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WE WON!

by Greg Engle
NASCAR Daily News
June 10,2003

1. I'm in the process of retiring from the US Army, which means I'll now have the finished version by the time you catch up to the end of the story(I was deployed last year and never able to put out the finished version) and

2. The "Greatest Story" will be published in book form later this summer or early fall and in anticipation of that I'm posting the story here....why? Am I a few french fries short of a happy meal? Why would I let you read something for free that will be sold in book form? Well I'm hoping that you'll like the story well enough that you'll tell a friend and they'll tell a friend and so on and so on.

When the book does come out, these pages will be pulled, but fear not you'll be able to read the entire story.

Thanks for visiting and enjoy the Greatest NASCAR Story Ever Told!

In the beginning... He created the piston and the rod. And he called it an engine.

He gave it ‘fire’ and life and He smiled.

And on the second day, He created the car and tires and put the engine into it.

He drove the car, felt the power, heard the thunder and He smiled, for it was good.

On the fourth day, He created another car in the image of the first.

On the fifth day, He created a man in His own image, to drive the second car.

On the sixth day he created an oval and he called it ‘Bristol’ and they smiled.

And on the seventh day, they raced.

And so it began.....

Part 1, a beginning.

The building had been there for time immortal, or so it was thought. Not that anyone really cared about the old barn behind the main house, it had just always been there. At one time it had been a vital part of a working farm, now it was simply an evening gathering place for a group of men who lived in the surrounding hills.

These men, some old some young, would gather there almost every evening. They would sit around for hours telling stories or try to ‘out-boast’ each other. One persons boastful yarn was another’s opportunity. A chance to get one up on someone.

During the cold winter evenings, Lee the barn and surrounding farms owner, would set up an old wood stove for heat. The men would then surround the stove, taking turns stoking the fire. During the summer, they’d gather out in front of the old building where they’d all parked their cars, usually leaning on a particular vehicle as the owner showed off the latest change he’d made to make his car faster than all the rest. The others would listen and, if they felt the change worthy enough, make mental notes so they could improve their cars as well. Because in these parts a fast car was a tool used to help ensure their very livelihood.

Moonshine had been made in these hills for centuries, the recipes for the homemade liquor having been handed down from father to son for generations. The men who gathered at the barn almost every evening, always drank that liquid gold be it summer or winter. It was a desperately needed source of extra income for the men and their families during the cruel days of the Depression now sweeping the country.

The stills used to make this ‘shine, as it was called, had been lovingly and painstakingly built by hand. They were all well hidden in the deepest recesses of the surrounding hills. Far out of reach of most people, especially the ‘revenuers’ that these men depised: Agents from the Treasury department who, if they found the stills, would destroy them, along with the men’s hopes of that extra income for their families.

The fast cars were used to make weekly and sometimes twice-weekly runs, carrying the liquid gold to the black-markets in Atlanta and other points south. These men knew all the back roads: every curve, switchback, hill and even dirt trail was firmly imprinted in each mans’ mind.

They would race down these roads late at night, sometimes hitting speeds of over 100 miles an hour in an effort to avoid the police, whose cars could rarely exceed 95 miles an hour.

The men spend their days ‘tweaking’ their cars, Lincoln’s, Cadillac’s, and the famous Hudson Hornet. By the time the men were finished, the cars could hit 95 miles an hour in first gear, 115 in second and they could stick to the old blacktop like glue.

Ralph was one of the group of men who made their living ‘bootlegging’. He stood with the men in front of the barn leaning on the hood of his Lincoln on that early Spring evening. The air, warm during the day, was now cooling rapidly as the sun sank low. It was as if Winter refused to let go it’s grip. There’ll be frost in the morning, Ralph thought as he took a sip. The liquid burned his throat going down then warmed him when it hit his belly. He knew not to drink too much; he had to make a run to Atlanta that evening. Just enough to take the edge off, he thought taking another sip.

Ralph’s Lincoln was among the fastest of the cars parked in front of the barn. He always seemed to be turning a wrench under the hood or laying underneath working on the suspension.

He sat his glass on the cars’ roof, which had been cut down 3 inches to help the car slice through the air better. Ralph then raised the hood. The engine compartment had been stripped of anything not actually needed to operate the car, or anything that might add unnecessary weight.

After checking the fluids, the oil, water and such , he pushed in the fan belts in order to insure that they were just the right tension. Satisfied that all was in order, he gently closed the hood.

