F STOCK

We lived on a black top oil field road that had a slight uphill climb to the main highway about 100 yards away.

From my earliest memory, every time Dad backed into the street (and I mean EVERY time), he would rev the engine, pop the clutch, and spin the tires on his vehicle as far as it would happen.

A side issue is that after spending my life watching Dad drive that way, the first time he let me take his car alone, I backed into the street, revved the engine, popped the clutch, and spun the tires as far as I could. When I got back, Dad gnawed my rear with the wisdom, "When you have your own car and can pay to fix what you break, you can drive it anyway you want, but don't drive mine that way." He then acknowledged, "Do as I say, not as I do."

I can remember from my earliest memories of riding with Dad and having him point out to me that the speedometer on his vehicle was at the highest point it registered. I recall vehicles pulling up beside Dad going down the highway and Dad "racing" that vehicle to see who could get to the next town the fastest (side by side all the way).

Obviously Dad loved vehicles and speed. He always said that if he had the money, he would have raced cars for a living.

Dad never had enough money for professional racing, but around 1960 or so, a drag strip opened at Whitehouse. I think it only cost $5 to enter (less than $20 anyway) and race. Entries were rated according to their horsepower, etc. and assigned to race against other similar cars in their "stock" category. The lowest/slowest category was F STOCK.

Dad had a 1950 two door Ford with a flat head V8 and standard transmission that he had bought in Arp from an "old maid school teacher" (according to the used car salesman). It looked new (to me) and I guess would run as fast as a vehicle of that era could run. It was put in F STOCK which the race officials wrote on the side windows with white shoe polish.

The races were run on Sunday (remember working people worked 6 days per week). Dad won for 7 consecutive Sundays. By out-driving, out-hustling, and out-daredeviling all comers, he proudly collected small chrome trophies for display at home.

Dad only quit the drag strip when he was beaten by a Studebaker. Dad knew that the Studebaker (which were notoriously slow) could not have a factory engine and so he protested. The officials hem-hawed around and then would not accepts Dad's protest saying he had to do it prior to the race. Fair was fair to Dad and this wasn't fair so he packed up and went home never to race "legally" again.

During those weeks at the drag strip I was constantly in amazement. As a competitor, we were in the pit area and I got to see the drivers and watch them work on their cars. I didn't know it at the time but I was meeting drivers who were later internationally famous like Art Arfons, Gene Snow and Big Daddy Don Garlits. I got to see the first jet engine mounted on a vehicle frame "race" down the track.

The strip allowed challenge races to entertain the crowd. That meant that a winner from one racing class could challenge the winner of another class to race. The difference in the vehicles was made up in modern times by having the starting lights for the slower vehicle turn green a prescribed length of time before the starting lights for the faster vehicle. In Dad's day, there were no lights. A man with a green flag stood between the cars to start the race and a man at the finish line waved a checkered flag to indicate which car had won at the end of the quarter mile.

Dad being Dad, won F STOCK one sunday and then decided to challenge the winner of the A/A fuel dragsters (the fastest vehicles on the track). To compensate for the differences in Dad's 1950 coupe and the rail frame, alcohol burning, fire breathing monster that Dad would race, the starter with the green flag parked the "rail job" at the start line and directed Dad to follow him down the track. The starter walked and walked and walked until almost at the finish line (with Dad hanging out the window waving his hand yelling, "farther, farther" and the crowd laughing their butts off.

When the green flag dropped the "rail job" looked like something shot out of a gun with fire, smoke and noise being spectacular. Dad's little coupe looked like it was barely rolling the wheels in comparison.

I'd love to report that Dad won, but the sad truth is that at the last second the "rail job" did what it was suppposed to do and crossed the finish line first. The memory I have is not of Dad losing that race, but the incredible grin he had on his face for the rest of the day after "racing" the fastest thing on the road that he had ever seen.