Saturday, December 31, 2011

Bacon Arrabiata

Haven't posted here in forever, but here goes:

OK, here’s a modified version of my baconator arrabiata. Tweaked the final recipe a little .
Bacon: Take 1-pound of bacon, pan fry until extra crispy. Remove from pan, pat down and let cool. Crumble or at least break into small parts. 
Gravy: Fry 1/2 onion, finely chopped, and half a dozen cloves of finely minced garlic in olive oil.
Once the onions turn clear, stir in a cup of chianti, 1 tablespoon of sugar, 1 1/2 tablespoons of basil, 1/2 teaspoon of red pepper, 2 large cans of diced tomatoes, 1 small can of tomato puree or paste.
Bring to boil, then turn down heat and cook on low for one hour. Stir in crumbled bacon in last five minutes.
Serve over the pasta of your choice, and have a good, hearty bread on the side for dipping in the gravy. 


Thursday, September 1, 2011

Remembering My Sister

Today is the 16th anniversary of the death of my sister, Eileen Zelig, who was murdered in a Los Angeles courtroom. Eileen was shot in the chest at point-blank range with a .38-caliber handgun by her ex-husband Harry Zelig. He was able to bring a gun to court because the metal detectors were boxed up and stuck in a closet, the city and the state arguing over who would pay to operate them. Because they couldn’t agree, the metal detectors weren’t set up. 
On the morning of Sept. 1, 1995, Eileen and Harry had appeared in court and were in a hallway outside the court when Harry pulled out his gun and shot Eileen. The bullet went into her chest, deflected off a rib, nicked her aorta and exited out of her neck.
Six-year-old Lisa Zelig, the youngest of their three children, was there when it happened and was an eyewitness, just a couple of feet away when her dad pulled the trigger and shot her mom. 
The last words my sister ever spoke were, “Let me hold my daughter one more time before I die.”
Eileen was smart, tough, funny and completely full of herself, and I mean that in the best way possible. Even in her darkest days, she was someone with a mischievous grin, a kind word and a big hug for anyone and everyone. 
And in an instant, she was gone. Just like that. Forever.
There aren’t enough words to describe the pain our family endured or the profound sense of loss and tragedy we went through. I’ve spent much of my life since trying to escape from what happened, only to realize it’s as much a part of who I am as my arms and legs are. It is the defining moment in our family’s history. Grudgingly, I’ve learned to live with it. 
I’m happy to say that despite their immeasurable loss, Eileen’s three children have all grown up to be great young adults and tremendously well-grounded in the light of their tragedy. 
Raised by my parents, heroes in their own right, I’m incredibly proud of each of them. Dana, Sean and Lisa are proof of the good Eileen always carried inside her, and when they laugh, she does, too. In my ears, I always still hear her voice and it always makes me smile. Every time. 
Even 16 years on, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t miss Eileen.
And if there’s anything to be taken away from her story, it’s this: The clock is running for all of us. We only have a finite time here. Don’t squander it on hatred or jealously or anger or pettiness. Every day counts, every minute matters. 
Get busy living today, because trite as it may seem, none of us is guaranteed tomorrow. 
RIP, my dear, sweet sister. I love you and miss you more than you’ll ever know. But you made the most of what little time you had, because I see it in those three amazing kids, who are now three remarkable and loving adults. 
You did good work, kid. 
Just wish I could have seen a lot more of it. 
P.S. — On Sept. 2, 1995, one day after Eileen died, the metal detectors went up in the Los Angeles civil court. They’ve been operable ever since. 
You can read about the case in these two articles below.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

The vast majority of what I write here is about NASCAR. But some of it's life and on rare occasions, death, too. My father died Dec. 9, 2006. Here is what I wrote about his passing. And on Father's Day, I'll be thinking of him.

At the last minute, I skipped the Nextel Cup banquet this year to drive up and see my parents in Pennsylvania. Mom is battling cancer and spending a couple of days with them seemed liked a good idea. Turns out it was, for all the wrong reasons.
The three of us spent three days together, doing little things - shopping for Christmas presents for my kids, driving out in the country just to have some time together alone, eating out at a couple of their favorite dives.
I left on Dec. 1 and was almost back to Charlotte when I got the news over the cell phone from my wife: Dad had suffered a stroke during what was supposed to be a routine and minor surgical procedure. She told me he was going to be alright, that the doctors said the prognosis was good but, somehow, I knew it wasn't. My wife had lost her father to a stroke three years earlier and both our fathers would have made horrible patients. Neither man had a lick of patience and both were fiercely proud and independent, rotten candidates for prolonged therapy with uncertain results.
And so, with my father as with my wife's, the end was inevitable. Eight days after Dad suffered his stroke, he died in a hospital in suburban Philadelphia. His brother, Butch, and I were by his bedside when he took his final breath, and his passing was remarkably peaceful. To my eternal gratitude, we had nothing unsaid between us, no issues that we hadn't managed to work out years earlier. 
Anyone who knew John Jensen knew it wouldn't be a stretch to call him a great man, fascinating and complex in both his achievements and flaws. The oldest of 13 children in an impoverished Chicago Catholic family, Dad grew up fast and he grew up hard, the way people did when born to the working poor in the middle of the Great Depression.
He started working for a living at the ripe old age of 7, riding the trolleys in Chicago as he delivered flowers all over the city. Some days he'd drop off a floral arrangement to a cancer patient in Cook County Hospital, then a dozen roses to a dancer at one of the many burlesque theaters that flourished back in the day.
Even as a kid, he was a fearless brawler, afraid of no one and deeply disdainful of people and institutions of power and privilege. At the long-shuttered St. Mel's High School, he occasionally got in trouble for his pranks, including once teaching obscene and creative idioms to a visiting French-Canadian priest who spoke no English.
After somehow surviving his Catholic education, Dad left for the military. On his very first night in Marine Corps boot camp at Parris Island, S.C., Dad picked a fight with his drill instructor. The first night. That was a big part of who he was: A warrior and a fighter, someone who never backed down from anything, a man as tough as nails. He was classic Old School the way Bogie and Earnhardt the elder were.
When you grow up the oldest of 13 kids in the Depression, you get tough or you don't survive. In Dad's world, things were either black or white, right or wrong. There was no room for gray, no ambivalence. He was sometimes wrong about things, as we all are, but he was never in doubt, nor was anyone around him ever in doubt about where he stood.
Along with the warrior mentality, Dad was a passionately devoted family man. When he was a kid, anyone who picked on one of his brothers or sisters picked on him, and God help the occasional dolt who thought it was a good idea to challenge a Jensen. To the very end, Dad regaled us with stories of the days as a kid in Chicago, stories he told with great flair and aplomb. They were almost always hilarious, frequently outrageous and sometimes featured subject matter that couldn't be repeated in polite company. Not only was Dad tough, he was one of the funniest men I'd ever met.
Dad and Mom got married in 1952 - he was 21, she 20 - and they stayed married for 54 years. Less than a year after their wedding, Dad's own father died and for the rest of his life, he would be the go-to guy in his family, someone who could always be counted on to take care of his own. When he needed to, he put the family on his back and carried them.
Dad and Mom raised six kids, three of their own and my older sister Eileen's three, after she died in 1995. In times of crisis, Dad was a rock. When Eileen died, he and Mom flew to California the same day, took their three grandchildren aside and told them that from that moment forward, they would always have a warm, safe home and would never want for anything. And that was that.
Dad had a successful business career and retired at age 59. Over the last 15 years, he and Mom traveled the world, visiting Europe, Asia, Australia and South America. He loved to travel and he loved muskie fishing, single malt scotch, playing golf and, of course, the Chicago Bears.
Most of all, though, he loved his family. On the night before his stroke, he pulled me aside just as we were supposed to leave for dinner and told me he was going into the hospital at 6 a.m. the next morning to have a clogged artery unclogged. He swore he'd be out in a day or so and that, if the operation went perfectly, he might even be released the same day. I knew he was lying and I didn't have the heart to call him on it.
The last conversation we ever had was just before he left for the hospital, when he asked Mom if she had finished her Christmas shopping for all the grandchildren. When she answered, "Yes," he asked again, naming them individually. Then he turned to me, held up his index finger to his mouth and said, "Don't say a word." He kissed me on the cheek and he was gone, just like that.
Eight days later, I held his hand in the hospital bed and told him it was time to go home, that the fish were biting and that there was a tall scotch waiting for him. Then he took his last breath.
All eight of Dad's living brothers and sisters came to his funeral, and afterwards we did what working class families do: We ate, we drank, we laughed and we cried, telling stories and closing the circle.
And as the year winds to a close, my father is no longer with us and for that I am indescribably sad, sad for myself and sad for our children, whom he loved so much. But at the same time, I'm a rich and lucky man for having grown up with him as my father.
Rest easy, Pop. From here on out, I've got your back.

