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photo by Jeff Burk
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WINSTON'S FINAL
In some ways, NHRA and Winston showed at the Pomona Raceway party like
a
Long-lived couple who had gotten a recent but amicable divorce. There
was plenty of Winston signage and the Winston folks were there, but
the whole deal was subdued a tad. A number of drivers paid homage to
Winston in their round-win speeches, so did NHRA mikester Dave McClelland
at the starting line before final eliminations, and a number of other
folks put in their three cents worth, but it gave me a feeling of "the
less said the better" about the split-up.
 Despite
this possibly imagined tightness on my part, I was determined to attend
the Winston Final (that's what L.A. Times writer Shav Glick called it
in his Monday results story; very appropriately I might add) and enjoy
it as I've done since the tobacconeers first showed up in 1975: Balls
to the wall, petal to the metal.
Originally, I hadn't planned on going. DRO Editor Jeff Burk got me a
press credential, but I thought that maybe I'd use it once, get some
local color, scribble it down, say hello to a few folks, and come home
to stay that night. I felt sort of obligated to appear at the final
Winston Finals, because I've enjoyed their hospitality for so many years.
As things turned out, it was probably the best final race I've ever
sat through. I was at Lions when it folded in December of 1972, Irwindale
in 1977, and Orange County in 1983, and as great as those races were,
this one was better. All the elements of great racing and nostalgia,
including the very important social one, came together spectacularly
on the weekend of November 8-11.
Lemme tell ya how and why.
On Friday morning, I was all set to re-read a book that I've been helping
edit for good friend and super writer Cole Coonce. I had told my life-long
drag race pal Niles Smith to go on without me on Wednesday of the race
week, and that if I showed at all, it would be probably on Saturday
and maybe just for a session.
That day around noon, I get a phone call from Dallas, Texas from my
close pal and famed racing wolf and eye doctor, Dr. Milton "Mickey"
Winters of "Bad Moon
Rising" Alcohol Funny Car fame.
The call.
Winters: What are we doin' son?
Me: I'm going to finish up editing a book for a friend of mine this
weekend. What are you up to?
Winters: Me and Bill Harden are just now getting on a plane for L.A.
and we're going to pick you up and haul your ass out to Pomona.
Me (with a slight whine): Aw gee, thanks Mick, but I haven't got any
money and I don't want to be a burden ...
Winters (interrupting): Did I ask you that? No I didn't. Get yourself
a change of clothes, a shaving kit, put it in a bag and be ready to
go at 7 p.m.
Now, having traveled around with Mickey for 20 years, I knew he wasn't
woofing and that an intro like that usually meant good times on the
horizon. Bill
Harden was a guy I'd met a few years ago at the Texas Motorplex, and
he's cut from the same cloth. He's a highly successful plumbing contractor
in Dallas and when we were talking one night at the Motorplex, he said
through glassy eyes but with plenty of conviction, "Son, if there's
two things I like in this world it's racing and fun. Capitol "F-U-N."
Moreover, Mickey had told me that he and Harden were putting together
an
A/Fuel Dragster and that they were going to get some help from piston
magnate and mechanical wizard, Nick Arias.
All things considered, I accepted. It proved to be a good move.
I won't bore you with a highlights of my vacation. I did get off the
wagon
Friday night at the Brass Ring, the tavern at the Fairplex Sheraton,
and it was like old home week. Kenny and Terri Youngblood, Bill Jenkins,
Richard Tharp, my
Bellflower pals, Bobby Wong and Terry Lee Mincks, talking at the top
of their lungs, lubricating themselves with all kinds of poisons filled
the bar and lit it up.
Winters, Harden, and I didn't stay at the Sheraton Fairplex that night.
At 2 a.m., we motored off and hunkered down at the Stardust Motel on
Foothill just off of White Ave. Since I've been working the races professionally,
I've never seen so much porn TV in one little motel room. I was so drunk
at the time that I thought I'd been locked in a peep booth at the local
Le Sex Shoppe.
As for the on-track stuff, wonderful. To my great relief, the Team Strange
bus was in the pits, once again hosted by "Saint John" Mazzarella,
and it's his hospitality and the Stange clan's accoutrement that had
everyone from Don Schumacher and Chris Karamesines to advertising impressarios
Brett Underwood and Bill Lloyd to half of the Drag Racing Hall of Fame
personnel dropping by.
In the grandstands, it was heaven for me socially. My favorite kind
of people.
Where I sat and within shouting distance were the Team Strange and Brass
Ring crowd, along with great racer friends Denny Martinez, Gary Southern,
"Soapy" the truck driver ("Soap," I don't think
I've ever been told your last name), and Mr.
Saturday Night, Bill Burke, and, of course, Winters and Harden. A crew
to do.
Elapsed times and mile per hour were as good as they have been all year
at the Winston wrap-up and there were more great runs than those by
Kenny Bernstein, Mike Dunn, and Whit Bazemore. Hard-core fans had to
go positively bananas when tragic figures like Top Fuel hardcase Arley
Langlo ran a career best 5.04, and battle-scarred Funny Car veteran
Dave Benjamin cranked a 5.09/277.74.
Naturally, with boyhood hero Karamesines running a career best of 4.73/306.81
my weekend was nearly set. I missed "the Greek's four-second antics
at Houston and Atlanta, and those qualified as two of my bigger personal
drag racing spectator disappointments, so this 4.73 more than made up
for it.
On the Sabbath, we were able to work our way over to the E Street side
of the track where I surprised Smith with my unscheduled appearance.
It was a supreme pleasure to be with him and Mickey and Harden and watch
the last pro finals at the Winston Finals.
It's been a funny three or so years with me. When I and 17 or 18 others
were laid off at NHRA, I really didn't feel so bad. For a number of
reasons, I had been burning out on drag racing. The drags were getting
to be a drag. The sport seemed to be losing its sense of humor, the
fields were shrinking, there was a feeling of being rudderless in a
corporate sea of gray flannel suits; I was glad to go.
But over the years, I discovered one thing: How much I terribly missed
my racing friends. Some folks have farmers for friends, mine were drag
racing people. Leaving aside Niles Smith who is a chemist, I used to
try to play down my racing involvement to my non-racing chums over the
years, because I felt like I was namedropping. If someone asked if I
knew Bill Jenkins or "the Greek," or someone of that order,
I'd leave it at a "yeah, a little bit" or something like that.
Didn't want to come as hoighty-toighty. But, damn, as it turned out,
the racing fraternity is all I've got or really all I ever had and when
they're on the road, I'm in the kitchen with the Tombstone Blues.
Virtually all of these friendships were made in the Winston years. In
that 26-year time span, I had led a life that for any racing buff might
be seen as enviable. I was glad I could see the tobacco giant off in
the company of these wonderful folks that have shaped my life. It was
at their parties that I shook a lot of hands that me pulled into an
awful lot of interesting situations.
I don't know how many times I will be at the races in -- what'll it
be, the Powerade years -- but when I do, Lucifer, let it be with these
demons.
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