The sun was beginning to come up above the mountains by the time we were in Asheville. Back in those days, before the days of GPS, it was as though our group of guys could “smell” a race track. We just always knew which turns to make and which direction would take us to the track. Not yet being old enough to be the typical husband type who never asked for directions, we would stop when we felt like we'd gotten close and would ask. Such was the case that day, but being a Sunday morning in rural North Carolina back in the sixties, the only person we found to ask was an old man parked beside the road with a flat tire. We helped him change the tire and in return he gave us directions that took us directly to the infield gate of the Asheville-Weaverville half-mile asphalt track. As I recall, it was barely after 7:00 a.m. and the gate to the infield was just opening. We always took our group in the infield because we always liked to view the race from different areas of the track and to be able to get to Richard before and after the race. In 1963, it was really easy to slip into the pits at a short track without much interference.
Infield upkeep in those days was anything but a priority at most tracks and at Asheville-Weaverville, it was no different. The grass, or more appropriately weeds, were up to the bottom of the car door as we backed into position against the fence in turn four. As I was slowly backing into place there was a sudden horrendous sound like nothing any of us had ever heard before. The Dodge jerked to a stop. I was absolutely terrified as it was not my car and Sammy, who had talked his father into allowing us to use that Dodge was as white as a ghost.
I put the car in park and jumped out to see what I had hit. Walked behind the car, nothing. There was not a mark on the car and there was nothing I could have hit and nothing appeared to be under the car. Feeling better now, I climbed back behind the wheel and put the car in reverse. Same sound... awful sound. We had no clue. Back in park, turn off the engine and get back out. All six of us boys were looking under the car, not seeing anything, until Tommy saw the wire wrapped around the drive shaft and entangled in the mufflers of the dual exhausts. Of course the Dodge sat too low to the ground for anyone to get under it so we hauled out the bumper jack and raised the car high enough to see the problem.
In a very short time it was obvious that fencing had been torn down at some point and not removed from the high grass and was now tightly wrapped around the drive shaft. Further examination showed that both mufflers had been pulled loose from the tailpipes. Of course, we had NO tools and one of the guys with us determined it was too dangerous for anyone to go under the car held up by simply a bumper jack. At that point, I felt like crying, truly shedding tears. Not my car, I was driving, not my fault, but that would never float because I had accepted the responsibility.
Now, the point of this entire story is to point out what started to happen next. Someone walked by and noticed our predicament and got down on his stomach to look under the car. He very knowledgeably stated that we had a huge problem. If that young man had not been Maurice Petty, I would have had a smart comeback for him. He then told us to “hold on”, he would be right back. Well, it wasn’t like we were going anywhere . So we stood around wondering what would happened next.
It was only a few minutes before Maurice returned with a crewman I did not know, and Richard, and one of their floor jacks and two jack stands. We got the Dodge in the air, put the jack stands under the frame and I went under the car with Maurice Petty. The fence wire was the thick type wire used to keep fans from the track and was wrapped around the drive shaft at least six layers thick. Maurice told the crewman to go get some cutters and a hacksaw. By this time, Ned Jarrett and Wendell Scott were hanging out by the car.
I began with the cutters the crewman brought, but those cutters weren’t meant for cutting fencing of that thickness so I switched to the hacksaw. Lying on my back, in the wet grass, trying to saw that wire was an experience I have never forgotten. I know for a fact that today I could not begin to do that. After more than 30 minutes and having cut through less than half of the wire mess, someone came under the car to relieve my efforts. Watching Wendell Scott with a hacksaw under that Dodge is something else I’ll never forget. After about 30 more minutes, Wendell crawls out from under the car dragging a huge mass of fencing and also sporting a bloody gash on the top of his hand where the wire got him.
