Our family would load up the car usually on a Sunday when we did go to see our family in Mansfield, PA. Two parents, five kids and a lot of empty miles.Uphill,downhill over and over again and on a few occasions I had the luck of being carsick.

But every time and mostly regardless of my state was the knowledge that I would see some race cars along the way.Some had become virtual dinosaurs and their mystique in the mind of a young boy became bigger than life. These moments when they did arise were essential to my sense of order in a life otherwise pock-marked with other forms of drama,many which were bothersome, to say the least.

One of the first cars was a #76. It was just outside the garage,sitting forsaken without being under a tarp out of sight or back in some field with weeds and rust accelerating it's decay. I think the driver of the car was T.J. Bladda or something like that. Never saw him race but I imagined his old stock car with tail fins lumbering around the one-quarter mile track at the old Chemung Speedrome.

Then just outside the shop of auto garage was a 60s Dodge Dart which bore the #53.It was orange and white and a top performer in the Sportsman Division. I think the guy's name was Fullmer or something.

Even as we passed the old Chemung Racetrack, I would crane my neck to see the track. An old friend quiet at the moment, with it's arena, pit area and tower fully visible. My favorite car was the Plum Crazy #55, Fifty-five Chevy of driver Tom Gush with a checkered flag.

After Elmira, NY it was slim pickings unless we went in another direction and there were cars along the way there too. From the #30 Late Model nearing Corning, NY, to the old Shangri-La Speedway where I saw Jimmy Spencer race, at a track close to the road.

I remember seeing the #48 Stump Jumper Modified. It's brown body with a white circle and the number inside that circle like a 48 eight-ball. I remember hearing the horse power churning from within and the throttling horsepower that breathed fire and danger. I felt happy at such times, the almost mystic reverence and ghost-like feel surrounding me.

At home, we were once again reminded of racing as we had the old race car hauler with black tire rack and old Ford Chassis. The driver was Iroquoi Indian and about six feet four. He drove the #96 Late Model and one day was black-flagged.

Not one for office politics he berated the flagman and then took off his fire-suit and he was well-built. With arms rippling and massive chest he was an imposing sight and track officials decided they would tow him off. Every time they attempted to hook him up, he simply circled around to the front of the wrecker in reverse.

After a few times of this, officials boxed him in and he began to back up and go forward, back up and go forward ramming the wrecker and tractor that held him at bay.Tired he gave up and they hauled him off.But we had a remnant of his early days in racing in our yard. Our father would take that hauler with an old Late Model race engine and slide through the gravelly dirt road and then through the corn stalks that were the garden.

Like taking a trip somewhere else and a big bridge was waiting up ahead,I would sit up and take notice and this was the same way with race cars, race tracks and racing stories.