THE DRAG STRIP DIARIES
1994--THE YEAR OF THE BOOMERANG?
by Cole Coonce
FOREWORD
For your humble author, 1994 was the year that defied history. The year
of self-reliance. It was the year that the do-it-yourself ethic
blossomed. When the rubber met the road. It was also the year that my
sensibilities were awakened to the disparate yet robust independent
racing scenes that were raging in relative obscurity--not unlike the
proverbial tree that falls in silence because no one is within earshot
to hear that sucker hit the dirt. Organizations like the AMERICAN
NOSTALGIA RACING ASSOCIATION, the CALIFORNIA INDEPENDENT FUNNY CAR
ASSOCIATION, the SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA TIMING ASSOCIATION, the GOODGUYS,
and TOP GAS WEST have all been making noise for a while now, seemingly
to deaf ears. Brotherhood Raceway and San Bernadino Int'l Airport (aka
Norton AFB) are crucial, perhaps pivotal additions to the local drag
racing landscape and their activities could have gone unreported and
unacknowledged. But this was also the year that FULL THROTTLE NEWS was
established--a rag that took it upon itself to listen to the rumblings
in the forest.
Before my awareness of the buoyancy of So Cal hot rodding had been
expanded, however, my enthusiasm for the sport had been languishing a
little bit. Ever since Winston became the main benefactor for the
National Hot Rod Association and their "Million Dollar Drag Racing
Series," I felt alienated by the only "proper" drag racing events
available to the consumer, i.e the two NHRA/Winston happenings staged
at the Pomona Fairplex each year. I am not of the mind, race fans, that
tobacco companies are my friend, nor do I feel that they have
necessarily improved the sport of drag racing. Winston has taken over
"proper" drag racing, not because they are patrons of the arts, but
because advertising tobacco products on teevee is verboten. Which may
be contrary to my beliefs--any individual or corporation can pimp
themselves on the tube but it is, however, incumbent upon me to turn
the damn thing off (or at least hit the mute button). Likewise, it is
my responsibilty to support drag racing that does not depend upon
tobacco money for its existence. As kismet would have it, this was the
year of my discovery: that is, I found out there is a heap of vital,
exciting "free range" drag racing in Southern California. So, like, let
the NHRA do their thing, but let me do mine.
Libertarian politics aside, dragsters, funny cars, and roadsters have
always been sanctimonious works of art. High velocity sculptures that
should not be defaced. But the manufacurers of cigarettes, beer, and
tacos have branded their logos on what were once cool-looking race
cars. So be it--it is not like dragsters have never been sponsored
before. Even so, remember the days of the "Howard Cam Special" as
opposed to the "Budweiser King"? (In1979 I knew this h-u-g-e good ol'
boy in Louisiana who was also nicknamed the "Budweiser King"--it took
him two days to get drunk. Now if they shoehorned him into a dragster,
that would be interesting. And conversely, even though Kenny Bernstein
piloted the "Budweiser King" dragster to 314 miles-per-hour at Pomona,
until Bernstein can drink my friend from Louisiana under the table I
will consider his drag racing exploits of only marginal relevance.)
And another thing about Pomona: Will whoever is in charge of the volume
on that massive public address system please turn it down during the
commercials shown on that Winston/EnormoVision teevee? Better yet, if
Winston/NHRA insist on broadcasting "messages"for GM and Budweiser on
that thing between each round of racing--after gouging the race fan for
over 50 clams--at least give one of us a friggin' remote control so's
we can channel hop to SUMO DIGEST or reruns of Lost in Space when those
obnoxious advertisements come screeching louder than God out of those
painfully over-amplified speakers. There is something frighteningly
ORWELLIAN about that whole "WinstonVision" gag, trust me.
Pardon that last digression, but the point being is that NHRA/Winston have
raised the stakes in the sport of drag racing to a level that not all of us
are comfortable with, nor can afford. Exorbitant admission tickets,
exorbitant entry fees, and miniscule purses (not to mention multi-media
sensory overload and cultural fascism) have coalesced to create an
underclass of the underappreciated, if not the disillusioned. 1994 may
have been the Year of the Boomerang; that is, the year we took it all
back and did it ourselves. Certainly, it was the year that my energy
was galvanized towards all things positive. The following is a loose,
personal travelogue of 1994's journey--a journey yielding my expanded
awareness of a culture whose common denominator was a relentless yen to
STAND ON THE GAS...
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THE DRAG STRIP DIARIES 1994--The Year of the Boomerang? PART 1
by Cole Coonce
February 3-6, NHRA Winternationals, Pomona CA--Parking was a hassle.
March 19-20, Goodguys' March Meet, Bakersfield Raceway--The
Goodguys' virginal foray into the cool time-warp world of nitro 'n'
nostalgia drag racing. This one was fraught with a lot of growing
pains, unfortunately. Caz, Leah, Ikky and I made the trek from L.A. on
Saturday morning in time to watch Top Fuel qualifying. Way too much
down time, and after interminable waits, very few fuelers ran in the
second and third sessions. Everyone was cold and bored except me. We
shined on Sundays eliminations and went home Saturday night. The
conversation was not exactly riveting on the way back to Los Angeles.
Oh well.