Chapter 4, Part 2

But the teams all saved their best tricks for the Daytona 500, then as now the most important race of the year. Daytona drew the most attention and sponsor interest, got the most exposure, and paid extremely well. But in those days, the annual January testing at the 2.5-mile superspeedway was not closely supervised by NASCAR, and cars didn’t have to test in legal trim. If a team was looking for a sponsor prior to Daytona and wanted to generate some buzz, all it had to do was bolt in a 500-cubic-inch motor for a January test session and run some blisteringly fast lap times. All of a sudden the word would get around about how fast it was running. There was no better or quicker way to attract a sponsor’s dollars.

And sometimes the big engines found their way into real races. In the 1973 National 500 at Charlotte Motor Speedway, tensions were high among competitors, who felt that cheating had reached epidemic proportions. Even those doing the cheating were concerned. During a practice session three days after qualifying, pole-winner Charlie Glotzbach was found to have an illegal carburetor plate in his Hoss Ellington–owned Chevrolet. NASCAR disqualified his pole-winning time, forcing him to re-qualify. Ellington swore the offending part was used only in practice, not qualifying, prompting journalist Benny Phillips to note that “The penalty of disqualifying Glotzbach is like putting someone in jail on Saturday for being drunk on Wednesday.”

After the race, the cars of race winner Cale Yarborough, who drove for Junior Johnson at the time, runner-up Richard Petty, and third-place finisher Bobby Allison all had their engines torn down. Some 25 hours after the race was over, Yarborough was declared the winner, even though there were allegations that the first- and second-place cars were running oversized engines.

“Prior to the inspection Allison claimed he saw crew members from Petty's crew run over and, using rags to hide what they were up to, remove something from the engine compartment, while a nearby NASCAR official conveniently turned his back,” recalled Matt McLaughlin of the Web site SpeedFx. “Allison's car passed quickly, but there was obviously something up in the inspection garage, as the post-race inspection dragged on six hours. Rumors were circulating [that] Petty's engine was a little oversized and Yarborough's was way out of line.”

According to accounts from NASCAR journalist and historian Greg Fielden, track promoter Richard Howard blew his cool over the lengthy inspection process. “They give you a stamp of approval at race time and six hours later can’t give you a winner,” Fielden quoted Howard as saying. “I’ve been paying NASCAR inspectors to be here all week and ensure that the cars are legal. Now they tell me they might not have done their job and some illegal cars may have gotten by them. If so, what have I been spending my money for? If they rule against the order of finish that the fans saw on Sunday, I’m going to court. By letting the cars start, the NASCAR inspectors said that they were OK. Now they are reneging. I’m not bluffing about this. I’m sick and tired of seeing stuff like this be allowed to happen, possibly leading to the ruin of a great sport.”

Amazingly, NASCAR made an announcement the next day that the Yarborough-Petty-Allison finishing order would remain one-two-three because its post-race inspection was “inadequate” to determine the cubic inches of the cars involved. “The decision to let the results stand was made following a meeting of NASCAR officials after reviewing information that showed in a post race inspection the procedure used to check all of the engine sizes in the previous race inspection proved inadequate,” the sanctioning body said in a prepared statement. “Since the purpose of the pre-race inspection is to determine that the cars in competition conform to the rules prior to the actual running of the race and that this procedure was in effect for the Charlotte race, the results are official.”

Outraged, Allison threatened to sue, claiming NASCAR officials had told him Petty’s engine was a little oversized, while Johnson’s was “a whopper.” On October 11, Allison announced his plans to pursue legal action. “If you use the standards utilized by NASCAR, we ought give [former vice president and convicted felon] Spiro Agnew his job back,” Fielden reported Allison as saying. “If you get caught cheating, it doesn’t seem to matter in NASCAR’s eyes. I’m just one of 38 guys who got cheated. It was just a case of NASCAR having to discipline the little guys because they don’t have enough guts to do what’s right with the big guys.” 

He dropped the idea after a lengthy closed-door meeting with NASCAR President Bill France Jr. on October 15. “I have received satisfactory restitution, and you can read that any way you want” was Allison’s only comment, though it was widely rumored that France had used his legendary powers of persuasion to calm the driver down. In fact, the rumor—never proven or disproven—was that France had given Allison a hefty check to settle the issue, perhaps as much as $50,000. Neither man would ever speak of the incident publicly again.
Twenty-eight years later, Robert Yates, who built the engine for Cale Yarborough’s Charlotte-winning car, confirmed that it was way oversized, but insisted that those found in the competitors’ engine bays were, too.

