For the next four weeks, CompetitionPlus.com will conduct its third annual War Stories Showdown. The veterans of yarn spinning are paired for what promises to be a series destined to produce the finest behind-the-scenes stories.

Here are the rules –

The field was seeded by reader vote. The participants are paired on the standard NHRA professional eliminations ladder. Each story represents an elimination run for the participant. The readers will judge each war story on the merits of (A) believability and (B) entertainment value. Please do not vote based on popularity. You are the judge and jury, so vote accordingly. Multiple votes from the same computer IP address will not be counted.

Voting lasts for three days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, they must submit a new war story.

This is an event based on fun and entertainment value, and the rules are simple. The stories cannot describe any felonious acts (unprosecuted, that is) and you can't use a story about your opponent, against them. There is a one event win rule.

This is drag racing with no red-lights, disqualifications and plenty of oil downs minus the clean-ups. Please enjoy as each of our competitors tell their own stories.

Let the competition begin -

No. 1 Billy Glidden vs. No. 9 Bill Doner

RACE COMPLETED: WINNER: BILL DONER (62.26) DEF. BILLY GLIDDEN (37.34)

NO. 1 QUALIFIER – BILLY “MAD DAWG JR.” GLIDDEN
TO THIS POINT: (83.22) DEF. TED JONES (16.78)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – GREW UP A GLIDDEN AND SURVIVED

TELLING THE STORY OF: YOUR CHEATING HEART

When you do extremely well, get all the breaks and win a lot, you are always going to have your skeptics. You’ll have those who swear up and down that you are cheating.

I heard the whispering and the mumblings that Dad was cheating and in all my years, I don’t think it had ever been as bad as it was in the mid 1980s. We struggled with the first part of the introduction to 500-inch racing but a few years into it, we were starting to make steam big time.

After a while, it didn’t matter where we went or what sanctioning body we raced under, whether it was NHRA or IHRA, we won lots of races.

Few races went by that we didn’t fall under the scrutiny of the technical departments or racers trying to find fault with our winning ways.

We took our share of engines, transmissions and rear-ends apart. This became a tradition for us.

“Oh you won? We need to check you out,” they would say. We’d tear down and the end result was always the same.

I would say the 1986 championship caused us the most grief. We fell behind early in the points and on top of that crashed in Atlanta after beating Butch Leal.
Butch swore that dad won that race because he pulled his parachutes early to dip the nose of the car because dad was ahead of him. That just wasn’t the case.

The fact we were very secretive about what we did – did little to stop the speculation. But we were no different from Warren Johnson or some of the leading professional teams. We didn’t share our performance secrets with anyone.

After the crash, we were about 2,000 points behind or something like that by mid-season. I don’t even think we qualified in Columbus. We lost a lot with that crash.

We lost our computer, and I don’t think we ever recovered any more than a wire that was sticking out of the ground.

We didn’t have another one and dad didn’t think much about replacing the lost one.

But, it didn’t matter because we were dead-set on making up the ground we had lost with the crash. Race by race, we won races, just racing by feel.

The competition didn’t buy into the feel thing.

In fact, when we erased the point deficit and replaced it with an overwhelming lead with a few races remaining, the talk was worse than it had ever been. The tear downs were too. They were checking doors, batteries and various parts.

Dad had a tendency to drive really well, with good reaction times, when things were going good.

That proved to be the icing on the cake for the oddest accusation I’d ever heard. They said we were remote controlling the car.

That’s right, dad wasn’t driving the car; one of us on the outside with a remote control was the secret to our success.

Sometimes you just have to fight fire with fire. I planned to give them something really good to talk about.

So, I decided to take one of my Mickey Mouse beanies and remove the ears. Instead I attached a set of antennas to the beanie. I also got one of those remote control airplane control boxes.

When I think back to then, I am convinced that I couldn’t have pulled off anything better.

I walked through the staging lanes with this box in my hand and wearing that beanie. This was back in the time that we used to drive the Pro Stockers to the lanes, so here comes dad driving up. I’m working the buttons, I move them to the left and he steers to the left. I go right and he does the same. I pushed the on/off button on the box and he turned the car off and coasted.

The next morning, Graham Light called Mel Wallace, Lee Hampton, Mom, Dad and myself in for a meeting. We went to a conference room in one of the towers and there in a meeting I was told that I couldn’t go past the water box.

Since I couldn’t go up there, Mel Wallace started going up to the starting line. He got put on watch too. He may have carried the box up to the line.

By the end of the year, we were jacking with them pretty bad.

We put a television antenna on the car to mess with them even worse.

