Just a short note of introduction to this rather long-winded spiel; maybe a word or two that will make the whole thing a little clearer.  

A few weeks ago, another grumpy, raunchy, miserable old goat like myself asked the readers of one of the many racing message forums if they could remember where they saw their first race and if so, who had won it.

I chose to send the old gent, whom some of you probably know, the following email in answer to his question.

The gentleman’s name is Len Calinoff; he has been around racing since real horses were used for power, his best efforts at driving a midget were all timed with either a sundial or an hourglass, and he is also the publisher of OpenWheelRacing.com, which is owned by his son, Mike.

Lenny suggested that the letter should be published for others to enjoy and I agreed provided that it could also be sent to The Vintage Racer as I felt that the readers at this site just might be able to relate to it as well.

Writing it brought back an awful lot of memories, people, places and events; things which had remained in the background of the vast, vacant reaches of my mind for years suddenly seemed to have occurred only yesterday.

I truly hope that reading the following jars loose a few good recollections for some of you folks as well.

Good morning Lenny,

I read your question about the first race I saw and who won it; I’ve tried my damnedest to recall that information, but am coming up with a complete blank.  One of the curses of old age perhaps?  

Yeah, I know.  I’m younger than you are, but senility doesn’t play any favorites, I guess.

At first I thought that the first race might have been a midget show at West Peabody; or maybe a jalopy race?

Could it have been at The Pines over in Groveland?  the bullring in Hudson?  maybe the old Manchester Motordrome?  or a modified show at Norwood Arena?  maybe Westboro?   the dirt track over in Dover?

It’s sort of like they were all tossed into a blender, swirling around and mixing themselves into a blur of crystal clear memories which are clouded all together.

I do remember watching my Dad work on some funny little cars they called midgets about the same time I started to walk.

I do remember them towing those little cars down the street with a rope wrapped around the front axle and the thrill that I felt when they fired those noisy rascals up, spun them around on the pavement and came back to the shop.

(I still get that same thrill whenever I hear a racing engine fire up.)

I do remember an unheated, single stall garage, an old Ford coupe and removing the fenders with an axe and a sledge hammer, fabricating a roll bar out of old black iron water pipe, using elbows and flanges and bolting that roll bar to the frame.

I do remember that the Weed V-bar chains cost me $13.00 for the pair for the rear tires and a local garage owner charged me another $15.00 to make up a chain for the right front.  Big bucks for a kid just starting high-school and working part time for something like twenty-five or fifty cents an hour.

I do remember flat towing that old coupe down to one of the local beaches in the middle of January to race it on the ice.  The fact that I was a few years short of being old enough to obtain a driver’s license was not even a consideration.  Things like that just weren’t as important then.

By the way, flat towing an old Ford coupe with chains on three tires and welded spider gears on an icy road is something everyone should experience at least once during their lifetime.

Welding spider gears in a single stall garage next to the bucket of gasoline which you’re using for parts cleaner is something which no one should ever experience; that might be a story for another time? 

The good news was that the insurance company did pay for the garage and tools but we couldn’t reach an agreement as to the value of the old Ford.

I do remember the seemingly endless hours until the next week’s race, but there always seemed to be more seemingly endless hours of work to be done on the racecars.

I do remember that somehow along the way I managed to acquire a wife, a house and a couple of kids. 

Still not quite sure exactly how that all came about.

I do remember the hours spent on the road, headed to whatever track.  Picnic lunches and swimming holes that we always managed to find to make the trip easier and to give us some fun times with wives and kids.

I do remember rough sawn, splintery planks in rickety old grandstands, lots of noise, lots of dirt and dust flying around, maybe a dozen or so 100 watt light bulbs strung around on some pretty nasty looking wires hung from some equally nasty looking old posts, giving the illusion of light at least in the spots directly underneath the bulbs. 

Sometimes going down into turn one was about like driving into one of those black holes at the end of the universe. 

Sometimes you could actually see the back of the car in front of you, or maybe the little puddle of light from the next bulb.  At least until the dust really started to get thick; then it was guess where you were at by whatever you could find that looked familiar.

I do remember the lump in the throat that the National Anthem always seemed to bring; even when it was just a scratchy old record, played over a lousy PA system.

I do remember that EVERBODY would stand at attention, remove their hats and place their hands over their hearts.  You could actually see the pride folks took in being an American at those times.

I do remember flagmen starting the races from the track.  Crouching down in the middle of the track with both the green and yellow flags; holding the field until it seemed certain he would be caught up in the middle of the mayhem which his waving of the green would unleash.

I do remember that on more than one occasion that did happen.  I’ve got a couple of friends who still bear the scars.

