More weirdness: they have two big boards sitting behind the water box, so you have to drive around them, back up and do your burnout. The boards save the next competitors from getting debris slung up on their windshields. Oh, yeah, and the guy who puts you in the water box is deaf. I figured he just liked the high-winding sound of unmuffled modified engines blasting his unprotected ears off until someone told me.

The pits are sand-covered and full of pecan trees. When we were there, the far end of the track had grass growing out of the cracks. I saw one guy racing a dragster wearing overalls, a t-shirt, a helmet and flip-flops.

Still, when we loaded up to go home, track people came by and told us to have a good trip home and be sure to come on back, y'all. Phenix Dragway was that kind of place.

PARADISE

So is Paradise -- Paradise Drag Strip, that is, off I-75 in Calhoun, Georgia. Some people around here call it "Otto's Motorplex," because it was built and is owned by Otto Timms, an earth excavator and owner of a nearby motel that may or may not still be in business. It is far from a motorplex, but that's all right.

Otto is so friendly that he'll take a tally of the racers and their names and welcome them personally at each and every driver's meeting. Why, one time, he even kissed wife Fran on the cheek and said, "Welcome, girl. We're glad you're here." Sometimes he'll see an old

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friend and say, "Well, So-and-So, when did they let YOU out?" The driver's meeting, by the way, is necessary, because it's then that you learn how much money you'll be racing for on that particular Sunday afternoon. Payouts at Paradise depend on the car count.

Unlike at some tracks we've been to over the years, at Paradise there's no problem with drunks, because Gordon County is dry (so is Sunday everywhere else in the State of Georgia). And you don't need to worry about getting hungry at Paradise; the hot dogs, boiled right in front of you, cost but a dollar, while hamburgers, cooked by Otto's wife or one of his relations, go for a buck-fifty. Pickles as long as your hand cost 50 cents, and so do the soft drinks.

Otto Timms has one hard and fast rule at his track -- you can't start your race car until 12:15 p.m. A church is located right across the street, and it being Sunday, he's always respectful of his neighbors.

You're racing right in front of the Timms' front yard. His house sits on a hill overlooking the track.

I have never seen a "motorplex" packed into such tight quarters. The pits, connected by rows of asphalt, go uphill in most places, so it's best to get there early Sunday morning to get a good parking place. The access road makes a 180-degree turn up and into the staging lanes, which are eight in number. The eight lead into two lanes for the burnout, and there are big boards right behind the water box, which was, when we were there, supplied with water from a full 55-gallon drum, with a cut-up Clorox bottle for dipping. Your crewman does the dipping.

You start your burnout and pull out, only to zoom straight up a hill. When you hit the pre-stage lights, you're still going uphill. Fact is, the whole track goes slightly uphill; you can see it plain as day without the aid of a transit and level rod. Two cones mark the eighth-mile finish line, and we've noticed from time to time that they're placed not exactly where the finish line lights are. The advantage on the top end goes to the locals, unless you check things out yourself.

Sometimes, when we were there several years ago, the pre-stage light in the right lane worked, sometimes it didn't. Otto assured all that you'd get as much time as you like staging. The Auto Start system was definitely not in place back then.

"Dyno Don" Nicholson has raced at Paradise, and so have Hubert Platt, Dick Brannan and Phil Bonner, plus others. It was a famous stop on the Southern Super Stock tour. Today's dragsters have no problem racing at Paradise, and Otto Timms greets them as warmly as he does a working guy's four-door footbraked Malibu.

We always went through this routine when we left Paradise Drag Strip: we'd pull out on the entrance-return road, weave past staging and the tail end of the cars still left in competition, turn left and go down the steep hill leading to the track itself, and honk our horn in goodby. Then we'd stop and wait for Otto to say over the loudspeaker, "Goodby, Miss Fran, Dale. We'll see you-all next time." Then he'd go back to calling the racing. He named that place right: Paradise.

Coming in Part 2: Putt-Putt Bush and Birmingham Dragway