My first adventure into the enclosed acreage known as the Darlington infield came in the very first convertible race there in 1957. The race, originally scheduled for Saturday was rained out so it was set for Sunday. My Uncle Bobby, who had gotten me hooked on racing 5 years prior, decided we would go over Sunday morning. Being a veteran of half-mile and quarter-mile dirt tracks, I was totally unprepared for the sight of the infield when we entered the track. It seemed that race track was huge beyond belief. We parked near the fence in turn three, which was to become “our spot” for parking for many races to come. I remember standing next to the fence the entire race except for the period when it was under a red flag for a long time for a big wreck on the front straight. I walked around there and could see the track workers moving some really wrecked race cars. I do remember Fireball Roberts won that race, but the most vivid memory I have of that day is the total awe inside me for that huge track and how fast the cars went by my viewpoint at the fence in turn three.
When the Southern 500 came in September of 1957, we went back, this time Sunday afternoon as the race was on Monday (Labor Day), and parked as close to the fence as we could in Uncle Bobby’s 1956 Ford Station wagon fitted with a mattress in the back where he and his wife would sleep and I was to sleep in the front seat. Being not quite 11 yet, my height was not a disadvantage for front seat sleeping, but I remember banging my knee more than once on the steering wheel. That was the first of my many overnight adventures in the twilight zone of stock car racing. The stories I will relate, as follow, will not be year specific, and if I use any names, other than my own, the names will be changed to protect the innocent (or guilty) in the lives they now lead outside the influence of that infield.
I am going to briefly acknowledge that the terrible three car accident in turn three of that 1957 Southern 500, which killed Bobby Myers happened very early in the race, right in front of me. I saw the horrendous impact and know I must have been frozen in place. I remember someone saying that Myers was killed but at my age then I could not conceive of actually having witnessed someone getting killed. The odd thing is that I totally blocked that crash out of my mind, completely and entirely, as my wife says I am prone to do with things that upset me. Less than two years ago I saw that wreck on DVD and everything came rushing back to me like a lighting strike. I could almost feel that fence wire cutting into my fingers as it had that Labor Day as I strained to see what was happening. Perhaps that is the reason I never care for wrecks in races. I want to see the close side-by-side racing without the wrecks.
First, I will relay the story so often repeated as lore of the infield, which I actually witnessed. Happened in the early sixties as I recall. The story goes that a young lady decided to remove all clothing, except her shoes, and lead a merry chase through the infield in the late hours of the evening. The story goes that this was a beautiful young lady apparently much impressed by the story of Lady Godiva, but without the horse. The story also goes that she was outrunning some fifty to sixty guys chasing her with another ten or twelve cops running behind the “gentlemen”. Legend (not me) has it that her husband was running fifth in the pursuing mob. The story also makes the point that this was a beautiful young woman, well worth the pursuit. In reality, and she ran no more than 15 feet from where I was standing, she was a little more than slightly overweight and the way she ran unsteadily I would have to say alcohol HAD to be involved. I heard she was eventually caught and arrested. I can’t really recall my impression of the events at that time, but I’m sure I told that story often to my friends who had not yet even seen a Playboy Magazine.
One of our outings at The Southern 500, sometime in the sixties, saw the world’s great chef of “Grits” (you Yankees can look that up) and largest consumer of Pabst Blue Ribbon in Darlington history, cooking a huge pot of the Southern delicacy. He had four or five guys in his group by his pickup truck with the scaffolding on the back. He started cooking those grits about 3:00 a.m. Oh, which brings up the point that if you think you are going to get any sleep in the Darlington infield, you need to be examined for brain malfunction. The King of the Blue Ribbons began, somewhere around 4:30 a.m. to shout that he was giving grits to anyone who wanted some. He had a huge stack of paper plates and I sat in the front seat of the station wagon and watched person after person stagger to the grits pot. I don’t know how many he fed, but a rough estimate would have been at least 100, not counting those who spilled their treasure because they couldn’t balance the paper plate and walk at the same time.
Somewhere around 6:00 a.m., Chef Blue started bellowing, from the back of his pickup truck, that it was “last call for grits”. A few more stragglers came by and partook. I was thinking to myself that the huge pot he had was indeed bottomless. About 30 minutes after the “last call”, my new neighbor, with a Blue Ribbon in one hand and a small pot full of grits in the other, began to chant “I’m gonna pour them out”. Over and over and over he shouted that same cry. That went on for maybe 45 minutes before a lady, probably in her fifties, came up to him, took the pot of grits out of his hand and poured the grits all over his head. I couldn’t hear exactly what she said, but I think it had something to do with a new way to eat grits that didn’t seem to make sense to me. I do remember the guy sitting down on the tailgate of his truck, watching the lady depart, with hot grits dripping down his face onto his bare chest. After a minute or two, he just turned up the Blue Ribbon and went on as though nothing happened. Wonder if he still eats grits? Never did see him in the infield after that.
A little personal note here now. Before 1974, I had never consumed alcohol in any form. Being a Methodist, our communion “wine” was actually Welch’s Grape Juice. However, from 1974 to 1979 I am almost solely responsible for the ability of Budweiser to sponsor the Junior Johnson two car teams. Having said that, the following two stories will make more sense to you, the reader.