“I just built a big one,” Yates said. “There were so many ways of beating the system. Finally, I just got great big [with engine displacement]. We had 500-cubic-inch motors. I sent one to Martinsville, and [crew chief] Herb Nab called me back at the shop and said, ‘Man, this thing is so bad it's laying two streaks of rubber all the way down the straightaway.’ It was just a hog motor. We went to North Wilkesboro the next week and then to Charlotte, and by that time NASCAR knew that something was going on. So they were going to pull the cylinder heads off everybody. We won the race. We were there all night. They pulled the heads off and started trying to measure the bore and stroke. They didn't really have the equipment to do it. Eight different people checked our engine and came up with eight different sizes. They finally let us out at midnight. So what? Everybody else had big motors. From that day forward they started pulling heads off, that made you look around and say this is all fair now. I sort of was happy that it all got [more heavily policed by NASCAR].”

While it was Allison who had raised a stink at Charlotte that year, the proverbial shoe would be on the other foot a year later, when Allison ran afoul of NASCAR inspectors. At Ontario, California, Allison won the final race of the season, only to have his car caught with illegal roller tappets, instead of the solid ones mandated by NASCAR. The roller tappets, which fit between the camshaft and pushrods have less friction than solid lifters and thus produce more horsepower.

“He almost got away with it,” former NASCAR Winston Cup Director Dick Beaty said in a 1988 interview with NASCAR Winston Cup Scene’s Deb Williams. “I told one of the crewmen to hand me one of the tappets. At first, they pretended like they couldn’t get if off. I told him he was going to take it apart if we had to cut it. Finally, they got one out. The one he handed me was as cold as ice. He had a rag in his hand and it had a flat tappet in it. When he pulled the roller tappet out of the car, he kept it in his rag and handed me the flat one. Now, there’s no way a tappet that’s just come out of a car that’s run 500 miles is going to be cold. I grabbed the rag that was in his hand and sure enough, there was the roller tappet. If he had taken that [flat] tappet and heated it, he would have gotten away with it.”

 But illegal engine modifications weren’t the only  way enterprising teams tried to skirt the rules. In an effort to equalize competition among the various makes and hold speeds as well, NASCAR stepped up its use of restrictor plates. The way a restrictor plate works is very simple: It is a machined flat aluminum plate that fits between the carburetor and intake manifold and uses small-diameter openings to limit the amount of fuel-air mixture that flows from the carburetor into the engine, drastically reducing horsepower. Although NASCAR has used a variety of different sizes and configurations of restrictor plates over the years, in the contemporary motors used today at superspeedways, they cut horsepower from about 780 to 400.

From the onset of their use, however, restrictor plates have been a source of almost infinite temptation for engine builders and crew chiefs who want to tamper with the devices. During the running of the 1973 Winston 500 at Talladega, Marty Robbins, a country and western singer and part-time stock-car racer, finished 18th and turned race laps 15 mph faster than his qualifying speed, raising some eyebrows in the garage. 

 “Marty loved to race for a hobby. He didn't do it for money,” recalled Dick Thompson of the late singer. “He went to Talladega and he was running like a bandit, but what they had done, is they had fiddled with his restrictor plate. He won rookie of the race and everything, but he went to NASCAR and he told ’em, ‘I'm not running legal, I just wanted to get out there one time and race with ’em.’ Nobody would hold that against Marty ’cause he was such a great guy.”

“When they first started putting the plates on the cars, when I drove for Holman-Moody, old Jake [Elder] had a big restrictor plate taped up under the fan cover,” recalled David Pearson of the early 1970s. “Back then NASCAR would hand you the plate and you’d turn around and put it on. Old Jake just turned right around and stuck the one NASCAR gave him up under the fan cover and pulled the other one out and put it on the car. Looking at it, you couldn’t tell the difference. You can take a knife and go around those holes in the restrictor plate, open them up just a little and pick up 10 horsepower. We run the 125-milers [Daytona 500 qualifying races] that way. NASCAR came over and said they wanted to see it. All they wanted to do was look down in the carburetor and see that the plate was still on it. Jake got mad and jerked the seal off. They said, well since you broke the seal just go ahead and take the carburetor off. If he hadn’t done that we would have gotten away with it. But all I was doing was looking in my mirror and driving just fast enough to stay in front of them. I could have run a lot faster, but you’ve got to use your head when you’re doing something like that. But we got caught. There has been a lot of cheating going on with the plate. I would say there still are people cheating with it someway, somehow.”

Another master manipulator of the restrictor plate was former car owner Hoss Ellington, who campaigned  cars for Sterling Marlin and the late Tim Richmond, as well as Charlie Glotzbach’s disqualified 1973 Charlotte car, among others. His most famous car was the one Donnie Allison drove in 1979, when he crashed with Cale Yarborough going for the win on the last lap of the Daytona 500.

“When the carburetor plate first came out, Hoss had a device,” said Bob Moore. “The restrictor plate was set in there. Hoss developed a pull device, and it would actually slide the hole completely open. It was incredible. It was so intricately machined it was almost invisible to the human eye. And he actually got away with it for a couple of races before they found it. Hoss was a little bit strange in that he enjoyed getting caught. Then he'd make a big uproar and cause a big stink. Unlike, say, Junior [Johnson] and a few others, whose whole idea was never to get caught, if Hoss got away with it, fine. If he didn't get away with it, fine.”

In 1986, Marlin’s Ellington-owned Chevrolet Monte Carlo was penalized for having an illegal fuel cooling system prior to the Firecracker 400 at Daytona in July. Marlin’s car had a hidden padded metal box filled with dry ice and a spiraled fuel line that ran through it. The dry ice cooled the fuel, making it more dense, so it would generate additional horsepower under combustion.

Pearson, who drove briefly for Ellington, said the outspoken owner loved the conspiracy aspect of cheating but was not mechanically inclined himself. “Hoss never did know what to do,” Pearson said. “[Engine builder] Runt [Pittman] was the main one on that car. He’s the one who did all the cheating and stuff. I know one time when I drove his car, Runt took a grease fitting and screwed a hole for it in the intake manifold. Hoss couldn’t stand it. He wanted to know what that grease fitting was for. Runt told him, ‘Don’t worry, it’s something that’s going to help it.’ Hoss couldn’t wait to tell people about it. But Runt was just messing around with him. It didn’t really do anything.”

For NASCAR Winston Cup teams in the 1970s, though, the clear performance booster of choice was nitrous oxide, or NO2. Known as laughing gas and used for years as a medical sedative, nitrous oxide injected into an internal combustion engine generates a tremendous horsepower boost—upwards of 100 horsepower over a short period. In the mid-1970s, many NASCAR Winston Cup teams hid nitrous oxide canisters in the bodies and frames of their cars. Though a tank might last long enough for only 30 to 40 seconds, used at the right time, it could mean the difference between winning and losing.

