Monday, February 20, 2006
Wheeling Down the Road!
We used to go to my Grandmother Vines house and have our own Indianapolis 500 and Daytona 500 rolled into one. It wasn’t 500 miles, but more like 50 feet. Also we did not have any racecars—just wheels. Not exactly wheels either—just tires. The two youngest, my brother and I, would curl up inside the tires and two of our older siblings or cousins would roll us down the straightaway. These were not the small compact tires that are so common today, but the larger sizes of the fifties. There was also an old tractor tire or two, but they were hard to manage. If you were inside one of those, it took two people to hold it up while you got situated—there was no getting comfortable, just situated. Our older siblings would rev the engines by rocking the tires back and forth a few times. If nothing else, this got you a little dizzy and your stomach a little queasy. Someone counted down and we were off. If one tire took a commanding lead, the other roller would give his tire a frantic push and let go. Sometimes there were just two tires freewheeling it down the stretch. Occasionally they would bump together and start wobbling from side to side. Then if you were not too dizzy you would jump out or at least try to jump out. You were wedged in pretty tight and generally had your feet and hands packed inside the inner groove where the inner tube would go. Once you crossed the finish line, the pusher stopped and you were on your own—heading toward a big patch of weeds. This was the final chance to jump. We did this for two or three years and then the tires just vanished.
When I was thirteen a rare opportunity presented itself. Magnolia was in the third or fourth year of its local SoapBox Derby competition and the sponsors of the event were desperately seeking participants—willing or not. Volunteers were being solicited throughout our junior high school. After listening to an impassioned plea in my English class, I signed on the dotted line. After all I figured if the Little Rascals could manufacture one of those glamour machines, so could I. Of course, they had more experience than I did. They had already built their own clubhouse. I knew which side of the hammer was up, but not much more than that. The important thing was not the race itself, but the car. The participants got to keep their racers. Everyone had a sponsor and the sponsor paid all the expenses, including the official set of wheels. No matter what I must endure, I was going to walk away with my own soap box racer. The owner of a local shoe store was my sponsor and he gave me a pair of Hush Puppies—my first and only “shoe contract.” I also did my first radio interview. With $15 in hand, I set to work. I blew half of my allotted funds on a piece of plywood for the floorboard. That proved to be a disaster. When I got everything else finished, I was down to a little over $2 and I had not yet covered my racer. I was reduced to finishing it with a shiny blue piece of oilcloth. No matter how much I stretched it, I could not get it taut enough. It became a wind trap. I had no chance—not that I ever thought that I would have one.
When race day came, I was in two heats. The first time I was just too slow. In my second heat I was matched against Gene Gardiner. His model looked as if he had plunked a large apple box on a piece of plywood. It was ugly and blocky. From the looks of things, it appeared that he had exhausted his car budget just like me. If there were one car in the entire field that I could beat, this was it. I was glancing in his direction with a bit of a grin on my face, when they suddenly dropped the release mechanism. We were off. I was caught offguard. As I jerked my head back to the right, I also jerked the car to the right as well. My little racecar veered sharply to the right and almost took out a whole row of parents. Alas, I could not overcome my bad start and was thus officially eliminated. Gene was babbling. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! I actually beat someone!” But I was not the least bit unhappy because I was going home with a great consolation prize—my own racer.
I managed to keep it in street condition for another 2 years. There was no such thing as duct tape back then or if there were I did not know about it. We patched the oilcloth with bits of electrical tape until the whole body cover looked like a giant band-aid. Everyone in the neighborhood got his shot at being back of the wheel. We lived in a somewhat rural area on a road with little traffic. We pushed the racer to the closest hill and after taking a close look for cars, we zoomed down the hill. Sometimes the oilcloth would rip and fly up almost in our faces. It was just a minor nuisance. Always after an even bigger trill, we went in search of a bigger hill. The problem was that once you went down, you had to push it back up again. The first time or two everyone chased it down hill. After that they wised up. If you rode it down then you got to push it back up all by yourself. A kind gentleman eventually came to our rescue. He attached a chain to the racer and used his truck to pull us back up the hill time and time again. After three years of use the oilcloth disintegrated, the brake pad fell off, and the supports were rather floppy. The car was laid to rest. I was now ready for a bigger challenge—girls.
There are two official SoapBox Races in Alaska. One is in Kodiak and the other is in Unalaska. Today there are three categories and three winners each year. Girls present a quicker challenge today as well—they can now compete in the derby itself.
