A story from a young man some may remember

I raced with Dale Earnhardts daddy, Ralph, that day, says Monk, 81.

I dont have to ask who won. The trophy and the smug, victory-lane grin on Monks face say it all.

Instead, I asked how Ralph finished.

Behind me, he says, slapping his overalls as he laughs reliving that moment, Im sure.

Were in Monks home in the Oregon Hill community, a rural crossroads north of Reidsville, known more for growing tobacco than for racing legends.

Tim Lancaster, a vintage-car and racing enthusiast, has invited me there, saying that Monk is a racing hero, and his basement is a car-racing museum. Its something Lancaster is hoping to share with the community at the Draper Car Show on June 27. Lancasters Eden car club, Three Rivers, a chapter of the Antique Automobile Club of America, and the Draper Village merchants will host the show, which will include a Racers Reunion.

It will be a gathering of old timers such as Monk, folks who once revved their horsepower at the Draper Speedway, a racetrack on the eastern side of Eden that operated from the late 1940s to the mid-1960s.

Monk will take some of his prized trophies, photos and other memorabilia from his racing career and his current car, a late-model modified Chevy Cavalier. Others now drive the car for him in races at ACE Speedway in Altamahaw.

Lancaster is looking for more exhibitors drivers like Monk who once flexed those muscles under their hoods as they waited for the green flag to drop at the Draper Speedway.

Before Monk was old enough to sit behind the wheel, he liked hanging out at the speedway, where more than 2,000 would pay the $2 admission to watch the race from the stands. Monk avoided the ticket booth, instead perching with others along the nearby railroad tracks, watching the race taking place inside a wooden plank fence. Sooner or later, a car would spin out on a turn, bust through the fence and create an opening. Thats where Monk and his friends would slip inside for a closer look.

The third-oldest in a family of nine children, Monk got his nickname from a relative. As an uncle cut down a tree, Monk shimmied to the top, clinging to a branch, riding the tree to the ground as it fell. His uncle claimed he was like a monkey, and that was soon shortened to Monk.

Always a daredevil, Monk was the one his daddy called whenever he got a new plowing mule. Hed put me on it first to break it, he says.

So it wasnt surprising that he was drawn to fast cars. At 16 or 17, Monk bought an old 1938 Chevy coupe, outfitted it with racing parts and headed to Rainbow Speedway, a track on the south side of Reidsville.

Back then, all you had to do was show up with a car if you wanted to race, he says of the hobby class he first raced. He wore his overalls, his signature attire for races and just about any other occasion, too. Eventually NASCAR officials made him wear a driving suit but, even when safety regulations were put into place, Monk would try to sneak by with a football helmet instead of a crash helmet.

He won that first race in Reidsville and had a string of wins to follow 50 in one year, he recalls. During his career, his wins numbered in the thousands, mostly in hobby, late-model-modified, vintage-modified and sportsman classes.

From the start, he painted the 88 on the side of his car. Monk liked it because it was a number that read the same whether it was on its wheels or upside down, which it was from time to time.

Hes broken his back twice, both legs (at different times), a clavicle and quite a few ribs.

His cars took a beating, too, but theyd patch them up the best they could, weld parts back on and be ready for the next race.

Someone once said Monks car looked like a piece of junk. You wont think its junk when you see it run, Monk responded. The comment inspired him to paint Monks Junk on the side of the car.

From the early 1960s to the mid-1980s, he raced, mostly in the Late-Model Sportsman class, and almost always in a Chevrolet. He farmed tobacco in the daytime. At night, he was either racing, working on the car or doing other things that many say have long been affiliated with the sport the shadier side.

Most did run liquor. Thats how they were such great drivers, says Monk.

Monks friend, Harold Smith, tells it best. If you were in racing and done good, you were fooling with liquor.

Monk wont give many details about that aspect of racing, but he does admit that he was arrested in the late 1960s when law enforcement trapped him by blocking both sides of a bridge spanning the Dan River between North Carolina and Virginia. If it werent for that, hes pretty sure he could have outrun them.

Monk was hauling 26 cases of shine in a 54 coupe. There was hooch in the trunk, and it was piled high in seats of the car. He spent a night in jail and was placed on probation.

Whether that stopped his sideline, he wont say. It did not stall his racing career.

From West Virginia to Florida, he and his crew whoever showed up before we left hit speedways along the East Coast.

At times there were so many that a couple would ride on the trailer, sitting inside the race car.

The win of Monks career came in 1975. In the Cardinal 500, a doubleheader at Martinsville Motor Speedway, he took first in the NASCAR Late-Model Sportsman race, edging out Sam Ard and Ray Hendricks. Geoff Bodine captured the win in the Modified race that weekend. Monk has the prized grandfather clock, the symbol of a Martinsville victory. That series later became the Busch Series and now is the Xfinity.

A year later, Monk qualified in the 12th spot in Daytona, but trouble early in the race knocked him out.

He wrapped up his career in the 1980s, but retirement didnt last long. In 1996, his friend, Harold Smith, offered him the chance to drive his car in a vintage racing league. He told me if I could get in it, I could drive it. I got in it like a squirrel, Monk recalls. Getting out was not as easy. Race cars typically dont have doors, making them lighter and faster. To enter, drivers must crawl through the window.

Monks trophy collection grew. He won 27 out of 30 races in my car, says Smith.

Monk spent the next several years racing vintage or old-time modified cars, finally calling it quits in 2004 when he really could not crawl into the car anymore.

Now he drives from the sidelines, cheering on Thomas Scott or Burt Myers, men who frequently drive Number 88 for him these days.

And hes easy to spot at the track.

Monk is still the one in the bib overalls.