surfnsprint

Ever since I was at the Oval Nationals last year, I have been daydreaming about sitting on the curb in turn three and shooting those monster cars as they go drifting by. I have a problem; I can’t drive any distance without falling asleep (would that make me a bad sprint car driver?). “No worries” Runbull tells me, “give me the keys”. So we jumped in a truck, flipped a gas card and lit out for Perris. Of course I fell right asleep and dreamed all sorts of discombobulated static. We pulled into the pit parking lot, passed security (thanks for hooking us up, Jeff) and wandered onto the racetrack. A water truck was laying down long sweeping turns and the water was glinting on top of the dark rich dirt. They were baking the cake….

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ALL THRILL NO FILL
Seth Wilson Had The Pole But Couldn’t Capitalize
Sure Looking Good Though

I was sleepwalking and wide eyed. There’s Rip slouched in a lawn chair, shaded and cool in that John Jory thing. Over here is Cowboy giving a TV interview looking like he was born racing. Rickie Gaunt is farting around with everybody. Danny Sheridan is standing with his chin in his hand, looking at his car like it’s a problem child. Cory cruises by and politely gives me a nod and a smile. He doesn’t know me, but he’s seen me stick a camera in his face a couple of hundred times. It’s a hot yet pleasant Saturday afternoon and fans are slowly parking in the stands. Runbull is telling me how perfect it feels to be at the racetrack. It might have something to do with the chili cheese fries we are stuffing in our faces. I’m looking around feeling a little overwhelmed by the size and the vibe. I’m thinking we’re gonna need a bigger fisheye….

I’m Dreaming and My Mother is Yelling Get Down From There

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A Lot Of People Dig Rickie Gaunt and I’m One

In Ventura, the sound is always there. This track is so big the sound goes away and then like a tidal wave it comes back around and sweeps over you. Ungodly power, sound and speed. So much faster than what I’m used too. I can see them in the distance driving like hellhounds into turn one. Coming out of two they seem to straighten up and dust themselves off. Then they gas it and instantly they are on you in three. They are not so much turning as power sliding past you, huge momentum and power being controlled by small catlike moves in the cockpit, eyes darting. I don’t know what the hell is happening in turn four because as soon as they pass me another one is landing on top of me. Maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen plenty.

Michael Trimble Always Shows Up and Pours His Heart Into It

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Had To Throw This One In

Blake Miller and Mike Spencer take charge right off the bat. Blake looks like a bat outta hell as he manhandles the crew. Spencer is right there when Blake sort of bikes and checks up (broken bleeder valve leaking precious pressure). Spencer tags his rear and they both go to the work area. The controversial Rodney Argo takes over and leads Tony Jones on a merry chase. Rip Williams has begun a great crusade from the fifteenth spot. At nine laps he has moved to sixth. Jones starts hitting the cushion in three and four trying to get up on Rodney. Rodney sticks to the bottom and maintains. Suddenly Sheridan is smoking down the straightaway and bursts into flames as he passes the flagman. Showtime I guess. His engine is done. Visiting dignitary Damian Gardner is also in trouble with his birdcage and out of contention. None of this is fazing Rodney Argo who continues to stuff points leader Tony Jones. Clean fast and furious driving all around. Kruseman, Gaunt and now Williams are driving so hard into the corners my jaw is hurting. Williams nicks Super Ricky and then the Kruser. He is legendary and ripping in third place. It’s high performance and Tony Jones finally gets the situation in hand. He passes Argo, Williams in third and then Kruseman and Gaunt. It’s checkers and cheers. We stumble out of there.

Tony Jones At Home

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#3 Pushing Off For Another Perfectly Incredible Run

Runbull is driving again and I’m starting to drift off. I’m thinking about how incongruous it seemed to watch Tony Jones go from rocketing around a track to holding a baby in his arms. The power and the gentleness all roll into one. Rip Williams is pushing off, over and over. More obscure dream images and suddenly I’m home. I’m standing in the driveway in Newbury Park, it’s one a.m. Sunday morning and a half moon is hanging in the dark sky. Dawn is miles away and I’m waking up from my Perris dream.

Crawford
Thanks Jimmy For Your Hospitality and A Place To Hang