Dirt Track Weekend

Copyright 1998: Larry Leonard

     Manuel Fangio, the legendary Formula I (competition sports
car) racer, never drove a stock car at the track in Banks, but he
just loved the streets of Monaco.  It is said that he raced in
that Grand Prix so many times, and got so good at the course,
that he could order a snack from a sidewalk cafe at a hundred and
fifty miles an hour.
     But, that wasn't the impressive part.
     It was when he picked up the sandwich, read the bill and
left the correct change the next time by.
     Fangio, Stirling Moss, Phil Hill, the Andretti clan, A.J.
Foyt, Al Unser, Jr. -- these are the Ben Hurs of the twentieth
century.  Their fire-spitting, million-dollar chariots are pulled
by 600 horses, and have names like Maserati, Ferrari, Bugatti,
Aston-Martin, Offenhauser, Penske, McLaren.
     Can the common man or woman ever understand the least part
of their world?  Sure.  Here's how.
     You have to come down from the ten-thousand-RPM heights, all
the way to a beat-up old Pontiac or Chevvy.  Rip out the
upholstery (and, probably, the dashboard), tear off the bumpers
and all the chrome, throw away the headlights, weld a roll bar to
the frame, install a beer keg gas tank in what was the back seat
(after removing the original tank, which would rupture and
explode) and you're almost ready for the Sunday afternoon oval,
twenty-five miles West of Portland, in Banks, Oregon.
    Don a racing helmet and flame-retardant coveralls. It's time
to fire up the stock engine.  You can tell from the rhythm of the
unmuffled tailpipe roar if it's running right.  It sounds
brutally smooth.
     Pull the automatic transmission lever into low--the only
gear you'll need--and move forward into the place in the line of
cars the starter has assigned to you.  Pre-race jitters make your
hands shake a little, so you grasp the wheel tighter.  Out on the
track, the wrecker is dragging the last car from the last race
back to the pits.
     "All right," the announcer twangs, "let's go racing!"
     The assistant starter waves at your line of cars.  Leaving
the pits behind, you move onto the track.  The clay surface is
slimy because they watered it down before the last race.  The
starter waves your group around the small oval seven times,
trying to work the water out.  On the eighth pass, the green flag
comes out.
     There, in the middle of the six car pack, the roar rattles
your ears even through the helmet.  The east turn is here.  That
idiot in front hit his brakes!  His rear end is beginning to
drift!
     Contact is allowed these days.  Just a little throttle and
you move up to his rear quarter panel.  You're halfway through
the turn.  If you punch it, you can run straight through him, but
this late in the turn, you'll sail right off the track and into a
half a dozen road grader tires and a telephone pole.
     You touch the wheel a bit to the left and give the throttle
a kick.  Your rear end drifts a few feet and, as you come out of
the turn, you slam into his front fender.  He goes into the road
grader tires and you bounce to the left and onto the back
straightaway!
     Halfway around the first lap, and you're in second place.
     Suddenly, you have the concentration of an elder Buddhist
monk.  The problems in your marriage fall away.  The problems at
work fall away.  You are in a moving picture, but it's advancing
at the rate of a frame a day.
     The world is reduced to the sound of your tailpipe, the
oceanic surging of your suspension, the steering wheel fingertip
connection you have with the interface of your tires and the
track, and that damned yellow car ahead.
     He has more acceleration.  You can crowd him in the corners,
but he has more acceleration.  Time crawls.   Then, on the last
lap, his power decides the day and you watch him take the
checkered flag twenty feet ahead of you.
     Instantly, you are again conscious of the stands, the fans,
the park, the nearby town buildings, the sky.
     It's over.
     Funny how intense an experience like this can be.  Some who
have been in battle compare it to that.  It is possible to die on
a small town NW dirt racing track, of course, but that probably
isn't what they're talking about.
     Frankly, I don't directly know what they're talking about.
     My one opportunity to drive a race car--in fact one of a
very similar class to these Banks stockers--was back in the
Fifties when this sport took place at the Hillsboro Fairgrounds.
The Word brothers, Steve and Jim, ran a Deuce (1932 Ford) coupe
there, and one summer evening a novice race was announced.  Jim