Regardless of what they thought, we raced hard and raced legal and in the end, we raced to win. And, when it came to getting the best of those who falsely accused us, we tried just as hard to get the best of them at their own game as we did in beating them on the track.

NO. 9 QUALIFIER – BILL DONER
TO THIS POINT: (59.38) DEF. TOMMY IVO (40.62)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME –     ONCE ESCAPED AN EVENT VIA HELICOPTER WITH RAYMOND BEADLE

TELLING THE STORY OF: JUNGLE JIM AND PORKY THE PIRATE

Fremont Raceway in Northern California was never my favorite. I could never seem to wrap my arms around the place, but there was one race every year that was very successful.

On New Year’s Day we ran the Nitro Bowl at Fremont and always packed the place. The radio ads went: “Are you tired of the “This” bowl and the “That” bowl...well get off the couch and get out to Fremont Raceway for the NITRO BOWL.”

Of course the event featured an all star cast of funny cars, usually the top eight we could book in along with a couple of wheel-standers and jet cars.

A little known fact was that Jungle Jim Liberman was originally from Fremont although he lived most of his adult life in the East. Jungle begged me for years to come run the Nitro Bowl. Well, this one year I signed him up and we used him big time in the ads. Naturally, he didn't show up.

I got several calls and a half dozen or so people came to the tower and demanded their money back because of no Jungle.

I was, to put it mildly, pissed.

Wouldn’t you know the following years Jungle whined and whimpered saying he would make it up to me if I gave him another chance. And so, God knows why, I decided to book him again along with Don Prudhomme, Tom McEwen, Ed McCulloch, The Blue Max, Gordie Bonin and an all star cast.

Several days before the race Roland Leong called and wanted to know why I wasn’t using his Hawaiian car. ”There’s a lotta Hawaiian boys in the Fremont area, Donah,” explained Leong, “and besides, you know Jungle won’t even show up.”

New Year’s happened to be on a Sunday and the day before I went out to the track to make sure everything was ready. Leaving I stopped at the gas station next door...the attendant came by and asked if I had something to do with the track.  When he found out I was the main guy he asked, “Will the Hawaiian be running tomorrow?”

“Sorry, pal, not this year,” I answered.

“That’s a mistake,” he blurted, “there’s a lot of Hawaiian boys around here.”

Obviously a Roland plant, but it got me worried especially since it was 50-50, maybe not even that good of odds, Jungle would even show up.

New Year’s Day arrived bright and clear with a long line at the front gate. And who’s at head of the line at the pit gate? Surprise of surprises, Jungle Jim, in person.

“Hey man,” said Jungle, “told you I’d be here. We came out around midnight, smoked a couple of beers and slept right here.”

With a huge crowd certain, you’d think not much could go wrong at this point.

Wrong.

Here comes Jungle to the head of the staging lanes at 10 a.m. and demands to make a test run. I argue to no avail and of course he blows up in the lights.

“Sorry man,” Jungle whines, “I blowed up my fuel tank and it can’t be fixed.”

McEwen is standing in the back of the tower and whispers to me-“Tell Jungle you won’t pay him a single cent and see what happens.” And I did.

“You can’t do that, man,” cries Jungle. “I tried.”

“No deal, Jungle,” I said. “No run, no money. First round is at noon. Be there or be square.”

Not even 10 minutes later, Jungle comes to the tower and asks to have Porky the Pirate paged and have him report immediately to Jungle’s car.

Now let me tell you about Porky. He’s a grubby looking guy with only one leg who wears a World War One, chrome German helmet with a spike on the top. He has a hollow aluminum leg which he fills with a gallon of rum and runs a plastic line directly up to his mouth.

If you catch Porky early enough, he’s a helluva welder. Later in the day all bets are off. Wally Parks nearly went into convulsions  when Porky snuck into the U.S. Nationals one year and he went up to the starting line and started waving a flag on the end of a long pole directly in Don Garlits’ face as he staged.

At 11:55 exactly, I played the National Anthem and on the final notes fired up the first pair of funny cars. Guess who? Jungle himself, against the legendary US Army Plymouth Arrow and the Snake.

With the crowd going crazy, Jungle somehow whips the Snake and from there on the day seems uneventful.

After the storm, the racers get paid, the fans leave, and I sit down to have a cold one and relax.

Just then a nice-looking man in the blue blazer and slacks along with his young son, asks, “Are you Mr. Doner?”

“I’ve got a big problem,” he says.

“Tell me,” I answer.

“It’s not something I can tell,” he explains. “It’s something you got to see for yourself.”