Glen, one of the older men in the group, walked up beside him, he was a full two inches shorter than Ralph, who at almost exactly six feet tall, towered over nearly all the men in the group. He could gave been an imposing figure, had he not been so skinny.

"Full moon tonight, Ralph...what time you plan on headin’ out?", Glen said.

Ralph paused, then looked then looked up at the darkening sky before he answered.

"I reckon’ about midnight ," he said.

Ralph had always been a man of few words and he wasn’t about to change now, he simply looked at Glen and smiled, his mouth nearly invisible under his bushy moustache.

Ralph walked into the cold night air and looked up at the full moon. His breath formed a white cloud around his head as he exhaled. Old man Winter really was trying to hold on as long as it could, he thought. He paused a moment and pulled his loose fitting coat tighter around him. He’d loaded the two cases of mason jars into the car almost two hours before. Now, after a brief rest, he walked from the house he’d been born in, down a hill on the edge of a small valley, towards the car.

He could tell something was wrong almost immediately. The Lincoln was no where in sight.

Now this was a time and place when car thefts were a very rare occurrence, so that thought never really crossed Ralph’s’ mind. Instead he figured that perhaps the parking brake had failed (again) and the Lincoln had...

The closer he got the more he saw,what he’d thought at first was, only a shadow. As he approached that shadow however, it began to take shape and he saw it for what it really was: a car.

But this was unlike any car he’d ever seen.

The sleek body was painted black and glistened as the light of the moon caught it. Ralph approached it slowly, not out of fear, but out of an almost reverence for what he saw. The machine seemed smaller than any car he’d ever seen. It sat very low to the ground, with almost no clearance underneath.

As he neared it, he reached out and felt the body. The metal was as smooth as glass and cold to his touch. He gently ran his hand from the back quarter panel on the drivers side to a point at about the middle of the door just below the window. ‘That’s odd’, he thought, ‘ There’s no seam where the door would shut. And no hinge up front, either. It’s like the body is one single piece of metal’ Another odd thing struck him; the car was all black with one exception, a large white number ‘3’ that was painted on each door.

After he slowly climbed in the car, Ralph lit a match and looked around him. Metal tubing seemed to be running everywhere, except where he sat. The seat itself was molded from a strange material, it felt like it cradled him.Looking over his shoulder he saw the two cases of mason jars firmly secured in the back.

The first match went out. He lit another and looked at the dashboard in front of him. The gauges seemed somewhat familiar, yet at the same time, strangly foreign to him. Looking down at his feet, he saw the same pedals he was used to, clutch, brake and gas. Raising his head he saw a rearview mirror mounted on top of the dashboard in the center. Slightly above and to the right of him a large, what appeared to be,helmet seemed to be hanging from the tubing. On his left on the dashboard he saw a row of switches, all pointing down.

The second match went out. He pitched it out the window, then sat in the darkness with his hands folded on his lap, wondering what to do next.The only sound was his breathing in the still, cold air.

After his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could make out the dark outline of the steering wheel in front of him. Slowly, he reached out with both hands and clutched the wheel.

It felt as though someone had hit him in the head. He gasped as he was overtaken with a wave of vertigo. He shut his eyes tight and after a moment, the feeling passed.

It was then that Ralph suddenly knew. He knew everything he needed to do, along with how to do it. Reaching down beside him, he picked up the pair of gloves laying at the base of the shifter, right were he knew they’d be. After putting them on, he reached up and took the open-faced helmet from it’s hook. The entire time he was cinching up the chinstrap, his eyes never moved. He stared straight ahead. His trademark smile firmly in place.

After the seatbelts were tightened down as far as they would go and the window netting was in place, Ralph slowly reached out and flipped the switches in the proper order. When he pushed up the last one, the engine roared to life.

Thunder echoed through the small valley. In the far distance a dog barked. Ralph felt as though he were part of machine itself. It wasn’t like he was merely strapped into the seat. He was one with the machine. It was an extension of his very body. He revved the engine, never had he felt so much power in his hands.

His smile grew wider.

It wasn’t that Gerald Thomas was a mean man, it’s just that he’d been brought up to believe that right was right and wrong was wrong. The law was the law and it didn’t matter if he agreed with it or not, it was his job to enforce it and that’s what he was going to do. His father belonged to the Highway Patrol before him and he now commanded a post up north. Gerald’s’ father had started at the bottom and worked his way up and Gerald planned to do the same thing. At least that’s what he was thinking as he tried to console himself while standing on the side of county road 14 in the bitter cold at 1 in the morning.

