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 two days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, and in this instance the contestant may submit a new story or go with one from a previous event. You are asked to judge their story as if it is a new story if they run a previously used one. 

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 and for this event you can tell a story about your opponent, against them. 

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 journey begin to determine drag racing's greatest story teller.

 

 

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 two days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, and in this instance the contestant may submit a new story or go with one from a previous event. You are asked to judge their story as if it is a new story if they run a previously used one. 

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 and for this event you can tell a story about your opponent, against them. 

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 journey begin to determine drag racing's greatest story teller.

NICKY BONINFANTE 

FIRST RD - DEF. JOHN FORCE

TELLING THE STORY OF: A SKINNY GIRL, A FAT GIRL AND AN AUTOGRAPHED DRIVESHAFT

Long before we were burning up rental cars with a scooter, me and my boys at Bob Gilbertson Racing were fairly dangerous with golf carts. And, we didn't even have to be on them to get in trouble.

Now this story dates back to Topeka in 2004, and the blame for this situation lies squarely on the shoulders of our then PR guy and friend Berserko Bob.

Unlike previous bad situations we had been in, this time Gilbertson were sitting in the lounge having drinks following a long Friday at the race track.

Berserko was a true public relations person but not in the traditional sense. He would often stand at the ropes and talk to everyone, especially women, and at the end of the day would give pit tours.

On this night in question, Berserko made his way to the lounge with two girls. One of them was normal size and the other was a plus size, 20 plus 300. He introduced the girls to us but clearly they were infatuated with him. They get their tour and leave, everything is cool.

About two hours later, me, Gilbertson and Berserko are sitting there watching our favorite movie Austin Powers: Gold Member when Chad Head, when he worked with the NHRA, came barging in the lounge and you can tell he's really mad.

Chad is mad ... that Jim Head "I'm going to kill you" look. He's got smoke coming out of his ears he's so mad.

Chad proclaims, "Gilbertson this is the last straw! Your f'ing golf cart just crashed through Jeggie Coughlin's hospitality and into the side of his Pro Stocker. I don't know what you are going to do about it, but you need to straighten it out."

Bob looks at Chad and offers, "Chad I have no clue what you are talking about. You've lost your mind since you went to work with NHRA because my golf cart's out there."

Chad storms off as we walk outside to prove the point, and then we noticed .... the golf cart is gone. And the entire crew is accounted for and no one knew where it was."

We thought Chad was messing with us. But just to be sure, we sent Berserko over to Jeggie's to check.

No sooner than Berserko left, than the skinny chick comes rolling up on the golf-cart. She looks like she's been hit by a truck. Her hair is all over the place and with scuffed up knees. She's shaking like a leaf and is nearly in tears.

"Where's Berserko?" She asked.

Then she broke down, "Me and the fat girl took your golf cart back to our motorhome where we were shotgunning martinis. We were kind of tanked up when we decided to take a tour of the pits. I just put the throtttle to the floor."

What she didn't realize was this golf cart was souped-up. It was fast.

The throttle hung on the golf cart and she couldn't get it to release. She was racing down pit road towards a bunch of people and was about to run over them when she made an abrupt turn and as it turned out, right into the Jegs hospitality. She ran right through the banners, the poles, ripped up the plastic flooring, destroying tables and made a bullseye right into the side of Jeggies Pro Stocker and knocked it halfway off the jack stands. This is the same time the fat girl becomes a projectile and flies out of the cart and under the yellow and black car.

The fat girl jumps up and takes off running without hesitation leaving the skinny chick to deal with the angry people.

"Nicky I think we are in big trouble," Bob said.

"We didn't do anything," I responded.

Ten minutes later, Berserko strolls back in. Jeggie is mad and only wants to speak to Bob.

"Jeggie's pit looks like an atom bomb went off in it," Berserko explained.

Our golf cart was in the middle of it all.

Jeggie wants to talk to Bob, and wants him to pay for the damage.

Chad comes back for another round, "Bob, you need to go over there and talk to Jeggie."

It wasn't good for us since we were already on probation with the golf cart after two drunken crew guys had run over Ray Alley earlier in the year.

Bob talked to Jeggie and explained the golf cart had been stolen. That didn't hold weight with Jeggie.

In addition to the hospitality damage, the car's driveshaft was damaged, and irreparable.

Bob agreed to pay for the damage under one condition, Jeggie and the team autograph the driveshaft. Jeggie sent the autographed driveshaft, and Bob sent a check for $3500.

The NHRA was so angry at the situation they fined Bob and put him on probation because this was the third incident of the year.

And just to think, this is the year before we burned our rental car to the ground yet.

 

LOUIE FORCE

TELLING THE STORY OF: JOHNNY FORCE, THE NATURAL DRIVER

FIRST RD - DEF. SCOTTY CANNON

I remember my reunion with my brother John Force after my military tour of southeastern Asia. At the time, I was working with this muscular fella named Paul and on one weekend working at OCIR … we were on loan to Lil’ John Lombardo and Pat Foster. 

I was working the bottom end of the car because I was the low man on the totem pole of seniority. I’m working away underneath the engine, my face hidden from view, when this guy walked up and kicked me in the foot. 

