Hi All,
I was inspired to write the story below by a video on the Exposition Park Raceway built in San Luis Obispo during the 1920's. The video can be found at the following link:
In its heyday, the Exposition Park Raceway was touted as the fastest dirt race track between Los Angeles and San Francisco. A set of covered bleachers bordered the finish line. It was a modern day Colosseum with race cars replacing chariots. Racers came from all over test their metal. Even the famed race car driver Ralph de Palma took a spin on the track. Hollywood got into the act as well, filming on location the Universal-Jewel Silent Picture hit “Sporting Youth” starring the dashing Reginald Denny as the new king of speed.
I hope the story is as much a joy for you to read as it was for me to write. If anyone one has more pictures of the racetrack and racing cars of the period, send them along and I will be happy to include them as illustrations. And as always all comments are welcome.
Best,
Carl
The Right Mix
Beneath a Texaco Service sign, Jake cocked his foot on a
boulder and peered over the edge of a giant square pit. In the center
of the hole sat a fuel drum as big as hay wagon with a belt of rivets
circling each end. Tommy was down there too, knee deep in mud, muck
and gasoline, cursing the Devil and all the Saints as he wrestled to
slip a chain around the girth of the monster’s iron belly. By the
looks of things, one of the tank rivets sprung a leak. No matter what
demon or angel he
cursed or prayed to, the chain kept slipping off—it was one link
too short.
I climbed to the top of dirt mound beside the pit and
hollered down, “What are you goin’ to do with this huge pile of
dirt?”
Tommy shot back without missing a beat, “I’m goin’
to dig another hole and bury it you jackass!”
“From this vantage point, a jackass is smarter than a short chain,” Jake quipped.
Tommy squinted at the two sun-drenched figures standing
above him. “Is that you Jake? Is that you Benji? Jesus-Mary-Joseph,
I’m fit to be tied! I’ve been fightin’ this monster all mornin’.
The tank is leakin’ like a stuck ballon. I’m loosin’ heaps of
business over it. I couldn’t budge it— not even hitched to the tow
truck.”
Jake studied the problem from all sides as he paced
around the hole. Then, a light shown upon his brain. “Me and my
team of horses can have it out by the time the clock strikes three.”
“You and what army?” said Tommy. “How’s two
horses goin’ to pull out what the tow truck couldn't even budge?”
“By pure horse power, what else? Bet me and find
out. If I win, it'll only cost you a case of Big Lou’s finest Applejack, three deck
chairs, a garden hose and . . . today’s paper.”
“That's a bet I hope to I lose Jake. At this point,
I’m desperate.”
Tommy
crawled out of the hole, changed out of his muddy overalls and boots,
and left to retrieve three of the wagered items: the news paper, the
chairs and a hose. Afterwards he walked two blocks to Big Lou’s
Speakeasy and returned with a case of applejack. Me and Jake were
lounging in the chairs beside the hole. I read up on Popeye's latest
adventures while Jake studied the price of pork bellies.
“Tom, crack open three bottles and rest your dogs a
while,” Jake said pointing to the empty seat. Opening a bottle,
Jake proclaimed, “Ahh there is nothin’ like that first crisp sip
of applejack!”
It was only when Tommy sat down and looked at the garden hose filling up the hole with water did he comprehend the
brilliance of Jake’s solution. “Well smother my ears with oil and
call me a grease monkey! Jake you’re a damn genius!”
“Horse sense trumps brute strength every time. The
trick is not to make a thing too complicated. Granks use-ta say that
genius is about whittlin’ down the complex to the simple. I figure
it'll take about two hours to fill up the hole with water, float
the tank to the top, strap on a rollin’ hitch and let my horses Mae
and West wheel ’er out.”
“But what about the leaky rivets?”
