Thanks for my glory days, HMS

They call Hickory “Birthplace of the NASCAR Stars.”

The historic short track also saw the birth and quick death of my racing career.

For one glorious summer in the early ‘80s, I put on a fire suit and got behind the wheel of a’67 Chevy, No. 24, every Saturday night at Hickory Motor Speedway.

My father, his reasoning at the time now lost forever, agreed to buy an old Street Stock car for me.

We found a ’67 Chevelle, pulled it out of a cow pasture and over to a friend’s garage. My buddy, Bobby Bollinger, and I rebuilt the engine over a weekend. OK, so Bobby did most of the work while I partook of adult beverages and observed.

I was shocked when the thing actually cranked up the next morning. I jumped in and took off down the two-lane road near Tate Boulevard. We had neglected to insert the hood pins, so the hood flew off and sailed off toward the treetops when I hit about 60.

Every now and then, when I hear the national anthem, I’m sitting in that Chevelle at the start/finish line, waiting to roll off in my first race in the Street Stock division at Hickory Motor Speedway.

“God, please don’t let me stall the car.”

I didn’t stall, but I didn’t go very fast, either. After the race, a fellow competitor offered these words of encouragement: “Boy, where the [expletive deleted] did you learn how to drive?”

“Actually, my father taught me the basics, and then …” The words trailed off as I realized that it was a rhetorical question.

I got better. My best finish in a feature race was sixth. One night, running in one of the 15-lap heat races used to set the starting order for the feature, I have second place locked up.

The leader is long gone, but I have about half a straightaway on third place. One lap to go. Coming through turn four, no other cars in sight, I lose control and spin into the red clay to the inside of the track.

As the rest of the fields flies by, I can hear NASCAR legend and track announcer Ned Jarrett describing the scene as my crew -- Bobby -- runs out to assist his driver.

“Why, that fella’s throwing rocks at the car that just spun!” Jarrett observed.

For the record, Ned, they weren’t rocks. They were dirt clods. But they still hurt.

I never became a NASCAR star, or even a moderately successful local racer. But I had a blast. Once, I even signed an autograph for a young fan. Wherever you are, autograph seeker, I apologize for not becoming the star you thought I might be.

My career finale ended with a bang – and a collision with someone who did find success in the sport. There was a big wreck in front of me (probably because everyone was in front of me), and Wes Ward’s shiny Mustang got sideways and rolled. I slammed into his upside-down Ford and tore the front end off my Chevy.

And so ended my racing career. Ward, on the other hand, kept on racing at Hickory and had some success, I think. He went on to become a NASCAR crew chief. At least I think that’s the same Wes Ward. If I’m wrong, I apologize – to both of you.

Hickory Motor Speedway introduced me to auto racing. I had never even been to any race, anywhere, until a friend’s family invited me to Hickory one Saturday night in 1970. I was 11 years old.

All these years later, I can still remember watching Ned Setzer’s purple #7 battle Morgan Shepherd for the win that night. They were still running ‘57 Chevys.

It was pure magic. And I’ve been a die-hard race fan ever since.

Those were glory days at the storied speedway. The best drivers in the Southeast showed up just about every Saturday night.

I was there the night Dale Earnhardt Sr. showed up in his #8 Chevy Nova for the first time. I was there the night Bobby Allison got to the track late, missed practice – and then won the pole. And I was in the stands during that summer when Harry Gant was so tough to beat they put a bounty on his head, an extra cash prize if anyone could outrun the Taylorsville Flash in that orange ’64 Chevy Malibu.

Until college and jobs pulled me away, I spent just about every summer Saturday night in the stands at Hickory. But in the years that followed, as NASCAR’S big leagues exploded in popularity, the local short tracks – the so-called “backbone of the sport” – endured some tough times.

But Hickory’s boys and girls of summer are still out at that little track every Saturday night, putting on a show you can’t see anywhere else.

As Andy Petree says in a story this week by Tom Gillispie: If you can run well at Hickory, you can run well anywhere.

That’s why rising stars still come here to prove themselves. Youngsters like Annabeth Barnes, the 16-year-old with Daytona dreams, and Pietro Fittipaldi, the grandson of F1 champ Emerson Fittipaldi.

So gather up the family and head out to the speedway this Saturday night. It’ll cost you about as much as a night at the movies, and you’ll be helping to keep a glorious tradition alive.