There are multiple types of stories in drag racing. Those you can tell, and those you shouldn’t. Then there are those you tell to win a trophy.

For almost a decade, some of drag racing’s greatest storytellers came together for a good old-fashioned yarn-spinning competition where the first liar almost always took the prize. The scary part about it was that the stories were accurate with some embellishments.

Over the next couple of weeks, we plan to bring you the best of these stories, some in word and some in video. - Editor

 

READ AND WATCH PART 1
READ AND WATCH PART 2
READ AND WATCH: PART 3

 

ROGER GUSTIN: IT’S A BIRD; IT’S A PLANE; WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? - I’m not going to say whether I believe in UFOs or not; all I can tell you is my experience during an unusually warm evening in the darkness of the newly constructed “5” Freeway driving through Northern California.

My story takes us back to July 1972. I was a rookie jet car driver, and at the time, I was living the outlaw life because the NHRA had banned jet cars altogether.

I traded in my nitro car for a Mustang jet Funny Car called “The Time Machine.” After years of having a supercharged, nitro-burning engine in front of me, I now had a J-46 behind me.

Because we didn’t have those NHRA tracks available, we had to run every unsanctioned, obscure track in the United States. As popular as California was for drag racing, the Carolinas and Georgia provided a hotbed of bookings for spring match races. Later in the year, we moved towards the Midwest on our tours. There were only six of us outlaw jet car racers back in the day.

We ran mostly AHRA tracks in the Midwest and west coast. We made our way to California and began working our way up the Pacific Coast Highway for a show in Seattle.

Because it was extremely hot, we’d sleep during the day and drive at night.

On the night in question, it was still hot… 100 degrees in the day and the nighttime provided little relief. There were four of us; myself, Mike Evengens, Doug Rose, and Dave Corey, the one responsible for getting me into jet car racing who later died on this trip in a racing accident.

But anyway, each of us had a crew member with us; for me, it was a gentleman named Ray Stewart.

I can, without a doubt, say Ray Stewart was the most unassuming person I had ever met. He was kicked back, and nothing rattled him. A bomb could have gone off 20 feet from him, and he would have responded, “Man, that made a lot of noise.”

It was 3 AM, and we had decided to switch off driving, so he took over. I kicked back and tried to nap when I woke up to see Ray driving with his face almost pressed against the windshield. He’s down the newly-built Interstate 5 in Northern California, staring out the windshield and uncharacteristically rattled. There was no real business development around there, not a lot of gas stations, just miles, and miles of farmland. You could drive miles and never see a house… just a desolate area.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Something’s after us!” Ray exclaimed.

He was in a state I had never seen him in before. He was excited.

“Something’s after us!” Ray exclaimed again.

“What do you mean something is after us?” I responded.

No sooner than I said this, a bright light swooped in above us. It was an incredibly bright light, almost to the point it was blinding. It was coming in out of the west and swooping down and away. This light was low flying… about 25 feet in the air.

This light would come at us at a high rate of speed and then disappear.

There was really no noise associated with the light, and we had the windows down in the truck. It would pass by and disappear.

The experience had me asking, “What is this?” By this time, I was concerned, not really understanding what this was.

We just drove down the road after slowing down and watched this thing move around. It would come from the west, this light, and it would disappear. A few seconds later, out of the east, it would swoop down on us and then disappear into the night. Bear in mind; this was only 25 or 30 feet from the ground in the pitch dark.

We were just beside ourselves trying to figure out what this was. The one thing we could figure out was that we couldn’t figure out what it was.

Listening to the radio earlier that night, we had heard a news report of a commercial airline pilot on a flight from Seattle to San Francisco talking about the UFO he had seen. We were laughing and joking about it earlier.

Since we knew we’d be on the same route, we laughed and joked that maybe we’d see it too. This time, there was no laughing, just concerned it was going to finally quit playing with us… swoop down and take us to Mars.

We didn’t do drugs, so I knew it wasn’t a hallucination.

We had ruled out every lunar possibility, including a meteorite or falling star.

We were facing a UFO.

Then it came from behind and over the rear of all four trailers.

I was extremely concerned by this time, as was everyone else. By this time, I remembered Ray had bought a flashlight at a truck stop somewhere down the road.

Someone had to be brave in the group, so I grabbed the flashlight and stuck my head out the window; the next time this thing swooped down, I was going to shine the flashlight on it and either one of two things was going to happen. Either this thing was going to perceive my actions as a hostile threat and fire a ray gun at me and disintegrate us, or I was going to know what we were dealing with.

It came at us again, and as I was prepared to shine the light, Ray grabbed me, “Don’t piss them off, or they will get us!”