“I plugged them with a little bee’s wax from the
honey I'm deliverin’ today. Now, sit back relax and tell us about
somethin’ you do know about—the new raceway south of
town. I see you've won a few contests ‘till them Italian race cars
showed up and outrun anythin’ with four wheels, includin’ that
souped-up Ford Tin Lizzie you got parked in the shop.”
 |
| View from the Raceway Bleachers. Photo Courtesy of Wikislo |
The whole town was abuzz about the new Exposition Park
Raceway. The “Obispo Mile” was touted as the fastest dirt race
track between Los Angeles and San Francisco. A fifty yard set of bleachers ran along the finish line shading spectators. It was a
modern day Colosseum with race cars replacing chariots. Racers came
from all over test their metal. Even the famed race car driver Ralph
de Palma took a spin on the track. Hollywood got into the act as
well, filming on location the Universal-Jewel Silent Picture hit
“Sporting Youth” starring the dashing Reginald Denny as the new King of Speed.
 |
Movie Poster of “Sporting Youth”
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
|
Now Jake lived and breathed horse racing but he had a
thing or two to learn about these new iron horses. “Tom, me and
Benji watched you from Cheapskate Hill win the Labor Day race. That’s
a mighty fast car you got in the garage but is it fast enough to beat
the new Italian machines?”
Tommy spat at the mere suggestion he was beat. His Tin
Lizzie previously tore up the track with a modified Frontenac engine
with a downdraft carburetor and pumped fuel system that jacked up the
Lizzie's powerplant far higher than its original 22-horsepower
rating.
“Anyone can drive a fast car but few can drive a car
fast. The rookies start to lose their talent about halfway into the final
lap,” said Tommy.
“Listen here you long-eared Jackrabbit!” Jake
rebuked, “You can’t make a racehorse out of a turtle! How can
you compete? The bookies now list you as a long-odds favorite.”
“You’re right Jake, but if you tinker hard
enough you can make a mighty fast turtle.”
“How so?” queried Jake.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder for eavesdropping agents
that he knew must be lurking in the shadows. In a hushed tone he whispered,
“I got me a secret weapon, an invention of my own makin’.
Somthin’ never tried before but sure to give a burst of speed. Its
a new type of supercharged, compressed fuel. I figure if I can stay within
nippin’ distance and then release the mix on the last lap, the
advantage will be mine down the final straightaway. I’ll give those
Italian bucket of bolts the surprise of its life! I have one good race
in that Tin Lizzie left and I mean to capitalize on it with a hefty
wager.”
The idea of betting on a long-shot with a handsome
payout captured Jake’s full attention. “Tell me a little more
about this new-fangled invention of yours—a supercharged fuel did
you say?”
Tommy explained that he planned to insert a cylinder of
compressed highly refined fuel—part ethyl-alcohol, gasoline and
oxygen—that tapped into the carburetor fuel line delivering a super
rich mix and with it a power surge translating to a burst of speed
down the final run. But there was a problem. It was nigh
impossible to buy the high-grade alcohol he needed due to the restrictions set
by Prohibition. The bootleged alcohol he did get his hands on contained too
many impurities, especially water, so the gasoline and the alcohol were not mixing properly. Even if he could find a manufacturer, no
one could guarantee 200 proof purity. Too rich the mix, and the
engine could blow a rod or worse; too poor and the engine starved and
choked. Water impurities reduced the overall power dramatically.
Success balanced on finding the right mix.
Jake’s ears perked up at the mention of alcohol. He
may not have known a carburetor from a lug nut but he did know a
thing or two about distilling. Jake learned the basics of the craft
from a Frenchman serving in his Army unit during the Great War.
Between all the marching and killing, Frenchy (they nicknamed him)
described in nightly bunker chats how he would return home after the
war to the apple orchards of Normandy, France and produce the purist
apple brandy—a Calvados Supreme like no other; so delectable that he promised the women would not only drink it, but wear it like a perfume.
Frenchy never made it back from that “war to end all wars” to build his
dream distillery. When Jake returned home, he hobbled together a small version
of Frenchy's still and was making apple and apricot brandy ever
since.
Considering Tommy’s problem, Jake proposed they build
Frenchy’s still in its true dimension with a twenty foot vent tube and cooling jacket. In an era of Prohibition it would take all
their resources, cunning and subterfuge to manufacture such a giant
still without being caught. The Puritan Law of the Land cared not if
the alcohol was used for fuel rather than drink since it strictly
forbade the “manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating
liquors” on the premise that a substance so predisposed toward mad
merriment and pleasure, must be evil.