Nitrous oxide was especially popular during qualifying, when it could mean the difference between sitting on the pole and missing the race entirely. The biggest nitrous oxide scandal occurred in 1976, at the biggest race of the season, the Daytona 500. Pole-sitter A. J. Foyt and second-qualifier Darrell Waltrip both had their times disallowed after nitrous oxide was found in their respective cars. During the same race, Dave Marcis’s qualifying time was also disallowed because he was caught with a movable air deflector in his car, a device that could reduce drag and make his car faster.

Foyt and NASCAR President Bill France Jr., who had succeeded his father as NASCAR’s leader in 1972, nearly came to blows at Daytona back then, with the volatile Texan proclaiming he hadn’t used nitrous oxide. Twenty-five years later, prior to the running of the 2001 Daytona 500, Foyt still maintained he didn’t use the performance-enhancing substance. “He’s not talking to anybody about it, but if he was, he’d tell you the same thing he did back then: He didn’t do it,” said team spokesman Michael Rompf.

The ever-effusive Waltrip, however, admitted his team had nitrous in the car. “If you don’t cheat, you look like an idiot. If you do it and you don’t get caught, you look like a hero. If you do it and get caught, you look like a dope. Put me in the category where I belong,” he said at the time.

Prior to the 2000 running of the Brickyard 400, Waltrip spilled the whole story. “We went to Daytona and [crew chief] Mario Rossi took what we called the wedge bar and made that into a cylinder and packed it full of nitrous,” he told reporters Robin Miller and Curt Cavin of the Indianapolis Star. But NASCAR officials became suspicious of Foyt and Waltrip when their practice times were a second per lap slower than their qualifying speeds.

 “So here comes NASCAR. They took my car into the inspection room and had people crawl all over it. We were trying not to laugh, but it was hard because they were hanging on that bar with the nitrous,” Waltrip said. “Finally, Bill France Sr. and Bill Gazaway came over and said if we didn't tell them where the nitrous was, they were going to go get the saw and cut every bar on the car out. Rossi got nervous they might cut into something and blow themselves up, so he told them where it was.”

The fears of a nitrous oxide tank exploding were not unwarranted, either. “In the nitrous oxide days, when everybody was doing it, I saw an oil tank blow apart down at Darlington one day on a race car, because the nitrous oxide went off in the car,” said car owner Richard Childress.

“The funniest one of those was G. C. Spencer at Talladega, because he had it in his car and it went off in the garage area. There was this loud hissing sound,” said historian Bob Latford. “Another time, D. K. Ulrich, one of the independents, had a cylinder hidden in the front cross-member. And when he crashed, it was stripped away from the car.”

Car owner Bud Moore said nitrous oxide was fairly common in the 1970s. “Several people got caught using it. They had it hidden all around. All you had to do was turn a little valve and shoot it into the air cleaner,” he said. “It’d raise the horsepower, 30 or 40 more, just like that. You run your first lap, got the speed up, then put that boost to it. Most of them had the bottle inside the seat. Tube ran out the seat bar, worked its way around, and got its way into the air cleaner. It was hard to detect.”

Although he denied using nitrous, Foyt did admit to Miller and Cavin that he wasn’t 100 percent legal all the time in the 1970s. “The biggest thing you could get away with was messing with the body of the car,” he said. “Cale [Yarborough] and I had Oldsmobiles that we narrowed, but somebody blew the whistle on us and NASCAR wouldn't even let us unload them off the trailer.”

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Chapter 4, Part 1

If you don’t cheat, you look like an idiot. If you do it and you don’t get caught, you look like a hero. If you do it and get caught, you look like a dope. Put me in the category where I belong. —Darrell Waltrip
As the tumultuous 1960s came to an end, NASCAR was at a crossroads of sorts. The Big Three automakers scaled back their involvement in racing as they began to scale back their manufacturing of high-performance muscle cars for the street. The old phrase “win on Sunday, sell on Monday” seemed less relevant as Chevrolet, Ford, and Chrysler all phased out their respective 400-plus cubic-inch big-block engines in the early 1970s and starting building economy cars like the Vega and Pinto.

With less factory support to rely on, corporate sponsors entered the scene. R. J. Reynolds joined forces with NASCAR in 1971 to take over sponsorship of what had been known since the 1950s as the NASCAR Grand National series, renaming it the Winston Cup Series. Corporate America mainstays such as Coca-Cola, STP, and Gatorade became sponsors of race teams. Where a stock car once might have had its quarter panels festooned with the name of a local car dealership, now they became 170 mph billboards hawking beer or soft drinks. Teams started to look for sponsors to help foot the bills, and sponsors wanted to be associated with fast cars. And for some teams, the easiest way to run fast was to bend the rules—or break them altogether.

“The factories were getting out, so guys were trying to find ways to make more money by winning races,” said Bob Moore. “That was when we first got sponsorships. So to help attract attention to themselves, they wanted to win. It's like anything else. The more visible you are when you go into somebody's office, the better chance you have of them saying, ‘Oh yeah, we'll give you $50,000 or $20,000 or $10,000, whatever.’ And also, when Richard [Petty] won the 27 races [in 1967], the other competitors got tired of Richard beating them to death. So they decided the only way to beat the boy was they had to cheat to beat him. So that was part of this equation that was going on back then. They were convinced he was cheating, they didn't know how he was cheating, but they figured the only way to beat him was to outcheat him.”

Little did they know that Petty wasn’t cheating, but he had found that putting as much weight as possible on the left side of the car would make it handle better. Petty and his teammates could actually adjust the weight balance of the car from inside the cockpit with a device called a weight jacker. It was a huge competitive advantage at the time, though not an illegal one.

“I’ve got pictures of Richard Petty getting in his car at a short track when he blew the engine in his car and got into Jim Paschal’s car, which was owned by Petty,” said Ford’s Charlie Gray. “He was over a lap down. He was getting in his car and had a socket wrench in his firesuit, in the left-hand pocket. Within 40 laps he was running faster than anybody. We all knew he was running a weight jacker.” 

“The left-side weight on the car [was] something that nobody was doing, and the rule book didn’t address it because, in those days, they weighed the whole car, and the car was supposed to weigh 4,000 pounds,” said Humpy Wheeler. “It didn’t matter where the weight was.”

As always, Junior Johnson was a force to be reckoned with, whether his cars were 100 percent legal or not. “If you wreck a car, you always try to build it back better. You'd keep adding little things and little ideas to it,” Johnson explained. “Over a period of two or three years, first thing you know you've found something you like that really helps you. In the late 1960s, I had cars that were offset, motors moved back in them, wheels that were moved forward or backward depending on where I was running. Many, many things that I was doing were an advantage. Moving the wheels underneath the car to the left, widening the car out. There were many things that would help a car handle better.”