I’ve never seen Ray more serious.

It came out of the North this time, and the light was so bright it blinded us and then disappeared. We never heard a sound.

Then this thing made a turn, and with my head out the window, it became apparent what we were dealing with.

A crop duster!

We sat there for the longest time, trying to figure out how there was no sound. He must have had it throttled down so much there wasn’t a sound.

And for us, as we hit the road, there wasn’t a sound inside the truck either.

When you’re grown men and had the pants scared off of you by a crop duster, you just found other things to talk about going up the road.

We had stared down the Jetsons and lived to tell about it.

 

AARON POLBURN: HE’S DEAD, HE’S DEAD; I KNOW HE’S DEAD  - I can tell you, this is the mildest of my stories, and when you are a track promoter, you get some doozies. When those stories include motorcycle groups, you really have a disaster.

This one dates back to my days as the promoter at Thompson Dragway.

Just to set the tone, the shutdown area at Thompson Dragway is angled so that once you pass the finish line, it drops off, and you can not see the shutdown from the start. On the same token, you can’t see the start from the shutdown.

We’re running a motorcycle event, and this guy makes a run. Just shy of the finish line, this guy’s bike goes into a speed wobble, and while it looks like he is going to lay it down, we don’t know for sure. Sure enough, he laid it down and slid off of the side of the track into the adjacent grassy area.

I make the ride down to the shutdown area, and sure enough, he’d wrecked. You could tell he was a bit tattered but okay. He was standing up and had the bike stood up, surveying the damage. That was as sane as this story would get.

We walked up to the guy and asked him if he was okay, and he nodded yes. Then we told him that it is our standard procedure to take someone who has been in an accident to the hospital to be checked out. He adamantly said, “I’m not getting into that ambulance, and I’m not going to the hospital. I’m not going.”

We shrugged our shoulders and said, “Ooooookaaaayyyyy.”

Then we heard the sound, and the situation just degenerated from that point.

Mmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm – you hear this car coming down the track, and this is definitely no Pinto or Vega. It’s a big, 5000-pound four-door hooptie Cadillac.

It is this guy’s wife, and she’s yelling as loud as a person can yell.

She’s screaming, “He’s dead. He’s dead. I know he’s dead.”

At this point, she pulls over into the grass at 80 mph. The car goes into a spin as she loses control. We ran away. Even the rider abandoned the bike and took off running; he barely got out of the way.

About that time, she nails the bike and blasts it into about 4,000 pieces.

The car finally comes to a stop, and this guy, without a word, said, strolls over to the car, yanks her out, and cold cocks her.

Meanwhile, me and the guy that rode down with me and the ambulance personnel all looked at one another in shock. What can you say? It is what it is.

We go over to the guy and say, “What are you doing?”

“She destroyed my bike!” He said.

We ended up taking her to the hospital, and as far as him, I have no idea what happened with him.

He left the race track, and where he went, I don’t know. We never saw this guy at the track again.
 

 

 

TED JONES: THE DAY LARRY SOCKED IT TO THE HARPER VALLEY PTA - I had the pleasure of working with IHRA founder Larry Carrier for many years, and one of the first things I learned about him is that he was a very smart businessman and you had better be quick if you wanted to challenge him in a battle of wits.

One thing Larry was – was a promoter and a very good one. He knew how to get all the best drag racers to come to his events, and he paid them really well to be there.

He had the mind of a promoter and the clear understanding of a spectator.

Back in the early 1970s, there was a trend amongst drag strips to promote rock concerts, and there was one in Cincinnati that pulled off one with a great deal of success.

Being that Bristol was firmly entrenched in country and western, Larry decided he would do a huge country music gathering.

Larry booked in some of the biggest names you could get and set up two stages on the starting line. His plan was for one stage to be busy with a performer, with the other dark with the roadies preparing for another show.

There were bales of hay sitting alongside the stages as additional seating in addition to the strip seats. There were spotlights on scaffolds and a huge PA system. He really did it right.

The show was filled with names such as Flatt & Scruggs, Roy Clark, and a few other top-name performers of that genre and era.

One of the largest names was a lady named Jeannie C. Riley, and you will recall her song Harper Valley PTA.

The show was a total flop in terms of advance and same-day ticket sales. Larry was expecting about 20,000 – 25,000, and in reality, he ended up with 1,500 paid.

He was going to go forward with the show because, to him, it was one of those things he tried and didn't work.

Jeannie C. Riley rolled in with her custom bus because that's how they traveled back then. She looked out and saw the really pitiful crowd. She was upset and sent for the promoter.

That's when Larry and I paid a visit to her bus.

