A Photographer's Journal: Ma Smith at the Big Funny Car Show

By David Hapgood

Illustration by the author.

Like any other drag racing photographer I've collected some oddball stories over the years. And while incidents like blower explosions and the sound of molten valves whizzing past one's head are always memorable, they are often eclipsed by 'human interest' stories. This is one of my all time favorites.

Seven years ago I was visiting an eighth mile dragstrip out on the 'high desert' of the Pacific Northwest. Joining me was my assistant (and fellow draglist contributor), Nolan Hibbard. We were both familiar with this dragstrip and the man who ran it: each year he would send me season passes in the mail and offer photo access to his starting line. He'd even begun to refer to me as his 'track photographer,' though it was really just an honorary title since I only made it out to his track now and then. In any case, my assistant and I were 'in.'

On this day we had shown up for their season finale, an event featuring several pro mods, a handful of alky altereds, and four 7.50 alky funny cars. I'd been looking forward to this afternoon all summer -- there was never any pressure at this track. But little did I know that we were in for an unforgettable encounter.

From the moment we pulled into the track there were indications that the day was on the brink of collapse: a wrecker was just then dragging a pro mod back to its pit area. Apparently the car had hit both guardrails, on a time trial pass, and it was a huge mess -- nothing like the sound of mangled fenders and crushed wheels skidding on asphalt to raise the hair on the back of one's neck. I couldn't help but to kick myself for having stopped off at the local grocery store before heading out to the track. If we had shown up twenty minutes earlier we might have shot pics of the crash -- in typical photographers' mindset, I viewed it as a missed opportunity. Now the driver was walking (head down) alongside his battered machine, colorful paint flaking off the many ugly new creases, and I couldn't bring myself to fire off even a single shot.

Next I went up to the tower to get our photo wristbands. And while it was true that I knew the track manager, I had never met his wife, and she happened to be the person in charge at the moment. I was aware that several weeks earlier one of the track's female motorcycle riders had been killed in a freak racing accident. I had discussed this with the track manager during a phone call earlier in the week and I knew that the tragedy had left a heavy imprint on the local racing community. Still, I was not ready for what I was about to hear.

"We're not allowing any photographers on the starting line for the rest of the year," she informed me.

"But I spoke with your husband two nights ago," I said, "and he cleared it."

"I don't care what he told you," she said, "nobody is getting out on the starting line today."

True enough, there wasn't a single photographer in sight.

"We just drove three hours to get here," I said.

"That's too bad," she replied.

I walked out of the tower pondering my next move. I could always hunt down the track manager, as it was a tiny facility. Surely he would overturn his wife's decision. But did I really want to get in the middle of an argument between husband and wife? I knew that at the center of all this tension was the fatal motorcycle accident of two weeks prior, the sort of thing that gives everyone the creeps. And now, as if to up the stakes, one of their feature cars had just hit both walls and their big show had yet to begin. The overall ambiance at the track seemed poisoned just then and I decided that it was best for my assistant and I to go back to his car and rethink our strategy.

We'd parked down near the top end, in a wide-open gravel area. There wasn't much else down there except the track ambulance and a team of doorslammer bracket racers, conspicuous in that they pitted away from the others and also that they ran their operation out of a full-sized semi transporter. This family was considered royalty at the track -- let's call them 'the Smiths' -- and Ma Smith' was the family matriarch. She must have been at least sixty-five years old and her racecar was an immaculate 1969 Chevy. During previous visits to this track I'd been impressed by how this dragstrip granny seemed to be enjoying life, as a smile was always plastered on her face.

I was about to learn a few more things about Ma Smith.

So there we were, sitting in my assistant's car, debating whether or not we should pack up and move on (we had a five day camping trip ahead of us and, if things weren't going to work out at the track, the sooner we left, the better: we could reach Nevada or Idaho before nightfall) when along came Ma Smith down the return road. But something was wrong. She whipped her Chevy around our SUV and brought it to a stop in her customary spot. Then she leapt out and the fireworks began.

"My car is overheating and you're in my way!" she screamed, "You get your car the hell out of here and park it somewhere else!"

Her eyes were literally bugging out of her head.

"You heard me!!" she yelled, "Now MOVE IT!"

I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts, and then gave her my two cents.

"If it was going to be a problem," I said, "you could have asked us to move before you made your run."