I do remember the dark, dirty, rocky pit areas.   The assorted burns, cuts, bruises and contusions.  Those just the ones from working on the car; injuries from some of the after-program disagreements are probably best left unmentioned.

I do remember lots of race track hot-dogs with mustard, relish and the ever present dirt and dust, not to mention the added flavor of grease and oil ground into your hands, gallons of race track cokes, watered down with too much ice and I can still taste the wax from those paper cups.  Oh yeah, and aren’t the french-fries, salted down and smothered in ketchup, at any racetrack the best you’ll ever taste, anywhere?

I do remember racetrack clowns who could keep the fans entertained between the heats and during intermission as well as while the track clean-up crews did their jobs.  They tossed candy to the kids, went up into the stands and made those funny balloon animals and hats and brought smiles with balancing acts, trick bicycles, firecrackers, sparklers and confetti. 

Smiles not only to the kids, but also to the older folks, who for those wonderful few moments got to be kids again.

Bring on the clowns; God bless ‘em.

I do remember fans coming into the pits after the show, wanting to be close not only to the drivers, but to the cars as well.  How great those ice-cold beers, shared with family, friends, and those fans tasted.  Even if they were really warm and mixed liberally with dirt and dust.

I also remember the smiles of the kids when they were seated in those beat up old race cars, yanking the steering wheel from side to side, making all sorts of motor noises while in their minds they ran the Indy 500, on the beach at Daytona, and maybe even the 24 hours of LeMans, all at the same time.

For some reason, I don’t remember feeling all that tired for that shared hour or so.

I do remember lots of driver’s names; most probably never heard of by the large majority of today’s fans.  Hell, most were probably never heard of by the large majority of yesterday’s fans either, although some of them might ring a bell or two.

Freddy Brown and his dad Howie, Ronnie Marvin, Paul Martel, “Dirty Ernie” Gilbert, Cy Colby, Cy Miller, Buck Moses and a whole bunch more who raced every weekend; certainly not for the money, maybe for whatever little recognition they might receive, but mainly because these guys were racers. 

Sadly, all are no longer with us.

I do remember the long rides home.  Dirty and tired, but full of the intoxicating joy that can only be known by those who have played hard, taken it out to the edge, and won.

I also remember the long rides home, dirty and tired, every joint and muscle sore and aching, towing a completely torn up race car and feeling whatever feeling it is that comes from knowing that you’ve given it your very best, only to come up just a bit short.

The agony of defeat?

Places like Langhorne, Trenton, Bridgehampton, Summit Point, Limerock Park, Martinsville, Williams Grove and also Catamount Stadium, Thunder Road, The 106 Midway and Bryar Motorsports Park, Arundel and Oxford Plains, Lee USA, the Star and Oswego, Stafford Springs and Thompson, along with so many others.  Even a little place down a narrow dirt road in Bradford, Vt. called Bear Ridge Speedway. 

Just a few more of those places swirling around in that blender.  Some still in operation, others are now shopping malls and housing developments or simply vacant lots.

Lately it seems like it’s usually the spotless garages or the air conditioned media center at NHIS; my hands don’t get very dirty shooting pictures or typing on my keyboard, the food’s good and everybody knows the names involved.

I still manage to find some way to get some grease under the nails and a spot or two on the clean shirts, just to give the wife something to complain about.

While I never did gain fortune and fame playing this silly racing game, I sure have gotten rich beyond measure in the education I’ve gained, the friendships, the enemies, the stories, and all the memories.  Especially the memories….

In hindsight, even the bad ones are special today.

Lenny, I feel sorry for those who hear the stories and say, “Man, I wish I could have done that.”

To them I can only ask, “But why didn’t you?”

Life is so much sweeter when you’re a player, is it not? 

I think so, and I’ll bet you agree with me on that?

Have you ever wondered if they have racecars in Heaven?  If they don’t, I guess we’ll have to spend our eternity in Hell and be happy about it.  We’ll be amongst all our friends, doing the thing we love. 

Man, that sounds like it’d be close enough to Heaven for me.

Sorry to carry on so long, I was still just trying to remember whatever it was that I was trying to remember that I wanted to tell you about.

The first race, the first race track and who won? 

It seems like only yesterday, but then again, yesterday at times gets caught in that blender and is suddenly a whole lifetime of yesterdays away.  I still have not a clue as to where, when, or who. 

But man, what a great trip it’s been.

Sure wish I could have spent the month in Indiana; even if the motors are in the wrong end of the cars now.

Hey old man, keep kicking and giving folks a hard time, being miserable and try to stay healthy.  Keep in mind that the world is full of youngsters who know it all.

Experienced, mean, nasty, ugly, dirty old men like us are rapidly becoming an endangered species.

Later,
boB 

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