Such a contraption needed
specialized parts. Jake knew of an electric autoclave sitting
abandoned in a university closet of the veterinary lab. He had spied
it when previously hired to install a set of lab doors and locks. He still held
a master skeleton key to fit those locks! The autoclave could be
modified with a hole in the top and fitted with a brass flange to attached the
vent pipe. The electric coils eliminated suspicious smoke from
a still’s wood fire as well as noxious fumes.
Within days, Jake and Tommy delivered a wagon load of
covered 2x12’s stringers to the veterinary lab during semester
break. It took a good thirty minutes for the on-site guard to sort
through Jake’s confused paper work, phone administration and
find out that the order was in error. The wagon load left about fifty pounds heavier than when it arrived.
A Pacific Coast train destined for Paso Robles Water
Works left Los Angeles at midnight with a rail car of fifty, twenty
foot lengths of four and three and a half inch piping. It arrived
late that the morning missing two lengths pipe yet the load
rigging was secure! The vanished pipe was given up to an
anonymous clerical mistake, and the shadowed horsemen tending cattle
at base of the Cuesta Grade were given no account when the train had
to be flagged down and stopped twenty minutes to allow a heard of
stubborn cattle to clear the tracks.
With all the parts gathered Jake and Tommy set about
quick to assembling the distillery in a closet at the back of the
station. The vent pipe reached through the ceiling and into the
attic rafters. After a few test trials and adjustments, the still was
tricking out 200 proof just as Frenchy designed it. In honor of the
architect, Jake distilled some 160 proof apple spirits.
Before
pouring it into a small oak cask to age, Jake poured two snifters and proposed a toast, “To
Frenchy!” they saluted tossing back the apple fire.
Tommy was just about to put his empty glass down when
Jake grabbed his hand, “No yet. You still have a bit left. Let me
show you how the French never waste a drop.” Jake took his snifter
and turned the rim upside down on the flat of his hand. A clear bead
trickled down the inside of the glass onto the skin. Removing the
glass, he then swirled the drop between his palms with an apple bouquet—a Spring kiss of ten thousand blossoms. He
then patted the liquor onto his cheeks like an aftershave
remarking, “Et
voila, c’est parfait!”
While Tommy practiced blending the mix with gasoline, me and Jake, plus his trusted mechanic Otis, helped him
modify the car to hold the cylinder and disguise the fuel lines. The
race was now just a week away and there was much preparation. The fuel
canister was hid behind the front dash and snapped into place on the
inside firewall. Two hidden valves at the bottom of the driver's seat
primed and delivered the mix.
Tommy tested each new batch of fuel on a spare engine he housed at the back of the garage. He tinkered
day and night until the right formula was hit upon. He showed me how
the the canister was mixed with the compressed oxygen, gas, and
alcohol. The adjustment of dials was real tricky business but Tommy
devised a series of five mixing limericks to make the instructions
easier to recall. I repeated each rhyme but Jake kept butting in with his own hound-and-horse verses:
There was an old hound dog called Tart
whose belly of beans need to fart
she stepped ten feet outside
and to her dog surprise
blew over a horse and a cart!
The more I concentrated, the more
I got Jake’s verses tangled up with the recipe. Everyone had
a good belly laugh over the mix-up but me. I showed them I was no
fool, and kept repeating the instructions till I got them right.
Two days later along the California
Valley Salt Flats and far away from spying eyes, the final mix was
put to the test on the Tin Lizzy. Tommy held the car at at 80 mph and
slowly opened the valve. The engine suddenly thundered like a heard of
stampeding buffalo. The car ripped forward at such a speed that the
back end had a hard time keeping up with the front end. Jake shouted
to Tommy ripping past, “Open that juice and don’t stop till you see the face
Gawd Almighty—then brake!” Turning to me he laughed, “That is,
if he can keep all that horsepower between himself and the ground.”
On the day of the race, the
plan was for Jake to deliver the fuel canister to the pit crew
consisting of me and Otis. Tommy was taking no chances and decided
that the canister would be inserted prior to the last pit-stop, before the final laps thereby evading any pre-race detection by the judges.
The delivery turned out to be weakest link to the plan. By now, the sheriff had got wind of a new
illegal operator selling apple brandy. He put out the word to his
deputies to round up the “usual suspects.” Jake was high on the
list for the given fact that even if he was not guilty of
bootlegging, it was just a matter of time before he was on the supply
or the demand end of the business.