April 5, EI Segundo Tire, EI Segundo CA--Cuz'n
Roy Gittens was out visiting from Ranlo, North Carolina. We were
cruisng in a borrowed convertible,listening to a cassette of the great
lost Beach Boys'masterpiece SMILE. I took it upon myself to be a proper
So Cal tour guide and show him the Foster Freeze on Hawthorne Boulevard
that inspired Brian Wilson to compose the epic hot rod anthems "Shut
Down" and "409" for the Beach Boys in '63. "Everytime I heard those
songs on my AM radio in Carolina, I knew something magical was going on
somewhere else in this world," said Roy in a somber and reverent voice.
Not knowing where Brian Wilson's house was, I suggested the next best
thing: "Let's go taIk racing with (Nostalgia Top Fuel driver) Jim Boyd
at his shop in El Segundo," I said, hoping the sight of Boyd's lanky
1967-style AA/Fuel Dragster would conjure some of the same magic Brian
Wilson ruminated about in early Beach Boys recordings. When we got to
El Segundo Tire (where they keep the race car), Boyd was nowhere to be
found. Ronny, his pit boss, was there, but did not seem to be in the
mood to bench race. "No we didn't run after the first session at
Bakersfield because the tech guys were a pain in the poopshoot" and
"No, we can't afford to run the ANRA race out in Palmdale next week,"
was about the extent of our"benchracing" session with Ronny. Out of the
corner of my eye I noticed a copy of the "Premier lssue" of something
calling itself Full Throttle News sitting on the counter of Ronny's
shop. In reference to "Big Willie" Robinson's new drag strip out at
Terminal Island, the headline screamed "The Beach is Back!" I took this
as an omen: It seemed like a good time to go back and look for Brian
Wilsons' pad.
April 9, ANRA "Duel in the Desert," LACR, Palmdale, CA--
Cuz'n Roy and I hauled ass through the back roads of Angeles Forest
Highway in time for the first session of Top Fuel qualifying at 1:00.
There were onIy four fuel cars, and nobody in the stands which was kind
of cool--it was like having a private matinee screening of
front-motored fuelers, like I was King Farouk and Roy was Little Lord
Fauntleroy or something. After enjoying the first session of Top Fuel,
Junior Fuel and Nostalgia Eliminator, we sauntered down Pearblossom
Highway to the Pines Cafe for a late breakfast worthy of royalty. We
both enjoyed an "Oklahoma Tostada," which is the culinary manifestation
of the Chaos Theory, but Boy Howdy! is it tasty. After this massive but
sublime breakfast, we wobbled back to LACR for the 2nd session of
qualifying and eliminations. A few people were starting to congregrate
in the bleachers at this point, and we started chatting up a friendly
couple from Little Rock, Robert and Donna Bent. After Bill "the
Hearbreaker" Dunlap aced Top Fuel Eliminator with a string of 6-second
e.t.s, the Bents invited us to their digs for some Pabst Blue Ribbons,
but we had to demur. I opened my Thermos, dispensed with some of the
rocket-fuel-strength espresso I had brewed that morning, and we blazed
down Soledad Canyon Road to Saugus Speedway for some yahoo-type
roundy-round racing as a nightcap to the day's activities. Roundy-round
is the kind of racing Roy would see on a given Saturday night in
Carolina, but a style of racing that certainly was not endemic to
Californians. It was a harsh contrast to the ANRA event--hellzapoppin'
dense action and a full house of hell raisin' race fans. Maybe these
roundy-round guys could teach the dragster associations a lick or two
about the "gotta sing, gotta dance aspects" of show business. As a
dyed-in-the-wool drag racing aficianado, I have to admit I was a little
sad and a little ashamed in the disparity in attendance at the days two
racing events.
August 6, Brotherhood Raceway Park, Terminal Island, CA--I
had missed all the racing action in the last couple of months due to
scheduling and/or lifestyle conflicts (jobs, lack of jobs, nonrace fan
girlfriends, etc.), but Sean Vigle and I decided to go watch some drag
racing this weekend come hell or high water. Neither of us had been to
"Big Willie's" drag strip (aka Brotherhood Raceway Park) and somehow
this seemed reason enough to hit the road. We listened to "White
Lightning" by the Fall and some Bobby Fuller Four as we blazed down the
Harbor Freeway--we were primed for anything, even disappointment.
As we crested the lofty Vincent Thomas Bridge, however, I noticed a sea
of cars down below, a menagerie glittering in the setting California
sun, transforming the once barren Terminal Island into the Magic
Kingdom or something. As we began our descent down the bridge, I could
see two doorslammers streaking down the drag strip. "Jesus," I said to
Sean over the thundering din of "I Fought the Law," "there really is a
drag strip in Los Angeles." We paid our admission ("Ten dollars--do you
want to watch or race?" "Uh, watch, I guess." "Have a good time."
Cool.) and joined the railbirds on the secondary guardwall. This was
pure chaotic, anything goes drag racing. The epic presence of "Big
Willie" Robinson, however was the glue that kept this spectacle from
disintergrating into unmitigated anarchy. After awhile Sean and I
joined the staff of Full Throttle News, Richard Heath, Tom Hunnicutt,
Richard Morelock, and HolIy Leather, in the bleachers. As the sun set
over the Harbor we watched a potpourri of race cars--gas dragsters,
super stockers, go-carts, roadsters, nitrous-assisted "rice
rockets"--parade down the 1320. The diversity of the race cars, as well
as the diversity of the patrons--it was a truly harmonious rainbow
coalition--made me proud to be a denizen of the Pacific Rim. If
anything could give me hope about the bleak future of humanity, this
was it.