A couple of security guards, off-duty Fremont cops, are standing by and I decide to take them along for this adventure.

It’s dark and I mean REALLY dark. We’re using one security guard’s flashlight to guide us through the pits, up to where the man is leading us.

Finally we arrive at his car and half the side has been torched off.

“That’s just the half of it,” he says. “Look at this.”

The front of his car has somehow been welded to Porky’s truck.  

When the security guard looks around with his flashlight, there’s Porky complete with his helmet in place, passed out, right in the dirt.

“Don’t touch a thing,” says the security guard, “I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

“You’re not going to arrest him, are you?” I ask.

“Hell no,” says the guard, “I going to get my brother. He’s a professional photographer. I need a picture of this. Nobody will believe me otherwise.”

If this was ever made into a movie, the credits would now roll with the following information. The nice gentleman in the blue blazer had a door and fender replaced on his car and received a complete new paint job.  Further he received two lifetime passes to all seven International Raceway Park facilities.

Porky the Pirate was placed on Double Secret Probation.

Jungle Jim smoked a couple more beers and went down the road playing his harmonica and describing the incident as, “Far Out!”

Bill Doner received an 8x10 glossy photograph which he still has somewhere.

{Voting Completed}

No. 13 Steve Earwood vs. No. 5 Rickie Smith

RACE COMPLETED: WINNER: RICKIE SMITH (87.38) DEF. STEVE EARWOOD (12.62)

NO. 13 QUALIFIER – STEVE EARWOOD
TO THIS POINT
1ST RD - (75.49) def.  #4 Roy Hill (24.51)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – WAS ONCE CHEST POKED BY WALLY PARKS

TELLING THE STORY OF: DIVISION DIRECTORS AND LIVE ANCHOVIES

Newcomers to our sport are probably not aware of the fact that,“back in the day,” racers in Top Fuel, Funny Car and Pro Stock had to compete in divisional points races to have any chance of winning what, at the time, was the Winston World Championship.  

Think about it.  Racers like Don Prudhomme, Raymond Beadle (the Blue Max), Don Garlits, Gary Beck, Bob Glidden and Bill “Grumpy” Jenkins all had to race at “goat pasture” tracks like Warner Robins, Georgia, Hallsville, Texas, and Ardmore, Oklahoma just to earn those “valuable Winston points.”

To make matters worse, even if you won one of those races, you weren’t going to leave with more than $1,200.  You showed up for an eight-car race and sometimes there would be only one or two cars and neither of them would be what you would call “hitters.”  On the other hand, there sometimes would be 12 or more cars and all of them would be national-caliber.  

You can imagine how the pros felt about such a system. They felt like it was downright humiliating to have to race in front of small crowds in smaller markets on marginal racetracks just to get a shot at the title.

It was a program that created unimaginable dissension between the NHRA home office staff and the seven powerful NHRA Division Directors, who were reluctant to end a program that obviously was a powerful bargaining chip when dealing with track operators.

Being able to promise track operators the participation of name drivers like those mentioned above was huge.  

During this era, and we’re talking up until the early 1980s, the DDs called most of the shots. They ruled over their respective divisions which, not surprisingly, were called “fiefdoms” by the headquarters staff.

When I joined NHRA in the mid-seventies, there were 15 full-time employees and most of the power lay with the aforementioned seven Division Directors. The pendulum began to swing the other way with additions to the headquarters staff that included marketing director Brian Tracy, president-to-be Dallas Gardner, sponsor coordinator Carl Olson, myself, publicity director David Densmore and a few others including long-time Competition Director Steve Gibbs.

The “Us versus Them” conflict came to a head late in the ‘70s at the first ever meeting involving all of the NHRA’s full-time employees, headquarters staff AND Division Directors who I will admit played a big role in the sport’s initial development.  

Wally Parks, our founder and president, and Jack Hart, who at the time was the NHRA’s ONLY vice president, were somewhat neutral on subjecting the pros to running the divisional events. They could have gone either way. The Division Directors, though, had declared war going into the meetings and in no way were they going to relinquish their control over pro racing.  

Wally had arranged for all of us, at the end of the season, to meet for a few days on the California coast near Oxnard. On the final day he had chartered a boat for a day of fishing near the Channel Islands.  Guess he felt like a fishing trip would heal any emotional wounds inflicted during face-to-face meetings between the headquarters and field staffs.  

