Perhaps some of the sentiment came from a post on the Home Page I wrote recently concerning my Uncle Bobby and how he had gotten me interested in racing. Perhaps it was the series of commercials NASCAR was running during the telecasts of the weekend races from Talladega. Whatever the reason, my love for Darlington Raceway was rekindled sometime Saturday evening as I thought back to the years I spent traveling to that track, much like the swallows that return to Capistrano.
While Columbia Speedway was my “home” track, Darlington was the surreal place I first visited in the spring of 1957 as the first Rebel 300 (yes, you politically correct police folks, I did say “Rebel”) was held. This was introduction by my Uncle to “big time stock car racing” although I didn’t realize it at the time.
There are some things this old mind remembers very well. What is it they say about the old timers having excellent memories of things long past, while having difficultly remembering what they had for breakfast? I know this is true because I have spent a great deal of time around drivers from the old days who can recall almost lap by lap, races in which they competed. I have actually compared the accounts relayed by these gentlemen to videos and books that I have and they are right on. Remarkable memories. That is how my mind is working, so I guess I am officially now a member of the older generation.
Anyway, please allow me to share some memories. Starting in 1953, we would sit on my grandfather’s front porch at the old home place, shaded by huge oaks trees and pine trees, and listen to The Southern 500. I remember my uncle and grandpa sitting in rocking chairs and I would usually be playing either on the porch or in the sand beside the porch, always with little cars and always making race tracks. We listened to the 53, 54, 55, and 56, Southern 500s that way. I do remember that the radio station would have episodes of fading in and out, but we were always able to keep up with the action.
I’m not sure at what point in 1957 Uncle Bobby learned of a planned convertible race at Darlington, but being a 9 year old kid, I didn’t read newspapers then (sometimes I wish I still didn’t read newspapers). He mentioned to me, early in the week before the Saturday event, that they were going to run a race at Darlington for convertibles and we may go. Now you would have to know my Uncle Bobby to understand the meaning of “may go”. He was never one to commit ahead of time for anything! When he got married it was by elopement and as his wife would tell me many times, he asked her and they were married within 12 hours. Of course, being 9, I was beside myself with excitement. Having been to half-mile and quarter-mile dirt tracks, I was trying to imagine what an asphalt track longer than a mile would actually look like. I really could not even imagine it.
I counted first the days, then the hours, and then the minutes until Friday night to await Uncle Bobby’s decision. As Uncle Bobby lived right across the street from where I lived, I walked over after supper Friday night only to learn that Bobby had work he had to do Saturday so I would be resigned to listening to the Rebel 300 on the radio. Disappointed? Yep, you bet your life I was, but Uncle Bobby had been taking me to so many races I just sort of let it go.
Saturday came and it was, I remember, cloudy and breezy in Columbia and raining a little. I kept trying to find the race on the radio but there was nothing. Finally I heard someone on the radio station say that it was raining in Darlington and the race had been called off and would be run on Sunday. Oh well, I loved to read then even as I do now so I picked up a book and went to slip into a world of adventure in some book.
That evening, Uncle Bobby came across the street and talked with my mother and daddy and the end result of that conversation was that since the race was rescheduled for Sunday, we would go. I was told we would leave at 5:00 a.m. (Uncle Bobby never liked to be late and back in those days there were no Interstate highways). Whether or not I slept any at all that night I do not recall, but I do recall climbing into that backseat the next morning and heading east from Columbia into a rising sun. Looked like Sunday would be a good day for a race.
I don’t recall how long it took to get to Darlington but when you’re 9 years old heading to your first “big” race, every mile is magnified by at least 10 times. I’m not even sure what time we pulled into the Darlington infield but I do recall, quite clearly, that I could not believe how big the track was. I can remember smelling the smoke of fires from the night and charcoal from cookouts. I didn’t know, back in those days, what alcohol could do to a person’s demeanor and I had never been around so many people who were so dirty and so loud. I remember being just the least bit intimidated by the slightly intoxicated adults hanging around.