Whatever year it was that Jimmy Carter came to Darlington for the Labor Day Race, and I think it was the year he ran the first time, we had a huge crowd of us from Columbia, including an attorney friend of mine. We had spent the better part of the afternoon sitting around telling racing stories and drinking beer. That evening, we decide to walk through the infield. We had just passed the little playground that used to be under the big square scoreboard when a black Ford came up behind us and blew the horn. My attorney friend, not known to have patience with anyone who caused him any inconvenience slapped the hood of the Ford. Before you could say “Cale Yarborough”, we were all surrounded by guys in suits and guns showing under their coats. They took my attorney friend, handcuffed him and put him in the back seat. The rest of us stood there and watched as the Ford disappeared with that little wisp of dust always there in the infield at Darlington. After a couple minutes, one of my friends asked me “what are we going to do about David”? My response, thereafter quoted to me every time I got in trouble was “he got himself into it, he can get himself out." Next morning, David showed up laughing about the whole ordeal. Seems the Secret Service was a little touchy in the Darlington Infield that weekend.
I’m not sure if it was 1972 or 1973 when the infield ditch incident occurred, but it was BEFORE my huge investment in Budweiser. I was driving my 1972 Plymouth Fury III two-door hardtop, and huge and beautiful ride, when we entered the infield Saturday afternoon from the tunnel under turn two instead of our usual turn three tunnel entrance. The grounds crew at the track had done a great job of cutting the grass in the infield with one exception. They had cut the grass with one of those long blades on the side of a tractor. I know this because, as we were driving across the evenly cut grass on what appeared to be solid ground, the front end of that Plymouth encountered a ditch which was completely hidden because the grass growing in the ditch was cut evenly with the surrounding grass. The front end of that Fury stuck that landing like an Olympic Gymnast would desire. We went from 30 mph to 0 mph is less than a foot. The front was buried in the ditch and the rear wheels were in the air. I was NOT happy. I was even less happy when the laugher of the surrounding partiers reached my ears. We got out, looked at the car, and commenced attempts to get the car out of the ditch. By this time, we had a large crowd of folks around and through their laughter, they literally lifted that car out of the ditch. Not sure aero-push was known then but the way the front of that Plymouth looked, the aero was all messed up. And I had to drive that car 80 miles back to Columbia. Not quite sure how I explained that to my insurance company but the car was repaired.
Prior to the 1973 Southern 500, we had always camped in tents or slept in cars, always against the fence in turn 3 until 1970 when we moved to turn four for reasons about which I am still unsure. In July, 1973, my parents bought a used motor-home, a very small Dodge. My Dad, who could do anything, built a platform on top which could hold about 12 chairs. That became our new domain at the track. We moved our position to just behind the fence where Victory Lane was located. This started the era of an entirely different Darlington experience for our bunch. For one thing, you could see the entire track from the top of that motor home.
By 1974, I had worked out a deal with a local radio station where I would go to the races and then come to the studio on Monday mornings to report on the weekend. Because of this, we got “Press Parking” privileges, 2 press credentials, and six comp tickets for every race everywhere. The big advantage at Darlington was being allowed in the infield before the general population of race fans which allowed us to secure the same parking spot every race, just behind Victory Lane along the infield road. We had, by this time, build up a group of fans with motor homes or camping trailers who would join us each weekend throughout the Southeast as we circled up our campers as the wagon trains of old. That left us a “compound” in the center where we sat up tables, grills, chairs, and had our own little private property there.
I think it was 1975 when an old school bus appeared and pulled up to park behind us. I was about to go tell the guy he would have to move as our other members of the group would be arriving soon. However, the bus had a huge STP sticker on it so I knew this was another Petty Fan group and we made them welcome. Now this was Sunday afternoon before the Labor Day race and it was HOT! South Carolina Pee Dee, Dog Days of Summer hot. This kid, about 16, gets out of the bus with a sleeping bag and throws it on the ground, crawls in it and zips it up. I remember thinking to myself that we were going to have to watch this kid because he was possessed by evil or was either dumb as a post. Turns out he was just excited about being at Darlington and was trying out everything. His family and mine became good friends and they became a part of our group. Lost track of him for a long time and then two years ago we encountered one another again. It was as though we had never been apart and I treasure his friendship.
The spot behind Victory Lane is about the highest point in the Darlington Infield. This is important to know because of the year of the great flood. It was just before dark on the Sunday afternoon when very dark storm clouds actually began to boil over turn one (the old configuration). It soon became absolutely pitch black, partly from the storm clouds and partly because it was getting dark. It started to rain. Then the thunder began. Then it REALLY began to rain. Fifteen of us crowded in the motor home which was the brand new one my parents had custom ordered this time. It was raining so hard, the sound inside that motor home was deafening. It rained like that for at least 45 minutes. Lightening had knocked out all electric power at the track so when the rain stopped, the only light was from lanterns and flashlights.
