Drag Racing Online - The Martin Chronicles Vol. IV No. 7 July 2002

photo by Jeff Burk

ST. LOUIE, LOUIE. ME GOTTA GO NOW.

There was a time that attempting to outlast the elements like those at the recent Sears Craftsman Nationals in St. Louis, would've been part of the admission price. It was inhumanely hot and muggy during the last weekend of June and just quickly thinking about it, how could have it been otherwise? The St. Louis area is always like that in the summer. When I was young and strong and had the world view of Dean Martin, who allegedly said that the meaning of life, "was a million bucks, a bottle of bourbon, and professional helmet polish," I could deal with anything. Bring on the hot weather. Been there, done that. Look up the word "tough" in the dictionary and you'll see my picture. But no more. Now I marvel at those getting deep fat-fried in the bleachers and just shake my head. It's up to a newer generation to subject themselves to that kind of Hell. These days that wilting humidity would lead to my throwing up under the bleachers, punctuating my calls to Earl with words like "death," "death," and more "death." You've gotta be a real tough sunavabitch and a savvy force of nature to negotiate with weather conditions like those in St. Louis at the Seers Craftsman Unnaturals.

By the way, I wasn't at the race, although I was there in spirit when I turned on the ESPN coverage. It wasn't 10 minutes into the show when one of the announcers said that one of the Budweiser Clydesdales passed out. No shit. That little factoid entered into my drug dealer-dark living room environment, complete with computer chess, dark European beers, and a Glock in my lap.

A Clydesdale folded up in the steam room; this I gotta see. I found out later according to Burk, who did go to St. Louis, that the poor bastard just sort of sat down and refused to move, which might've been a good idea for the racers and fans. As it was, the Clydesdale survived as did the possibly hundreds of fans who were carted off to various medical tents around the facility and had their body temperatures hammered down to an area within 10-degrees of 98.6.

Based on this and all the horror stories of human fried eggs found in the front seats in the parking area, I was amazed that Burk was even able to talk without slurring his speech like "Otis" on the Andy Griffith Show. You know, too many shots to the hot head. I expected to hear from his wife Kay Sunday night that Jeff was found alongside his Dodge van looking for all the world like a melted Milk Dud.

Of course, given these utterly unreasonable conditions, the times were just a shade (how's that for a clumsy metaphor) off. The Funny Car class was a primo example of how bad things had deteriorated. There were individual heats (better metaphor) where an "X-Games" bike rider might've actually outrun one of the "floppers," so out of their element were they.

Chris, just how bad were the Funny Car times at Gateway? Glad you asked. Going strictly by eliminations, the 2002 event swooned in comparison to the two previous Sears races of the millennium. At the 2000 show, an okay 11 four-second passes were run in eliminations. At the 2001 sizzle-and-fizzle, there were only nine. This year (I hope you're packed in ice), NO four-second runs were recorded. When's the last time that happened at a sea-level race track?

I can understand a plethora of fives at Bandimere Speedway, which is within arms reach of the Moon, but a sea-level track? Geez, turn up the heat another 10 degrees and outside of a race track death count to match those in Kandahar, the Funny Car show would be doing well to be an all six-second affair.

I heard some snide commentary that wanted to level some of the non-performance blame at the crew chiefs. Nope. No go. To my mind Austin Coil could get a Funny Car to run a four-second run on a George Foreman grilling machine. Gateway International had less traction than the two-time Heavyweight champ's reliable iron skillet.

And, of course, the Funny Cars were not the only ones off the ticker. This is 2002, and again outside of Bandimere, no 16-car national event should ever have a Top Fuel bubble in the fives. The first four was run in 1988, for God's sake. The bubble at St. Louis was a 5.01 turned by boyhood hero Chris Karamesines, who had to call on all 100 years of his experience to make this cranky ass show.

Out of all the Pro divisions, the one-runs-just-like-another Pro Stock class had an all-six second show, which is really miraculous when you think about it. These are the snottiest cars in the world. Just increase the heat a few degrees and they go on a performance strike en masse. Not this time, however.

With a resignation like John Huston's (I think it was John Huston) memorable final line in "Chinatown" to a crazed and utterly sussed-out Jack Nicholson, "Hey (as in not to worry), it's Chinatown." I mean what didja expect? Fremont Raceway circa 1981? No, this is St. Louis 2002.

My advice? Drag racing deserves your support even for those deadly events that rival "Apocalypse Now" in weirdness and discomfort. I'd bring plenty of water, smuggle in a ton of beer and skin screen, and if you can get it past the rent-a-cops, a Doughboy swimming pool.

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