Hobo Jungle
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P&R Pete
Tramp, (while we await the arrival of the party-boy)... the track.
You take a winding road past cathedral red barns dimly lit, (it being milking time), and old white frame homes with new-plowed fields, organic with thick odors of damp dirt and manure. No macadam. You park on a field of grass, then it’s dirt-and-gravel to the lean-to where a pair of young girls in bluejeans and friendly grins relieve you of your money and stamp your hands- $7 for the wood-plank bleachers, $4 more if you want pit-passes.
The pits are part of the fun,- frenetic wrenching, guys clustered around cars ‘cut’ and muscular, built for severity-of-purpose but meant for the eye, with primary color, flashy numbers and sponsor decals. Here are cars on jackstands and men in dirty overalls cogitating race-changing decisions about 2 extra pounds of air pressure or a ¼-inch change in suspension geometry, swapping tires and gear sets, tweaking engines, a blur of purposeful motion, generators humming for light and power, tools clattering. Ladies and girlfriends, with blue-collar candor and lack of guile, sit on lawn chairs and truck sills, gab, and provide ‘support’-services. This ain’t the café-latté or designer-duds crowd here.
Everywhere, motion. Racing is non-stop, and cars and 4-wheelers and pit-bikes constantly prowl the pit-lanes, returning from a race and the exit-scales, hot and mud-spattered in a wake of dust, clean cars getting themselves staged on the entrance ramp for the next contest, with a third race in progress. It’s a self-sufficient mini-village of sound and hurry, dust, rubber, and fuel, so thick you can taste it.
Rare indeed is a $4-investment with such a solid dividend.
You want to know racing, you have to do it ‘live’. Dust, noise, clouds of pleasantly-acrid exhaust wafting past the arc-lamps with their bazillion whirligigs of bugs, bang and crash of metal against tire, crescendo scream of engines and trannys going through gears, blare of the P.A. system, people talking and laughing, smells of hotdogs and chili and steak sandwiches wafting from the concession stand.
It ain’t Laconia, and these aren’t professionals with contracts and entourages, and it’s only a 1/5-mile dirt oval with 15-row bleachers, but the drivers don’t care, (their aggression, anger, and elation are identical with any NASCAR or IROC).
It’s Saturday night in rural Pennsylvania, and me and Airborne, we don’t care either. A great time was had by all.
You take a winding road past cathedral red barns dimly lit, (it being milking time), and old white frame homes with new-plowed fields, organic with thick odors of damp dirt and manure. No macadam. You park on a field of grass, then it’s dirt-and-gravel to the lean-to where a pair of young girls in bluejeans and friendly grins relieve you of your money and stamp your hands- $7 for the wood-plank bleachers, $4 more if you want pit-passes.
The pits are part of the fun,- frenetic wrenching, guys clustered around cars ‘cut’ and muscular, built for severity-of-purpose but meant for the eye, with primary color, flashy numbers and sponsor decals. Here are cars on jackstands and men in dirty overalls cogitating race-changing decisions about 2 extra pounds of air pressure or a ¼-inch change in suspension geometry, swapping tires and gear sets, tweaking engines, a blur of purposeful motion, generators humming for light and power, tools clattering. Ladies and girlfriends, with blue-collar candor and lack of guile, sit on lawn chairs and truck sills, gab, and provide ‘support’-services. This ain’t the café-latté or designer-duds crowd here.
Everywhere, motion. Racing is non-stop, and cars and 4-wheelers and pit-bikes constantly prowl the pit-lanes, returning from a race and the exit-scales, hot and mud-spattered in a wake of dust, clean cars getting themselves staged on the entrance ramp for the next contest, with a third race in progress. It’s a self-sufficient mini-village of sound and hurry, dust, rubber, and fuel, so thick you can taste it.
Rare indeed is a $4-investment with such a solid dividend.
You want to know racing, you have to do it ‘live’. Dust, noise, clouds of pleasantly-acrid exhaust wafting past the arc-lamps with their bazillion whirligigs of bugs, bang and crash of metal against tire, crescendo scream of engines and trannys going through gears, blare of the P.A. system, people talking and laughing, smells of hotdogs and chili and steak sandwiches wafting from the concession stand.
It ain’t Laconia, and these aren’t professionals with contracts and entourages, and it’s only a 1/5-mile dirt oval with 15-row bleachers, but the drivers don’t care, (their aggression, anger, and elation are identical with any NASCAR or IROC).
It’s Saturday night in rural Pennsylvania, and me and Airborne, we don’t care either. A great time was had by all.
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P&R Pete
If there is one small disappointment, my friend Dennis Tanner and his two sons, who competed here as "Tanner Racing", no longer come to this track. They used to let Aaron help in the pits, letting him take off lug nuts, scrub and creosote the tires, and hold tools. He was in his absolute Glory.
After the last race of a previous season, they presented Aaron with a gift. They had taken one of the son's old trophys, and added a new plate to the front, that read:
Aaron Llanso
Tanner Racing Pit Crew
Rookie of the Year
For Airborne, it was as if it came from God On High.
After the last race of a previous season, they presented Aaron with a gift. They had taken one of the son's old trophys, and added a new plate to the front, that read:
Aaron Llanso
Tanner Racing Pit Crew
Rookie of the Year
For Airborne, it was as if it came from God On High.
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P&R Pete
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