Don’t Wait Until You See the Green Light Drag racing during the muscle car era By MIKE MYER ’d done my burnout and pulled up toward the staging light as the track announcer was informing spectators of my name, where I lived and that I was in the right lane. In the left lane, I could hear, was someone whose name sounded strange, from a small town with which I was acquainted. I glanced over. Beside me was a fellow I knew, but not by the name that I’d heard. I knew why — he was a police chief, driving the town’s unmarked cruiser. You couldn’t tell it from any other car, until he placed the red light on the dashboard, flicked it on and came after you. But there he and it were, and I was about to race them. He was slow on the starting lights. I won, the only time in my life I’ve outrun a police chief in his cruiser — or tried to, for that matter. We were at Eldora Dragstrip, just outside of Fairmont, in the midst of my short-lived drag racing career. If you had a fast car — or even a slow one, in my case — the dragstrip was the place to be on a Saturday night. It was where you could find out just how fast your car — and you — were. It was the legal way to do that, at a time when virtually every community had places where informal drag races were staged illegally.
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Drag racing is simple: Two cars line up, wait for the signal to go, then the drivers try to beat each other to the finish line, a quarter-mile away. That was then. Now, professional drag cars are so fast the distance is 1,000 feet, for safety purposes. So much for simple. After humiliation in a few races, I learned there’s more to it. Take the start: Between the two lanes at the starting line is a “Christmas tree,” so called because it has colored lights. At the top are two white ones, telling drivers when their front tires have broken a beam of line set (then) precisely 1,320 feet from another set of light beams at the end of the track. Once both cars are staged, either an electronic timer or a human being triggers the countdown. For non-professional drivers like me, there were three to five yellow lights, timed to light up in sequence a half-second apart. Half a second after the last yellow light, the green light goes on and you launch. Wait until you see the green light and, if you’re up against someone with any experience, you lose. Think about reaction time. Smart drivers hit the gas when they see the last yellow light — or, in my case, between it and the
A dragster’s rear end is enveloped in flame during a burnout prior to a quarter-mile run. previous one. By the time you’ve Eldora, racing for three-foot-high trophies. I got one by winning reacted and your car is moving, you don’t leave the start line until my class. That meant that, with appropriate handicaps at the green is showing. starting lights to ensure the slowLeave too soon and you “red er cars could compete against light” — and lose automatically. the faster ones, we class winners Slam your foot to the floor would race for “king of the hill.” (or, with a manual transmission, Somehow that night, I couldn’t do that at let the clutch pedal lose. Up through the bracket I up suddenly), and you’ll probawent until, to my astonishment, I bly lose. While you’re sitting at the start line, burning rubber, you can wave goodbye to your opponent as he or she feathers the gas just right to actually get moving faster. A red 1968 Ford Galaxie like this one paid for There’s more to it the first washer and dryer. than that, including a was lined up for the final race. pre-staging burnout to warm A friend and his wife were in the rear tires so they don’t spin a the stands with my better half, much, but you get the idea. Go Connie. He told me later that as to the track thinking you just let it became clear I was about to her rip and you’re going to lose. win the $500 prize money, he I got reasonably good at it, shouted, “Cam and headers.” with a shelf full of trophies to That was enough to buy some prove it. There was one thing I high-performance parts for the hadn’t accomplished, however: car. I hadn’t won a state championHe knew there would be no ship. cam and headers, he told me, So, one night in the early 1970s, I and the best drag racers when he heard Connie shout, in West Virginia were lined up at “Washer and dryer!”
Supplement to THE INTELLIGENCER and NEWS-REGISTER - Wheeling, W.Va. - Thursday, May 21, 2020 - 7
