These mornings are unique and they need to be cherished much in the way of a wedding or the birth of a child.  Countless hours of personal labor, untold amounts of financial resources have been invested.  The realization of possible injury or death are always there as you spend the sleepless hours waiting for the opportunity to uncover your dreams.  You try to feel as the great ones did at these same times in their sometimes shortened lives.

The names keep flashing through your brain, Dan Gurney, Parnelli Jones, A.J. Foyt, Jimmy Clark, Sterling Moss and the forgotten Ken Miles.  You try to understand what they were feeling as the sun began to rise on what could be their last day on this planet.  Much as they did, you might be in a sleeping bag or if times have been good, maybe the feeling of a comfortable bed and hot shower.  It is important that these experiences be felt along with what will happen over the next few hours.  The wait has been so long.

Perhaps it is some type of disease.  It is certainly an addiction.  Nothing on this earth can surpass the smell of 110 octane racing fuel before it goes  through - or after it leaves - a high performance American made V8 engine.  We grew up with them in the 60's and 70's:  Mustangs, Camaros, Barracudas, Javelins...the names go on as if taken from a steroid label.  We searched the newspapers on Monday to see how they had performed at Daytona, Sebring, LeMans and other tracks  only to have bragging rights until the next time these Detroit ground pounders met at some far away track.

Now it is my turn.  I leave the sleeping bag as activity begins to take place around the paddock.  The early risers are already turning wrenches on their dreams.  A twenty year old is working on a 1963 Falcon, a race car that was born almost 20 years before he was a twinkle in his fathers eye.  Straining to find someone who can offer a cup of coffee and the usual donut I realize that it is going to be a cloudless day with no possibility of rain.

With a second cup of coffee in hand it is now time to start getting focused.  I see my dream - made possible by two hard years of personal labor - a 1965 Mustang in pure race form just as they looked 37 years ago.  Next to my time machine is my brother's 1965 Mustang and next to his is another Mustang.  The race cars keep my brain focused in the past as I look around the paddock and realize we will have over 300 machines here at Sebring International Raceway.  Our feelings are just as they must have been for the drivers years ago at this some spot at which I am standing.  This is now - but it is also then!

In my eighth season of Historic Sportscar Racing, I continue to be amazed at the amount of money being directed into this grassroots existence that pays no prize money and offers only broken equipment, broken dreams and possible death.  It is much the way it was in 1965 before automobile racing became a corporate torch.  I am truly living as they did years in the past.

Sebring International Raceway begins to awaken and I think of races here since the early 1950's.  My brother and I, along with friends we have developed here at the tracks, will attack this flat, long, bumpy, dangerous track in the same manner as it has been done for over 50 years - wide open.  Numerous famous and infamous drivers have died here, but that does not even enter our minds just as it does not bother any true driver.  You simply feel like you can cheat death and injury.

The spectator support is even more for us than it was back in the 60's.  We follow the Sebring 12 Hour Endurance Race which included drivers and fans from all over the world.  Drivers in the early years did not always have this kind of support.  The spectators at these events are just like us;  they want to experience now what may not have been possible as they were speeding through their youth.

The roar is maddening even before I get settled into my single seat and get a chance to strap myself in with extra pulls on my five point safety harness.  A quick check of my fire system and a last look around the drivers compartment for forgotten tools ends in unbelievable noise and that great smell of race fuel as my brother brings his 450 horsepower animal to life right next to my car.  While all of this is taking place, you keep trying to relax and remember what they pounded in our brains as the required drivers school back when we first decided to attempt this craziness - "you must slow down if you want to go fast".  It seems the good drivers take a nap while strapped into their rockets so the advice must be good.  I'll have to work on that.

Most of the high performance engines are now living beasts and I realize it was not a good idea to forget my earplugs as open exhaust pipes cough a rasp sound in time with an uncontrolled heartbeat and a sudden desire to completely forget any worry on earth except keeping 2600 pounds of throbbing steel away from other cars and anything stationary.

The feeling is incredible as 40 valuable race cars with 40 mostly amateur drivers strain to reach a waving green flag.  Spent racing fuel, a hesitant starter, or a maniac bent on leading the first lap always make this the most dangerous and exciting part of the race.  I try to concentrate on braking and shifting in a straight line and no wasted energy through the turns.  Lets get through the first few laps and then find room for moving forward when the traffic thins because of the vast speed differences between these historic legends.

Suddenly I approach a slower 1970 Mustang once driven by the legendary Parnelli Jones.  I search for all the braking power available in my 38 year old thoroughbred.  I can almost see my past hero in the driver seat, but it turns out to be some doctor from Toledo.  The race is barely started and I see a flash of head lights in my rear view mirror and realize the lead pack is already approaching for a pass.  It is a moment of shear fear as a prototype racer of 1970 LeMans passes me going over 100 miles per hour faster than my straining Mustang.  A few laps later, a retired NASCAR racer formally driven by Dale Earnhardt literally shakes my car as it gets inside of me on a turn and accelerates into the next corner with 3400 pounds tearing up the track.  The American V8 is an awesome sounding piece of machinery meant only for dreams like I am living.......................................

Editor's Note: This story was originally published in "THRILLSEEKERS". You can also visit Henry's website at: www.historicmustang.com