He had positioned himself at the center of a nearly one mile stretch of the road that wound it’s way through the mountains. According to his sergeant, the bootleggers they were out to catch would have to pass his position. The plan was simple: when he heard the car coming around the turn, Gerald would step to the side of the road and when he felt they were close enough to him, shine a big portable spotlight at them. Then his partner, now sound asleep in the patrol car, would turn on the patrol car’s red light and pull forward, blocking the road. The light and patrol car it was hoped, would blind the driver and force them to stop.

Right now, though, all was quiet, just as it had been for the last few, long, boring hours. Gerald paced up and down the side of the road in a vain attempt to keep warm. He wondered if anyone, much less a bootlegger, would ever pass his way. He also wondered what their face would look like when the powerful Army surplus spotlight shined on them. Would it be a look of shocked surprise, much like he imagined the look on the face of the bootlegger was when the Treasury men nabbed him a few days ago?

Lord, how he wished he could have been on that raid. He would have loved to seen the look on the bootleggers face when the agents burst from the woods were they’d been waiting in ambush. He never heard exactly how the ‘still’ had been found, someone said that the Treasury agents had an airplane at their disposal and had seen it from the air, but he didn’t really know for sure. All he did know was that he’d been left out, two other ‘more experienced’ troopers had been sent instead. Now Gerald was determined to catch a bootlegger of his own, if for no other reason than to prove himself.

When he first heard the engine in the distance, all the cold and boredom was forgotten. He tensed up and strained to listen. Whoever it was, was moving fast. He heard the engine straining as the car downshifted. Then a steady high pitched whine as the engine wound up again. Strange, he thought, it was a sound unlike any engine he’d ever heard before. No matter, he quickly moved to the front of the patrol car and picked up the spotlight laying, along with the fat power cord connecting it to the cars’ battery, on the front hood.

He called his partners name, the only response he got was the sound of snoring. In the background the engine noise grew louder. Who needs him anyway, he thought. He hefted the spotlight, pointed it at the ground then quickly flicked the switch on then off. The light flashed and he felt a burst of heat. Looking back at the patrol car and hearing his partner snoring while the sound of the engine grew louder, Gerald knew it was up to him. He slowly drew his revolver and walked to the side of the road.

He heard the engine whining back up as the driver came around the curve onto the straight. Gerald tried to judge the distance closing as the car sped up. He couldn’t see the car so he knew that whoever it was didn’t have their headlights on. It had to be a bootlegger.

The spotlight and revolver were both held at arms length pointing down to road. The engine sound came closer. Gerald began to count down, trying to judge the speed of a car by it’s approaching sound. He got to ‘5’ then cocked the pistol then placed a finger on the trigger, while a finger on his other hand began to press down on the light switch.

A wave of thunder hit Gerald in the chest. The car, or whatever it was, had passed him before the sound ever thought about reaching his position. He never saw it, only felt the percussion of a 750 horsepower engine as it roared by. What he would never know was that when the car had passed him it was less than six inches from his outstretched arms.

Gerald was thrown back for almost three feet. He landed in a ditch on the side of the road. The sound was already roaring around the curve as he got to his feet. Then shook his head, trying to clear it. Looking over at the shadow of the patrol car, he decided he should try and find the spotlight. After finding the power cord on the ground by his feet he followed it and found the spotlight about a foot away, he turned it on and pointed it at the patrol car.

The pressure wave had blown the both side windows to pieces, the front windshield had a large crack running across the center. Instead of the shocked face of a bootlegger, Gerald saw the shocked face of his partner, eyes wide and now fully awake.

"Good God almighty..what the hell was that Thomas!" He said.

Gerald simply shook his head. He then looked up the road and listened. He could swear he heard a faint ‘rebel yell’ over the sound of the engine as it faded away in the distance.

Ralph was in what would later be known as, the ‘zone’. He was driving without conscious thought. He knew the roads so well that his senses seemed to take over. With no lights on the car (at least none he could find)he used only the light of the full moon glistening off the blacktop.

