that won't hook up and lock down no matter what kind of set-up you throw at 'em, the on track action has been more furious and a kit and kaboodle more frenzied than any since the pre-wing era. A mid-October raindate at bad to the bone Haubstadt saw the determined not to be lapped Paul May blow a desperate to win Donny Schatz away by a straightaway while Joey, up and over the cushion per usual, took nearly 20 laps to slip past May. Meanwhile, eventual winner Craig Dollansky lived up to his "Crowd Pleaser" moniker and exhibited more vim and vigor than I have seen him flex since he broke his back in a psuedo-Indy Car. Dollansky was absolutely not gonna be denied this time around and his reunion with D.J. Lindsey appears to be just the elixir Craig needs. Amen.
The proverbial apple surely didn't fall far from the Wild Child's tree as Lil' Sheldon, looking all of 14, continues to polish the family legacy by perfectly duplicating the thrill a second stab and steer tactics of his hall of fame daddy-o. This kid is a racer to the bone and the sweetest soul you would ever care to meet until he buckles his 125 pound carcass into the family Sprinter. Then, Sheldon Haudenschild is PURE ANIMAL.....Paul McMahan, who inherited a job on the Outlaw trail at the expense of young Cody Darrah's early season freak misfortune, most likely raced his way back into the good graces of many a big-time car owner with his steady and heady on track performances in 2010.....It will be interesting to see if and how Danny Lasoski ressurects his suddenly sagging career. It looks like the heir apparent to the Lonnie parsons # 6 will most likely be Kraig Kinser.....Although they failed to flex much muscle at Haubstadt, on the ball crew chief Rob "Suitcase" Hart is the best thing to ever happen to the emerging star that is David Gravel. Only Hart's itchy propensity for fleeing for perceived greener pastures will slow Gravel's impressive climb to the fast lane.....Sure will be weird to to see the 2011 season kick off without the enigmatic R 19 on the scene. I simply cannot imagine Haud anywhere but in a top-shelf Outlaw ride as he winds down a storybook career. However, I choose to cling to the notion that team owner Lon Carnahan will have a change of heart before the green flies once again. Hell yeah, Haud'll wad up some Triple X chassis' along the way, and while you'd swear at times he doesn't look much beyond his own injector stacks, Jac is still as death defying and void of fear as he ever was. Treasure the bantam weight daredevil while you can--he's the closest thing to the ghost of Richie Vogler as you will ever see........Keep the faith..
Yes indeedy, God bless GoodYear and their ultra crappy Sprint Car tires. With a whole field of fire-breathers that won't hook up and lock down no matter what kind of set-up you throw at 'em, the on track action has been more furious and a kit and kaboodle more frenzied than any since the pre-wing era. A mid-October raindate at bad to the bone Haubstadt saw the determined not to be lapped Paul May blow a desperate to win Donny Schatz away by a straightaway while Joey, up and over the cushion per usual, took nearly 20 laps to slip past May. Meanwhile, eventual winner Craig Dollansky lived up to his "Crowd Pleaser" moniker and exhibited more vim and vigor than I have seen him flex since he broke his back in a psuedo-Indy Car. Dollansky was absolutely not gonna be denied this time around and his reunion with D.J. Lindsey appears to be just the elixir Craig needs. Amen.
The proverbial apple surely didn't fall far from the Wild Child's tree as Lil' Sheldon, looking all of 14, continues to polish the family legacy by perfectly duplicating the thrill a second stab and steer tactics of his hall of fame daddy-o. This kid is a racer to the bone and the sweetest soul you would ever care to meet until he buckles his 125 pound carcass into the family Sprinter. Then, Sheldon Haudenschild is PURE ANIMAL.....Paul McMahan, who inherited a job on the Outlaw trail at the expense of young Cody Darrah's early season freak misfortune, most likely raced his way back into the good graces of many a big-time car owner with his steady and heady on track performances in 2010.....It will be interesting to see if and how Danny Lasoski ressurects his suddenly sagging career. It looks like the heir apparent to the Lonnie parsons # 6 will most likely be Kraig Kinser.....Although they failed to flex much muscle at Haubstadt, on the ball crew chief Rob "Suitcase" Hart is the best thing to ever happen to the emerging star that is David Gravel. Only Hart's itchy propensity for fleeing for perceived greener pastures will slow Gravel's impressive climb to the fast lane.....Sure will be weird to to see the 2011 season kick off without the enigmatic R 19 on the scene. I simply cannot imagine Haud anywhere but in a top-shelf Outlaw ride as he winds down a storybook career. However, I choose to cling to the notion that team owner Lon Carnahan will have a change of heart before the green flies once again. Hell yeah, Haud'll wad up some Triple X chassis' along the way, and while you'd swear at times he doesn't look much beyond his own injector stacks, Jac is still as death defying and void of fear as he ever was. Treasure the bantam weight daredevil while you can--he's the closest thing to the ghost of Richie Vogler as you will ever see........Keep the faith..