This is how the conversation went.

RILEY: Are you the promoter?

CARRIER: Yes, ma'am, I am.

RILEY: You know, I wondered about taking this gig in the first place being outdoors. I was told you were going to buy [advertising] on five television stations and ten radio stations and print 100,000 brochures. This was going to be a big deal. I want you to know that I just performed in front of 25,000 people at the Houston Astrodome. I look out there at that joke of a crowd, and you call yourself a promoter?

"You surely didn't do all the advertising my agent said you were going to do."

CARRIER: Ma'am, is that all you have to say?

RILEY: Yes, what is your answer?

CARRIER: My answer is simple, I did buy five television stations, and then I got nervous and bought three more. I've bought commercials in Knoxville, Roanoke, and Asheville, NC. I didn't buy ten radio stations; I bought twenty. We ran out of 100,000 brochures, and we did a second printing. I had 200,000 brochures in circulation.

"In addition, I had telephone pole card signs made up, and if you had looked out of the window of this fancy motorhome, you would have seen those signs coming in here. All I can tell you is that on all of those signs, all of the radio and television, I never advertised that Larry Carrier was going to be here. Evidently, they don't want to see you.

"If you want to get paid, you are going to go out there and perform in front of that crowd I do have there. Have a nice day Ma'am."

Larry motioned for me to come along, and we walked out.

But I just can't seem to forget looking back and seeing her jaw hanging down in astonishment.

I just know that I had a front-row seat the day Larry Carrier socked it to the Harper Valley PTA woman.

 

 

 

 

PAT MUSI - WHO ELECTED ME %$#@&*^ SHERIFF? - Up in Jersey, we have our own kind of way of doling out justice.

When you do it the Pat Musi way, sometimes you end up in court. In my instance, I ended up on the People's Court.

The story goes back a few years in my hometown of Carteret – about 30 minutes outside of Englishtown. My kids were young, and the neighborhood was a really peaceful quiet one until my neighbor moved out and allowed his nephew to move in. He was a real piece of work.

A year goes by of dealing with partying, and then he basically doesn't pay the uncle's rent and the house ends up in bankruptcy, so he becomes a squatter.

The neighbors keep moving derelicts into the basement, and I keep throwing them out, and for some reason, the neighborhood believes I am the sheriff.

One day, the neighbor's pit bulls got loose and mauled one of my kid's Jack Russell terriers. We were able to save the dog, but it cost a $480 vet bill.

I'm so mad. I was ready to shoot these two dogs, but I didn't because they were only a product of the environment.

My wife pleads that the kid is holed up in the house, scared of me, and says that he plans to pay the vet bill. Of course, this guy hasn't paid rent in a year. I'm not holding my breath expecting payment of this bill.

A month goes by, and no reimbursement and one of the neighbors calls. The kid and his group are having a loud party. Again, they think I'm the sheriff.

This was absolutely the wrong time, it was a Saturday, and all of my crew was in the shop and we were goofing off.

Knowing my crew, I said if they are having a party and there are 10 of them there – surely, we can get $480 out of them.

We set out originally to slap the first one out the gate, and surely we could fill the vet bill from there.

It was supposed to go that way.

The first guy out I open-handed slapped after he got smart with me, and he lost a tooth.

The ringleader came to the gate and wouldn't come out and saw his buddy lying on the ground.

I told him this was the day to settle up our debt, and it was his lucky day. I gave him five minutes to settle up, or I'd take it out of his car.

He started whining; I looked at my watch and told him he had four minutes left.

I waited patiently with my ball bat and five minutes later asked him… nothing.

Bam! I took a fender and headlight out.

I told him that was $240 and asked him if he had the rest.

He's on the phone, dialing 9-1-1.

I made sure the cops on the phone heard me ask him for the other $240.

I took out the other headlight and fender and knew I was close to $480.

I wasn't sure, though. I took out the hood and told the boy if I went over $480, that I would reimburse him for the difference.

Well, you knew it was coming, and I went downtown via police cruiser. Of course, the police were having a hard time keeping me restrained from getting him because I was going to get bailed out; whip him right there to save the police time from having to come out and get me because there was more important stuff they needed to do.

Well, I went home, and nothing transpired until the phone rang. It was the People's Court. They offered to pay the court costs, whatever settlement, and give me an extra $250.

The judge was just blown away that I had come so close to the damage number and asked me how I did it.

That's when, right there on television, I introduced my buddy who ran a body shop. I explained to the judge how my buddy was standing alongside me, advising me how much each part cost plus labor as I was smashing.

The judge just dropped his head and shook it.

He looked at me off-camera and just kind of grinned.

