LONG RIDE ON A SHORT TRACK
by
Ken Spooner
Chapter 1
SOME WENT ROUND & ROUND...
SOME WENT UPSIDE DOWN
In the summer of 1957, I saw my first stock car race. My mom had taken a part time waitressing job to help out with expenses, so dad became Mr. Mom on weekends. He didn't like to cook, though he was good at it. In fact he taught my mom, who later became a professional cook. Usually he'd take my brother and I to the Howard Johnson's where mom worked, then sometimes we'd go see a movie. One Saturday afternoon he said, "Boys.....want to go see a stock car race?" Butch and I were both certified car nuts, especially about hot rods. My older sister dated a semi-hot rodder. He had a motorcycle jacket, Elvis sideburns, and a turquoise and white Studebaker, VERY COOL!
"What's a stock car?", I asked. 'Well, they look like our car, but they take the muffler off, take out the glass, soup them up, and go around in circles.' Ok, it was something different and sounded more exciting then the John Wayne movie playing at the Patchogue theatre. "Where do they have these stock car races?", I asked eagerly. 'Riverhead Raceway'. Sounded exotic enough to me. Riverhead was the county seat of Suffolk, and it was where I had my eyes operated on in the second grade. I was going into the sixth grade that fall. Instead of eating at mom's Howard Johnson's, we drove into the town of Riverhead and ate at a little restaurant on Main Street. It had a big picture window and every few minutes a tow truck would pass by hauling a brightly painted old jalopy with numbers on it. They looked dangerous and wild. I recall a sedan like ours with the numbers 88 going by. Dad said that was an unlucky deal 'cause you could read the numbers upside down.
Dad was a car trader not by profession, but I guess by necessity. He had a steady, but very average paying job for the N.Y. Telephone Company. Supporting a wife and three kids even in the '50's took a bit of doing. Our transportation needs were met by cars built in the '30's and '40's. As kids we never thought about it too much except when the manufacturers would tease you with their new models. Introducing them under wraps and fogged up showroom windows, COMING OCTOBER 2....THE ALL NEW FORD FOR 1956! In reality nothing more than a mild restyle of the '55 model. But I grew up riding in a '36 Dodge, a '41 Caddy, a '40 Olds, a '29 Model A coupe, a '37 Chrysler Airflow...UGLY! ..... Dad traded the Model A for it, mom's favorite, the Model A had a rumble seat with nothing but springs for a seat. Two weeks later the rear end went on the Airflow and it went to the junkyard. All through the '50's a variety of $100 - $600 cars, some running, some not, decorated our driveway. Everytime mom announced, "Your father is bringing home a NEW car tonight", my brother and I would ask hopefully, 'DO YOU THINK HE GOT ONE WITHOUT RUNNINGBOARDS THIS TIME ?
Now except for the cut down fenders, exposed engines, and wild paint jobs, these things looked like my family car so I could relate. I was real anxious to get to the track and see what this stock car stuff was all about. Dad took one of his famous shortcuts. "We're goin' the back way to beat the traffic". After some confusion and a wrong turn or two we found our selves tooling down Route 58. Unlike Route 66 this bypass road ran through the industrial section of town, sort of the backpocket of the county seat. Then suddenly I saw it, in the middle of nowhere. The sign arose like a casino on the edge of Vegas. It was a big red and white affair with a checkered flag boasting , RIVERHEAD RACEWAY , STOCK CAR RACING TONIGHT, WORLDS FASTEST 1/4 MILE TRACK ! The parking lot was nearly full and I thought I heard fireworks, except it wasn't the 4th of July. There set back off Route 58 was this large mound, with a corrugated tin fence around it. The kind of fence you'd see around an auto wrecking yard, to cut down on the eyesoreness, except I suppose this was to cut down on anyone trying to watch without paying. The fence however proved futile with the noise, which even way out in the parking lot was more than unerving, just like a thunderstorm. As we walked through the parking lot I could feel the ground shaking and began to think This is not such a good idea. Butch was only three years older than me, yet he seemed unfazed by the noise. To the left of the mound were the ticket booths, I think the admission was around 80 cents, with a hefty discount for me being under 12. As we waited online to get our tickets I could see under the fence. Every few seconds some bright yellow wheels would go by, followed by an explosion and the kind of screech you'd usually hear before a crash. It sounded like a war was going on in there.
Walking inside the gate I was reminded of the carnivals that used to hit our town in the summer. There were concession stands, naked light bulbs, smells of popcorn, peanuts, and cotton candy. There was one aroma though that was as noticeable as the thunder. It was a sweet intoxicating smoky smell. Dad explained that it was castoroil used in the racing engines. As we walked through a break in the grandstand the track came into view. It was a small asphalt oval that swooped up at both ends. All the noise I had heard, was being generated by two cars. They were coupes from the late '30's. One had a Dime painted on it's door. The other one looked like a bee, in it's black and yellow paint job and matching yellow wheels. It wore the number 15. Up near the guardrail the noise became terrorizing, and as we walked along the path behind the "safety fence"
I felt like a condemned man going to the chair. I was positive one or both of them were going to come through that fence everytime they passed. Quickly climbing the bleachers at the end of the main straightaway, I stumbled as I kept looking over my shoulder. The explosions from the engines as they backed off for the turns was totally unerving. I wanted to get out of there, yet I was fascinated by the whole circus atmosphere. I breathed easier as they both disappeared through an opening at the other end of the track. Suddenly it got Very Quiet. The lights came on and "The Crickets" started chirping That'll Be The Day, through some speakers that sounded like the ones you'd hear at a carnival or on the TV show MASH.