I was walking down town to meet
Jake at the garage when I hailed his buckboard wagon riding along Main
Street. The horses Mae and West were skittish and Jake was calming the animals
with sweet talk. Suspicious crates of glass demijohns jingled under a
canvass tarp in the back of the wagon. Shadowing the team’s every move was
a patrol car one block away. Jake spied the car and motioned to me
with a hand gesture to lay low, so I dashed into an alleyway and peeked
back around the corner. The patrol car sped up and
the deputy yelled for Jake to pull over. “Slow Mae-West!” he
hollered, and the horses slowed to walking trot. Jake tipped his hat
and engaged the deputy in the usual pleasantries. As the patrol car drove along the left of the buckboard, Jake’s right hand slid a satchel off the
seat and onto the street—the canister! As quick as a rat down a
drainpipe, I darted out of the ally and swept up the bag. Now second
patrol car was approaching from the rear and I feared I might be spotted. Jake sensing my danger, jerked back hard on the reigns
forcing Mae and West to rear back as if spooked. The riled horses
then bolted forward. The second patrol car behind blew its siren. The chase was on! Both patrol cars gunned their motors in hot pursuit
of the sprinting wagon.
I hid behind a hedge and hugged
the satchel till the cars were out of sight. A hissing sound filled
my ears. I looked down at the bag. It was wet with fumes. The
canister was leaking! Surely Tommy must have made an extra bottle of
mix. I hightailed it to the garage and searched the lab—nothing. The wall clock
struck one. Kiss my ass that clock is fast! The race cars were
already at their starting lines.
 |
The Starting Line
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
|
Oh damnation, I would have to mix
a canister myself. Now I really wished I had paid closer attention to
Tommy’s instructions. “Alright lets make the best of it. Step 1:
Insert a canister into the fueling dock like so . . . screw on a
cap, tighten down on the seal . . . open the valve and hook up
and flush the intake lines. Now for the hard part—the five mixing
stages. I'm gonnah have only one chance to get this right.” Repeating Tommy’s mixing limericks I turned
the dials as I thought they should go—horse and hound be damned:
Horses trot like so
Bleed the lines till they
overflow
Turn Dial 1 to six
and let in the mix
and let the dog dance the fandango!
Meanwhile, Jake was in a street
race of his own. Around every corner the wagon fishtailed throwing
out bottles that popped like water bombs onto the street.
The trail of broken glass convinced the deputies they had caught their rum runner. Jake steered the spooked team toward Cheapskate
Hill overlooking the raceway, where he knew the mountain grade would
eventually slow the horses to a halt. “Shut off those damn sirens!”
Jake yelled at the police as he wrestled the horses to a stop. The
patrol cars boxed him in on either side and the officers moved in for
the arrest.
 |
Cheapskate Hill
Photo courtesy of Wikislo
|
Deputy Zackary swaggered forward with a coyote grin on his face,
“Out with it Jake. We know you have a load of demijohns under that
tarp,” he said, pulling back the cover and lifting out a bottle.
“And I bet this ain’t no sarsaparilla!”
“You got me Zackary, caught me redhanded too,” Jake confessed. “Let's
have a drink and talk this one over.” Jake took out his pocket knife
opened ten bottles and handed them out to the deputies and members of the thirsty crowed now gathering around the wagon.”
“Well,
we do need to test the evidence,” replied the parched deputy
tossing a jug back. It took only three seconds for the deputy’s
face to pucker into a green lemon. Gagging he spewed out the liquid, “This is . . . this is . . . apple
juice!”
“The
finest dew that See Canyon can yield,” Jake praised, “Drink up
boys. A toast—Prohibition today, Prohibition tomorrow, Prohibition
forever!” Jake then took a deep drought of the amber juice, “Ahh,
there is nothing better than that first crisp sip of See Canyon nectar!
Look, the race cars are comin’ in for the last pit stop.” All
faces turned toward the track. The crowd was on their feet now,
cheering and waving as their favorite car thundered passed trailing
plumes of dust and exhaust.