Although not formally educated, Johnson figured out what the paid engineers knew about chassis setups. In general, the car would be fastest with its weight lower than higher. It would also be offset to the left as much as possible and back toward the center of the car rather than at the ends.

“In the early ’70s [with Cale Yarborough driving] I did an Oldsmobile that I moved the wheels on, moved the motor back, moved everything to the left side. Moved the wheels further to the left side and to the front. It kept the front end down where it wouldn't lift up. It's a tremendous advantage to get the car down on the racetrack,” Johnson said.

One of Johnson’s favorite short-track enhancements was to start the race with trick tires and then change them on the first pit stop. “Junior, he was a master at self-defense,” laughed Barry Dodson. “I know particularly at North Wilkesboro, when Cale would start the race, he'd be all over the racetrack until the first pit stop. They'd take those four tires off, and the rest of the day that car was a rocket. Little did people know those four tires had steel bands welded around them and they were poured with lead and they weighed a hundred pounds apiece. All of a sudden, he’s 400 pounds light. They finally caught on to that when it took three crewmembers to get them over the wall. Junior always was a master at taking advantage of stuff like that.” Eventually, NASCAR would decide to weigh cars both after the race and before.

“Talk about creative,” said former crew chief Larry McReynolds. “It was against the rules because they were 80 or 100 pounds light [per tire], but you think about the places where they always kicked butt—North Wilkesboro, Martinsville, the road courses, Richmond—that's places where that was so important. And it was done pretty regular. NASCAR didn't weigh cars after the races then. They do now.”

Johnson was pretty sharp on the aerodynamic front as well. “If you remember his race cars, they always had pretty extravagant paint schemes,” said McReynolds. “It wasn't because Junior thought that was pretty. Paint schemes can cover up a lot of stuff. You can put several different colors and maybe some pinstriping, where if you painted it solid if would have a totally different look. Most of Junior's cars had some pretty creative paint schemes to them, because he was hiding aero stuff. If he had something that was supposed to have a sharp edge but a radius was a lot better, he put in a paint line or maybe a pinstripe. It gives it that edge look but it’s a radius the whole time.”

“Junior Johnson was a stand-on-the-gas, go-for-it kind of racer. He was a good racer,” said Robert Yates, who worked for Johnson in the 1970s. “He didn't care about something being pretty as much as he wanted it effective. It was quite a university there. I learned a lot about how to build engines. If you had some idea about something new or different, he would really wake up to it. ‘Let's do it.’ I'd say, ‘I don't know, it might not be legal.’ He’d say, ‘That's all right.’ He was the type of guy that you sort of wanted to be on his side if there was going to be a fight. His theory was let's design something and design it wrong, but be able [to make it legal] in seconds. I probably have some of his mix in me. He's one of my big heroes. He would be aggressive. He wasn't a right-by-the-book kind of person. His adrenaline pumped when he was fudging things. That was racing back then, doing things differently. There just weren't enough policemen. There were too many of us trying to beat the system.”

In doctoring his cars, Johnson ran into the same problem Yunick had 10 or 15 years earlier. “I had people who worked for me who would talk, couldn't keep their mouth shut,” Johnson said. “Couldn't keep things a secret very long. But I could go back late at night and do things myself, and nobody would know anything about it. When I did that, I could get by with a lot of stuff. And it wasn't that you were cheating. There weren't a lot of rules. It was just that you found a way to beat everybody because you had done enough homework to be where you were at.”

One place where Johnson and many other teams did their homework was on the weigh-in scales. Getting a light car through became a high art.

“We decided at Martinsville to run light was really a good deal. We figured out a way to beat the scales. In fact, we beat the scales a lot of places,” said Yates. “Just knew how to drive the car on it right. You could beat the scales at every racetrack, I believe, except Charlotte. I even figured out a way of beating the Charlotte scales by putting a piece of tape under the left rear tire and timing it and turning my steering wheel a little bit so we could pitch the weight to the right side. I could beat every scale just a little bit just knowing how to drive the car on there. Finally, NASCAR put separate scales out for each of the four wheels to eliminate that.”

  “We used to have the old grain scales that we'd roll the cars across,” Dodson recalled. “ We didn't have the digital stuff you have today. If you were one of the last cars to be weighed, you could take a little magnet and hang it on the bottom of that car and change the reading on the scale by a hundred pounds.”

“When they ran them across the scales and weighed each wheel, we always had somebody standing around with their arm propped on the car or something like that,” said Bud Moore. “You could get by fairly good on a lot of stuff. We were supposed to weigh back then probably 3,700 pounds. We were usually a hundred pounds light.”

Perhaps the most clever way to beat the weight limit was discovered by a young mechanic named Gary Nelson, who worked with Darrell Waltrip at DiGard Racing in the late 1970s.

Nelson came up with a variation on the old drop-the-buckshot trick that racer Jack Smith said he first saw in the early 1960s. Nelson’s execution was brilliant in its simplicity: The buckshot was dumped into the frame through a hole under the battery and released from the jack plate on the frame rails. So whenever NASCAR inspectors went to look under Waltrip’s car, the very first thing they did was put a jack under the side of the car and lift it up, which covered up the spring-loaded release plate. When he’d release the buckshot, Waltrip often would get on the team’s radio and announce, “Bombs away!” Instantly, the car was 75 to 300 pounds lighter, depending on how much buckshot had been put in to begin with.

To be continued ...