Then there was a crackle and a loud nasal voice shouted, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN..... OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM! Everyone stood and Dad saluted. You could hear the scratches in the record, then I heard a low rumble at the other end of the track as one by one the sorriest looking refugees from the junkyard appeared over the hill and lined up in twos on the short straight below us. These were the novices Dad explained. Most of the cars wore what was left of their original paint when they left the factory decades earlier, there was a grim assortment of black, gray, and rusty brown hues. They sported numbers and lettering that definitely was lacking in artistic statement. Either whitewash or flat aluminum paint was slopped on the doors turning them into numbered scrap on wheels. They accommodated for their lack of visual presentation with their unbridled enthusiasm when the starter turned them loose. Collectively they made about as much noise as a '53 Buick with a dynaflow. Kind of a low VaRoom. As they wallowed around the track, you instantly realized they were true NOVICES. They went everywhere but round and round. They went sideways, backwards, into the fences and into each other. I guess their purpose was twofold. Basic low budget training for would be race drivers, and cheap thrills and entertainment for the track promoter. Though I can assure you I didn't see it that way then. Basically what I saw was, full size carnival bumper cars. I don't remember who won.
Next came the Sportsman class. They looked like real race cars, mostly they were Ford and Chevy coupes and coaches from the late '30's. The majority had brightly colored paint jobs and lettering, though some looked a little rag tag. They were loud and fast, even though some only had 6 cylinder engines. Their drivers seemed to be able to control them a lot better, though when the pack came through the turns it was hold your breath. It was during one of these Sportsman races I had my first heartstopper at Riverhead. A white coupe went sailing through the air out on turn four and over the wall into what I thought, was OBLIVION. In reality it was into the SWAMP! I can still see the white trunk flying open as he went sideways driver door down over the wall. The race was stopped. The VFW ambulance stayed parked, a tow truck ambled over to the wall, dropped his hook, hauled him back up and set him back on the track like a kid would set his Lionel locomotive back on the track. Then the announcer congratulated the driver as the newest member of Riverhead Raceway's exclusive "SWAMP CLUB". The only way you could join was the way he just did. This kind of comic relief was just what I needed to calm my nerves. Witnessing a spectacular crash like that, and seeing no one hurt left me with a false sense of security on how safe these cars were. I'd find out later firsthand how safe they weren't. Lady Luck rode with these guys for many a Saturday night. I was really beginning to settle in and enjoy these stock car race They just got back underway when Butch said LOOK! There sliding on his roof down the backstretch spewing sparks all over the place was number 88 giving us a spectacular demonstration of "Dad's Theory Of Readability" as Dad said," CRAZY EIGHTS....READ 'EM AND WEEP"
Out marched the MODIFIEDS!. Like Roman gladiators they strutted their awesome brute power taking a "hot lap" or two before lining up into their positions. They ran on a handicap system, the faster the car, the farther back it started. You could feel the excitement climbing like the temperature of a flathead V/8 going up a mountain in July. These cars had ATTITUDE. Under their hoods anything went and went well. The last car in line was the one that had scared me the most. The black and yellow 15. The announcer introduced him as, " AXEL ANDERSON from Patchogue."__ Cheers and Boos came in equal amounts from the fans. My Dad knew Axel and told us to keep our eyes on him. I had no other plans, if only to duck and run like hell when he came flying through the air at us. I was sure that was what was going to happen. The announcer said Axel had a new Corvette engine in his coupe. Whatever he had it was LOUD. REALLY LOUD! SO DAMN LOUD IT HURT YOUR EARS! Even with the whole pack snorting thunder and backfiring you heard AXEL OVER THE ROAR. Kind of the way Dolly Parton stands out when she sings with a choir. When the flag dropped it was awesome as these overpowered chariots forced and shoved at each other. Wheel to wheel, scraping running boards and fenders they ran harder than a pack of wild dogs after a cat. But of the whole bunch number 15 charged the hardest. Like a mad bull Axel forced his way to the front and the right to parade around with the checkered flag. I would find out later, this was the only way he ever drove. Though the entire evening held more excitement than my first ten years on earth, there was some extra special magic in those modifieds. The master magician was Axel. He transformed a scared to death kid into a dreamer. Later that night safe at home, with my heart still pounding, ears ringing, and face full of grit, I dreamed of hearing my name announced on the Riverhead Raceway PA someday.
THE BLACK & YELLOW 15 with DRIVER & THE KID HE SCARED TO DEATH!!!