August 13, ANRA Points Race, Sacramento, CA--I
left Los Angeles like a bullet at 2:OO Friday morning, bound for the
Capital City under the cover of darkness. I took a sinuous, meandering,
yet picturesque back route (Highway 49) through Gold Country and
Calaveras County en route to this drag race The tight curves of this
two-lane highway juxtaposed against resplendent beauty of the Sierra
Nevada Mountains, sent shivers of exultation down my spine. I actually
ate granola at a turn-off in the mountains. It seemed like a good time
to be alive. After all that nature I was definitely ready for a
nice'n'noisy eye-watering drag race. I arrived at the track late Friday
night, after having squandered my motel budget on some radiator repairs
in Calaveras County. After a swim/shower in the Sacramento River, I was
going to spend Friday night in my car which I parked behind the motor
home of Nostalgia Eliminator racer Steve Warnicke. He had got to the
track with his family a day early to test'n'tune the race car before
Saturday's race. Warnicke and his friendly longhair pit boss Rick
worked on his injected-on-nitro digger until 2a.m., but all the while
we talked drag racing and drank Bud Sodas. Around midnight, his wife
made some roast beef sandwiches. The conversation was good, the food
was tasty, and the Warnicke's hospitality was extremely gracious.
On Saturday the San Joaquin Valley was hotter than a waffle iron.
Despite the torrid temperatures Ted "the Bad Lieutenant" Taylor
absolutely excoriated Top Fuel Eliminator with an epic 6.17 blast.
There was a copious armada of injected-on-methanol, small block Junior
Fuel diggers at this race, a phenomena that never fails to fill my
heart with glee. The final round seemed to be indicative of the tight,
dramatic action that is a staple of Junior Fuel Eliminator, as a
rampaging Bob McKray chased down the always cagey Stacy "the Femme
Fatale" Paul, a 7.68 to her 7.76. In Nostalgia Eliminator the
hospitable Warnicke went out in the semi-finals. Jim Scott, Jr.
commandeered his old man's sleek, Ice Pak-blue slingshot to victory in
N/E. In the final round Scotty was doused by an oil bath at 1000 feet
out, but he kept his composure while hammering the throttle down,
recording a right-on-time 7.51 (aginst the 7.50 index) that forced his
opponent, the ever-daunting Bob Shearer in his badass '23 T
blown-on-alcohol altered, to breakout with a 7.47. After sharing a
victory brew with the "Team Scott" crew, I opened up the Thermos,
jammed a Link Wray cassette into the stereo and violated the I-5 speed
limits all the way back to Los Angeles. Is it just me, or is a weekend
like this what life is all about?
CONTINUED...
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THE DRAG STRIP DIARIES 1994--The Year of the Boomerang? PART 2
by Cole Coonce
August 20, the "Fox Hunt" LACR Palmdale, CA--I
invited every L.A. chickee in my phone book who might appreciate drag
racing to this event. I had not attended one of these "Fox Hunt"
freakshows since Nixon was on Pennsylvania Avenue, but based on my
memories of similar promotions during the mid-'70s at Irwindale Raceway
and Orange County Int'l Raceway, I assured my assembled harem of hot
rod honeys that this event was free for the femmes. Prior to the race
Zukovic, Vigle, and I plied the ladies (Caz, Leah, and Clayton) with
margaritas at a watering hole on Santiago Road outside of Acton. Even
this fortification, however, did not prepare me and my guests for the
preposterous Kafkaesque nightmare that awaited us at the LACR ticket
booth.
If memory serves, back in the freewheelin' '70s the fairer sex was
admitted gratis to the Fox Hunts. In the enlightened new wave '90s,
however, the womenfolk have to fork over the dead presidents just like
us menfolk. "Women in bikinis," the ticket marm told us, "are the only
race fans allowed in free tonight." I rebutted that this is not the
"Foxes in Bikinis Hunt," was it? She replied that a cabal of Do-Gooders
and Supreme Court Justices concluded that allowing the frauleins in
free was preferential, exclusionary, and discriminatory towards men. I
countered that life is preferential, exclusionary, and discriminatory
whether uptight, hotshot attorneys like Gloria Allred want to admit or
not--if you do not believe me, ask ol' Chuck Darwin--and that this is a
basic law of nature and humanity.
Unfortunately, the more our society tries to subvert and shoehorn the
laws of nature, albeit with the best intentions, the more our society
ruins everyones fun. The LACR promoters could skirt the courts
arbitration by comping only the "foxes" who were willing to be
exploited as swimsuit clad sex objects under the guise of "providing
entertainment," or some such Catch-22 pretzel logic. Whatever...all I
know is that way back in the dark, misguided '70s, at OCIR's Fox Hunt
my mom got in free. This is progress?
Yes, somehow the waves of liberation and freedom that swelled in the
'60s and '70s have tsunamied the palisades of reason, even at something
as absurd as this silly promotional gimmick. Although my posse was
frustrated by the capricious decisions of an increasingly intolerant
society, we opted to pay the admission with teeth clenched. Now we were
in a foul temper, but I was hoping tonight's main attraction--a match
race featuring Merlyn Johnson in the "Fatal Attraction"jet car facing
off against Arley Langlo in Jay Roach's "Titan Xpress" top fuel
dragster--would ease the political and sexual tension that had flared
up after the L.A. chickees felt duped by my erroneous assumptions about
"foxes get in free " Gratuitous displays of pyro generally soothe my
psyche and make me feel better about life itself, and I know chicks dig
the throbbing vibrations of the nitro dragsters. Certainly, the night
could only get better. Top Gas West and the California Independent
Funny Car Association also graced tonight's marquee, and after we
quickly quaffed a few brewkowskis I was ready to enjoy some free range
drag racing with my friends.