After a contentious two days, “our side” convinced Wally and Jack Hart that if the sport was to be taken seriously by major sponsors and by the mainstream media; if we were to gain ground on Indy Car racing and NASCAR in the auto racing sweepstakes; and, if we were going to stay ahead of the IHRA, which at the time was a viable alternative, then we had to limit pro racing to the national events.  We felt this was a tremendous victory for the pro racer. The power of professional drag racing had shifted in a big way.

Still, Wally told us all, going in, that whatever the outcome, we were to continue to work in harmony and, as a team, we were to continue to maintain the integrity of the sport of drag racing. Easier said than done.

After those meetings, the tension and the hostility between the factions was at an all-time high. The Division Directors realized that the future of the sport was pro racing and that the power would lie with whoever controlled pro racing.  As a result, they scheduled a “secret meeting” after the vote went against them. They were plotting a counter strike in an effort to regain control. It was all very hush-hush. Fortunately, Steve Gibbs got wind of the plan and placed the time and location on the marquee in the lobby of our hotel: “secret meeting, 7:30 p.m. in the Waldorf Suite” or some such. That didn’t exactly help ease the tension.

Later that night, those of us in headquarters group were in a mood to celebrate. We weren’t necessarily cocky, but I admit that we did have a little swagger in our step. As a result, we consumed a little too much of everything available including Peppermint Schnapps. If you ever want to quit drinking, over-serve yourself on that stuff. Just ask Big Hook.

In spite of our late night jubilation, we all made the 5 a.m. call the next morning for the fishing trip. If we thought things were divisive the previous day, you wouldn’t believe the tension in the air once we all got on the boat.  

The Division Directors were on one side; the home office staff on the other except for Dens and me. Since we never were the outdoors types and since we weren’t feeling the love that Wally expected from the two sides, we planted ourselves below deck, close to the commissary, which is boat talk for kitchen.  About an hour out of port, we got to chatting with the stewards and they commented about how boring our group was and how they were certain this would be one of their worst paydays.  

Seems they were paid a commission on all food and beverage sales and the bunch of stone-faced fishermen in the NHRA party didn’t seem interested in anything other than an occasional cup of coffee.  Densy asked, “what constitutes a good day?” and one of the stewards says, “two weeks ago, we had a group on that drank 58 cans of beer in a day.”

Densy looks at me, I look at him and we say in unison, “set ‘em up.” The steward looks at us and notes that it’s only 6:45 in the morning.  

Long story short, we felt we were upholding the reputation of our sport by proving to this particular crew that drag racers were not a bunch of stuffed shirts who couldn’t enjoy a good day on the high seas.  So, the two of us never went on deck until we were back in the harbor secure in the knowledge that we had set a new record for consumption – 86 beers plus a couple hamburgers and whatever else was available.

We were feeling pretty proud of ourselves, and pretty numb, too, when we climbed on deck and started down the gangplank. On the way, we gave a nod to the Division Directors, who, obviously still disgusted by the turn of events, refused to acknowledge the gesture.

So, Densy sticks his hand in this large bait bucket, pulls out a live anchovy, the bait of the day, stuffs it in his mouth, chews it up, and gives ‘em all a big grin.  

Densy's final act of the trip didn’t do a whole lot to restore the respect between the two groups but I firmly believe that the “Oxnard Incident,” as it came to be known, changed the future of professional drag racing forever. Unfortunately, only a few people ever heard of it.  

That’s because politics, whether it’s the politics of government, business or drag racing, is like making sausage.  You may appreciate the result, but the process is really distasteful; kinda like eating a live anchovy.   


NO. 5 QUALIFIER – “TRICKIE” RICKIE SMITH
TO THIS POINT: (63.77) def. #12 Steve Reyes (36.23)

WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – ONCE BOXED A REAL LIFE MONKEY

TELLING THE STORY OF: THE DAY I WAS SCARED S******

To fully appreciate this story, you have to understand what kind of drag strip Summerduck Dragway was back in the day. I think it was back in 1982, but Roy Hill and I had a match race there one day. I was running that Mustang and I think Roy had one of his Mercury cars.

The description I am about to give you of this track is no exaggeration. And after reading my story, you can go to YouTube and pull up Summerduck and you’ll see videos of what I am talking about.

Summerduck is a very narrow track. It’s one of the narrowest tracks I’ve ever raced on and in my day, I’ve raced on some … challenging … that’s the best word to say … tracks. It’s narrow and bumpy, and hasn’t changed any over the years. It’s got Armco guardrails.

If you do a burnout, you had better stay right in your groove and DO NOT open up your door while backing up if you want to keep them, because they will hit the guardrail if you get the least bit out of the groove.