offered me the keys, and I said, "No."
     I was afraid of wrecking their car and losing their
friendship.  (Life is odd.  You can both eternally regret and be
proud of the same decision.)
     These days, thank the gods, you can still find these boys
and men (and, yes, women) in a few places hereabouts.  Besides
Banks races are held at St. Helens, Seaside, Lebanon, Madras and
Tenino, Washington.  Events are always on weekends, usually
Friday and Saturday evenings, with some Sunday events.
     During the week, these folks work in body shops, feed stores
and sawmills.  They drive trucks, machine steel and tend bar.
Some of them are still in their teens, driving cars they built in
highschool metal shop.  (A car can cost up to three thousand
dollars!)  Some of them are old men with gray hair and bags under
their eyes.
     But, for all of their differences, when they drive out on
that track, they have common ground.  They meet in a juncture
constructed out of a love for cars and racing.
     Hal Haines talked about it as he stood next to Number 39.
"You run in the heat races by your class and by your time," he
explained.  "The horsepowers vary, although a lot of guys are
running 350's.  In the main event, they run everything together.
They're quarter mile tracks.  This one is a tight one.  It's a
quarter mile around the outside of the track."
     Another driver walked up and asked Hal how the track was.
     "When I was out, it was still wet," he answered, "but it's
gettin' drier quick.  It was lookin' sticky right through the
middle."
     Hal used to run at the old Hillsboro track.  When it was
shut down, he joined with the other drivers, mechanics and fans,
and built the track at Banks.
     "We started havin' trouble with the old Fair Board.  It was
about six or seven years ago that we came out and talked to the
Banks park department.  Prior to that, all this was used for was
the Banks Barbecue tractor pull once a year.  It's still used for
that."
     The racing season starts in April or May and ends in
September, with a race every other weekend.  Except for the main
event, prizes are trophies.  The big money purse might total
seventy-five dollars.
     There is a point system similar to that found in local
rodeos.  Drivers who accumulate a high enough total qualify for
the Washington County Dereby Drivers Association championship
race on the 26th of September.
     The crowd is predominantly country.  Cowboy hats abound,
though there are quite a few baseball caps, as well.  (The bills
are pointed forward.)
     The bleachers at Banks are uncovered.  Blankets and picnic
baskets dot the grass and children pull smaller children back and
forth in Radio Flyer wagons.  When the race announcer isn't
talking, he lays his microphone next to the speaker of a portable
radio tuned to a country station.
     There are two novice drivers on the track, today.  One is a
woman, the WCDDA secretary.  With both hands locked firmly on the
wheel of a station wagon, she is lapped by every other woman in
her race.  The other first-timer is a middle-aged fellow named
Richard George.  One of the drivers works for him.  He decided to
come out and make some noise.
     A few laps into his first race, he rolled his employee's
car, landing upside down in the middle of the east turn.  Horns
went off, the caution flag went out, a fire truck and an
ambulance raced to the upturned car.
     In a minute, he was out.  He walked away from the car,
shaking his head.
     "This is my debut," he said with a wry grin.  "It was
nothin' like I thought it would be.  It's a lot milder."
     Asked if he would be back, he said he would.
     "This has probably taught me a pretty good lesson; to slow
down and learn the car and learn the track before you go out and
think you're a world beater.  But, you're on fire out there.
It's great!"
     He's right, of course.  It is fun to eat a hot dog in a dust
storm while half a dozen cars without mufflers roar by twenty
feet away.
     It's a northwest dirt track weekend; a fine afternoon that
only costs five bucks a ticket (less for seniors and teens, and
free for kids under 6).
     Even without fifty thousand dollar purses, Lotus-Elans and
admiring movie stars, you get the feeling that Manuel Fangio
would have had a good time, too.

                             - 30 -

Note: Saturday time trials begin at 2:00 PM and racing commences
         at 4:00 PM.  Sunday time trials begin at 11:00 AM and
         racing kicks off at 1:00 PM.

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