The car held tight to the road as he had rounded every bend. The vibration was carried through the steering wheel into his hands. He could actually feel the road underneath him. He felt like he was one with the car, like he was in a place he belonged, somewhere he should have been a long time ago and yet at the same time, he felt as though he’d been there all his life. It felt natural, like when a talented artist paints a picture, putting the colors on the canvas in just the right way, without any thought at all.

When he came out of the curve and onto the long straight, he felt the kick of the powerful engine as it accelerated and pushed him farther back into the seat. He loved the sensation. To him, this feeling, the sensation of power along with the vibration from the road coming through the steering wheel was better than any high from any alcohol he’d ever drank. It was better than even sex.

Ralph was doing nearly 160 miles an hour when he passed the trooper. He had drifted to the left side of the road to set himself up for the right hand turn ahead. He never saw the man, never knew how close he really came to hitting him. He was in his own world, the world outside was flashing by in a blur. He downshifted seconds later and with his left foot pumping the brake and his right feathering the gas pedal he hit the corner at nearly 110 miles per hour. He performed a perfect apex and drifted over to the left side of the road after exiting the turn. He shifted back into fourth and roared off into the cold night. Ralph let out a yell as he did, one of the biggest shows of emotion the normally calm, dry man had ever shown in his life.

But then again, never before in his life had he felt more alive than he did that night.

Ralph woke with a start. His head hurt and his mouth was very dry. He sat up on the sofa. The bright mid-morning sunlight poured in the front window. The room seemed incredibily hot.

Ralph had only been asleep for a couple of hours, having finally collasped on the couch at about sunrise. The adrenelan high of the previous night left him feeling like he had a powerful hangover. After taking a moment to try and clear his head, he tried to remember the events of last night. The run to Atlanta, the frigid night air, the power of the car...

Ralph bolted from the sofa and ran out the front door. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked down at the base of the hill and there it sat. His old Lincoln. Ralph smiled, so it really was a dream. Still smiling he shook his head then turned and walked back in the house.

He saw the wad of cash on the coffee table as he walked back in the front door. He stopped and turned to look out the front door and back down the hill at his old Lincoln. ‘Sure, it must have been a dream’ he thought. Strange thing though, his head was still filled with knowledge, knowledge gained in a very weird, fascinating dream. And that knowledge, along with the feelings, the speed and the power was something he would not soon forget, if ever.

Ralph looked out across his small valley.

And he smiled.

Later that evening when the group of men gathered inside the old barn, Ralph was not among them. Glen had just arrived and was telling them about an enounter he had with the Highway Patrol.

"Yea, so anyway it was the Thompson boy. You remember his daddy? Well, this was his boy who pulled me over. Told me to pass the news around that whoever was runnin’ out on 14 last night is in BIG trouble...," Glen chuckled, "Betcha’ it was Ralph, he made a run last night."

"I saw the patrol car when they brought into town this mornin’ when I was down gettin’some feed," Lee said. His face was lit up from the fire in the woodstove. He smiled, "Dang windows were all busted out...funniest damn thing you ever saw. Yep, I betcha that Thompson boy would love to get his hands on whoever did it...that’s for sure."

Ralph didn’t come around the barn for a full five days. On Saturday night about an hour before sunset the men stood in the front of the barn enjoying the warmth of Spring that seemed to finally have fully entrenched itself in the hills and chased off old man Winter, at least for awhile.

"So he was doin’ what?" One of the men was saying.

"Buyin’ some concrete blocks and a bunch of fence posts." Lee said.

"And he wouldn’t tell you why?"

"Nope, he just kept a smilin’ and said , ‘you’ll see, you’ll see’", Lee laughed, "Maybe he’s been tastin’ too much of his product!"

They heard the car coming up the road, then saw the dust trail as it neared. Ralph swung the car sideways and stopped in front of the car the men were leaning on.

"Hey you’all..get in your cars and follow me...there’s something I want to show you," he said while leaning out of his window. His face was smudged with dirt and red clay was stuck under his fingernails.

Before anyone had a chance to answer, he gunned the motor and roared away, kicking up dust as he went.

Six cars drove in a line on the mountain road. They stayed that way until they caught up with Ralph just as he was rounding a curve. Then Lee, who was fourth in the line, jumped out and began to accelerate past the others. He was just behind Ralph’s rear quarter panel and beside Glen who occupied the second place in line, when a mean left turn came into view.