All six of us boys were thanking Wendell, Maurice, Richard, Ned and the crewman we didn’t know and were very happy have the wire removed. It was then when Wendell told us that we needed to remove the mufflers and tailpipes because both tail pipes were broken by the wire. The growing crowd in the infield had been entertained by the show and by the fact that there were three of the drivers there helping us. Richard, Maurice, Ned and the unknown crewman said they would see us after the race and headed off to the pits. Wendell said he would be back in a few minutes. Sure as his word, Wendell returned in about 10 minutes with the tools to remove the mufflers and tailpipes, which we put in the truck for the ride home. When I started the car to back it closer to the fence, AFTER carefully examining the grass to be sure there was no more wire, it was as though one of the race cars had started. Let me tell you, a 1956 Dodge Hemi with NO mufflers sounds like a race car.
I must admit, looking back, I don’t think my nerves calmed down until the race got started as I was dreading having to face Sammy’s father over the damage to his car. Once the race started, at least for that hour and a half, I was watching the blue number 43 going for the lead. Richard won the race and that greatly lifted my spirits but in the back of my mind I was imagining having to work the next 20 years of my life to pay for the repairs to that Dodge. At 17, and having only a paper route income, I could not begin to imagine how I could pay for the damage. All the boys kept telling me it wasn’t my fault, including Sammy, but I could tell Sammy was worried about what his Dad was going to say and/or do about the damage.
By the time we had hung out with Richard until the last fans had left, it was getting dark. That time of year, it seemed as though darkness came even earlier in the mountains than it did in Columbia. We all got back in the Dodge and when I turned the key and started the engine, this feeling of power engulfed me! This car sounded almost as tough as that number 43 sounded winning that race. We pulled through the infield gate and began our journey back to Columbia.
To describe the sound of that Dodge coming down the mountains in the dark, with the sound of that Hemi reverberating off the mountainsides is beyond a written ability to do. You had to hear it. We were all laughing about how we were sure to get caught by the “revenuers” for running shine down that mountain.
We made it back to Columbia about 10:30. All the guys were dropped at their homes (we all lived within a few blocks of each other) and Sammy and I headed for his house. As we turned into his street I was about to jump out of the car and run. In my short teenage life, I had never damaged property of anyone and I was very afraid of what awaited me with Sammy’s Dad. We didn’t have to blow the horn to inform the household of our arrival. Even at idling speed going in the driveway, the unmuffled twin pipes of that Dodge shook the windows. As we pulled in the carport at Sammy’s house, the kitchen door opened and the very tall and lanky Dad was shadowed in the door frame by the light behind him.
As the Dad walked out to the car I know I was sweating in spite of the cold night air of early March. A very calm man asked me “what happened?”. I related the entire story in less than 3 minutes and then Sammy went into detail about every facet of the adventure including how we got the wire off and that the mufflers were in the trunk. The Dad said he would take care of it, not to worry, and then offered to drive me home. It was less than two blocks to my house so I told him I would just walk.
Monday evening I called Sammy’s Dad to find out how much the repairs were going to cost and he told me the car was already repaired and not to worry about it. He said he knew it was not my fault and under the circumstances it could have happened to anyone. He did have to throw in the fact, however, that Sammy told him about how great the car sounded coming down out of those mountains.
So, fellow race fans, such were the experiences of six teenage boys back in the days when people like Maurice, Richard, Ned, and Wendell, and the guy with the Petty crew whose name I never learned, would come to the infield and help out. Help out with their knowledge and their tools, and in the case of Wendell Scott, with his blood. Ned finished 5th that day and Wendell finished 12th (thanks to Greg Fielden for that info). I have been encouraged to relay some of my stories from my 60 years of hanging around the race tracks and this is the first one that came to mind, I suppose because it exemplifies the way the racing fraternity was back in those days, including the fans. What we would have done if Maurice Petty had not come along first and Wendell given so much effort in our behalf, I still do not know. I’m sure, at some point, someone would have come along to help. But thinking about the way things are today, there would be money involved and as I remember, between the six of us boys that day, we had just under $10.00 after putting gas in the car and buying our $5.00 infield tickets. How times have changed!
I would love to hear of any experiences you, the reader, has had in racing. You can leave comments below or email me at: legendtim83@yahoo.com
Thanks for reading.
-Tim
Email: legendtim83@yahoo.com
Twitter: @legendtim83
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