The Need for Speed

by James C. McNeill
copyright © 1998

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to sit in the driver's seat of a fast car? You're probably thinking something like a Corvette, a Porsche or a Ferrari, but I mean FAST. Well, fasten your seat belt and let me tell you about it. It's been a while, and the memory has cooled. My figures may be off but the flavor's right.

The car belonged to Larry Volk, and he had it in the parking lot, sitting on a trailer. Larry and I worked together, and he was about my size, 190 pounds, 5 foot 10 or so, with a quick and wicked grin and a bulldog's shoulders.

From 25 yards away, it looked like a Model A roadster. As I got closer, I could see that it was a fiberglass body, a replica. Larry had the hood lying on the ground, so I had a chance to look things over, like a miser buying a wedding ring.

The engine was a huge Chrysler hemi V-8, I don't know what size. On top of the engine, towering higher than I see over, was a belt-driven supercharger. I kept looking for the radiator, but the car didn't have one. Larry told me later that the fuel, nitro-methane, kept it cool. I never got to hear the engine run, maybe that's part of why my ears still work.

The cockpit was spartan, as is every racing car I've ever seen. A bucket seat with dual shoulder straps, a small instrument panel to the right, a silly looking windshield. I climbed in and gripped the wheel. I looked to see where my feet should go. I remember a clutch and accelerator pedals, but I'm not sure that it had a brake. The parachute on the back may have had to do it all.

My feet were on either side of the clutch housing. There was no transmission, the engine was bolted directly to the differential. There was also no starter, it had to be pushed to a speed of 70 miles an hour or more. It might have been as high as 90 mph.

While I was seated there rubber necking, I suddenly noticed a small tube that grew out of the floor and ended in an 8 sided block of aluminum that was sitting just in front of my crotch. I tried to see where it went, but it disappeared into the guts of the chassis. Finally I got out and followed the tube down by the engine, where I found another of the little 8 sided blocks. I continued tracing the tube until I came to a large yellow cylinder marked HALON 1301. My dad was a fire fighter, so I knew what that was. The implications were scary. That's what the big red button on the instrument panel was for. Halon can put out TNT.

Checking out the back, I was drawn to several lead bars that were bolted to the frame. They kept the wheels on the ground in case the car tried to get airborne. I've seen racing cars that were streamlined, graceful and sophisticated. This one was pure brute power, a cross between a Rottweiler and a Greyhound.

The tires were as bald as the top of my head, and they were new. They were mounted on special wheels with flat aluminum covers.

When I was the Cubmaster, we held a Pinewood Derby almost every year. One year I borrowed the suit that Larry wore when he was racing. It was like a thick snowmobile suit, aluminized and fireproof. Over his head he wore a cover like a ski mask. A special mask with huge cylindrical filters went on next, and then the crash helmet and goggles. Finally, the aluminized booties and gloves.

I put this whole rig on so the boys could see what a real race driver looked like and several parents hurried up with cameras. I stood there looking like I had just escaped from an underground bunker on the far side of Area 51. "Hurry, please," I pleaded. "I'm roasting in here."

I described this to Larry the next day. "You ought to try it out on the salt. Imagine 95 or higher, sitting out at the end of the line waiting for your turn to run, nitro fumes burning your eyes, sweating like a Turkish wrestler. It's great fun."

The last time I was in the Stateline Casino in Wendover, I walked by the Bonneville Room. Larry's picture was still on the wall. He holds the world land speed record for his class, somewhere around 235 mph as I recall. There will be no challenge from me.

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