Lee waited until the very last second to apply his brakes coming into the turn. He out -braked Glen and when the cars entered the next straight, Glen was behind him and he had Ralph firmly in his sights.

Ralph glanced in his rear view mirror and smiled. He liked where the mirror was now that he’d mounted on the center of the dashboard, it really gave him a much better view.

Lee pulled even with Ralph on the long straightaway. The engine in Lee’s old Hudson wound up and was soon strained to it’s limit. Lee never backed off, at that point he would race Ralph until his engine blew.

The two cars ran side by side through a series of ‘S’ turns then onto another long straight stretch. Still side by side, Lee gently eased his car to the right in an attempt to rattle Ralph’s cage. He quickly looked over and glanced at Ralph. Ralph then turned to him and smiled. Ralph’s car then lurched forward and sped passed Lee’s as though it were standing still.

By the time the six cars turned onto the road leading to Ralph’s farm and drove up to the top of the hill, Ralph was leaning on the back of his car waiting for them.

They parked in a single line. As the men made there way towards Ralph he rose then turned and without saying a word, continued on up the hill. The rest of them followed, except Glen who’d stopped to raise his car’s hood and look at the engine, trying to figure out what had slowed him down. He looked over his shoulder and seeing the group moving away, sighed then closed the hood and followed.

Ralph stood at the top of the hill. His back was to the group as they moved up to him. Lee was the first to reach him.

"Holy...how..", was all he could say as he looked past Ralph.

"Wow," they heard someone say behind them.

There in the small valley below, Ralph had lovingly and painstakingly created a large dirt oval track. It was about three quarters of a mile total. The red clay surface looked almost black in the twilight. There was a fence, six-foot high surrounding nearly the whole oval. The track had been dug out so the turns were slightly banked. The front and back stretch were both long and wide.

The rest of the men now stood in a line on either side of him. All were looking down at the track below. Their figures cast long shadows towards the track and the valley below from the sun that was just starting to set behind them.

"So that’s what you’ve been up to the last week", Glen said.

"Well, that’s a damn fine sight, but now that you got it tell me; just what the heck you gonna’ do with it?" Lee said.

Ralph sighed, "I have a hundred dollars that says that at noon tommorrow, I’m gonna’ start to run around that track for oh , say 150 laps...and at the end of those laps, I’ll still be the person in the lead...and to be honest, I rightly don’t care whose running those laps with me."

Lee laughed, "You damn fool...if all of us get out there all were gonna’ do is try and kill each other," everyone joined in the laughter, except Ralph. Lee continued, "How are you gonna’ make it fair for everyone?"

"I know how," A voice said. The man stepped forward," We’ll get an outsider, someone who’s impartial to over see everything." Bill turned and looked at the rest of the group.

"I like that idea, but who?" Lee said.He spit a wad of tobacco onto the ground.

Glen began to chuckle, "I know..how ‘bout we get that Thompson boy..’betcha he’d love to come up here and keep us in line!"

The tiny track the Ralph carved out of the red clay of that small valley all those years ago, is now one the biggest tracks on the professional stock-car circuit. Twice a year hundreds of thousands of fans pack the grandstands that now ring the valley. They watch drivers who race each other race on asphalt that now covers the red clay, utilizing the most modern machines known today. These are professional race car drivers who have never known what it’s like to run from the law on a back country road winding through the mountains in the middle of the night.

And if you sit in the empty grandstands on an early, cool Spring day, it’s been said that one can still faintly hear the sound of old cars sliding around the dirt in the small valley below and laughter as it echoes across the hills.

Thanks for your time

Greg Engle

Guest Columnists Wanted!
If you have something to say, email me with your ideas: HERE!
Past Commentaries and other pieces from this author

Why Being In NASCAR Is Better Than Being In The Army
What NASCAR Drivers Really Do During The Off Season
T'was The night Before Christmas:NASCAR Style!
Christmas Carols:NASCAR Style!
The Wrench Who Stole Racing
What NASCAR Drivers REALLY Want For Christmas
Tony Trashes A Turkey
I Was Hit By Tony Stewart
A Fans Dream
The NASCAR Halloween Ball
I Was Shoved By Jeff Gordon
Time To "Ban the Fan
NASCAR's Failure to Communicate"
It's Bristol Baby...Yeah!
It's Time to Bring Back the Number 3
INSIDERMAN Episode I
NASCAR movies

Top Stories from the NASCAR Daily News Front Page

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