I was found guilty. But I clearly got the last laugh.

As the reporter was interviewing them at the end of the show, they were served with eviction papers.

I smiled from a distance when they were informed that I had just purchased the house.

 

 

NICK BONINFANTE SR: I'M GONNA BEAT THAT BOY - I used to come home between races because we had to try and keep expenses down. So I would travel back and forth between national events, which we did for like 7 or 8 years. If hindsight is 20/20, I should have, on one particular weekend, spent the extra money and stayed on the road.

So I came home after being on the road briefly, and it was in the summer. My wife greeted me at the door and, without hesitation, informed me, "You've got to take your son [and it wasn't Nicky] out with you because I can't stand him anymore - he's always getting into trouble. You've got to take him to the races with you."

Having your children on the road with you when they are young isn't always conducive to having a productive weekend. But I figured to keep him out of trouble; I'd take him on the road with me one particular weekend when we were racing in Canada.

The moment we hit the road, my then-ten-year-old son started with me; he wanted to stay in the room with the crew. I put my foot down immediately, letting him know he was going to stay with me in my room. Eventually, he wore me down, and I relented. I figured the crew guys would look after him. Now you have to remember we were sleeping four in a room.

It didn't take long for me to realize I had made a big mistake.

The very next morning, I heard a commotion out in the hall. There was a bunch of yelling and ruckus. I opened the door to see what was going on, and there was my son walking right by me bare *ss naked. He ran down the hall and out the door, making a pathway around the pool. There were all kinds of people out there, including some ladies, and they were all screaming.

Someone informed the hotel manager, and he's out there giving chase up and down the halls. Apparently, the ruckus caught the attention of one of the residents of the hotel, who opened his door and grabbed my son, pulling him inside the room.

The room which saved him from trouble was occupied by Worsham Racing. Well, they decided clothing was not optional and dressed him in some of their extra clothing, which included a XXX-sized tee shirt. They also put him in a pair of dungarees, which with the pant legs rolled up, looked like inner tubes wrapped around his legs.

Let's just say the breakfast table that morning was somewhat entertaining. We dressed him properly and headed out to the track, where he was fine until about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Then it all broke loose again.

So I was standing there in the pits when all of a sudden, I saw my mini-bike come flying by, and it appeared to be flying as fast as a fuel car with my son at the controls and holding on for dear life. Apparently, the crew guys had dared him to put nitro in the tank of the pit bike, telling him it would make it run faster. No sooner than he came flying by than Topper [former head of security] on his big dresser bike came racing by in pursuit.

Topper then returns to my pit and stops, looks at me, and goes, "Was that your kid? Was that your kid?"

All I could do was respond, "Man, I wish it wasn't."

Topper then put it to me like this, "If you don't get that put away, we're going to throw you out of the race."

I did finally get him corralled and put him in the trailer. To make sure I never had this issue again, I tied him up. He didn't leave my sight for the rest of the day. He did well sitting there. He was so good, in fact, that I turned him loose.

I should have known better. No sooner had I began to wonder where he had disappeared than I heard a thunderous "Boom!"

Come to find out, he had been putting drops of nitro in soda cans, shaking them up, and lighting them. The cans exploded.

It turned out that just like the butt-naked incident, the crew had encouraged him to do this experiment. Somehow we managed our way through the day without further incident. That is until, as I later found out, they triple-dog-dared him to light the empty nitro cans with a lot of fizz in them, and they would probably fly like a rocket ship.

A triple dog dare is something that I learned couldn't be ignored.

I only found out afterward he had turned one of the nitro cans upside down and put a fuse on it soaked with gas. My son lit the fuse with Austin Coil as a witness. When that fuse hit the nitro, I swear to God, NASA couldn't have sent a rocket off that straight. I have never seen anything like it in my life.

Austin could only stand there and say, "Oh my God - it disappeared."

He was right. It became a little dot in the sky. Then all of a sudden, we realized, 'uh-oh, here it comes. Of course, it came flying back down, and it bounced off one of the race car trailers, and that was it.

I grabbed him and, fighting the urge to tie him up and throw him in the back of the car, I took him straight home. I drove from Canada back to Philly and got rid of him because I couldn't take it for another minute. I told my wife, "Just give him to the police and let them lock him up because we just couldn't deal with it anymore."
 

 

 

 

 

When you start as the king of the hill, there’s usually only one way to go. 

Josh Hart admittedly didn’t have the kind of season he hoped for after winning the Pep Boys Callout race in Gainesville, Fla. And while 12 first-round losses could have been enough for the Ocala, Fla.-based Top Fuel driver to send up a distress signal, he considers the 2023 season one of continual character building.