He asked, “Are you Louie Force?” I responded, “Yeah, why?”

So there I am on my back looking up at what seemed like a larger than life head towering over me. 

It didn’t take me long to figure out who it was – my brother, John.

As kids, we were inseparable. Back in those days, big brother Louie always had his back when we lived in the woods of the Northwest.

Reunited, I finished the day at OCIR and we spent a good portion of the time at a local burger dive putting a hurting on some pastrami sandwiches. 

Many years had passed since I went off to war and it was clear that we weren’t kids anymore. We quickly picked up where we left off at. 

We quickly rediscovered a common ground in cars and our first hot rod was a Cadillac-powered, front-engine dragster which later gave way to a t-bucket altered with a 392 that John had talked Dennis Geisler out of.

In the days leading up to our racing venture, you could tell John was itching to be a driver. He got more than his fare share of driving tickets while in Junior High, as an unlicensed driver. Only when  threatened with judicial action did John finally settle down enough to take the driver’s license test and become legal as a high school'er. 

It was a judge’s warning, “Mr. Force this is the last time I want to see you in my courtroom."

Apparently Johnny had gotten a ticket between the ticket he was facing the judge for and the court appearance. John knew he was going to face that same judge again, so he figured he might as well face the piper then. 

"Excuse me Sir, It is my intent to get my record completely straight, so I may as well give you this one as well, so were even.”

The judge gritted his teeth and slammed his gavel with an explicit warning to leave his courtroom. 

With John now a legal driver, our first attempt to run a blown altered was a slow learning process. John didn’t work in those days, instead choosing to stay out all night since we lived together on Ajax Street. 

I was a long haul trucker for Garrett Freight lines in Bandini, CA., and on the weekends we would tinker with the car, getting help where we could before debuting the car. 

Well one particular night, after finishing a round-trip haul from Moline, Ill., I decided to stop by the old Mohawk Gas Station to check on our prized race car. 

As I pulled up, I was met with a rush of people, the likes of “Uncle Beav” Gene Beaver, two sheriffs and the famous altered racer [and later L.A. Hooker driver] Henry Harrison. 

Naturally, I became nervous. 

Harrison and Uncle Beav met me with the statement, “Diesel, be calm, he’s alright.”

Then I saw our car wadded up into a ball. 

Beaver had spoken to John before the apparent crash had taken place.

He explained, “John called me, and explained what he had planned to do [starting the car]. I told him not to, but when he hung up. I knew he was going to anyway."

Uncle Beav knew John was relentless once he makes up his mind. Everyone knew us as, “Here comes Diesel and that goofy brother of his.”

John, in those days, was the kid who would ask a goofy question, then  would follow up the answer with another goofy one. He suffered with what we called the “swimming shark syndrome”. He couldn’t stop and be quiet or else he would drown . 

That’s what happened that night. 

John, against Uncle Beav’s advice, decided to make a run down the “course”. He didn’t plan anything major. Just a short putt-putt and then park it.

The “course” was nothing more than an old one-sided street that runs alongside the dark side of a warehouse. On one side there was the warehouse and the other was railroad tracks. On the other side of the tracks was a string of 50K volt high wire towers. At the end of the street was a junkyard barrier. Slightly to the right of the barrier was  a quarter acre, Filipino strawberry farm.  The farmer had a very minimal dilapidated building on the property that he lived in.

Apparently, John was inspired by a challenge from a school chum, to start the car just so they could hear it. Together they managed to get the car rolling fast enough to get it lit, and Bingo, bye bye! 

What John didn’t realize is that once they got the engine lit, the throttle didn’t have a return spring. 

Off goes John, and quickly Uncle Beav jumped into action, or shall I say, pursuit. 

Admittedly, this was not a safe practice but John had taken some basic safety precautions. He was adorned in an old style fire suit so large it would have fit big Mike Burkhart, silver mask and  big goggles, you know, Old School attire.

John drove the car surprisingly straight and how he kept that altered out of the power lines and over the railroad tracks, remains a mystery to this day. 

Eventually, John, as the engine exploded into small pieces, wrestled the car over a curb and then the railroad tracks. Uncle Beav slid to a stop just in time to watch John drive right through the Filipino shack, upside down and at 100 mph. He entered from the back and created a new front door on his way out. One look at the shack and it looked as if a bulldozer had gone through it; leaving only a shadeless 25-watt lamp next to the farmer’s tea cup.

The projectile, 1900-pound, alcohol-burning altered then met up with a huge abandoned water tank and lost the battle. 

I just had to ask a second time, “Did John get hurt?”

“No, but he’s being checked out at the hospital.” I was told. 

With a lump in my throat, I then asked, “What about the guy who lived here?”

Beaver offered, “I don’t know ... As I drove up, this guy passed me running … white as a ghost … yelling in broken English and Filipino … something about aliens in space suits and a big fire. He ran off into the dark and just kept going, probably in Phoenix by now.”

I’ve asked around, and I don’t think the guy ever came back again or has been heard from or seen since.

John might have been the opportunist in the family tree but Uncle Beav didn’t miss out on any opportunities either.

“Think I might get some of these strawberries?” he gingerly asked the sheriff.

 

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