A mile high at Bandimere

6/9/03

f all the racing venues I've been to, none are weirder to my wornout decrepit old butt than Bandimere Speedway, a racing locale some 6,100 feet above sea level, just west of downtown Denver, Colorado.

I attended my first NHRA Mile High Nationals in 1982 and was really looking forward to it. John Bandimere, the track owner, has been involved indirectly or directly in drag racing since the 1955 NHRA Nationals.

My at-that-time office partners Jim Edmunds and Les Lovett said, "You really gotta see this place. You can see downtown Denver from the starting line. It's the best view in the sport." I took that at face value and covered that race on my own nickel. I got a deal on a plane flight and was warmed by the fact that Texas racers Frank Cook, Bobby Rex, Jon Barrett, and Mickey Winters would be there competing, and, off- handedly, free at a moment's notice to go running about the city in the clouds.

I thought all that business about thin air that high up was so much horsefeathers. In 1982, I had been a pharamceutical test subject and boozer for almost 15 years, and felt that so-called "natural environs" (read: high altitude) could do nothing to this indestructible man.

Wrong.

I flew into the old Stapleton Airport that year with National DRAGSTER's ad man extraordinaire John Mazzarella and was righteously primed when I got off the plane. "Let's go out to the track," I hooted at John, "I gotta see this place." Now this was on a Thursday before a Friday-Saturday-Sunday race, and so we drove out to the track. We entered the facility and headed toward the race course, which was neatly sliced into the side of a big

ADVERTISEMENT

red mountain. As we began to slow the rent-a-car while nearing the starting line area, I distinctly thought I heard some blown fuel car fire up, most likely being a recipient of a test run by special dispensation from NHRA or track management.

"John," I said. "Pull this pig over, I wanna see who's lit up."

Mazzarella, still trying to figure out where the hell NHRA staff parking was, gladly stopped and I got out and headed the final 200 yards of what was a formidable looking uphill grade to the race track. Formidable LOOKING? It was damned formidable in reality! I didn't get 100 yards sprinting uphill when I started feeling needles in my face, a throbbing in my temples, a drying of the mouth, a vision of the Grail, and "Buffalo Bill" Cody (he's buried in Morrison, Colo.) peering over the mountain ridge. I had to stop and pull over, fighting to catch my breath.