"I don't have to ask you ANYTHING!" she screamed, "WE ALWAYS PARK HERE!!"

At this point my assistant (always the 'voice of reason') chimed in.

"Uh, lady, I don't see a sign that says we can't park here, too."

It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Ma Smith went off on a cuss-filled tirade the likes of which I hadn't heard in a long, long time. About twenty seconds into it I cut her off and told her that I didn't give a damn who she was or what she thought. I went on to tell her that she might as well shut up.

"You wouldn't be talking to me like this IF MY HUSBAND WAS HERE!" she screamed.

It occurred to me that she was right -- how preposterous: here I was, yelling at a little old lady! Our lousy day had really sunk to new depths. Yes, Ma Smith was as bitter (and irrational) as anyone I'd ever met in my entire life, but there was no getting around the fact that my assistant and I were outsiders in this rural locale, and what in the hell were we doing putting up any resistance at all? God only knew what her husband, sons, and the rest of her offspring might do to us.

"Put the car in gear," I said, "and let's go."

We hadn't rolled a hundred feet when a big guy came running around the back of the Smith family's trailer truck, chasing us.

"Should I step on the gas?" my assistant asked.

"No," I said, "stop the car."

I should explain that I've never been much of a fighter but I'm pretty good at diplomacy, and I was hoping to talk my way out of this. All I knew was that if we ever wished to return to the track we couldn't leave behind unfinished business. Still, as I got out of the vehicle I was wondering if this wasn't the most foolish decision I'd ever made. I was a fish out of water in this part of the world and, after all, the guy Ma Smith had sent after us was a lot bigger than me. He looked ready to mix it up. We now stood face to face and his face was red.

"Why were you yelling at Ma?" he asked.

"Actually," I replied, “it was more the other way around."

He looked on, as if it was my job to convince him that he shouldn't beat me to a pulp. I supposed that it was. This was not looking good.

"We were parked out in the field," I said, "with lots of room all around us. If it was going to be a problem I wish that she would have told us before she made her run and started yelling at us."

"OK," he said.

It was amazing: problem resolved!

We shook hands and he walked back to their pits. Only then did the thought cross my mind that he'd probably been on the receiving end of Ma Smith's tirades... and that I still had my front teeth!

That pretty much sealed it for me -- I'd had enough confrontations for one day and no longer cared about anything as trivial as 'starting line access.' We would watch the race from the anonymity of the grandstands, which at this track seated about three hundred people. After parking the car behind the tower we sifted into the 'crowd,' doing our best to fit in. It was hard to shake the feeling that we didn't stick out like sore thumbs.

Ten minutes later, lo and behold, who pulled up to the starting line but Ma Smith and her stupid racecar. I could hardly watch. If she had wiped out at the top end it would have been all right by me. This way of thinking went against almost all of my instincts. It was just another lousy detail in what had turned into a perfectly lousy afternoon.

Then, as we waited for the first round of alky funny car to begin, Ma Smith came down the return road on a mini-bike. My adrenalin was still pretty much 'through the roof' but, by contrast, Ma was looking relaxed, as if she'd long since forgotten about our little spat and was enjoying herself as usual. She smiled and waved at the crowd and people in the audience were calling out her name and waving back.

My assistant chuckled and shook his head.

"After the funny cars run," I said, "let's just get the hell out of here."

And that's exactly what we did, setting out on the five day camping expedition in the high desert. Throughout the journey we would periodically break into laughter and relive our encounter with that ornery old bat -- Ma Smith!

When I got home the phone rang: it was the track manager.

"Dave, what happened?" he asked, "I was looking for you."

I told him the story about his wife barring us from the starting line and assured him that I understood, completely, given the circumstances.

"But you always have starting line access at my dragstrip," he said, "You should have tracked me down."

"Yes," I replied, "I probably should have."

Then I told him the story about Ma Smith, and he laughed and laughed. Of course: he knew Ma Smith and family quite well.

"We just had dinner over at their house the other night!"

My assistant and I ended up returning to that little track several times during the next few years and never again tangled with anyone. We always came away with great photos and memories of alky and nitro action. Take my word, eighth mile racing is drag racing's best-kept secret, if you've never experienced it you have no idea what you're missing. And who knows, if you're really lucky you'll never encounter a Ma Smith.

David Hapgood
hapgood_d@hotmail.com