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(Speaking of weed-burners: Hooray for International
Drag Racing Hall Of Famer Jerry Baltes, the hit of Saturday
night’s push-started Cacklefest. Jerry’s stunning
reproduction of San Diego’s famed Croshier, Baltes &
Lovato fueler kept right on shooting big, fat fireballs even
after its Number-Two exhaust pipe had turned from chrome to
a scary shade of pinkish purple. A crewman seemed concerned,
but Baltes waved him off. “I never in my wildest dreams
imagined that I’d get another chance to burn nitro,”
he later commented.)
I don’t know how much Route 66 was charging
Saturday spectators, but the relatively few who went certainly
got good value for the cost of their reserved seats. At Famoso
on Saturday, all we got were the final session of pro-car
qualifying; the first round of Top Fuel and A/Fuel eliminations;
a big barbecue meal; a Cacklefest that saw more than 50 cars
either push down or drive down the fire-up road, then line
up on the race track, all cackling; and a goodie bag whose
worthwhile enclosures included ear plugs in a plastic case,
a full-color “participant” dash plaque, an Honest
Charley Speed Shop sticker, a highly-collectible, 64-page
yearbook, and even a fresh copy of Pete Millar’s unstoppable
Drag Cartoons, published just for this event by the late cartoonist’s
widow and eldest daughter (laffyerasphalt.com).
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As
if that weren’t enough to justify a $20 investment,
when the last Cacklefester finally ran out of fuel, a gate
in the fence that separates pitside fans from the fire-up
road magically swung open, enabling us peasants to climb the
guard wall and stroll amongst the still-smoldering iron out
on the track! Nearly everyone in attendance took advantage
of this unexpected opportunity to further extend a long, magical
day — and night — that had begun for many of us
before 8:00 a.m.
“We took that page from the oval-track book,”
said NHRA’s Greg Sharp of this newest wrinkle. “You
know that [Steve] Gibbs is always looking for ways to improve
the experience; to make people want to come back.”
Okay, so it’s not fair to make many comparisons between
a modern national event and a nostalgia meet. Hold your fire;
you won’t have to write a letter to the editor to get
this idealist to concede no manicured supertrack should be
expected to invite the unwashed masses out there on the eve
of Powerade-points racing. Granted, the two-most-popular forms
of 21st-century fuel racing are more different than alike,
from their allowable nitro percentages (85 vs. “can,
lid and label”) to major-sponsor signage (lots vs. none).
That said, it’s impossible not to notice that last
weekend’s events were both planned, promoted and executed
by employees of the same sanctioning body. Why is it that
one race will be remembered partly for the poor taste it left
in the mouth of a prominent local manufacturer, while the
other will forever ignite fond memories of a rare and unexpected
experience? Far be it from me to suggest that the folks responsible
for running that poorly-attended big show near the Second
City might learn some lessons from a little ol’ country
strip in the middle of nowhere that’s been serving up
pleasant surprises — and bringing back lots and lots
of fans — since 1953. 
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