Racing

During the many excursions throughout the Midwest while working as a supply pastor, my dad frequented a particular Dog n’ Suds drive-in along the way. He repeatedly entered their drawing to win their contest. Can you imagine his thrill when he discovered he had won the prize? And what a surprise we had when he arrived home with a gasoline powered go-cart in the back of the car!

Since dad was a fan of the Indianapolis 500, he soon infected all of us with the racing bug. Occasionally on Saturdays, the whole family went to a vacant parking lot where we created an oval track between parking pylons on which to race. We had the time clock that he used in the dark room to time each other. With each contestant, the procedure was always the same. We would first take a warm-up lap, and then after crossing the start/finish line, go full speed and drive three timed qualifying laps.

My older brother had compromised motor skills. He and my sister used caution as they drove their best. They were no match for me. I learned to put the accelerator pedal flat against the floor the entire time I was in the cart. I learned how to drift and slide around the corners, resulting in the fastest time of any kid who drove that cart.

My dad’s exuberance for racing took him to the Indianapolis 500 several times. In his duties, back in Indiana as a supply pastor, he had met the famous driver Johnny Rutherford and his wife. Dad was privileged to be the minister who baptized their daughter. This led to a friendship with a true gentleman of racing that led to several outings with the Rutherford family that my parents enjoyed.

One story dad loved to tell took place during one of the rare excursions away from the children. The wives were in the backseat of Johnny’s new Lincoln enjoying their freedom from motherhood for a while.

Dad asked Johnny, “how can you possibly drive around a curve so fast?”

John explained that every car had a set or a speed that a tight curve could be effectively negotiated. He explained that his Lincoln had a set of about sixty-miles per hour around a tight curve. He proceeded to demonstrate on the expressway while negotiating the exit and entrance ramps of a cloverleaf. In the midst of the turn, Johnny signaled to my dad to look at the speedometer. The ladies in the back seat were chatting, unconcerned about what was going on. As my dad peered over to look, he noticed that the gauge on the dash indicated sixty miles an hour.