In April 2007, and a month away from being 68-years-young, I started my career as a drag racer, something I wanted to do ever since I was a teenager. My car was a red and white 1977 AMC Gremlin called Grumblin'. That day turned out to be a blast—and not from the past. Grumblin' turned out to be the fastest AMC car at the Wisconsin International Raceway (WIR) near Kaukauna, Wisconsin, mainly because it was the only AMC car at the track.
First, the car had to be scrutinized by Tech, a track official assigned to make certain the car had all the necessary safety equipment and that it was an authentic legal street car as required by the state of Wisconsin motor vehicle department and the National Hot Rod Association. After Tech handed me my sign of approval, a WIR Tech sticker, I applied it to the driver’s rear side window. I was assigned my permanent ID number, S-52.
I liked the number because 5+2=7, and 7's my lucky number. The S stands for Street Eliminator class. Tech applied S-52 on the rider’s side windshield and on the driver’s side rear window with white shoe polish. He ended his tour of duty by saying, “This is all about having fun. Have a good time.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said and headed Grumblin' to the Street Pits, separated from Hot Rod and Top classes by a chain link fence. I discovered some of the Big Boys, Hot Rod and Top drivers, preferred to park with Street drivers. No sooner had I parked in an available space than the man on the loudspeaker announced it was time for Street cars to line up for the first of two practice runs. I was so nervous I cut my nose with my helmet as I put it on. Next, I managed to drive on the Return Road and through the Big Boys’ pits before arriving at the pre-staging lanes.
Gremlin was grumbling, aching to go. Eventually, it was our turn to show our stuff. The attendant waved us in. After driving through water and putting on the front brakes' electronic locking mechanism called line lock, I hit the accelerator pedal and smoked one tire and then slowly advanced forward.
The driver of the pickup truck in the other lane pre-staged by lighting the yellow uppermost light. I inched Grumblin' forward and lit the corresponding light in my lane. The truck driver moved his ride ahead the next eight required inches to set off the second yellow staging light. Grumblin' did likewise. I remembered not to stage too deeply as I was warned by Tech because that would be an automatic red light. Finally, we were ready.
Things happened so fast that the fifth yellow light on the Christmas Tree was already screaming yellow but I didn't respond. When I saw green light up, I punched the accelerator pedal. White smoke was everywhere. I couldn’t see in front of me. I couldn’t see behind me. I finally figured I’d better let up on the pedal.
Miracle of miracles, I could finally see. Grumblin' hooked up, as the regulars call it, and we shot ahead like a jet being catapulted off the USS Hornet, the aircraft carrier I served on many years ago. Unbelievably, Grumblin' passed the truck and ended up going 81.98 miles an hour in 17.12 seconds, which I discovered when the man at a structure the size of an outhouse in days gone by handed me my time slip. My reaction time was .845 of a second, the slowest of my racing career. When I returned to the pits, the fellows next to me were laughing as one said, “All we could see was white smoke. You should get in a burnout contest because you’d win for sure."
“What can I do to avoid that?” I asked brothers Buster and Randy Klitzke, whose Top car went 150 mph and was parked next to my car.
"You have to nurse your accelerator because you don't have Positraction," explained Randy.
"And there’s no way you can be consistent with those regular tires on the back," chimed in Buster. "Consistency, not speed, is the byword in bracket racing. Two things you need to do: Get yourself some street slicks and put posi in the pumpkin.” He waited a moment and then added, “But today, have fun.”
Buster’s grin was all over his face.
The next practice pass, Grumblin' went 91.026 mph, not bad from a standing start to the finish at 1,320 feet.
12:45 p.m., the announcer on the loudspeaker said it was time for Street Class to line up for the first round of racing but first, the National Anthem. The Red, White, and Blue was hoisted on top of a pickup truck as the truck ran down one lane and returned in the other. After that ceremony was completed, the announcer barked, “Race time.”
This is it, I told myself. Leave immediately on seeing the third yellow light. Don’t worry about the other car. This is your race. Go for it, Georgie-boy.
My competition turned out to be a silver Porsche. Since it was a faster car, I had to leave first. Porsche pre-staged. Gremlin pre-staged. Porsche staged. Gremlin staged.
Ten seconds later, the third of three yellow lights under the two staging lights came on. I pressed down on the pedal and heard a tire spinning. I let up. Finally, Grumblin' hooked up. I looked in my rearview mirror. Porsche was in it. Oh, oh, no longer. I looked to my right. Porsche was alongside me. No matter, I thought, I’d win because I wanted to win.
Porsche passed Grumblin' at what drag racers call the Big End, the finish line. Its top speed was 93.929 mph and Grumblin's was 92.586. I left the line at .261 but my opponent’s reaction time was .289. Reaction time was the only thing I won. There’d be no more races for me until next week. I knew one thing above all others. I had fun.
In following years, Grumblin' raced in the low 13's and high 12's at 105 mph. My best reaction time was 3/10,000th of a second. That year and the next two following years, I won seven rounds in a row, which is called "Winning all the marbles." Not bad for an old fart.
The fun continues although I now pilot a 1989 Fox body Mustang I call Stang.
