I learned early in life that drag racing was a dangerous sport. I think I always knew it from the time I started going to the ‘strip at age 13, but never did it hit as close to home as it did on a cool Sunday afternoon in 1985. Fresh out of high school, I swindled (well, bargained) a restricted access pass from the son of an IHRA tech official and ventured out on the starting line at the famed Thunder Valley Dragway during the Fallnationals.

I had always wanted to get the chance to be out on the starting line to take pictures. I remember the sights and sounds of that day as if it were just a week ago. I also remember the threat of rain all day.

I learned early in life that drag racing was a dangerous sport. I think I always knew it from the time I started going to the ‘strip at age 13, but never did it hit as close to home as it did on a cool Sunday afternoon in 1985. Fresh out of high school, I swindled (well, bargained) a restricted access pass from the son of an IHRA tech official and ventured out on the starting line at the famed Thunder Valley Dragway during the Fallnationals.

I had always wanted to get the chance to be out on the starting line to take pictures. I remember the sights and sounds of that day as if it were just a week ago. I also remember the threat of rain all day.

I shot every roll of film I had that day and not being familiar with the racers outside of what I read and saw in print, I paid particular attention to every detail. I became enamored with the Top Sportsman division because the cars were quick and fast, and not to mention very eye appealing.

One of the cars that caught my eye was this short-wheelbased dragster. It had a neat paint job, but it was just weird looking. It looked almost like a roadster, but was labeled as a dragster. I knew the driver was a gentleman named Don Young and he was very good because I had read enough articles about his wins. However, the one thing I wasn't used to seeing was the way he would throw his hand up when he launched his car. I took mental inventory the first time he did that and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out whether he was waving at the crowd or flipping someone off.

I was pretty upset after the first round of eliminations because Young knocked off one of my local heroes -  a guy named Charles Carpenter. As disheartened as I was, I didn't let it ruin my day. After all, I was rubbing elbows with some of the sport's leading photojournalists, including Whit Bazemore, Francis Butler and Steve Collison.

When the second round came to the line, I was pretty excited because I was going to have the opportunity to take a picture of the world champion. Little did I know that my picture of him was going to be the last one I'd ever get. Once I snapped the picture, I quickly glanced back to the starting line to see the next pair of cars. Something subconsciously told me to look to the finish line, and I’m not sure to this day if I regretted it or needed to actually witness what transpired.

 

 

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It was slow motion when I saw the rear wheels of the car look as if they were in the air. My first impression was that the front wheels had locked up and this car was making a beeline for the opposite guardrail. That would serve as my first national event crash and as bad as I wanted to shoot a photo sequence of the crash I knew my 50-mm lens just couldn't handle it.

I remember watching the safety crews and officials race to the finish line to rescue the driver, and the unusual silence that fell over the situation. As inexperienced on the national event scene as I was, I knew something serious had happened.

Then I overheard an official, who had a severely depressed look on his face, answer an inquiring photographer's question. “He didn't make it,” answered the official.

Somehow or another, I found it hard to fathom that I had watched someone die. I think that day somehow prepared me for the profession that I work in today. No matter how great the champion, we are all appointed a day and time to pass from the earth. With regret, I watched Don Young's final day.

With even more regret, I never met him. The stories I have read since the accident only increased my admiration for him more and more with each article, however. David McGee's article in this issue continues the trend.

I hate I only got to watch him in person once, but that regret has been eased somewhat over the years in watching David Rampy race. I get an inkling of what Don might have been.

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