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Disaster No. 3. This one is one of those that occurs when it's the worst time ever. By now, 1998 or so, Fran had her "Lady In Red" Nova and I had my '73 Datsun, and we had moved to Alpharetta, Georgia and discovered the B&M Racer Appreciation Series. Huntsville Dragway in north Alabama had become our favored track, and we were returning from a big three-day go on a cold November afternoon. Come 11 p.m., we were approaching I-75 south of Chattanooga when I heard a clunking noise coming from under the hood of our '91 Suburban. I hadn't heard this before, and maybe it was because I had the radio turned up full blast.

Anyway, this clunking got worse and worse, and I pulled over just before the on-ramp. A Georgia highway patrolman was right behind me, lights flashing. "What's wrong?" he asked, eyeing the Surburban that was parked halfway between road and shoulder. "I dunno," I said. "Listen." "Clunk-clunk-clunk," went the engine. "You're not going anywhere in this car. It's not safe," the patrolman ordered. "Follow me to that service station over there." He gave me and the 'Burb and the trailer and the Datsun a blue-light escort to the BP station across the street ("Hey, this is kinda cool," I said to myself) with the promise that he would keep an eye on the trailer and the Suburban for a couple of days until I could get both back home. He also okayed it with the BP lady that the rig could stay there for the duration. Nice guy, he. I came back the next day and towed the Suburban home (I bent the trailer ramps getting it up there), then returned for the Datsun. Neither got touched. Thanks, Mr. GHP-man!

And now we come to the last catastrophe in this tale of catastrophes, the one that every bracket racer dreads -- the time I crashed my racecar.

It happened at Macon International Dragway in south Georgia on a cold February day when no one in his right mind should have been racing. We were. Or I should say, we were testing at the time.

Seems the track had a test'n'tune session going on that attracted a hoard of 5.0 Mustangs, hopped up Firebirds and Camaros and motorcycles of all sizes and stripes. We had just traded friend Harry Brown our '37 Chevy street rod for his '73 Datsun Super Gasser (the same), and he wanted to make one last pass on it before he turned the seat belts over to me. Fine, I said. We'll go along and make a pass with you. Brown did, popping the front end up just right and zooming down Macon Int'l at a low 6-seconds. "Okay, now have at it," he said.

I climbed in, drove around to the left lane where Harry had just made his pass, and was told that that lane was closed, go to the right. I did. I did a horribly wimpy burnout, staged, set the trans brake and went -- only to find myself heading for the Christmas tree. I cleared it, then lifted once and got back in it, and that's when the car started skating like Oksana Baiul. I hit the left wall hard, then bounced into the center lane and came to a stop. What happened? I crawled out of the right-side door. My head hurt. The Datsun's front end was smashed.

Harry Brown was nice about it all, but I don't think he wanted to take the Datsun back after that. I think the trade for the '37 was sealed the moment I hit the Macon left lane. I really didn't blame Harry. I wouldn't either. I got the front end fixed within a month. My head was swimming for three days afterwards.

The point of all this is that catastrophes can sometimes be avoided, sometimes not. Catastrophes happen, just like that four-letter word. They are little bumps in the road that must be gotten over. I don't know if they make us better people or not, but they happen, and they should be accepted in the racing world. The thing to do is to make the necessary changes -- fix that master cylinder, patch up that banged-up front end, do what you have to do to get past it and go on. And for us, keep on racing.