Southern California is a curse for car lovers. Rush hour traffic is easily the worst in the nation. The gridlock that people drive through day in and day out can take their toll on even the cheeriest person. I get the feeling that even the Fred Rogers would have snapped at the idiots, bottlenecks and unexplainable delays that litter even the shortest commute. However despite all of these things So Cal is also a blessing for car lovers. We have almost year-round perfect weather. Perfect for driving, cruising or just staying out at night. Even on the coldest winter days I can still hear the ice cream truck driving through the neighborhood.
Thursdays are the best days, especially now. Winter has given up the ghost and spring is creeping in. But that is not why people, even those on the freeway, are moving with a certain amount of energy and almost giddiness. I look out the window while traveling east on the 110 and see somebody else already on their way. To the rest making the commute it's just a really nice 55 Chevy that's passing by. To those that know what Thursday night means it's more significant. Thursday nights are special in So Cal because they mean a break before the weekend. A chance to take in the atmosphere of the birthplace of hot rodding. To reconnect with our racing roots.
I get off a congested 110 and head north on a miserable 605 interchange. With gas prices slowly climbing I ask myself if the trip is really worth it. The thought passes as the lanes open up. Here and there I can spot some nice cars headed north as well. Most trained eyes can pick them out. They seem invisible to the rest of traffic. Just different shells all on the same road. Before too long I'm well past the 5 and 10 freeways. I'm in Irwindale, the boonies to some, Thursday night paradise to the rest.
You can't miss it from the freeway. Lit up like a football stadium lies the Irwindale Speedway. But like everybody else tonight isn't about NASCAR or any type of track racing. Tonight all of the true car fans break out of the routine to live. To feel alive. The Irwindale Drag Strip hosts an open venue for hot rodders, tuners, gearheads, mechanics and drivers with gas in their blood.
Better known to locals as Thursday Nights Under the Lights the strip is the best place for miles to get a taste of real Americana. Where else can you find legacy cars lined up one right after the other? A Ford Mustang from the double-zeros, ahead of a 5.0 from the late 80's ahead of the oldest brother from the 60's. These were just the first I came across that night. These were just the types of rides that make the commute every Thursday night, weather permitting, to light the fires.
It's a bargain really. General admission is $10. Bring a few extra bucks for tacos, hamburgers and the always awesome funnel cake. Movies cost about that much but last far less than a night here. Movies are also locked into one format. If you want drama you'll find it on the track. Comedy, in the stands and action in both places. If you are racing then it's $20, bring a license, sign a waver and the drag strip is yours all night. Drivers can pick up their timeslip on each pass, proof that their ride is as fast as they say, proof that their reaction time hasn't aged a minute. The only downside is getting back in line after each pass, but that is part of the experience. Part of a tradition that goes back before World War II.
You'll see cars and drivers from every facet of life. Those that are rich, poor or just getting by. Rides that are pure muscle, all attitude or a way to escape the day-to-day. It's the communing that people do best. It's the communing that keeps bringing them back, like a church with a good pastor and welcoming parish. These people are part of a community. One that embraces and appreciates what they do. When they are lined up there is no division of what you have or where you came from. The motto has always been the same, "run what you brung." They are all in this for the love. The egos are left outside, on the streets where the wannabe's think they reign supreme. It's the people I really want to talk about. The ones who do this week in and week out. The ones that keep the movement going. Handed down by the gospel of racing.
Out in the parking lot you could see them getting their cars ready. The best, or at the very least loudest, are all trailered in. Semi-pro's, shop owners or mechanics with decades of experience that will never be satisfied with standing still. The first I met that night was a guy appropriately named Rod. He was looking over some blackened spark plugs. He said that had just put them in earlier, something wasn't right. He fussed over a beautiful blue, Mopar blue, 69 Dodge Dart. It's his pride and had just been profiled in Car Craft magazine. April 2009 for those non-believers.
Rod was working alone in the parking lot, as were many of his brethren. Some had friends and family accompanying them. Hanging out at the trailer, or taking it easy in a truck or RV. Those that were ready were in a rush to get their cars in line. Roger Conley had a sick 67 Camaro, yellow with flames. Drivers with real beasts, cars well over 500 horses, had welded rollcages holding everything together. He, like many wore a firesuit and helmet to make sure he came back in the same condition he left. Many others like Walt Brandt and his orange Olds 442 took the line in a racing jacket. Nothing fancy but still something to shows his colors. Like those others Walt was eager to show what his car was capable of.
Those that worry about their gas consumption, like me, would shudder at how much fuel these monsters could swallow in the span of a few seconds and an eighth of a mile.