Once you learn how to adjust to the narrow track, then you have to pay attention to the shutdown area. When you go through the finish line, I’d guess you have to make a minimum of 30-degree turn left within 100 feet. Did I mention that it was downhill?

In all my racing years, this is one track that you had better get the chutes out early.

I’ve heard all of these people talk about that ADRL track up in Virginia being short, but I have news for you, this track is SHORT and DOWNHILL. It’s about 150 – 200 feet lower than where you go through the finish line.

So Roy and I were booked in to do this match race. On this particular day, the two of us had been arguing all day long. We were booked in to do the match race and on top of the match race fee, the promoter offered $500 to the winner of the best two-out-of-three.

I beat him the first run and he beat me the second, making us tied for the bonus money run. Most of the time back then, I had .05 - .08 on him.

Don't forget my earlier description of what the place looks like, because back on that day, the bleach box was right in front of a creek and to get the water, you reached the bucket down into the creek and dipped your water. And, there were no lights at the track. You raced in the day or you didn’t race.

The race went and Roy and I argued all day long. There were some delays and it started getting dark real fast.

They didn’t have any bleachers on the left hand side of the track. On that side of the track they had a bank that ran to half track and dropped off in a hollow.

By the time everything was ready for Roy and I to run our final matchup it was dark … really dark.

The promoter decided that he was going to put two cars up on that bank and shine their headlights down on the track. He figured it would help to shine some light on the track, at least to the eighth-mile.

The only reason we considered running that last race was that the photo cells at the finish line were those old big light beams that shone across the track and threw off some pretty good light.

Roy and I knew that we could aim the cars at the beams. This was earlier, but this carried on until about 11 that night and it had gotten plum pitch dark.

I went over to Roy and asked if he wanted to just call this thing off and let out the clutch and take it to the house. Back then I made my living with racing and Roy had a few dollars. He wasn’t hurting for money.

He wouldn’t listen to it.

I went up to him one last time in the staging lanes and asked again. You know how Roy was, “H*** no, by god. H*** no, I’m racing you. I’m gonna beat you’re a**. I’m gonna wear you out by god.”

He kept on and got me about half pissed. I told him to get in his d*** car and let’s go race.

We suited up and I ain’t thinking about the finish line, I’m all amped up to beat him and I wasn’t thinking about anything … not even about the fact there wasn’t any lights in the shutdown area.

We did the burnouts, had another little staging battle … he was jacking with me. I got the green, let the clutch out and I was going down there. So I saw my lane, saw the lights going across. I knew I had to go between those lights. I aimed at the beams and I let the parachute out.

Lucky for me, there was a pretty good moon out that night.

I knew when I drove into that pitch black that I needed to let the car start turning to the left. All I was doing was looking at the skies and the trees to the side of me as my guide.

I was turning left, watching the trees and driving in the pitch dark.

I bet I was running about 140 miles per hour. I had gotten slowed but I was still moving fast.

Well at the end of the track is a gate … and yes, this is the same gate you drive in when come to the track. I did see that gate getting closer, closer and man, it got up on me before I knew it.

I didn’t panic but I did react. I knew if I didn’t get stopped, I was out that gate and on the highway.

I just locked it up. I started spinning the car out. It turned to the left and kept on coming around. The car did about a 180, but I finally got stopped. I didn’t run over anyone, but when I got stopped there were a lot of people running to me.

They screamed, “You alright? You alright?”

I was sitting in that car, frozen with fear. Back in those days, it took something pretty big to shake me up and I felt at times I was invincible.

They opened the door and in life, there are a few things you remember and for me … it was my leg. It was just shaking and jumping up and down on the brake pedal. I ain’t exaggerating, I had to put my hand on my leg and it was jumping two inches at a time.

I just knew I had totally lost my car and lost everything I had.

As it turned out, the only thing I did to the car was get it dusty.

And that f****** Roy Hill, come to find out, all he did was let the clutch out and coast down the track. He never planned to run the race. All he did was to screw with me.

I got back to the pits and there he was laughing … told me he never had any plans to race that race.

He just wanted to see if I would red-light.

I cussed him out and went about my business.

I was so mad that I had forced myself to make that run with no plan of what I was going to do at the finish line to stop. I will tell you, that is the most scared I have ever been in racing.

I had wrecked a car before and that didn’t bother me. I knew what was going on then. This time was different. It was pitch-black and I was waiting for something to smack me in the face.

I can think of the times I got scared in life, but that was truly the first time I had ever been scared s******.

That $500 was worth it at the time, but when I was sitting there with my leg jumping, it sure wasn’t then.

{Voting Completed}

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