Departments - Missed Races

4/8/04

Photojournalists
On Fire!

These print-media guys look harmless enough in a posed photo. However, minutes after this 1997 image of (L-R) Cole Coonce, Sky Wallace, Dave Wallace, Ron Lewis, Jeff Burk and Gary Nastase was shot, all heck broke loose at an upscale Arizona eatery.
(Tom Mott photo.)

he scary report from Gainesville about English-photojournalist Andy Willsheer's broken leg served to remind members of the media that there are dangers to our chosen profession, however remote. I mean, what are the chances that my old Cockney pal would nearly be neutered -- or worse -- by a chunk of loose ballast?

A "freak" accident (no offense, Andy!), to be sure, but aren't they all when someone other than a driver is victimized? My close proximity to racecars began with my first drag-strip job, at age 10. Well, it wasnít a "j-o-b," exactly; my father was the track photographer (among other things) for San Fernando (Calif.) Raceway. When Dad mentioned, one Sunday afternoon, how helpful it would be if someone were beside him to apply the pink goop to each piece of exposed film that was manually ejected from the track's Polaroid camera, I volunteered before he'd finished the sentence.

Within an hour, I found myself on the starting line, with nothing but 15 feet of dirt between the fuel dragsters and me. Not more than 20 feet behind me, on the fire-up road, another pair of fuelers was approaching from the opposite direction -- sometimes at insane speeds, because the guy controlling the push car's speed was invariably the racecar's owner, who wanted that motor to fire in the worst way. (Never mind the frantic hand signals coming from the cockpit, mere inches from the push car's grille.) I know that Dave Senior recognized the danger, because he warned me that first day, "If you walk in front of anything out here, you'll probably get killed." Whatever- to a 10-year-old, sudden death seemed like a small price to pay for all this excitement.

I managed to survive to the ripe old age of 18, every Sunday except Easter and Mother's Day, without suffering a scratch. Ditto for all the other starting lines and finish lines I've been fortunate enough to visit over the past 44 years: My body has never been pierced by shrapnel, nor flattened by a support vehicle, nor struck by something exiting any of the well-prepared Jerry Darien diggers that have thundered past me since the 1970s.

I was nearly set on fire once, come to think of it, but not until 1997, and not until after I'd left a racetrack. Who knew that a reunion dinner with some of my old print-media colleagues, at one of Phoenix's fancier restaurants, would have catastrophic potential? My brother, for one: Sky Wallace, repeatedly reminded me of his long-ago vow against ever breaking bread again with this particular group. Unfortunately for him, I had the rental-car keys, and Chandler, Ariz., is one long damn walk from downtown Phoenix, where we were staying. Besides, he's my little brother. (You lose, Pal.)

We should've turned around at first sight of the white tablecloths, tuxedoed waiters and dumbstruck diners, all decked out in suits and evening gowns. Neither Sky nor I had been warned by our pals that John Henry's was such a high-class joint; we'd been expecting the usual greasy-spoon cafe or backwater bar. When the maitre d' saw our soiled white T-shirts - coated in black "rubber balls," acquired during two sessions of photographing pro qualifying -- he reached for two menus and managed a weak smile. He didnít have to lead us to our table, because we could hear the table. It sounded like the first round(s) of drinks had arrived ahead of us. Another had just been ordered by the seven friends already seated, a round of something called "Flaming Sambucas".

Being a food-service professional, our waiter noted the arrival of these eighth and ninth guests and logically delivered nine glasses, each spewing fire. Unbeknownst to him, neither of the Wallace boys had any interest in spirits, let alone Flaming Whatevers. Sky and I tried to send back the two unwanted drinks. That's when the waiter made a fateful demonstration: After extinguishing the flame in one of the extra glasses, he dramatically poured in some flaming liquid from the other. When the second glass burst into flame, our little party burst into applause.

Trust me, these drinks are on fire -- and Jeff Burk is about to join them.
Look closely at the second photo. The hot liquid is beginning to flow out of
the glass, onto Burk's right hand and forearm. (Ron Lewis photo sequence.)

Before the waiter could get away, publisher-in-training Jeff Burk snatched both of these unordered drinks from his tray. Brother Sky turned to me and whispered, "This tablecloth is gonna be on fire." Ron Lewis, the veteran action photographer, aimed my little Olympus Stylus camera at Burk, who successfully duplicated the fiery glass-to-glass demonstration -- and then some: Jeff outdid the waiter by setting not only the second drink on fire, but also his right hand and forearm.

What's not visible in the camera's flash is the blue flame extending from Burk's right arm to the far end of the table. Gary Nastase (center) and his pal, Tom Mott, attempt to blow out the fire. (Ron Lewis photo.)

Reacting to the sight and pain of his own burning flesh, Burk threw the glass, sending a blue flame nearly the length of the table. Much yelling and swearing ensued. Gary Nastase and Tom Mott tried to blow out the fire. Someone else dumped an entire pitcher of ice water. No one was laughing.

In those few fearful moments, I pictured all of us bursting into flames, jumping out of our seats, then running through the restaurant on fire, setting ablaze a bunch of fancy folks who found out how dangerous drag-racing journalism can be.

I also promised myself that if we were lucky enough to get out of the building alive, I'd let my little brother pick our dinner partners in the future.

After the fact: Sky Wallace (center) flashes his finest "told-ya-so" look
for his big brother and Cole Coonce. Seven years later, he has yet to
join us for another meal. (Ron Lewis photo)