Oct 20, 2010
Open Wheel Fury - A Mission Statement
I just got back from the final race of the year in Indiana and Ohio has packed it in as well. Iowa Sprint Car disciples have long been conditioned to believe that a season is curtains just cuz the Knoxville fair board says it is so......"the kids are back in school, it's harvest time, hi-skool football, the Hawks schedule is in full swing," blah blah and blah.
I say big deal, let's race until the trees get naked and the snow is flying. Football fans endure lousy weather so why won't we? I figure there are easily four more weekends of Hawkeye warfare to be had. But first let's face the facts kids: the world contains far more sheep than visionaries and Iowa open wheel geeks--particularly those who can't see past their collective noses cuz they are blinded by the (not as bright as they seem lights) of Knoxville--simply stop going to races by mid-September for no other reason than "that's da way we've always dun 'er in Iowaay."
Maybe it doesn't have to be that way and I'm willing to put my $$$ where my mouth is. Hell yeah, it may take a few years to change the culture. Ain't no doubt about it-- I will forever be a writer first-- but I've never stopped being a FAN and now, hell or high-water, I am going to stage Sprint Car EVENTS in my beloved Iowa homeland. Maybe i can put a dent in Sprint Car racing's myriad of problems. I am in love with small town Iowa, it's WHO I AM, and beginning in April of 2011, I have every intention of promoting, (and I do mean promoting), various open wheel programs where ever the hell they will have us--gaudy county fairs, ramshackle bullrings in backwoods communities, widow-maker half miles and maybe even the occasional tar-topper race just to keep everybody off balance. In the grand scheme of things, I aspire to launch Iowa Speed Week in 2012, seven races in seven nights with a 100 grand purse and a point fund, a mighty lofty mission I do declare.
You will notice that I used the word "US." This ain't gonna be about me and here's a shocking revelation: it oughta be all about the racers--the peeps who are willing to bust their asses putting on a show for the FANS cuz they KNOW that I am doing this for all the right reasons. Do I wanna make some dough? Of course, this is America, right? But they will KNOW going in that I love them every bit as much as I love the sport itself--which is considerably--. Nobody is gonna get hosed at my races and those who really know what I'm about will also KNOW that I'll treat 'em square. You can take that to the bank Jack.
Yeah, I wanna attract some sexy marquee names without question, but every bit as important to me is taking care of the guys who race for the sheer hell of it. Gas mashers like Mikey Moore, Brent Antill, Droud, Clint Garner and Jim Moughan are every bit as essential to our stated mission as T-Mac or the dude from Dover. I want RACERS at my races. Paul May, Bob Hampshire, Robby Wolfgang, A-Mac. Josh Higday, Ian Madsen, Jessica Zemken and Gilly Sonner. Jump a start and you go to the back no questions asked-- and we won't care who you are or where you've won races.
In my lifetime as a devout and hardcore race chaser, countless are the times I have recoiled in horror when I see how the racers and fans get treated by your average promoter and track operator. NOT AT MY RACES! If you see the name ROCKS TAR PROMOTIONS PRESENTS-- know this before you leave your driveway: you can bet the farm you're gonna have mega FUN, it's gonna feel like an EVENT with just the right touch of show biz... EVERYONE will be treated with respect and dignity and you will get a barrel full of BANG for you buck. We won't screw you at the gate or at the chow/beer stands and I will NEVER EVER make you sit through a bunch of hobby stock heats to get at the meat of the program. Our races will be as old-skool and bad-assed as I can make them, complete with parades, live rock and roll, legendary grand marshals and infield action all day long. I ain't kidding myself, this will present a whole slew of unforeseen challenges, but I will make this happen. Just watch me work.
Our first event, scheduled for Saturday, April 9th at the Marshalltown Speedway with a Sunday rain date (and I know the crazy Iowa weather could bite us hard) will be billed as the FROST BUSTER 35, a genuine " RUN WHATCHA BRUNGER," a NO HOLDS BARRED bar room brawl on an immaculate 3/8 mile of pure dirt poetry. A tech line? Scales? What the hell for??? If you happen to think your hired shoe is bullet-proof, then build a race car out of conduit and beer cans for all we care. Run any damn tire you want. If it's an open-wheel, open-cockpit creation, that's good enuff for us. Go down to the mad laboratory and stick together the baddest, meanest thousand pony powered MONSTER ever assembled and drag the sumbitch to Marshalltown next spring and take the $2,200 in hard, cold cash right outta my tight black levi jeans. Plant four 426 blown HEMI'S between the frame rails like those nutty farmer tractor pullers and know we won't give a rat's ass. This is free enterprise in its purest form. So dig your ole' grand pappies raccoon coat out of mothballs and together we will defy mother nature's fickle fury. Together we will shatter winter's deafening silence with a sonic symphony of 30 (yes we will start 30 cars) screaming for mercy racing engines. Anybody in? Thanks for reading and keep the faith. Peace out.