Top Gas West is a particularly novel class, and on this night they were
in superlative, provocative form. A strange parade of unorthodox
dragsters propelled by a potpourri of experimental engine combinations
loosely defines the Top Gas West experience. Rear-engined dragsters
using dual four-barrel carbs assisted by nitrous, or
injected-with-nitrous, or blown-on-gasoline--it warmed my soul to
observe a rear-engine dragster streak by sporting a couple of blue NOS
bottles. Experimenation in drag racing has always aroused my rather
delicate sensibilities, and now my veins were definitely dilated.
Indeed, to my way of thinking experimentation in drag racing has always
been synonymous with what is noble about the human mind--the search for
the better mouse trap; the road less taken; nothing ventured, nothing
gained--that sort of thing. Top Gas West certainly exemplified that
spirit with their "run whatcha brung" style of heads-up, no-index drag
racing. Their only criteria for competition is that the digger must
have petrol in the fuel tank--no nitro, no alcohol. Steve LaBurn took
the event win with 6.60's at over 200 mph in a dragster that was
powered by an injected small-block Donovan, assisted by a single stage
of nitrous oxide.
The endeavors of CIFCA were also a joy to behold on the Day of the Fox.
These machines are not as loud nor quite as gnarsome as their
high-dollar, nitro-burning NHRA counterparts, but what they lacked in
bang they more than made up for in attitude. To wit: perpetual 660-foot
burnouts, funky eclectic body styles (an '81 Corvette, a '74 Vega, even
a friggin' Volkswagen) powered by a variety of combinations--the VW was
even turbocharged. With such tangible diversity these guys are perhaps
the closest thing the West Coast has to a Pro Mod show like they run at
podunk drag strips back east: cost effective and fun to watch,
definitely a winning combination for spectator and racer alike.
This generous helping of dragsters and funny cars, however, was a mere
tease to the Fox Hunt's piece de resistance: the bizarre duel betwixt
the "Titan Xpress" top fueler and the "Fatal Attraction" jet dragster.
Most of our entourage had never seen a jet blaze down the 1320 before,
and even the more experienced bleacher bums in our party had never seen
one of these propulsion-propelled timebombs square off against a
nitro-burning top fueler. Nobody was ready for this awesome
juxtaposition of power. This was pure Sturm und Drang: Langlo's burnout
was a shattering caterwaul of noize, as voluminous amber sheets of fire
shot into the dark desert sky and simutaneously the jet car
ritualistically purged its afterburners BOOM...BOOM...BOOM...as the
staccato shards of hellfire cannonballed horizontally, the pitch of the
jet's turbines ascending into a shrieking glissando. This was just the
ceremonial gestures before the race itself--not unlike two Sumo
wrestlers slinging salt at each other's feet. And after all this white
hot foreplay, the noize and fire sent everyones sense of anticipation
into orbit, the collective tension reaching a frenzied peak, until the
cars f-i-n-a-l-l-y crept into the staging beams. At the flash of the
green light the moment of orgasm and release culminated with the weinie
roaster succumbing to fuel control problems, meanwhile the top fueler
fiercely smoked the tires at 500 feet, breaking traction violently
until Langlo clicked it off just past halftrack and cruised to victory
with a limping 7.09 at 119 mph, but who "won" and "lost" this freakshow
had very little to do with the impact of this spectacle. This was a
manifestaion of what quantum physicists refer to as "Chaos." The entire
assembly was stunned into silence by this apocalyptic exhibition of
sensory overload, everbody except Zukovic. He interpreted this
outlandish Teutonic display of technology as a metaphor and conversely
as an indictment and demonstration against the jaded, blase
consciousness of our time: "You can be cynical, you can be hip, and you
can be kitsch--but ultimately you then become part of the problem. You
can not nod and wink when confronted with the brutality of that jet
car." Super Comp gas dragsters were doing burnouts, and Zukovic was
also just getting warmed up: "Nor can you feel superior to this brazen
showcase of power--these people have harnessed knowledge and sweat into
something terrifying and that it not to be trivialized." Two more Super
Comp cars whizzed by, but he was not distracted from his soliloquy:
"When we as a culture are subjugated to pure, unadulterated, extreme
horsepower we can not help but feel humbled. That is when the
smarminess and insolence of our generation is not only moot, but also
rather insufferable." All I know is that none of us asked for our money
back, including the "foxes."
September 10, Brotherhood Raceway Park, Terminal Island, CA--Zukovic
prides himself as being somewhat of an authority on surf and hot rod
music, but I know he never goes to the beach and the only drag strip he
has actually patronized was LACR out in the Mojave Desert. Now that
L.A. has a drag strip at the beach, I reckoned a trip to Brotherhood
Raceway would fill in the craters in his credibility gap. [Image] On
the way to the strip, we stopped and ate a massive lunch at EI Tepeyac
in East L.A., where we both futilely tried to finish our "Manuel
Specials" (imagine a 2 lb. splattering of every food group (including
some otherwise unknown to mankind), haphazardly held together by a
massive flour tortilla, prepared by a quaintly sclerotic
leather-skinned vaquero decked out in a carnitas-stained smock and a
cafeteria workers hat emblazoned with "Manuel" across the front, who
surreptitiously sploshed a couple of ounces of Cuervo Gold into his
Orange Julius cup immediately after finishing our order).It was mighty
fine dining.