We ventured outside the camper into ankle deep water and, remember, we were on the highest point of the infield. We looked toward turns three and four and the water was up to window level of the cars parked there and folks were climbing out the windows of their cars up onto the roofs. It was a surreal sight. Being the adventurous spirits we were, we started wading. Deeper and deeper, further and further towards turn three where the deepest water appeared to be. By the time we got there, we were almost up to our waist. The turn three tunnel was filled with water to within three or four feet of the roof of the tunnel.
It was at this point that one of our group, I’ll call him Larry, decided it would be cool to swim through the tunnel and see what was going on outside. To this day, I have no idea what he expected to find but I imagine it was more the thrill of doing something like that which enticed him to do so. Larry disappeared and right behind him another friend, I’ll call him Terry, decided to follow. I would not go, the main reason being that I was not then, nor am I now, a good swimmer. So, here I am standing there peering into a dark, water-filled tunnel wondering where Larry and Terry had gone. A few minutes became 30 minutes and by this time I was in a panic wondering if Larry and Terry were ok. About this time, a Darlington Deputy comes up and starts talking saying the drains in the tunnel were stopped up with trash and they were bringing in a diver from Florence to go down and unstop them.
After an hour had passed and I was, at age 25 or 26, sure I was about to have a massive heart attack wondering about Larry and Terry, the water began to recede in the tunnel and suddenly there appeared before me a scuba diver in full gear coming out of the tunnel. He had unstopped the drain and the water was lowering. He and the Darlington Cop left and a few minutes after that, Larry and Terry came through the water which was almost up to their chins and both of them were 6 feet tall. As they came out of the water, both were heavily burdened with what appeared to be folded vinyl with ropes. As we walked back to the motor home they were telling me of their adventures on the other side of the tunnel. Having read the Chronicles of Narnia to my grandson awhile back, I can only say the adventure of Terry and Larry would almost equal those of the three kids in that book.
When we got back to our camp, Terry and Larry started to unroll and unfold their cargo. They had managed to remove all the “Welcome Race Fan” banners from the outside fence coming into the track. We were now the proud possessors of at least four “STP Welcomes Race Fans” and several “Winston IS Racing” and a couple more I don’t remember. Of course, upon the rising of the sun the next morning, we had those banners hanging off all the motor homes and campers of our group. Thinking back, I wonder why law enforcement never asked us about those banners.
That was the same race where storm clouds began to build during the running of the race. Black, ominous clouds. Wind whipped at almost hurricane force. Then rain. Then hail. Big hail stones. Huge hail stones. Now if you want to know what it must have sounded like under the stage at Woodstock, just think of being inside a 23 foot motor home with hail like that banging the roof. When the storm was over, the sun was back, the air cooler, and the race continued.
I’ll end this trip down Darlington’s “yellow brick road” with a memory of my experience there in 1992, albeit not an infield experience per se. I was working with a television network at the Southern 500 on a special project. We were in the pits, right behind the mobile stand where drivers were introduced. I was, along with a couple of the camera guys, talking with Dale Earnhardt and Cecil Gordon (Cecil worked for Childress then) when a police escort brought the Bill Clinton motorcade in behind us. The crowd was pressed together so tightly it was almost impossible for me to move, not to mention being wired for television. The black limo pulled up right behind me, actually brushing the seat of my pants. A secret service dude tried to push me aside but the crowd prevented any movement. The door of the limo was right against the little rail that was there so in order for Bill to exit the vehicle, it would be necessary to back the limo up about two feet. The secret service dude spoke into his microphone to say “back up”. My fellow Americans, believe me, within 5 seconds there were 10 secret service dudes around that car and remember there was hardly room to move. I was standing right next to this rookie secret service dude when his supervisor told him “never say back up unless it is an emergency”. All this and Clinton had not even been elected yet. The limo driver backed the car up to allow Clinton to exit. I will never forget two things about that exit:
There are many more stories to be told about all those adventures in the infield from 1957 through 1990. My father was diagnosed with cancer in 1988 and our adventures in the motor home more or less came to an end as his health prevented the good times of old. It was then I usually traveled to Darlington alone and most times as the guest of Ford Motor Credit Company with tickets to the grandstands. Very good seats in the Pearson Grandstands on what is now turn four. But it was never the same. Gone were the friends we had established as sort of our “tribe” of campers. Gone was the ability to circle the wagons as infield parking was now strictly controlled by parking directors. No more camp fires. The magic was gone for me, never to return. Even as I sit here now, I have memories so vivid I can almost smell the charcoal smoke that permeated the air in that infield during those race weekends.
Maybe, someday, just for fun, some of the old gang who once claimed that little piece of land two weekends a year can get together and tell the stories. I’m sure the stories will become a little “enhanced” over the years, but even as this article relates, some things don’t need enhancing. No more of the 10 families putting out a spread of the best food and desserts in our little compound and all sharing. Gone is the camaraderie of folks with a common interest and common respect for each other. Gone is everything that was Darlington to remain only in the memories of folks like me and perhaps, just perhaps, within the city limits of The Twilight Zone.
-Tim
Email: legendtim83@yahoo.com
Twitter: @legendtim83
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