Return Of The Dragsters

Dawns on me this website serves as part of my archives.  Might last longer perhaps than the boxes of clippings and magazines and miscellany my wife would like to see back in storage instead of piled in the front room.  Return of the Dragsters doesn’t sound like one of my titles but it’s my first official newspaper column.  THIS WEEK served 464,322 homes by guaranteed direct mail.  Yes, a shopper.  But aren’t they all?  Maybe the greatest shopper in the history of Western publication since the invention of the printing press.  Without question.

On the front cover for the October 5, 1988 edition, there’s this blurb:  Jack D. Welch is At Large!.  Fresh, fun and interesting.  Still two out of three. – JDW

“… I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go ’round and ’round.  I really love to watch them roll …”

I turn the radio off as we pull into the Woodburn Drag Strip, feeling like a 98-pound weakling at a body-building contest.  I park next to a chopped and channeled ’50 black Merc with a bumper sticker that reads: “Concerned About My Driving?  Call 1-800-WHO-Cares?”

Norma Louise is already disappointed.  She had been invited to the drag races, so she’d been looking forward to Darcelle running in the hundred meter dash.  All she can see is cars.  It might as well be a garage sale at Monte Shelton’s.

It’s better than that.  It’s the Fall Funny Car Classic.  No, it’s not Nash Ramblers, not even Edsels.  This is hot rodding, the sport that made Detroit great (at least until the oil crisis and low-cost, high-mileage imports came along.)  The noise.  The power.  The excess.  This is America the way it used to be, and an excellent photo op for George Bush.

The last time I went to the drags, I was sixteen years old.  It seems little has changed, except for the price of corn dogs.  The quarter-mile strip set among farmer’s fields, the relentless roar of the engines, the smoke from the burning back tires as they grab for traction, the awed expressions on little boys’ faces.  I’ve changed.  I know now, getting a driver’s license will not be the most exciting experience of my life.  Won’t even make the Top Five.

I remember two tips about watching the drags: 1) Buy a pit pass; and 2) Bring something to plug your ears.  Speaking only for myself, I look kinda stupid with wads of paper napkin sticking out of my ears.  You – on you, it might look good.

A pit pass is essential.  It costs three bucks, and you have to sign a release that says if you die, you won’t come back and file a lawsuit.  It’s standard.  Everybody signs it.  (Personally, if I ever return from the dead, I won’t be looking for a lawyer, I’ll be looking for an agent.)  Having a pit pass is like being allowed backstage during a theater production or like going into an NFL locker room at halftime.  The pits are where all the serious torque junkies hang out.

Walking past “Mom’s Aggravation” and “Middle Age Crazy,” we head for the stands.  Two jet dragsters, “Wildfire”and “Hot Streak” are pulled to the starting line.  With a whine that sounds as if you’re standing in the middle of the runway at Portland International, the World War II fighter plane engines burst to life.  Flames shoot out the back like huge blow torches.  Burner pops – jet backfires – sound like cannon shots.  The DEQ, which regulates the drag strip, permits seven pops per car.  The windows in the announcer’s tower shake.  I can feel my eardrums vibrating, and I swear the earth begins to move.  These are vehicles from hell.

“If you’ve never seen a jet car run before, you’re in for something …,” is somehow heard over the public address system.  I am not encouraged.  The jets’ whine grows louder and higher pitched.  All I can think of is that air show tragedy in Germany some weeks ago.  I’m close enough to “Wildfire” to read the small lettering on the fuselage: “Special Thanks To The Grimsley Mortuary And Crematorium.”  It’s the name of the car’s sponsor.

Rushing back to the future, powered by 6,000 pounds of thrust, the automotive emus disappear.  The slow one does 247 mph.  “Jack, that was awful,”  Norma Louise says weakly.  It was awesome, is what it was.

Frankly, I was more impressed by the sight of black-leather-clad Bruce Friswold sitting astride 1,385 cc’s of Kawasaki motorcycle.  He was doing 143 when he reached the finish line.  No roof, no roll bar, no seat belt.  Two wheels.  I usually skip the rides at the Rose Festival Fun Center.  I had to meet this guy.

Twenty-nine-years-old, Friswold doesn’t even slightly resemble Clark Kent.  Reticent, unassuming, he looks more like Jimmy Olsen with a moustache.  He’s a radiographer at Precision Castparts, where he examines x-rays of titanium engine parts.  He drives a 1983 Honda Civic, and he doesn’t seem to see himself as anybody special.

Running in the Pro bracket against cars at Woodburn, Friswold says he gets beat all the time.  “I’m usually a first- or second-round loser,” he explains good-naturedly.

But, why a bike?  “It’s a lot cheaper than a car.”  Well, sure, you don’t have to waste a lot of money on needless safety equipment like fire extinguishers or parachutes.  How do you do it?  “It’s not difficult really,” Friswold said.  “The bike does all the work.  I just push a button to shift and hang on.”  An easy rider.

Norma Louise wants to know, “Where are those jet guys?  Obviously, a love-hate relationship has developed here.  It’s been an hour since their last run, and she’s still got goosebumps.  I buy her a beer to cool her down.

Just then, as if on cue, “Wildfire” and “Hot Streak” roll up to the start.  The whine cranks on, then higher.  The burners become flame throwers, and we are buffeted by every backfire the government will allow.  Already too close, we edge nearer.  We are somewhere we have never been before.  It’s actually a physical experience, unique certainly for a spectator sport.

“Wildfire” does 262 mph in 6-1/2 seconds for the win, and we are left virtually fatigued.  You almost find yourself wanting to light a cigarette after it’s over.  It’s time to go.

Driving home on I-5, we soon find ourselves locked in a traffic jam of Californian proportions.  It takes us 2-1/2 minutes to travel a quarter-mile.  I look over to the next lane at the car alongside.  It’s Bruce Friswold.  He’s wearing his seatbelt, and suddenly I begin to understand him a little better.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XM2Oh4pS304