After lunch we headed to the drag strip, cruising down Whittier
Boulevard, admiring the lowered Malibus, Impalas, and Monte
Carlos, et al.--nary a Ford or Mopar in sight along the entire
stretch from El Tepeyac to the on ramp onto the 605 Freeway. We
grabbed the 605 South, then the 105 East, and as we listened to
the Chantays "Pipeline" Zukovic began grilling me on my knowledge
of surf music esoterica; no, I did not know Terry Melcher was one
half of the Rip Chords, but yes, I did know that he was Doris
Day's son...and yes, I did know that Melcher introduced Charles
Manson to Beach Boys' drummer Dennis Wilson, who not only lent
Manson the use of his Rolls Royce, but also convinced Brian
Wilson, the genius behind the Beach Boys, to produce some of
Charlie's protest music. I also knew that Brian, who was becoming
more schizophrenic by the day, had determined that Manson was a
little too outside for even his state of mind and booted Manson
out of Brian's beachfront studio. Concurrently, Melcher reneged
on a promise to sign Manson to a recording contract. Shortly
thereafter, several people were found savagely murdered at a
Laurel Canyon house that motion picture director Roman Polanski
had recently purchased from, yes, Terry Melcher. Surf music is a
lot more complicated than most people realize...
Once we arrived at Brotherhood, our conversation became decidely less
macabre. Zukovic was in awe of the cool vibrations that permeated the
drag strip. I told him that this was a 1990s correlation to the old
Lions Drag Strip out on Alameda, a track was shut down by government
bureaucrat philistines. He seemed to understand.A blithe, carefree
atmosphere enveloped the entire facility with smooth soul music wafting
out of the p.a. simultaneous to Brotherhood President "Big Willie"
Robinson's free association color commentary. This created an
incongruous sonic tapestry that served as a counterpoint to the rumble
of the myriad of machines racing off into the distance. We were so
smitten by the intoxicating environment that we decided to race my '71
Grand Prix down the 1320, only to be shut down three consecutive times.
But so what if I got skunked?--Dennis Wilson was the only Beach Boy who
actualIy surfed, and he drowned. CONTINUED...
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THE DRAG STRIP DIARIES 1994--The Year of the Boomerang? PART 3
by Cole Coonce
September 11, Southern California Timing Association Speed Meet, El Mirage, CA--I
rendezvoused with Zukovic at the House of Pies on Franklin and Vermont
in East Hollywood, and we made good time on Highway 14 out to Palmdale.
This trip was just another aspect of my crusade to support,
philosophically as well as financially, independent hot rodding in the
Year of the Boomerang, 1994. Neither of us had experienced the
endeavors of the SCTA before, but this could not be as outside as
Brotherhood Raceway or Arley Langlo at LACR could it? It was.
At the El Mirage time trials there was a huge assortment of land-based
lunar modules masquerading as race cars, including the nitro-burning
streamliner of Joaquin Arnett and the Bean Bandits. Arnett has been
campaigning his land-speed machines out at the dry lake beds since
about the time FDR enacted the New Deal, and here they were on the cusp
of the new millenium, still going at it. As a relentless procession of
lakesters, streamliners, modified Studebakers, and countess other
experimental vehicles seemingly designed by NASA engineers with a raw
sense of humor surged single file into the desert, Zukovic and I walked
towards the timing tower at the top end of the dry lake bed. We knew
the Bean Bandits were capable of turning some tremendous mile-per-hour
clockings with their supercharged streamliner, which they reportedly
ran on 50 percent nitromethane. (Folklore has it that Arnett has always
run a 50/50 nitro-to-alcohol mixture: "It makes it easier," Joaquin has
been quoted as saying, "a gallon of this, a gallon of that.")
In anticipation of Arnett's attempt to blast his way into the SCTA
record books, we continued our pilgrimage to the big end for the
optimum vantage point of what promised to be a maximum velocity
horizontal rocket ride by a 70-year old man, out of his mind on nitro
fumes. Speed machines continued to whiz by, interrupted only by
sporadic sandstorms and ferocious dust-devils that would whip and sting
our legs, arms, and faces.
The desert heat was sweltering and we sought shelter under a canopy
attached to a Winnebago that some eldetly gearheads had rented for
a home base for the duration of the speed meet. We struck up a
conversation with our reluctant hosts and I offered them copies of the
Full Throttle News with"Wild Willie" Borsch on the cover. It was an
unspoken barter, but we all knew that the gratis copies of FTN bought
Zukovic and I a reprieve from the heat and the sandstorms.
As we bench raced, our grizzled hosts mixed whiskey drinks and lounged in
the shade in their lawn chairs. They had tuned a CB radio to the same
frequency as the SCTA timing officials walkie-talkies, and had run
cable to a drive-in speaker that was duct-taped to one of the canopy
supports. More race cars streaked by and we eavesdropped as their
speeds were broadcast over the CB. I found it peculiar that our hosts
would start talking amongst themselves as soon as the vehicles would
pass our 1ocation, ignoring the race cars as they reached the finish
line. Intuitively, I felt that most of the action happened past the
speed traps, the drama comprised of how the drivers managed to stop
these contraptions on the desert floor.
