Sunday, Sunday! Why Not Thursday
Nights?
By Gary Peters
Monday evenings we all would show up at the garage to
tear the Hemi Hunter down to the bare block and to inspect all the parts
in an effort to get ready for the next weekend's battles with all the
Chrysler folks. Although we never tore the engine down at the track
between rounds, this was a weekly ritual at the garage. We always felt
that not thrashing between rounds gave us an advantage at the track
psychologically, and kept us from making bad mistakes while rushing
between rounds.
The ritual at the garage was always less stressful, and usually involved a
little R&R along with a couple of six packs. We knew with the
knowledge the team had gathered over the years that if the car was in top
shape, we could run a race without any trouble or tear downs. We would
wander the pits between rounds with seemingly nothing to do, which always
drove the other teams nuts.
By Thursday nights at the garage, we had completed the work required and a
test was always in order. Now this garage was located in a populated area
and neighborhood in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. All the folks who knew this
routine would show up at about dusk for the test. The garage had a
driveway between it and the home of the fellow we rented the garage from.
His name was Herman. We all called him Herman the German, as he was of
German descent. He was good-natured and never gave us any problems with
the testing. We always shared the beer with him.
We would roll the Hemi Hunter out of the garage with the headers pointing
back into the garage area. One of the guys would start setting up some
chairs around the workbenches. We would mix up about an eighty- percent
batch of nitro, fill the tank, and hook up the starter. If Herman weren't
present, we would inform him what was about to take place. He would just
laugh and tell his wife to get ready; this week's test was under way.
Dale would suit up from the waist up with his gear and slip down into his
office. Jim would open the fuel shut off valve, prime the blower with
gasoline (it was good for something), and push the button on the starter
motor. The car would explode to life. By this time, usually ten to twelve
folks were standing around and it was dark. The heat would build in the
engine and the flames would start exploding from the pipes. The noise was
greatly exaggerated by the car sitting between the two buildings. The
fumes would pump back into the garage until the lights would glow with a
yellow hue from all those nitro fumes. Dale would do a quick blurb of the
throttle and the car would leap up onto its tires. The new visitors always
gave themselves away by flinching and running away.
No rock group could outperform this ritual. We would shut the car down and
roll it back into the garage. Everyone present would grab a place and sit
down. We would pass out Kleenex, beer, and candy bars, and sit and smell
the fresh nitro saturated air. And they say you have to die to go to
heaven!
The other week when we were at a gathering of racing folks, a man of about
45 walked up to introduce himself to me. We had on our Hemi Hunter
Tee Shirts. He remembered the Thursday night tests, and said his dad would
always bring him over to the garage on that special night. He was only
about 13 then. He grew up being a fuel car fan. I guess we all could be
held for the corruption of a minor or something like that.
Gary Peters
www.hemihunterracing.com
gary.peters@macktrucks.com