As of 1/2/2011, the FROST BUSTER 35 scheduled for 4/9/2011 in Marshalltown, IA, is still pending. I'll update you all as I get more details.
I say big deal, let's race until the trees get naked and the snow is flying. Football fans endure lousy weather so why won't we? I figure there are easily four more weekends of Hawkeye warfare to be had. But first let's face the facts kids: the world contains far more sheep than visionaries and Iowa open wheel geeks--particularly those who can't see past their collective noses cuz they are blinded by the (not as bright as they seem lights) of Knoxville--simply stop going to races by mid-September for no other reason than "that's da way we've always dun 'er in Iowaay."
Maybe it doesn't have to be that way and I'm willing to put my $$$ where my mouth is. Hell yeah, it may take a few years to change the culture. Ain't no doubt about it-- I will forever be a writer first-- but I've never stopped being a FAN and now, hell or high-water, I am going to stage Sprint Car EVENTS in my beloved Iowa homeland. Maybe i can put a dent in Sprint Car racing's myriad of problems. I am in love with small town Iowa, it's WHO I AM, and beginning in April of 2011, I have every intention of promoting, (and I do mean promoting), various open wheel programs where ever the hell they will have us--gaudy county fairs, ramshackle bullrings in backwoods communities, widow-maker half miles and maybe even the occasional tar-topper race just to keep everybody off balance. In the grand scheme of things, I aspire to launch Iowa Speed Week in 2012, seven races in seven nights with a 100 grand purse and a point fund, a mighty lofty mission I do declare.
You will notice that I used the word "US." This ain't gonna be about me and here's a shocking revelation: it oughta be all about the racers--the peeps who are willing to bust their asses putting on a show for the FANS cuz they KNOW that I am doing this for all the right reasons. Do I wanna make some dough? Of course, this is America, right? But they will KNOW going in that I love them every bit as much as I love the sport itself--which is considerably--. Nobody is gonna get hosed at my races and those who really know what I'm about will also KNOW that I'll treat 'em square. You can take that to the bank Jack.
Yeah, I wanna attract some sexy marquee names without question, but every bit as important to me is taking care of the guys who race for the sheer hell of it. Gas mashers like Mikey Moore, Brent Antill, Droud, Clint Garner and Jim Moughan are every bit as essential to our stated mission as T-Mac or the dude from Dover. I want RACERS at my races. Paul May, Bob Hampshire, Robby Wolfgang, A-Mac. Josh Higday, Ian Madsen, Jessica Zemken and Gilly Sonner. Jump a start and you go to the back no questions asked-- and we won't care who you are or where you've won races.
In my lifetime as a devout and hardcore race chaser, countless are the times I have recoiled in horror when I see how the racers and fans get treated by your average promoter and track operator. NOT AT MY RACES! If you see the name ROCKS TAR PROMOTIONS PRESENTS-- know this before you leave your driveway: you can bet the farm you're gonna have mega FUN, it's gonna feel like an EVENT with just the right touch of show biz... EVERYONE will be treated with respect and dignity and you will get a barrel full of BANG for you buck. We won't screw you at the gate or at the chow/beer stands and I will NEVER EVER make you sit through a bunch of hobby stock heats to get at the meat of the program. Our races will be as old-skool and bad-assed as I can make them, complete with parades, live rock and roll, legendary grand marshals and infield action all day long. I ain't kidding myself, this will present a whole slew of unforeseen challenges, but I will make this happen. Just watch me work.
Our first event, scheduled for Saturday, April 9th at the Marshalltown Speedway with a Sunday rain date (and I know the crazy Iowa weather could bite us hard) will be billed as the FROST BUSTER 35, a genuine " RUN WHATCHA BRUNGER," a NO HOLDS BARRED bar room brawl on an immaculate 3/8 mile of pure dirt poetry. A tech line? Scales? What the hell for??? If you happen to think your hired shoe is bullet-proof, then build a race car out of conduit and beer cans for all we care. Run any damn tire you want. If it's an open-wheel, open-cockpit creation, that's good enuff for us. Go down to the mad laboratory and stick together the baddest, meanest thousand pony powered MONSTER ever assembled and drag the sumbitch to Marshalltown next spring and take the $2,200 in hard, cold cash right outta my tight black levi jeans. Plant four 426 blown HEMI'S between the frame rails like those nutty farmer tractor pullers and know we won't give a rat's ass. This is free enterprise in its purest form. So dig your ole' grand pappies raccoon coat out of mothballs and together we will defy mother nature's fickle fury. Together we will shatter winter's deafening silence with a sonic symphony of 30 (yes we will start 30 cars) screaming for mercy racing engines. Anybody in? Thanks for reading and keep the faith. Peace out.
As of 1/2/2011, the FROST BUSTER 35 scheduled for 4/9/2011 in Marshalltown, IA, is still pending. I'll update you all as I get more details.
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