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Cheating, Chapter 3, Part 2

The bigger, faster tracks and the aerodynamic innovations of the early 1960s had some chilling, unintended consequences. For one thing, longer tracks and more aerodynamic cars meant speeds rose sharply, and with those speeds danger increased exponentially. In 1964, three of the sport’s most popular drivers, Joe Weatherly, Fireball Roberts, and Jimmy Pardue lost their lives in separate crashes. When races were 100 miles on dirt tracks, gas mileage and fuel capacities weren’t an issue. But when the races became 500 miles long, suddenly teams began illegally hiding fuel wherever they could find a place in the car, at grave danger to the drivers.
This led directly to the development first of the rubberized fuel cell in 1964 and then the purpose-built stock-car frame and roll cage, which was developed by Holman-Moody in 1966, approved by NASCAR, and is in fact similar to the chassis still used today. The Holman-Moody chassis/roll cage unquestionably was a huge improvement from a safety standpoint, but it was, for all intents and purposes, the end of true stock cars and the beginning of stock appearing cars that can only be driven on a racetrack. And the less cars were stock, the more people were tempted to cheat them up, especially when it came to weight, fuel, and aerodynamics.
Journalist Bob Moore recalled one such example from the early 1960s. “One of the teams basically had extra gas stored in the car for every race. They went the whole season putting in extra gasoline at every race. It'd be different places, different times, because the competitor might find out where you had it hidden, they'd go and tell NASCAR, they'd check and it wouldn't be there,” he said. “This particular race team was extremely smart, extremely innovative, and they'd use every single way to hide gasoline you could possibly think of. Frame rails, roll bars, in the fuel cell, in the dashboard, wherever they could get it so that it would flow into the carburetor or the gas tank and give them an extra one to three gallons of gas.”
Racer Jack Smith said he saw rivals hollow out front cross-members, the center support that runs under the engine joining the left and right sides of the frame together, to hold extra gasoline. “They’d weld that up and take and run the fuel line like it was going through the side of the cross-member, but they’d hook it up to the cross-member, which had gas in it. And there were some that tried to put it in the roll bars.”
“They checked the fuel cells pretty closely. Couldn’t hold but 22 gallons,” added Bud Moore. “We all had a little gimmick going. Some of them had gas in the roll bars. Some had it here, some had it there. I did mine a little different. When we went through inspection, they checked the fuel cell and sealed it all up. I waited until a certain time and stuck an air hose in it and blew that jewel up and made it bigger. They never took the fuel cell back out of it after they checked it. I just put the air hose to it. Blow the cell container, stretch it. I’d get a gallon, gallon and a half, sometimes two more gallons in it.”
Crewman Barry Dodson would later use a similar trick when he worked for Petty Enterprises in the early 1970s. “We'd come here to Daytona. We always had the end garage stall. I'd hide in the trunk and open up the fuel cell to where it held two more gallons than it was supposed to. I'd tap on the quarter panel, and they'd open up the trunk and get me out,” he said.
Still, some car owners drew the line at what they would do with fuel. “Putting fuel in roll bars, I never did it because it was bad enough to have fuel in the rear of the car, much less having it up there around you,” said Cotton Owens. “But some people made special bars for the left door and put it in there. To me that was crazy, because the driver was sitting right there with it. You could hide three or four gallons like that, and that could make the difference between winning and losing. They had it rigged so it would free-flow from there into the tank. After they ran so long they had a valve they'd trip and let it run in the tank.”
Historian Bob Latford recalled one fuel-related incident that involved one of NASCAR’s most time-tested tricks: replacing an illegal part with one even more flagrantly illegal. “One time at Martinsville, Holman-Moody's car that Fred Lorenzen drove got caught. It was supposed to be a 22-gallon gas tank, and there was 22.9-gallons or something like that, and they made him take it out and take it away. And the team fussed and fumed and did the work, and they put a 28-gallon tank back in. They never checked the one they replaced it with.”
Arguably the funniest stories of all came from David Pearson, not in a NASCAR race but when he was driving for Bud Moore in the Trans-Am road racing series in the late 1960s. “When I drove Bud’s carone time I had some tires with water or lead in them. I go through inspection with those tires and then turn around and switch them [with lighter tires] or punch a hole in and let the water out,” said Pearson. “And he had a gas tank at Riverside [California] that all the fuel wouldn’t come out of when they drained it. They had a thing up in it that would just let so much of it drain out. So the inspectors told Bud that he had to get all the fuel out of the tank before they came back. So he got a bunch of the guys on the team to stand around the car and pee on the ground so it looked like they had drained all the fuel out.”
The Trans-Am series was also where one of Smokey Yunick’s most infamous cars surfaced, this one a 1968 Chevrolet Camaro. “While Number 13 may look like a ’68 Camaro, it has most certainly been ‘massaged,’” noted Hot Rod magazine in a 1996 retrospective. “Acid-dipped body parts abound, the front sheet metal drooped, all four fenders were widened, the front subframe was Z’d to lower the car, the floor pan was moved up, the windshield was laid back and thinner safety glass was used throughout the car. The list of tweaks is endless. Smokey even pulled the drip rails in closer to the body! … The engine was fitted with a pressurized, quick connection that allowed the driver to quickly add oil to the engine from the interior during pit stops. Because the driver was an active participant during pit stops in the cockpit, a cable-ratchet mechanism from a military helicopter was used to release the shoulder harness so the driver could perform his necessary tasks.”
Another popular “innovation” of the day—although admitted hardly as exotic as some of Yunick’s tweaks—was lead, or more specifically how the heavy metal was used. In an effort to make cars lighter in race trim, crew chiefs over the years would make replica car products out of lead and replace them with the real articles after the car went through inspection.
“I've seen everything from lead radios to lead watercoolers. Everybody's tried to cheat on weight. Weight used to be a big thing,” said Richard Childress, who began racing in the 1960s as one of the so-called “independents,” small-budget, small-resource teams who had little chance of beating the well-funded teams like Petty’s. “There's so many different stories you could tell. There was a team one time that was running lead inside the wheels on the right side. This was when we had the weight situation. Those tires and wheels would each weigh about 50 pounds extra. And to watch those guys pick those things up and come back around the car with ’em on the first pit stop was pretty amazing. That was the slowest pit stop of the day for those guys.”
Latford said he saw teams make race weight by filling their tires with water and then changing them during early pit stops. Like Childress, he also saw plenty of lead parts, too. “A lot of guys used to put water in their tires before they rolled across the scales to give ’em weight. Then after they went over ’em, they'd change tires,” Latford said. “A team was caught with a radio in their car that looked like a regular radio, but it was made of solid lead. They used to put Thermos bottles in the cars and fill ’em with mercury, before they figured out how dangerous it could be.”
In fact, the lead trick was one that stayed in fashion for several decades. In a 1988 interview with NASCAR Winston Cup Scene’s Deb Williams, NASCAR Competition Director Dick Beaty showed off a virtual gallery of confiscated lead parts, including a replica of a fuel filter that weighed 60 to 70 pounds. Another was an oil tank full of lead.