We finally established a parking place up against the fence in turn three, where my Uncle Bobby said the most action happened. He should know, I thought, as we had listened to so many of the Labor Day events from the track. I got out of the car and stood at the fence, looking at the track and trying to imagine what it was going to be like seeing cars coming in front of me so fast. A half-mile dirt track was the biggest venue I had watched a race on before and this whole Darlington track was crazy. Uncle Bobby said we had some time before the race so we could walk around the infield. We started along the fence heading towards turn four.
Wasn’t long and we were behind the pits! Oh how I remember that sight and those sounds and those smells. Never had I ever imagined big time racing would be like this. I remember Uncle Bobby literally had to pull me away from the pit fence. We eventually made it back to the car and my little piece of staked out real estate against the third turn fence. I put down a blanket and sat down to await the race. Minutes seemed like days. Finally, we could hear the loudspeakers crackling whatever it was the announcer was saying, although we couldn’t make out the words. Really didn’t have to because suddenly the air was filled with the sound of 30 or so race cars firing up. Whether it was the ground actually shaking or my knees at the thrill of what I was about to see, I’m not sure. Looking back on it, I am sure that Columbia Speedway had “birthed” me into racing and Darlington took me through puberty into adulthood.
As the cars came through turn three in front of me, the sound was too much to describe. Uncle Bobby was trying to tell me that Lee Petty, his favorite, and mine too back then, was starting near the front and Bobby was sure this was going to be a Petty win. I do remember that there was a huge crash involving many cars early in the race over in turn four. Uncle Bobby and I ran over to the turn four fence to see and it was a mess of wrecked cars. The rest of the race, I sat next to the fence in turn three and watched cars zoom by lap after lap. I do remember Fireball Roberts won in a Ford and Lee Petty was in the top five so Uncle Bobby was happy on the way home.
That trip to Darlington in May, 1957, fifty-five years ago this coming Saturday, started my love affair with that ribbon of asphalt that still exists today, although I don’t go over there anymore. Every spring for the Rebel 300, then 400, then 500, then back to 400, and every Labor Day weekend for THE SOUTHERN 500. There is no race today which holds the magic of The Southern 500 on Labor Weekend at Darlington. I was there for every one of them from 1957 until 2004, except for the 1967 event when the U.S. Navy had need of my services elsewhere. Even today, Labor Day weekend is an empty, end of the summer holiday without The Southern 500 at Darlington. When I think of the wins there by Buck Baker in 1960 on three wheels, Larry Frank in 1962, Fireball in that Lavender Ford in 1963, and all the history wrapped up in that track, it is indeed the time capsule of stock car racing.
There are those who say the track is obsolete. There are those who say it doesn’t have enough seats or draw enough fans. To such naysayers, I will say this:
Had it not been for Harold Brasington, a Bulldozer and a minnow pond, whether or not there would ever have been a Daytona or Talladega, or even a Charlotte is questionable. I only hope that the powers that be with the sanctioning body realize that Darlington Raceway IS stock car racing; that Darlington Raceway is not only glorious in its history but also crucial to the future of the sport... always. Slick advertising such as Kyle Busch and Kevin Harvick wearing boxing gloves, isn’t necessary. For those of us who truly love the sport, all you have to say is “it’s Darlington”. No longer so much the Lady In Black as pundits like to call it but more like the Queen of the Night with the sparkling diamonds of the lights that make the cars look even faster than they are.
Still, in my mind, a blue and white, 1957 Ford flying by in front of me that day in 1957 will always be the first thought I have when someone mentions Darlington Raceway. Thank you, Harold Brasington, for making your dream come true and, in turn, allowing all of us who truly love the sport to dream of years gone by, when the best there ever were turned the wheels at Darlington Raceway.
E-mail me at: legendtim83@yahoo.com and follow me on Twitter - @legendtim83
