My Atlanta, Not Mylanta

4/7/03

y the time 1981 rolled around, I had traveled to most of the western states, but only East three or four times. I had never been to the South and, given that my grandfather on my father's side of the family was born in Arkansas and had relatives in Mississippi, I was happy to hear that NHRA had created a Southern Nationals event for Atlanta Dragway, a track they had wedged away from the still-competitive IHRA.

Like a lot of loony Californians, the South had always intrigued me. Kudzu hanging off phone wires, pitch moss on big oak trees, deep set front porches on white two-story frame houses, straight talk, drawls for y'alls, lawn jockeys, lynchings, the Ku Klux Klan and moonshine ... all of that got my hippie-broiled brain in an uproar when I found out that the circus was headed for that part of the world. I wanted to go and when I found out that I got the ticket, I lit up.

I lit up spiritually; the physical deal wouldn't occur 'til I got to the track.

For one thing, I went into Atlanta knowing that this track was one of the "big three" when it came to Rowdy Fans 101. Word had it that Rockingham was No. 1, and Atlanta or Bristol

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was second, depending on body counts. Fights in the stands, public drunkenness, improvised urinals, hard booze in plastic mouth wash cups; Atlanta had everything short of the Hell's Angels to make for an unmatched viewing experience.

The first day I got a hint that the fans might be as much a part of the show as Top Fuel or Funny Car. My pal, the late human Roman Candle, NHRA photographer Les Lovett, was catching some grief from the fans. He had perched himself on the little elevated sidewalk with camera in hand when some locals started yelling at him: "Hey down in front!" "Hey, ah cain't see throo 'yo big fat hayad!" Stuff like that. Lovett, whose fuse was only slightly longer than a bird's penis, responded in kind. Something about I gotta job to do and shut the hell up.

His diatribe was cut off by the late Chief Starter and redneck "Buster" Couch. The photo area was fairly close to the starting line and you could hear from where Lovett was if one of the starting line personnel wanted you.

Buster said something on the order of, "Leslie! Leslie Lovett! Don't go givin' those people no jaw. The ones down in front are from Atlanta. Them boys with the beards and coveralls at the top are mountain people. Leave 'em alone."

Mountain people, I silently thought. My interest piqued.