“That thing must weigh 200 pounds,” Beaty told the racing publication. “When the cars were weighed only once, that was placed where the oil tank would be located, complete with lines running to it. As soon as the car was weighed, the lead-filled oil tank would be removed and the true oil tank placed in the car.” Beaty said he had also caught teams using lead goggle holders and, in one instance, a lead helmet, which sat in the car while it was weighed and was exchanged after the inspection.
“I had a helmet one time that had lead in it. I’ve still got it,” Pearson admitted. “You’d just switch helmets. That thing must have weighed 50 pounds. You just left your helmet in the car when they weighed it, then wore another one in the race.”
Then there was the ever-popular buckshot method of lightening one’s car, a method that saw occasional use from the late 1950s until the early 1990s. “I remember people coming in a shop near mine in Spartanburg [South Carolina] and buying a thousand pounds of gun shot,” said Jack Smith. “They’d take them and put them in bags and put them in the car right inside the quarter panel or in the doors. They’d have a lever up under the dash or on the side looking like a door handle, connected to a knife that would get the bags open. Underneath the bags would be holes, and the gun shot would roll out on the track. First thing you know, other cars would hit the fence because the lead shots were going out and getting in the racing groove.”
Smith professed admiration for the creativity of Junior Johnson. “Junior had one of the best things I ever seen. Somebody on his team brought a two-gallon water jug. Somebody in Tennessee had shown him something, a liquid metal of some sort. It wasn’t mercury; it was something heavier than mercury. They filled that jug up and put it in the car. They’d weigh the car. Right before the race this old boy would put that one up and put a real water jug in there. It’d lighten the thing 200 pounds. Everybody had a water jug in their car. Man, you take that much weight off, it’s a lot.”
As flagrant as this all seems today, at the time nobody made too much of a deal about other guys cheating, as long as it didn’t get too far out of hand. 
“This has always gone on,” said Bob Moore. “The whole thinking to the deal was, even at the beginning when they came up with the first set of rules, these are the rules, but we understand you may go beyond these rules. We'll let you go beyond them to a certain point, then we're going to cut your hand off. The driver's ability could make up a lot of difference. And that was part of what made the beginning more creative, rambunctious, interesting. You never knew from week to week who was playing a game, who was cheating here, who was cheating there. You'd learn what this guy was doing and then you did it. The idea was, you try to be the first and let them catch you.”
“The cheating, as we used to call it, was fun. It was a little bit like outrunning the police with a  V-8. It was fun. It didn't hurt anybody,” said Robert Yates. The son of a Baptist minister in North Carolina, Yates worked his way up from a gofer at Holman-Moody in the early 1960s to the owner of a two-car Winston Cup team led by 1999 Champion Dale Jarrett. “We used to have a deal where you couldn't close off your grille. Banjo Matthews was great at getting a grille small. We finally learned that the more you tape them off the faster they would go. So we put this plastic door screen back in behind there. Joe Gazaway, he would start looking in the grille. It was his job to inspect the grille and make sure you didn't have any kind of blockage in it. One time we put a water bottle with a pump on it and a nozzle so when he stuck his head down in there we shot him right between the eyes. It was that kind of a fun deal.”
“I think the reason for the creativity was what you'd call shade-tree engineering, where people actually worked on their own cars pretty much,” said Martinsville Speedway’s Dick Thompson. “I know the Wood Brothers used to do a lot of experimentation themselves and were way ahead of a lot of people. Sometimes you'd see another mechanic walk over to the car and start to get down on his hands and knees and start to look under the car, and they would just say in a very quiet voice but very menacing, ‘Don't look under there.’
“In those days, when a team brought cars to the racetrack, each car was pretty much individual,” Thompson continued. “They're kind of cookie cutters today. Everybody's using the same roll cage, the same this and that.
“Basically, everybody doing their own engineering was saying, ‘Lets see what I can get away with,’” said Thompson. “They were pushing the limit. NASCAR really had to watch things. Even after you went through inspection, they had some tricks up their sleeve. There were times when the so-called independents bought a factory car and they would sit down and [review the hidden features of the cars] with the previous owners. There would be switches on that car they had no idea what they went to.”
Many times, those switches would be used to operate hydraulic pumps that would lower the car on the track and raise it before inspection. “Jim Hurtubise, at Riverside one time, they were using lowering devices on the car, little microcranks,” said Latford. “He got in the car at the start-finish line and was getting ready to start the car. You used to have starter buttons. He put his hand up. The switch was down here, and the car started to fall.”
Latford saw plenty of other tricks, too. “There was the old thing of putting wood or charcoal in the springs before they'd go out to qualify. And of course, the first bump you hit, the charcoal or wood would fragment, and there'd be splinters down on the apron of the first turn, but you couldn't prove where it came from, so there was nothing you could do,” he said. “The other trick was freezing the shocks at the desired height. And after it pushed out in line and sat there, it would thaw, the car would settle and away they go.”
Bud Moore used a similar trick. “We had pieces of plastic that we’d stick underneath the springs to hold the car up,” he said. “We’d take stones and stick them underneath the springs in the front and let them down real easy. The rocks would hold the springs up through inspection. Then when you had the first bump the springs would crush the rocks and let the car drop.”
According to Martinsville’s Thompson, the acknowledged master of chicanery in those days was Junior Johnson, a man who grew up in the hardscrabble country of Wilkes County, North Carolina, and had served time in a federal prison for running moonshine. Johnson, whose rugged persona and hard-ass driving style would later earn him icon status as the subject of Tom Wolfe’s magazine profile, “The Last American Hero,” knew every trick in the book. 
And he had a very fundamental attitude about breaking the rules, one he explained in an interview with the Orlando Sentinel’s Juliet Macur in 1998. “With the rules in those days, it was easy to cheat,” said Johnson. “You just worked on what NASCAR didn’t check. If they didn’t check your gas tank, you had a bigger gas tank. If they didn’t check your engine, you had a bigger engine.”
Of course, Johnson would bend the rules even on the parts that NASCAR did check. “I think the funniest thing I ever saw, I was watching a race at Bristol one time in the late 1960s, watching Junior Johnson drive, and I had my binoculars on Junior,” remembered Thompson. “It seemed like when he'd come out of the pits, going down the backstretch, the car would drop down. But every time he'd come in to make a pit stop, NASCAR would run out, stick that measuring stick under his car, and it was totally legal. As he went out, then, the car would start lowering. It turned out later on that he had hydraulics in there, and he could lower the front end.”
“The cheating, being innovative, Junior was noted for it,” Latford added. “He didn't break the rules; he just found things that were not covered by the rules. He'd find a space between the lines, so to speak, and do things that weren't covered. Then they'd come up with another rule to cover it, and he'd have to go do something else.”