.jpg) |
The Final Lap
Photo Courtesy of Wikislo
|
“I’m
taking bets on the final lap,” said Jake. “Those of you who can’t
run with the big dogs—get off my porch. I got twenty dollars on
that #7 Tin Lizzy. Who will take my bet?” Jake’s challenge was
met by a wave of hands toting twenty ten and five dollar bills. Jake
plucked up the bills like daisies in a tin can as he wrote down each bet
on a note pad and pencil stub he took from his breast pocket. The
deputies were at the top of the list with a wager of ten dollars
each!
The cars swung off the motorway
into the pit lane. There were three cars less than started. One drove in with an engine fire; another previously clipped
a side rail and then tipped ass over tea kettle mangling the car and
driver. Another limped off the track with a thrashed gear box. Tommy
was right. When it comes to rookies, “There’s no fixin’
stupid.” I sprinted down to the pit just before Tommy pulled
in.
“Boy
where have you been! And where's Jake?” Tommy shouted above the din
of revving engines. Out of breath, I pointed to Cheapskate Hill at the police cars.
“Understood,
he said. “Just tell me you brought the mix.” I handed over the
container and he snapped it into position and bled the lines as
Otis filled the tank and I washed Tommy's goggles. Having less than fifteen seconds to service the car, I tried to explain over the
horrible racket of pistons clattering, men cussing and crowed
yelling:
“I
mixed the Mix!”
“You
nixed a hick?”
“No,
no. I mixed the mix!” I screamed even louder.
“What?
You fixed a brick?—kid, this is no time to be composing a
limerick!” And with that, driver and car peeled out of the pit and
back onto the track. Suddenly, the correct set of instructions for
the full mix popped into my head. I had gotten the recipe completely wrong!
True to his word Tommy kept within
nipping distance of the Italian cars. I never seen such driving. By the fifth to the last lap, he was sucking dust in third
place with two Italian cars in second and first. Late in the race,
the lead cars broke open a ten car gap on the rest of the pack. On
the third to the last turn, Tommy made his move. Banking high on the
outside curve, he dropped down and came door to door with the second place car boxing it in place. They were close enough to shake hands but
Tommy just saluted the driver and flashed a grin. From the outside
lane he now had a clear line of sight to the finish. Once out of the
final turn, he slowly opened the valve and let her rip. The car
surged forward, decelerated and then surged again.
“The
mix is too rich, its too rich,” Tommy argued to himself. In the
fraction of a second it took to assess the problem and cut the
juice, he realized what I was trying to tell him, “The kid mixed
the mix!”
With only a quarter of a mile to
go and a tied for second, Tommy cast caution out the window,
“The moment of truth kid,” he said and turned the valve wide open. At the
same time he let off the gas pedal and dampened the choke to
compensate for the super rich octane boost. At 100 yards to
go, the pistons roared and his car jettisoned forward passing the
lead car as if it was standing still. As the Tin Lizzy shot into
first place, the crowed erupted into cheers to see their local boy take the
lead. The sudden G-forces nearly ripped the steering column out of
Tommy's hands, and it took all his strength to steady the wheels. At
fifty yards to go, the power surge proved too great and the number
four piston blew a rod right through the crankcase throwing out a geyser of smoke and oil. Second Place attacked the crippled lead
and was on the verge of passing when Tommy, already anticipating such a move move, swung the car over blocking the lane—the Tin Lizzy coasted over the finish line on a
dead engine!
Passing the chequered flag, the Tin Lizzy engine caught fire forcing Tommy to veer off into the
infield. He jumped out of the car and hit the ground rolling. A flaming ball now consumed the machine and with it any evidence of our secret mix. Fire at legs roused him. Me and
Otis ran and tackled Tommy with blankets, snuffing out the flames.
I
confessed then and there, “Tommy, I . . . I blew up your engine! He swept me
up in his arms just before the cheering crowd engulfed us. “Kid”
he said, “If you ain’t breakin’ it you ain’t racing it!
Jake fought his way through the bodies to congratulate us and to take part in the bragging rights—his pockets bursting with cash winnings.
Pointing to the flaming wreck, “A little too rich on the mix, eh
Old Sport?”
Tommy just beamed a mile long
smile, “No, that's what happens when you drive faster than
your guardian angle can fly.”
Fin
Copyright 2013 Carl D. Callaway
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