A starting line official announced that Arnett was slated to make his
pass, and we all focused our attention on the race course. This should
be good. Zukovic and I were within beer can throwing distance of the
speed traps, and by the time Arnett streaked by the Winnebago he was at
warp speed.
"Hey, I don't think the Bean Bandits popped the chute," I theorized to
the peanut gallery. "Aw, Joaquin does that shit every time they run,"
answered one of whiskey drinkers The CB lit up with this dispatch: "the
Bean Bandits, 189.67 miles per hour." Our hosts stirred their drinks
with swizzle sticks. "No, I'm serious, the parachute didn't open," I
said. "Hey Slim, pass me a Budweiser," was the reply. Zukovic looked
really concerned as the Bean Bandits streamliner continued to grind up
the dry lake bed terrain, billowing clouds of dust and dirt occupying
the void in space where his parachute should be. Meanwhile the CB
radio/public address system was saturated with tinny transmissions of
panic. "He's out the back door! He's out the back door!" screamed one
finish line official. "Roger that, the Bean Bandits are in trouble--no
chute. No chute." The streamliner rocketed even further into the
horizon, with no visible signs of abatement. This was an optical
illusion, but it seemed to be gathering speed instead of slowing down.
Our hosts offered Zukovic a drink--he passed. Eventually the rooster
tail of dust disapeared beyond the shore of the dry lake bed, the
combustion-driven land rocket still under power as it took to the
rolling hills of the desert. Arnett finally came to a stop among the
yucca trees, the streamliner on its side, fortunately not really any
worse for the wear. It was the most beautiful failure at a speed record
since Chuck Yeager bailed out ofa NF-lO4 fighter plane, 20 miles west
of El Mirage at Edwards Air Force Base in the early 1960s. As we drove
home on a dirt road leading back to civilization, I swear I could see
the smoke from the embers of Yeager's plane, burning in the distance.
September 17, Goodguys Nitro'N'Nostalgia Bash, Bakersfield, CA--My
racing sojourns were getting pretty frequent at this point, and I was
really getting into a rhythm as far as attending a drag race damn near
every weekend. I had worked late the night before as a sound technician
on some bloated Hollywood film production, and I was really dismayed
and appalled at the brazen displays of ego, pride, and megalomania on
the set. Why smug, self-important schmendricks (otherwise known as
"producer," "gaffer," "directors" etc.) insist on generating gratuitous
tension at the workplace just because they are "creating some showbiz
magic" never ceases to amaze me, but I suspect it has to do with
people's inferiority complexes and their general unhappiness. Maybe
subconsciously they know they are producing nothing of any real merit,
and that disturbs them. Ultimately, these cretins are merely
contributing to the Cultural Fascism that undemines the soul and spirit
of our culture. Maybe these morons have no consciousness or self
awareness at all, they cannot fathom that producing another hackneyed
motion picture means nothing in the universal scheme of things. Balding
men with pony tails in Armani suits, neurotic "production" women with
cellular phones, and film school interns all work overtime to create
crisises that justify their sense of importance, as well as their
feeble existence--and on this night their plume of anxiety was thicker
than the tire smoke from a Chi-Town Hustler burnout circa 1972.
I overslept on Saturday morning, exhausted from the long hours
and the claustrophobic hubris the night before. I was running late, but
I was determined to make the opening session of Top Fuel qualifying at
11:00 AM. To compensate for my late start and my grogginess, I filled
my coffee thermos with an especially potent batch of Cafe Bustello,
checked all the fluids in the '71 Grand Prix, and blazed up the
Grapevine, Bakersfield bound, headed north out of LosAngeles. If I was
going to catch Top Fuel I really had to make time, and to pace this
trip I inserted a Hank Williams cassette into the car stereo. Hank may
have overdosed from amphetamines on New Years Day, 1961, but I was
still wiping sleep out of my eyes all the way up Interstate 5--even
though I had the throttle wide open. Incidentally, today was Hank
Williams birthday. It was also mine.
I pulled into Famoso at 11 o'c1ock straight up, but the fuel cars were
not even in the staging lanes yet. Apparently so many race cars made
the trip, both track officials and the Goodguys were caught off guard
by the sheer volume of participants. Many machines were still getting
teched, so qualifying was postponed until noon. I took this hour of
calm to catch my breath and score some breakfast. It turned out that I
would need my nourishment, because it was a long hot day of vital,
exciting drag racing and epic performances.
Indeed, by the time the smoke had cleared, Ted Taylor had terrorized
Top Fuel Eliminator with a barrage of stunning elapsed times that had
nitro aficianados absolutely agog. In qualifying, his e.t. of 6.l7 tied
a front-motored AA/Fuel Dragster record claimed 22 years ago by both
"Kansas John" Wiebe and the legendary Don "the Snake" Prudhomme. In
eliminations he upped the stakes, running a 6.11, a 6.10, and finally a
6.24 at an out-of-this-world 239 mph. Likewise, in Junior Fuel, Gene
Adams tuned Ron Pratt to a sensational and sublime performance,
eclipsing the 175-mph barrier by a methanol burning small block
injected dragster for the first time in history.