Well, maybe that isn’t exactly accurate, because Johnson might be best known for building a car that was blatantly illegal, so completely beyond the spirit of the rules, let alone the letter of the law, that he earned himself a permanent spot alongside Smokey Yunick in the NASCAR scofflaws’ hall of fame.
The year was 1966, the place the old Atlanta Raceway. NASCAR was in the midst of one of its darkest eras, thanks to a battle of wills between Big Bill France and the Big Three automakers in Detroit, who were locked in a rapidly escalating horsepower war and were trying to bring ever-more-radical power plants to stock-car racing.
A year earlier, Chrysler had launched a NASCAR boycott that lasted about half a season, after France banned the automaker’s omnipotent 426 hemi engine because it was far more powerful than any rival production engine from Ford or General Motors. Without defending champion Richard Petty and the other top Plymouth and Dodge drivers of the day, the 1965 season had been a disaster for track owners and fans alike. Yet history would repeat itself—sort of—in 1966, when Ford teams sat on the sidelines as the year began. The second boycott was again caused by an engine ban and again sidelined the defending champion. This time, though, it was Ford’s overhead-cam 427-cubic-inch engine that was banned and 1965 titleholder Ned Jarrett on the sidelines.
Eventually a compromise of sorts was reached between France and one of Ford’s top factory teams. Star racer Fred Lorenzen, a driver with movie star good looks and charm to burn, was slated to return the blue oval brand to action August 7 at Atlanta in a car owned and prepared by Johnson, who broke ranks with Ford, apparently due to concessions he received from France over how his car would be prepared.
The car in question, along with Smokey Yunick’s black-and-gold Chevrolet Chevelle, which competed in the same race, was the most outrageous, bodacious, and flagrantly illegal car to ever compete in a NASCAR event. Dubbed the “Yellow Banana,” Johnson’s 1966 Ford Galaxie had its top chopped three to five inches—depending on whose estimate one believes—and its windshield was laid back at least 20 degrees. Its nose nearly touched the ground, and its rear quarter panels were swept upward to produce downforce, a modification that made the supposedly straight Galaxie sheet metal curve more like a banana. 
Just how bogus was the banana? Thirty years later, Speedworld journalist Matt McLaughlin would say that the Yellow Banana looked about as much like a stock Ford Galaxie as his granny looked like Heather Locklear. In point of fact, it looked better suited to compete as an NHRA (National Hot Rod Association) funny car than it did as a NASCAR “stock car.”
“They literally had to lift Lorenzen up and slide him into the driver's seat,” remembers Bud Moore, who covered the race for the Charlotte Observer. “There was no way he could climb in it normally because the roof was slanted. And the front windshield was also sloped at an angle. The left side of the car was down about three inches lower than the right side of the car. Because Ford was struggling to stay in the sport, NASCAR basically turned their back on this deal and said, ‘This is fine.’”
Not that Yunick’s black-and-gold No. 13 Chevelle was any more legal, given that it was built to roughly 7/8 scale relative to its stock counterpart and carried an oversized engine, among a laundry list of infractions. Among the other “innovations” on Yunick’s car that weekend were a built-in roof spoiler, offset frame and removed drip rails on the roof.
Amazingly, both cars sailed through tech inspection, much to the outrage of Cotton Owens, who owned the Dodge that points leader David Pearson was driving that weekend. “The Chrysler guys went berserk when they saw the cars Johnson and Yunick slid through tech inspection,” Moore said. “Cotton decided that one of the advantages of Lorenzen's car was that it was sitting so much lower than everybody else's. So what Cotton did, he fixed up Pearson's car where the whole car would literally drop about three inches. And NASCAR figured it out on Sunday morning, so they went to Cotton and said, ‘OK, you cannot let Pearson use this device.’
“The four springs would compress, and the car would drop. Well, NASCAR said he couldn’t use those springs. You've got to use regular springs. Well Cotton refused to do it, so he pulls the car out of the race. In that same race, Curtis Turner was driving for Smokey, who decided his engine was going to be about 20 cubic inches more than anybody else's. But the weird thing is, Turner is leading most of the race, and he blows up, so they never catch Smokey's car. Lorenzen crashes and Cotton pulled his car out. There was so much cheatin' going on that weekend, it was fun covering it, because every day it was a new deal.”
One of France’s most dramatic uses or misuses of power, two flagrantly illegal cars were allowed to compete in order to appease auto execs in Detroit eager to get Ford and Chevrolet racing again and the Atlanta track owners, who wanted all three automakers competing to revive attendance, which had sagged badly in 1965–66. The Yellow Banana would never race again, because the factory Ford teams soon returned, the fans were appeased, and France had no reason to look the other way for the good of the sport. The Atlanta race in 1966 would forever represent the high-water mark—or low-water mark, depending on your point of view—for cheating, innovating, creative engineering, whatever one cares to call it. When the teams arrived at Daytona in 1967, NASCAR was waiting with its first body templates.
The teams had some new tricks of their own. Ford, which had a serious horsepower disadvantage, had been secretly using its wind tunnel in Michigan to smooth out the contours of its Fairlane race cars. “We didn’t call it cheating, we called it ‘competition tuning,’” said Ford engineer Charlie Gray, who oversaw the automakers stock car efforts in the 1960s. “I guess some people claim I’m the reason why they have templates. We didn’t have any horsepower. We had the 427-wedge engine, and we were running against the hemi Dodge. We had to find some way to run competitively. We used to go in and spend 24 hours at a time in the wind tunnel. Nobody knew that. Nobody knew about wind tunnels at that time. They [NASCAR] claimed that some of the things on our automobiles were a little bit different than stock. Well, we didn’t think so. Anyhow, they [NASCAR] came with the templates at Daytona in 1967.
“In 1965 and ’66, especially ’66, the cars that ran at Daytona were very droop-snooped. They looked like anteaters. You couldn’t run templates on those things. But in ’67 we were into it pretty hot and heavy with our Fairlanes, so NASCAR came with the templates. For some reason our Fairlanes, in 1967 at Daytona, the rain gutters [along the roof] ‘fell off’ before they got to the racetrack. I can’t figure how that happened. Lin Kuchler [of NASCAR] came to me and told me about it. When the next race came around, all the rain gutters were back on. That’s just an example of something somebody found that worked. But things like that were usually corrected by the next race.”
The 1967 Daytona 500 ultimately would be captured by Mario Andretti, but only because of a late-race engine failure in David Pearson’s hot-rod Dodge, which had been carefully “engineered” by Cotton Owens to lower its center of gravity and dramatically improve handling.
“In 1967 (for the Daytona 500), I moved the floorboards up inside the car three inches, just pulled the top and all down around it and welded it back together,” Owens said. “It no sooner hit off my trailer than everybody was under it. Richard Petty had his whole crew under it. I took the body of the car and dropped it over the chassis three inches lower than it would have been. Looking at it from the outside it looked like any other stock automobile. But if you got your measurement from the top to the floor you saw it. I called NASCAR about it before I built it, and they said anything was OK as long as what went under the car was in good workmanship. That was the ruling. We cut that thing up, lowered the roll bars, moved the floor up in it, and welded it back together. I took it as low as I could without it being too obvious. I still met the ground clearance requirements, but I got the roof of my car down. The advantage was getting the car lower through the air. It was the fastest thing there. Something happened with the engine with less than a hundred miles to go or we would have won.”