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7/9/04
Jeff Burk Photo |
My first trip to the U.S. Nationals was in
1973. I originally had planned, along with my
fellow drag fanatic, Niles Smith, to go in 1972.
However, we were both very rebellious in our
youth and when we got wind of what Don Garlits
was trying to do in Tulsa, Okla., we decided
to pass on Indy and go there. Our feeling back
then was that since the race cars were getting
much more expensive to run, it seemed unfair
that NHRA, which was in full bloom in '72, could
only muster what amounted to (counting full
contingencies) roughly $5,000.
In 1972, the marquee Top Fuel cars were running
6.1s at speeds of 240-mph. Like a crack habit
that's starting to squeeze its host, the fuel
guys needed to get more money from the powers
that be. Say what you will about him, Garlits
took on NHRA and posted a publicized $35,000
for Top Fuel and Funny Car. Every big fuel name,
save for a half-dozen or so NHRA competitors,
showed at Tulsa, and maybe for the only time
in NHRA history, an event was held the same
weekend as their "biggie," and blew
it off in quality.
This was not lost on the establishment. In
1973, the NHRA Top Fuel purse at Indy went from
roughly $5,000 to a little over $18,000. Moreover,
Garlits held another Tulsa race that year, but
got off the Labor Day weekend. Smith and I thought,
"OK, point made, let's go to Indy this
year and see what all the noise is about the
U.S. Nationals."
In 1973, I was a maniac drag racing fan. I
bought every publication that posted drag race
results, and literally wrote books of stats
just for myself. In 1972, I spent somewhere
toward $500 to a $1,000 bucks of mine and my
parents money to cover phone bills created from
my calling race tracks like U.S. 30 in Gary,
Ind. or some of the Southern tracks for results.
I wanted to know everything.
That was okay. But don't forget, in the 1970s
and the previous decade, the world had changed
dramatically. I went from a quiet, introspective
Catholic boy to a college-age fire-breathing,
sometimes obnoxious, SDS radical, who also spent
many hours in front of the stereo absorbed into
Captain Beefheart, the Firesign Theater, Frank
Zappa, and the Velvet Underground, chain-smoking
"Maui Wowie," and "Congolese
Purple." I also had discovered among others
a new literary hero, one Hunter S. Thompson,
through his crazed and hilarious rants in Rolling
Stone. I won't go into the gory details, but
Smith, who shared most of my prejudices, knew
the best way to drive to the U.S. Nationals.
We had already road-tested this approach going
to Tulsa the previous year.
We turned his '57 Ford ranchero into a rolling
bar and mobile narcotics lab and hit the highway.
Consequently, I have no memory of my first U.S.
Nationals. Sorry. Good night.
But seriously folks, we did make it. No busts,
no crashes, just an ant-like dotted trip from
North Hollywood, Calif. to the uncharted depths
of inner Indiana. I do remember that we hallucinated
a lot, but the content is foggy. I just didn't
have the recall of a Thompson or our (meaning
Smith and myself) beatnik predecessors like
Neil Cassidy, Jack Kerouac, and William S. Burroughs.
All I know is that we made it to Indy.
I do remember one thing. (After all, this was
31 years ago.) Somehow we missed a bunch of
turnoffs, drove through some stop signs and
hedges, and wound up in a park where they had
a small wooden building with the stuffed remains
of the World's Largest Cow. As cross-eyed as
I was, I was impressed a ton. We went into this
building and all we saw was this huge cow. Sort
of like Roy Rogers' horse "Trigger."
It looked real as real as a parking ticket.
If my cratered memory serves me well, I tried
to get on top of the thing, but failed. Instead,
I gave up and discovered that the tail had fallen
off the thing. I think we hauled ass and made
it to Crawfordsville with a wake of unrealized
tickets scattered in the ether.
Anyway, to Indy!
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