Accomplishments like these are what drag racing is all about--to push
the envelope, to debunk the laws of physics, to thumb one's nose at the
nattering nabobs of negativism, to keep moving forward. I felt
privileged to witness these peerless feats of bravado and gumption. It
cleansed my soul, a spirit bruised by fallout and debris from the
Hollywood hubris monsters, people who have deluded themselves into
thinking they are providing the populace with escapist entertainment
designed to brighten our dreary lives. They are providing nothing.
Pardon me, but the accomplishments of Ted "the Bad Lieutenant" Taylor
and Gene "the Injection Guru"Adams are much more noble than anything
that Sid Sheinberg at Universal Pictures can muster. Sheinberg and his
ilk could not draw Ted Taylor's bathwater.
I highly recommend people watch fewer films and television and go to
more drag races. It might put Sheinberg out of a job (me too, come to
think of it). Then maybe we can both get a job with real dignity,
perhaps pouring greasesweep for the Goodguys Safety Safari after a top
fueler oils down the drag strip.
But on this night, my career in Hollywood did not even enter my
thoughts. It was my birthday, I was alone in Bakersfield, and it was
good.
--------------------------------------------------
THE DRAG STRIP DIARIES 1994--The Year of the Boomerang? PART 4 by Cole Coonce
September 24-25, Governor's Cup, Sacramento Raceway--Cuz'n
Roy telephoned from Chattanooga, saying he was in transit to Cali from
Ranlo, North Carolina. We mulled over a rendevous in Sacramento as I
mentioned my plans to attend the Governor's Cup. Jet cars,
"Outlaw"front-motored top fuel dragsters, CIFCA funny cars, Pro Mod
doorslammers--the Cup seemed to runneth over with unorthodox drag
racing machines.
We blew off our Sacto trip, however, when our gal pals Caz and Leah
hinted that they would accommodate us to Saugus Speedway but not to
Sacramento. Roy hooked up with the three of us at the Speedway to watch
the roundy-rounds race Figure 8 style. It was the season finale for
local stock car racing scene, and the bleachers were packed tighter
than Linda Vaughn's jeans.
The evenings festivities concluded with a good old fashioned
demolition derby, a spectacle foreign to us drag racing fans, except
Cuz'n Roy. This was a curious exhibition: junker cars bashing the shit
out of each other until nothing is left. We interpreted the demo derby
as a metaphor for the proletariat deconstruction of the mass-production
paradigm. Ironically, most of the partcipating vehicles looked pretty
demolished before the event even started, which made the contest itself
rather redundant and anti-climactic. This car bashing ritual seemed a
little tired, a little effete, even for the stock car faithful. At this
stage, I felt a more refreshing and reactionary gesture would be to
enact a demolition derby stocked only with new Honda Accords, Nissans,
Suzuki Samurais, or any other soulless modern vehicle--domestic or
imported--that comes off the assembly line with either a carphone or
one of those mechanical devices that fascistically yanks and harnesses
the driver into his seat, whether he wants to submit to somebody else's
concept of safety or not. (Every time I climb into one of these
vehicles those mechanical shoulder straps either spills the coffee out
of my hand, or knocks my AHRA hat off my head--who's responsible for
these engineering brainfarts? Why do today's engineers--technical and
social--insist on trying to make my life better for me? In these times,
must the tail always wag the dog nowadays?)
At this point, motor vehicles equipped with robotics and cellular
communications systems cease to be automobiles, anymore than HAL in
Stanley Kubrick's 2001 was just a computer on a spaceship. No, it is no
longer an automobile, it is now a symbol of oppression that must be
smashed into scrap carbon fiber, in my humble opinion. Next year,
unless the mavens of Saugus Speedway promise to destroy some
automobiles whose essence is relevant to the human condition as mankind
enters the 21st century, Roy and I will motor to all the way to the
Governor's Cup in my 71 Grand Prix, instead of across town to some
feeble demolition derby freakshow, I swear. Regardless of what the
womenfolk want to do.
October 1, ANRA Finals, LACR, Palmdale, CA--Caz,
Cuz'n Roy, and I arrived in time for Top Fuel qualifying, no small feat
considering what it takes to motivate Roy into action on a Saturday
morning...
This event was emblematic of the joys and disappointments of attending
old-style drag races. Although most of the classes were pretty well
represented, the Top Fuel turnout was rather paltry. I did not regret
the drive, however, because this might have been the farewell racing
appearance of Top Fuel hero"Wild Bill" Alexander.
Alexander was the first Top Fuel shoe on the West Coast to break
through the 200-mph barrier, a feat he pulled off--if my memory serves
me correctly--at San Fernando Raceway w-a-y back in 1964. Those were
heady days, the Southern California renaissance was in full effect, the
proliferation of ideas, diggers, and drag strips seemingly
inexhaustible. In those days Alexander stood tall among a constituency
of Top Fuel pilots that numbered over 100 in California alone.
On this day in 1994, however, "Wild Bill" was but one of
three--yes, only three--Top Fuel drivers entered at the Season Final
out here in the Mojave Desert. Many things have changed since
Alexander's epic ground-breaking assault on the San Fernando asphalt 30
years ago. To ennumerate and catalogue on paper [LBJ] these social,
technological, and political changes would require the [FLOWER
POWER] clearcutting of the entire state of Oregon. But
suffice it to say, in 1964 the Beach Boys were selling more
records world wide than the Beatles.
