To be perfectly honest, I can't really remember with detail the first time I watched a real drag race in person. I know it was at Dragway Park in Cayuga, Ontario, sometime in the early '80s, but I've lost too many brain cells to too many vices since then to produce a clear description. I do recall it was an NHRA divisional race on the "May 2-4" weekend and I bought an event sweatshirt that served me well for about the next decade, but other than that, I'm at a loss for words.

The first straightline race I actually attempted was a few years earlier, in 1979, on the streets of Trenton, Ontario, behind the wheel of a 1970 GTO. I'd bought the car for the princely sum of $3,300 and it came complete with custom wheels, a fancy two-tone paint job, M&H Racemasters out back, and 400 cubes up front. Just a couple of days after entering muscle car ownership, I agreed to race a guy with a 340 Dart, a '68 or a '69 I think, from the stoplight just outside of "downtown" to a point even with the first hangar at the local Air Force base. The distance was actually about 3/10ths of a mile, but for our purposes, it was perfect.

Unfortunately, I was as green as the light and my inexperience cost me ten bucks that night (which I could hardly afford!) as the Dart immediately darted ahead and beat me to the "stripe" by a good two car lengths.

The ill-fated GTO in September 1979.

I never did get to take the GTO to a strip, as a youthful show of exuberance a few months later ended up against a tree and an unscrupulous body shop took advantage of my equally youthful experience with insurance and repairs. It really was a beautiful car, and to this day I still regret what happened. I've lost a few girlfriends over the years, and sometimes those days seemed pretty bad at the time, but I eventually got over them. I've never got over losing the Goat.

My first drag racing memory dates back even farther, though, all the way to Halloween 1972. I'd turned 12 a little over a month earlier and like most boys my age I was enthralled by Hot Wheels, but especially by the famous Snake and Mongoose Funny Cars. At the time, there was very little racing coverage available in Small Town, Ontario (better known as Smithfield) ­­ never mind drag racing news ­­ so it was pretty much left to imagination and Hot Wheels when it came time for me to conjure up the exploits of NHRA's heroes-of-the-day.

Through a few dog-eared copies of Hot Rod (that I must have read a thousand times each in the public school library), I knew that Funny Car drivers tended to wear some sort of silvery firesuit and breathing apparatus that resembled a World War II gas mask. That, and a helmet. Armed with this limited knowledge and a yen for something special on Oct. 31, I set about transforming myself into Tom "The Mongoose" McEwen.

My inspiration.

Never mind that I confused McEwen's name with that of Steve McQueen and wrote the actor's last name across the tinfoil that I'd taped all over my jacket. Never mind that the only "gas mask" I could find was my dad's painter's mask with the filters removed. And never mind that the only helmet I had was a plastic G.I. Joe styled affair that I simply wrote STP, Fram, Champion, and Goodyear all over. Put it all together and I was the ŒGoose!

Oh, and never mind that even after I told them, no one ­­ and I mean absolutely no one ­­ had even the foggiest idea of who or what I was supposed to be; I was just thrilled to be the ŒGoose!

I ran from house to house, challenging every kid along the way to "drag." I was completely undeterred by the confused comments from Smithfield's finest as I stood in line with the usual array of cowboys, fairies, and ghosts waiting for candy ­­ or fuel, in my case. It was probably that night that I began to realize drag racing was not such a popular sport amongst my fellow Canucks, like hockey, for instance, but in my mind, that was their loss. I just couldn't fathom why they didn't find it fascinating, too. In my mind, I was lined up beside Prudhomme, waiting for the Christmas tree (I even loved the terminology of drag racing) to turn us loose in a cloud of smoke.

I had no clue back then that a cloud of smoke probably wouldn't represent the ideal launch. That's the kind of detail that's lost on a kid with limited exposure to the sport. I was just happy to be imagining the sound of squealing tires and roaring engines, the scent of burning rubber, and the sight of two brightly colored racecars facing off on a long, black strip of asphalt. Come to think of it, that's what I still enjoy thinking about.

Well, that, and an old, blue GTO.

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