Cars and drivers from every make and model were well represented. A yellow 1974 Karmann Ghia, still an awesome-looking ride by any standard and her owner / driver Lance Munger. My doppleganger Omar Felix and his 91 Civic running an Integra motor. There wasn't anything fancy about the ride, no fat tires or sponsors but a genuine sense of pride in his ride.
They all lined up three rows wide for their chance. As they had been doing every Thursday night for years. The energy in the air was palpable. The lights got brighter the closer each car got to the head of line. It was like a Hollywood premier, showtime for the cars and their drivers. There were no red carpets waiting their arrival, only glassy tarmac stretching off into the horizon. The sounds were thunderous. I don't mean thunderous as a metaphor either. The fastest cars of the night could be heard for a long ways. The roars of their engines deafening up close. They sent vibrations through the parking lot. Even while idling these cars could be felt through your bones.
Racing has been a sport embraced by the masses. Ledrian was eager to put his 68 Camaro through the paces. Friends learned the racing harness in his seat was not for show. For Denise, a teenager, this was a chance to show her dad that the 67 Chevy truck was rightfully hers. The old man was right there with her, showing off the handful of timeslips. His truck wasn't a sleeper, his experience obvious. The engine tuned far more than stock, the tailbed open to minimize wind resistance. All the subtle tricks of going a fraction of a second faster.
Kendell and Chéri were a lock for the Girl Power trophy and they were also contenders for the King of the Hill tournament. Or so many thought. Nothing was guaranteed to the duo even with the awesome 65 Nova they were running. Unlike other sports that continue to have a division of the sexes for racing the glass ceiling was shattered ages ago. Those holding onto the mentality that girls couldn't drive weren't in attendance, only the racing fans were. There was a good number of women in the crowd as were racing. The youngest girls supporting all of the drivers and discovering role models.
Another clean ride was waiting to race right behind the ladies, a jet black import. I asked Frank what was brought him out to Irwindale on Thursday nights. He shook his head, wasn't it obvious? "I love racing."
Not to be outdone by the kids, the "old-timers" showed they still had plenty of runs left in them. Freddy Steger brought a thunderous 72 Vega Wagon, yes a wagon, to the track. He's been racing since 18, he's over 50 now, his youthful appearance and enthusiasm beguiles his age. Maybe racing is the fountain of youth? His car is capable of doing the 1/8-mile track in under 6 seconds but he isn't going to push it further. He plans on coming back again and again in perfect running condition. Interestingly enough I caught up with the 55 Chevy that I had seen on the freeway. Dubbed Quicksilver, the driver / owner Bud says he's only been racing a "couple of years."
Yeah, right.
Wading through the rows of cars in the staging area I came across an amazing blue 1964 Pontiac GTO. To those unfamiliar with the legacy, the GTO (short for gran turismo omologato) was considered the first "muscle car" because it was the first to shoehorn an engine meant for a full-size car into a mid-size body making it a grand touring car. It is an even grander specimen when you hear the driver / owner and president of the Roaders Car Club, Dennis Jewell tell the story. He's owned the car since 78 and "married this sweetheart after divorcing his two wives." Among the line were some very serious racers. Running a power generator to recharge the batteries on their cars while waiting for another run.
The strain on all the parts of the cars was unimaginable. Getting a car to reach thousands of RPMs in under a second meant that the spark plugs had to be firing faster than the fastest machine guns. Draining the energy from the batteries as fast as the engine was capable of drinking the gas. Those batteries had to be kept up or the car could suffer a disastrous shutdown in the middle of the track, destroying a transmission and possibly injuring the driver.
Not far from the GTO were some truly memorable rides. The early dragster "Purple Heart" was rebuilt recently by driver / owner Chuck Erickson. It had been out of the circuit for near a decade. This night was a "shakedown" to make sure the rod was in running order for the nostalgia races. Sadly he couldn't get the wild 650 HP ride to come together that night. Better luck next time Chuck! As for the black Volkswagen Beetle, it didn't have a problem running that night. The little car was a real crowd pleaser, posting some of the fastest times.
Below is a picture of a Camaro. There's no story behind it. The car cuts such a mean profile that nothing about it needs to be said.
Of course not everybody could afford the luxury of running a beast like the Camaro. What they brought shouldn't be scoffed at either. The Datsun 280 Z was a bold statement from Japan. They too could build a fast car with European styling yet at the fraction of the cost of something like a Porsche. It could be overlooked in the sea of cars but should never be slept on. The same thing went to the highly tuned-Jeep Compass sitting in line. People in the stands didn't know what to expect. It tore through everything it was placed against, including some cars. Soccer moms been hiding a secret with this one!
