By R.A. Jetter

Here’s where that 300 seconds comes into play… it took two minutes to get to Highway 59… and another minute for Dick’s 409″ to take the Plymouth down… the first time… by no more than a bumper’s width. Fury owner wanted to go again… Dick was talked into thinking he could double his money… sucker play! In 60 seconds, he lost the second race even tho it was close. Dick’s 409″ should have taken him. The final 60 seconds of those 300 seconds in this epic battle was the clincher… both guys were even, one for one. The original wager was increased… another $50.00 each, two out of three for the $200.00 pot… put up or shut-up. I flagged them off for the final go… Dick was in trouble from the instant they left the line… the Plym pulled hard… Dick’s engine winged about a third of the way down… I heard it from where I waited. That hadda hurt. It did. He not only cleaned nearly all the teeth off of third gear, but got the drive-shaft as well… Fury driver came back, collected his cash, offered a lift back to town and upon hearing a disgruntled negative answer, took off with a squeal of tires. Walking to town in the dark wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time… just as we got to the nearest phone, a tow truk pulled up… seems the Fury owner told them where to find the Impala. Cost Dick for the tow and the Chevy dealer wouldn’t cover any of the drive-train.

Before Dick got his Impala back, we’d heard thru the grapevine that the Plymouth did not have a 383″ as the owner claimed… it had a 413″, removed from a wrecked Chrysler letter car… one very perfect sleeper out earning some cash!

Remember the scene in American Graffiti, when Milner raced Falfa out on the old highway… and crashed? Regardless of how long they dragged it out in the movie… that whole scene, in real life, lasted less than five minutes… maybe less than 300 seconds. Louie and I got involved in one of those races… pushed to a point by a guy from Carroll that carried a reputation bigger than mine. Louie was two years older than I… bought his ‘58 Impala brand new. In 1961, it was still one of the cars to beat around our parts… carried a reputation as being quik… 348″, 3-two’s, four speed and blak as nite.

“Stick” was the challenger’s name… don’t know if he got that from being excessively skinny or that his ‘61 Dodge Dart lacked a four-speed. His car boasted a 383″, an automatic behind it. What we didn’t know was it had twin fours on ram-induction manifolds… good for 330 horses. No one around town knew the car or how hard it could run.

South of town, near the golf course, up on the hill, a new section of concrete replaced the asphalt county road… virgin concrete… smooth concrete… devoid-of-traffic concrete… still blocked off… no one on it. For a while, it became known as the quikest stretch of road in the county… blak trax marked the beginning of the 3/8 of a mile that was straightest… a new asphalt ribbon, across both lanes at the transition of concrete to asphalt, marked the finish… Louie suggested that as the place to find out which car was quiker. Being it was a Sunday nite, the Sheriff, already in the know about the newest “strip” in the area, usually patrolled that section on Friday and Saturday nites, but tonight, he’d probably be home in bed… and the locals that hung out at the A & W wouldn’t know about this race… didn’t need spectators anyway.

I was the “extra” in this one… to make the race equal, I couldn’t ride so I played starter… pulled a red construction flag from alongside the road… as both guys brought the R’s up and signaled they were ready, I dropped the flag… apparently Stick wasn’t paying enuff attention and Louie put a hole shot on him. Even tho there wasn’t a lot of money riding on the outcome I’m gonna hear about favoritism if the Dodge loses… . Louie and his ‘58 was out ahead of the Dodge, but the low roar of dual fours sucking Ethyl fuel meant closing ground on the 348″… it was going to be a photo finish no one would see. I watched as taillights bounced on the transition… I couldn’t tell who won. A few minutes later Louie came screaming back. “C’mon, the Dodge went over the embankment at the curve… gotta go get him out of the car.” We stopped about where Louie said he’d gone off the road… grabbed flashlites and headed down the bank looking for an overturned Dodge. Louie yelled, “Look at this.” About twenty feet from the road’s edge, the Dodge hit after its’ airborne flight, gouged out a big section of dirt and weeds… his flashlight followed flattened weeds, a busted barbed wire fence, part of the corn field had been mowed down and the other corner of fence busted and laid toward the road. Didn’t even look like he slowed once he got out onto the dirt road and was long gone…

About ten minutes later, we were spending a slow 300 seconds chugging a beer at the A & W when the Sheriff went screaming by with lites and siren, headed east… maybe for golf course road. We figured that Dodge was halfway home by now.

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