We used to go to my Grandmother Vines house and have our own Indianapolis 500 and Daytona 500 rolled into one. It wasn’t 500 miles, but more like 50 feet. Also we did not have any racecars—just wheels. Not exactly wheels either—just tires. The two youngest, my brother and I, would curl up inside the tires and two of our older siblings or cousins would roll us down the straightaway. These were not the small compact tires that are so common today, but the larger sizes of the fifties. There was also an old tractor tire or two, but they were hard to manage. If you were inside one of those, it took two people to hold it up while you got situated—there was no getting comfortable, just situated. Our older siblings would rev the engines by rocking the tires back and forth a few times. If nothing else, this got you a little dizzy and your stomach a little queasy. Someone counted down and we were off. If one tire took a commanding lead, the other roller would give his tire a frantic push and let go. Sometimes there were just two tires freewheeling it down the stretch. Occasionally they would bump together and start wobbling from side to side. Then if you were not too dizzy you would jump out or at least try to jump out. You were wedged in pretty tight and generally had your feet and hands packed inside the inner groove where the inner tube would go. Once you crossed the finish line, the pusher stopped and you were on your own—heading toward a big patch of weeds. This was the final chance to jump. We did this for two or three years and then the tires just vanished.
When I was thirteen a rare opportunity presented itself. Magnolia was in the third or fourth year of its local SoapBox Derby competition and the sponsors of the event were desperately seeking participants—willing or not. Volunteers were being solicited throughout our junior high school. After listening to an impassioned plea in my English class, I signed on the dotted line. After all I figured if the Little Rascals could manufacture one of those glamour machines, so could I. Of course, they had more experience than I did. They had already built their own clubhouse. I knew which side of the hammer was up, but not much more than that. The important thing was not the race itself, but the car. The participants got to keep their racers. Everyone had a sponsor and the sponsor paid all the expenses, including the official set of wheels. No matter what I must endure, I was going to walk away with my own soap box racer. The owner of a local shoe store was my sponsor and he gave me a pair of Hush Puppies—my first and only “shoe contract.” I also did my first radio interview. With $15 in hand, I set to work. I blew half of my allotted funds on a piece of plywood for the floorboard. That proved to be a disaster. When I got everything else finished, I was down to a little over $2 and I had not yet covered my racer. I was reduced to finishing it with a shiny blue piece of oilcloth. No matter how much I stretched it, I could not get it taut enough. It became a wind trap. I had no chance—not that I ever thought that I would have one.
When race day came, I was in two heats. The first time I was just too slow. In my second heat I was matched against Gene Gardiner. His model looked as if he had plunked a large apple box on a piece of plywood. It was ugly and blocky. From the looks of things, it appeared that he had exhausted his car budget just like me. If there were one car in the entire field that I could beat, this was it. I was glancing in his direction with a bit of a grin on my face, when they suddenly dropped the release mechanism. We were off. I was caught offguard. As I jerked my head back to the right, I also jerked the car to the right as well. My little racecar veered sharply to the right and almost took out a whole row of parents. Alas, I could not overcome my bad start and was thus officially eliminated. Gene was babbling. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! I actually beat someone!” But I was not the least bit unhappy because I was going home with a great consolation prize—my own racer.
I managed to keep it in street condition for another 2 years. There was no such thing as duct tape back then or if there were I did not know about it. We patched the oilcloth with bits of electrical tape until the whole body cover looked like a giant band-aid. Everyone in the neighborhood got his shot at being back of the wheel. We lived in a somewhat rural area on a road with little traffic. We pushed the racer to the closest hill and after taking a close look for cars, we zoomed down the hill. Sometimes the oilcloth would rip and fly up almost in our faces. It was just a minor nuisance. Always after an even bigger trill, we went in search of a bigger hill. The problem was that once you went down, you had to push it back up again. The first time or two everyone chased it down hill. After that they wised up. If you rode it down then you got to push it back up all by yourself. A kind gentleman eventually came to our rescue. He attached a chain to the racer and used his truck to pull us back up the hill time and time again. After three years of use the oilcloth disintegrated, the brake pad fell off, and the supports were rather floppy. The car was laid to rest. I was now ready for a bigger challenge—girls.
There are two official SoapBox Races in Alaska. One is in Kodiak and the other is in Unalaska. Today there are three categories and three winners each year. Girls present a quicker challenge today as well—they can now compete in the derby itself.