The track was no place for posturing. The whole debate of rice versus muscle that seems to be popular on message boards and YouTube videos was completely absent here. The web and popular movies would have you believe that it's gang warfare on the streets should the two cross. People racing that night never had beef and were never anything but courteous to each other like friends that hadn't seen each other in ages. The legendary Buick Grand National, considered by some to be the last muscle car released, ran against anything it was put against. The original owner, a man named Paul, was there to have a good time with his friends and family, nothing more than that.
The 93 Honda tuner that ran behind the Grand National belonged to Chris Eimer. This import was a crowd favorite, with its cartoonish name and fast passes. Chris said the nitrous "funny gas" was the gimmick. The gimmick turned out to be a play on the original way it was tuned, running nitrous and now switched to turbos and faster elapsed times.
For some the night is filled with bad luck. Despite all that goes into getting the cars ready, Murphy's Law dictates that the worst will happen when you least expect it. Such was the case for Mark Mendez's Civic. The fat tires on the front-wheel-drive have taken him into 5-second passes at the speedway. But when his turn came around something went astray and he didn't get the car past the starting line. Better luck next time Mark! For "Jerry" things went much better. Chalk it up to experience but his passes were buttery smooth all night long and his older car didn't seem to give him any worries.
Thursday nights aren't all about cars though. Much love is also given to those running their motorcycles. Most were exceptionally tuned and a few had wild looks to them. Gregory Williams brought his yellow stretched ride, a 73 Honda with a turbo, nicknamed "Gigolo Racing." These brave men and women each took passes on the strip, undoubtedly much safer than opening up the rides on the streets or freeways. Of course up until now I've only mentioned a few of the cars and bikes that showed up that night. Watching the races, hanging out with the crowd and joining in on the banter was the best part of the show. Ask anybody that's been to a professional sporting event and they'll tell you the same thing. Television will never, ever compare to being there live.
The stands will fill up with friends of the drivers. Many are there just for the show. Teenagers out late, sneaking smokes in the huddle, making sure the ushers aren't watching. Guys and girls on dates, rowdy boys doing a whole lot of sh-t talking, entire families stuffing themselves with tacos and nachos and little kids waving to their favorite cars. Clapping at passes that go down to hundredths of a second, lamenting the rides that break down. All watching the black Beetle disappear in the blink of an eye.
The best commentaries always come from the teenage girls in the audience. Girls that were not in the malls flirting with the boys still found time to make snide, but hilarious, comments about racers. Part gossip, part social deconstruction, these girls would approve of a solid run with a slight nod or turn their heads and brush their bangs away from weak performances, offering critique along the lines of "oh, I feel so sorry for you, just leave out the back where nobody can see your car." Proof that girls with sharp claws don't save their best lines for school.
On occasion there would be one or two rides that grab the audience's attention. It happens every time. After a dozen muscle cars, bikes or imports have had their fun something comes along completely unexpected. When it happens everybody stands up, waiting to catch something memorable in their mental DVR. Such was the case for two wild rides. One was an ATV converted to run the track, like this one it held its own against the other motorcycles and blew away audiences. The other ride that the audience stood up for was a goliath of a truck running against much smaller trucks. Some of the trucks running were already large turbocharged diesels but none had brought a GMC C6500 to race. Those trucks dwarf even the largest consumer trucks. They were meant for heavy hauling duties and towing jobs. The clean white truck was used to tow in a racer but did double duty on the track as well. Smoking its enormous tires in the burnout and possibly winning a trophy just for that. When it went to the line people were stomping in the stands. The track crew barely came up to the fenders of the beast. It blasted off the starting line billowing a massive plume of black smoke in its wake. The track emcee made a comment that the truck had just undone years of Al Gore's hard work in a matter of seconds. It lost by miles, possibly the slowest ride that night (not counting the cars that broke down) but people went crazy for the effort. Applauding the driver as he came back in front of the stands waving his timeslip.
Was it a symbol of the times? Reckless disregard for mother nature? A show of force when people should be humble? A sign of excess even when the economy is so bad? Or was it nothing more than racing for the love of racing?
This was a celebration of what makes Southern California special and America unique in the world. None of these drivers are millionaires, living in the Hills and slumming it with the peasants on Thursdays. The only claim to fame for some might be a magazine spread but nothing that will land them a dream contract with a race team or a television show. These are ordinary people, living ordinary lives but something extraordinary once a week. Taking pride in themselves, taking pride in their cars and finding glory in six seconds.
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