In 1994, unfortunately, two Beach Boys, Brian Wilson and Mike
Love who, incidentally, are cousins--were suing each other over
disputed royalty payments from the song "Good Vibrations." In between
their long journey from the console to the courtroom, America absorbed
JFK, Vietnam, LBJ, MLK, RFK, Woodstock, Apollo 9, Altamont, the Last
Drag Races (San Fernando, Lions, Irwindale, OCIR, etc.), Watergate,
Iran, disco, MTV, AOL, NAFTA, and Microsoft into the sponge we call our
collective consciousness.
By 1994 most of us figured out that Camelot was a mirage, and that the Beach
Boys had reduced themselves to bickering magpies, surf music mercernaries
devoid of passion and inspiration. The presence and persona of Alexander,
however, remained a constant--just transpose San Fernando, 1964 for
Palmdale, 1994. Obviously this was not about money for Alexander, this was
about something much purer. If speed is a metaphor for freedom, then the
exploits of"Wild Bill" must be considered pure poetry.
In Top Fuel eliminations Alexander was paired off against Bill "the
Heartbreaker" Dunlap. It was just before sunset when crew members for
both race cars primed the injectors with gasoline, and then applied
aircraft starters to the blower pulleys, enabling both nitro-huffing
machines to roar to life, each motor sounding extremely stout, loud,
and potent. Each driver coaxed nice and gnarly, smoky burnouts out of
their front-motored dragsters, as acrid nitro fumes melded with the
copious tire smoke, creating a pungent perfume that soaked everyone
near the starting line.
As the dragsters cackled at maximum decibels, each driver eased his
machine into the staging beams. Alexander staged first, then Dunlap. As
the Xmas tree flashed "go!" both men left simutaneously, their
dragsters streaking down the 1320 like a pair of chrome moly bullets.
It was either man's race, until about 800 feet downtrack Alexander's
digger began to drift. His tires suddenly broke traction, the car
immediately hooked left, "Wild Bill" boldly fought to correct the now
disobedient and insubordinate machine, never lifting off the throttle,
never relinquishing control, virtually outmuscling this stubborn,
deafening 2000 horsepower missile, keeping it between the guardrail and
the centerline, not to mention out of the path of the hard charging
Dunlap (who was feeling pretty darn anxious when he noticed that for
one moment Alexander's dragster was basically aimed at him). Be that as
it may, Dunlap was in no mood to get off the throttle either, so both
drivers kept the hammer down in a brazen display of chutzpah and
bravado. When the clutch dust settled, the win light was revolving in
Dunlap's lane, his 7.13 defeating Alexander's epic-but-futile 7.18.
Nobody realized it at the time, but due to finances and parts
attrition, this may have been the swan song to "Wild Bill" Alexander's
drag racing career. For a curtain call, this man hit the high
notes--even in defeat. What a pity more of his constituents were not
there to hear them.
October 15, FTN's "Thunder Island," Brotherhood Raceway Park, Terminal Island, CA--At
about 3 p.m. two carloads of race fans rendezvoused at my house in
Silver Lake. Once on the Harbor Freeway we formed a compact convoy,
snakeing our way through traffic in unison, blasting loud punk rock
music on our car stereos, high on the antcipation of an extremely cool
drag racing show.
Eight front-motored "Outlaw" Top Fuel dragsters had been booked into
this invitational "Chicago Style" meet, and this was the first time
nitromethane would penetrate the cool ocean air of the South Bay since
that dark day in 1972 when the Harbor Commission Coyote Gods bulldozed
our sacred sanctum of speed, Lions Drag Strip.
But that was then, this is now... And on this warm Autumn night, the
cadre of"Nitro Outlaws" united with the usual plethora of racers that
congregate at BRP every Saturday night--"space age cowboys,"
experimental econo dragsters, LAPD muscle cars, nitrous-assisted street
machines, etc.
This was a highly incongruous marriage--the front-motored Top Fuel
crowd in concert with the Brotherhood regulars--but somehow it made
karmic sense. I do not think a lot of the BRP posse had ever witnessed
a Top Fueler rocket down a drag strip before, especially one with the
motor in front a la 1967. During the 1st session of Top Fuel, alot of
the uninitiated seemed to regard the nitro cars with a cautious
curiosity--by the 2nd session they understood the appeal of Top Fuel
racing's sturm und drang. And conversely, this was the first time I
ever heard a dragster crowd cheer and whistle for doorslammers, but
they did...
Yes, this was a weird, surreal mutual admiration society that
peacefully convened on some enchanted evening, a mere tossed blower
belt from the old Lions Drag Strip. Contrary to the wisdom of ol' Tommy
Wolfe, it seems that, at least for one night, you could go home again.
And on that note I must conclude my ruminations on free range drag
racing in 1994, the Year of the Boomerang. I am running out of real
estate, so to speak, even though there was a lot more really cool drag
racing at the end of'94. All of these trips to the various drag strips
have taught me something, but it is now March, 1995--I can not keep
writing about
last year's drag races, no matter how much those endeavors informed my
philosophy of the world, or how much these travels gave my life
meaning. 1994 was the year that I rediscovered the joys of the exciting
and existentially correct world of "free range" independent drag
racing. Something I learned in these travels is that, like anything
else in life, the journey has to be its own payoff, an ends unto
itself, never mind the
event itself. In other words, the drive to the drag strip has as much relevance and resonance as the drag race itself. --FINI
CLUTCH DUST VAPORIZES INTO THE ETHER: THE COLE COONCE READER