No faster than Grumblin', Stang and I have more fun because I hold to a philosophy that drag racing has taught me: Somebody has to win; somebody has to lose. Even when I lose, I always thank God in the same manner as when I win because I've been given the chance to barrel down the drag strip at over 100 mph at age 75 because I don’t have to worry about a traffic cop chasing after me with his squad’s lights flashing and siren blaring.
First, the car had to be scrutinized by Tech, a track official assigned to make certain the car had all the necessary safety equipment and that it was an authentic legal street car as required by the state of Wisconsin motor vehicle department and the National Hot Rod Association. After Tech handed me my sign of approval, a WIR Tech sticker, I applied it to the driver’s rear side window. I was assigned my permanent ID number, S-52.
I liked the number because 5+2=7, and 7's my lucky number. The S stands for Street Eliminator class. Tech applied S-52 on the rider’s side windshield and on the driver’s side rear window with white shoe polish. He ended his tour of duty by saying, “This is all about having fun. Have a good time.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said and headed Grumblin' to the Street Pits, separated from Hot Rod and Top classes by a chain link fence. I discovered some of the Big Boys, Hot Rod and Top drivers, preferred to park with Street drivers. No sooner had I parked in an available space than the man on the loudspeaker announced it was time for Street cars to line up for the first of two practice runs. I was so nervous I cut my nose with my helmet as I put it on. Next, I managed to drive on the Return Road and through the Big Boys’ pits before arriving at the pre-staging lanes.
Gremlin was grumbling, aching to go. Eventually, it was our turn to show our stuff. The attendant waved us in. After driving through water and putting on the front brakes' electronic locking mechanism called line lock, I hit the accelerator pedal and smoked one tire and then slowly advanced forward.
The driver of the pickup truck in the other lane pre-staged by lighting the yellow uppermost light. I inched Grumblin' forward and lit the corresponding light in my lane. The truck driver moved his ride ahead the next eight required inches to set off the second yellow staging light. Grumblin' did likewise. I remembered not to stage too deeply as I was warned by Tech because that would be an automatic red light. Finally, we were ready.
Things happened so fast that the fifth yellow light on the Christmas Tree was already screaming yellow but I didn't respond. When I saw green light up, I punched the accelerator pedal. White smoke was everywhere. I couldn’t see in front of me. I couldn’t see behind me. I finally figured I’d better let up on the pedal.
Miracle of miracles, I could finally see. Grumblin' hooked up, as the regulars call it, and we shot ahead like a jet being catapulted off the USS Hornet, the aircraft carrier I served on many years ago. Unbelievably, Grumblin' passed the truck and ended up going 81.98 miles an hour in 17.12 seconds, which I discovered when the man at a structure the size of an outhouse in days gone by handed me my time slip. My reaction time was .845 of a second, the slowest of my racing career. When I returned to the pits, the fellows next to me were laughing as one said, “All we could see was white smoke. You should get in a burnout contest because you’d win for sure."
“What can I do to avoid that?” I asked brothers Buster and Randy Klitzke, whose Top car went 150 mph and was parked next to my car.
"You have to nurse your accelerator because you don't have Positraction," explained Randy.
"And there’s no way you can be consistent with those regular tires on the back," chimed in Buster. "Consistency, not speed, is the byword in bracket racing. Two things you need to do: Get yourself some street slicks and put posi in the pumpkin.” He waited a moment and then added, “But today, have fun.”
Buster’s grin was all over his face.
The next practice pass, Grumblin' went 91.026 mph, not bad from a standing start to the finish at 1,320 feet.
12:45 p.m., the announcer on the loudspeaker said it was time for Street Class to line up for the first round of racing but first, the National Anthem. The Red, White, and Blue was hoisted on top of a pickup truck as the truck ran down one lane and returned in the other. After that ceremony was completed, the announcer barked, “Race time.”
This is it, I told myself. Leave immediately on seeing the third yellow light. Don’t worry about the other car. This is your race. Go for it, Georgie-boy.
My competition turned out to be a silver Porsche. Since it was a faster car, I had to leave first. Porsche pre-staged. Gremlin pre-staged. Porsche staged. Gremlin staged.
Ten seconds later, the third of three yellow lights under the two staging lights came on. I pressed down on the pedal and heard a tire spinning. I let up. Finally, Grumblin' hooked up. I looked in my rearview mirror. Porsche was in it. Oh, oh, no longer. I looked to my right. Porsche was alongside me. No matter, I thought, I’d win because I wanted to win.
Porsche passed Grumblin' at what drag racers call the Big End, the finish line. Its top speed was 93.929 mph and Grumblin's was 92.586. I left the line at .261 but my opponent’s reaction time was .289. Reaction time was the only thing I won. There’d be no more races for me until next week. I knew one thing above all others. I had fun.
In following years, Grumblin' raced in the low 13's and high 12's at 105 mph. My best reaction time was 3/10,000th of a second. That year and the next two following years, I won seven rounds in a row, which is called "Winning all the marbles." Not bad for an old fart.
The fun continues although I now pilot a 1989 Fox body Mustang I call Stang.
No faster than Grumblin', Stang and I have more fun because I hold to a philosophy that drag racing has taught me: Somebody has to win; somebody has to lose. Even when I lose, I always thank God in the same manner as when I win because I've been given the chance to barrel down the drag strip at over 100 mph at age 75 because I don’t have to worry about a traffic cop chasing after me with his squad’s lights flashing and siren blaring.
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