WE ALMOST KILLED EARL!
In late 1963 I decided that I was going to go racing. I'd picked the track: Eldora Speedway. And I'd picked the class: Sportsman. I considered the Sportsman cars the most sophisticated of the cars, if sophisticated is even the right word. The Sportsman class admitted any make or model of automobile, but engines were limited to 6-cylinders or flathead eights. There were older coupes and sedans in the series, but a smattering of "new" 1950's Chevys and Fords as well.
With the help of my father and a good friend I built a 1952 Chevrolet DeLuxe something-or-other, and prepared for my first race at Eldora. And that's when the you-know-what hit the you-also-know-what. I was under 18 and the Eldora rules (wisely) required the parents to sign a release before drivers younger than 18 could compete. Dad seemed willing to sign, but Mom made it clear to him that not only would she not sign the release, if Dad signed he could expect to bunk in the garage for the next 30 years of their marriage.
And so my buddy Gerry Lantz stepped up. We weren't privy to the conversation between Gerry's Mom and Dad before they signed the release, but the very first time we pulled out of Gerry's driveway on the way to Eldora his father leaned in the tow car and said, "Boys, be careful. If Gerry gets hurt, it's the end of my marriage." Talk about pressure!
We competed regularly at Eldora with Gerry billed as "Wop-Wop" but as is usually the case with racers we were anxious to try our luck at other tracks. At the Springfield fairgrounds track we discovered that not all tracks have outside guardrails. At Kil-Kare Speedway near Xenia the front end of our car was torn off in the 4th corner during an event.
And then we heard that Earl Baltes, the owner and promoter of Eldora Speedway, was going to promote an event at the fabled Dayton Speedway, a track with the speed and reputation to make us think we would be marching straight through the gates of hell if we entered the event. But maybe at Dayton, we thought, our tiny 216 cubic inch wheezer of an engine could get the Chevy up to 75 or 80 miles per hour, maybe more.
I pause here to tell you about Earl Baltes, although that's hardly necessary because there isn't a race fan in America that hasn't heard of Earl Baltes. Baltes is truly a legend in his own time. He might not have invented high-banked dirt tracks, but with Eldora Speedway he certainly showed how it should be done. And he didn't invent race promotion, but over his 50+ years in the business he showed what was possible with imagination and hard work.
As we towed our Sportsman through the gate at Dayton Speedway that Sunday we had no idea that we would come within an eyelash of ending Earl's career, and his life, before the day was over.
During practice we discovered that it was possible to go 80 mph with that little 6-banger under the hood screaming for mercy, but the quality of our car made every loop of the track a precarious adventure. We had four wildly mismatched tires. The biggest tire was on the right front, the second biggest on the right rear, and the third biggest on the left rear. The left front tire was so tiny that we couldn't even use it on the trailer. It was a random assortment of rubber to be sure. We knew nothing about stagger and there wasn't a single adjustment of any kind anywhere on the suspension. It was probably just as well; none of us would have known what sort of adjustments to make. The wide dirt track at Eldora had been particularly forgiving of this sort of tire insanity; Dayton Speedway, though, would give no quarter.
Once on the track we found that our car actually built up speed from lap to lap, and by the fourth lap was at maximum song.
And that's when Earl Baltes decided that (1) practice was over, and (2) he didn't want to wait for the flagman to let the drivers know that practice was over. Instead, he would run out on the track and wave his arms. And at that moment our driver, at maximum velocity, came out of the forth turn. And saw the track promoter standing on the track.
Instinctively Gerry slammed on the brakes; our four mismatched tires took control of the steering! The car slewed violently right, then left, then headed straight towards Baltes. Then, as if things needed to be any more desperate, a couple of the brakes just locked up. Gerry's eyes had grown so large by this point that his goggles couldn't contain them. His death grip on the steering wheel would later take a pry bar to loosen. We were certain that he must have been screaming like a little girl, but we couldn't hear it over the roar of the engine and the squeal of the tires.
It was pretty clear at this point that Earl had also concluded that he'd made a mistake. He turned and headed quickly back towards the infield. At the same time Gerry's desperate sawing on the steering wheel began to pay dividends and the car twisted back into line and slowed down the front stretch. Earl was alive and safe. Our Sportsman was still in one piece. And although Gerry would suffer recurring nightmares and face years of intense therapy, he had also survived.
I really can't recall the rest of the day's activities, and I have no idea how we might have done during the races, or where we might have finished. After nearly killing Earl Baltes, the rest of the day was anticlimatic, and apparently not very memorable.
---Mickey Thomson, April, 2008