WAR STORIES ELIMINATIONS - RD. 1, DAY ONE
Eliminations are underway for the second annual CompetitionPlus.com War Stories Showdown, a competition which places sixteen of drag racing's personalities head-to-head in storytelling competition. Over the next four days, you will be presented with the first round strories of each respective contestants. They are paired on an NHRA eliminations ladder seeded by reader vote last week.
Today's competition features the #1 qualifier John Force versus #16 Don Gillespie as well as #8 Shirley Muldowney versus #9 Joe Lepone Jr. Voting concludes on December 24th at 5 PM.
For the next four weeks, CompetitionPlus.com will conduct its second 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.
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. That happened last year and wasn't pretty at all. 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.
WINNER - JOHN FORCE DEF. DON GILLESPIE, 50.26% TO 49.74%
#1 – John “Brute” Force
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – Saw Elvis at 1,000 Feet in Memphis
OF PIGS AND PIPELINES ...
Please don’t think I’m stupid, I just wasn’t thinking.
I got on a plane some years ago and I was dead tired. I had been doing that reality show, the Driving Force, on A&E, and I had caught a ration of $%&* because of an incident with the family cat.
I had dropped the thing two feet without thinking. Yep, it landed on its feet.
Well I sat down beside this guy on the plane and he’s staring at me like he knows me from somewhere.
Then he told me, yeah, I watch your show. I saw where you dropped that cat.
I cut him off real quick and let him know, you can drop a cat 40 feet and he’ll still land on his feet.
About this time, this guy wonders why I am so defensive about it. But, what everyone didn’t know is the week before is that we got all kinds of letters from animal activists.
They were serious. They said, “Don’t drop your cats anymore.”
It was a big deal. A&E was looking at the reruns to cut that part out.
I tuned the guy out and picked up the USA Today and began reading it.
Headline read BP/Castrol Pipeline breaks. The article said they were going to address it. The article said they were running pigs through the pipes to the end.
I pictured it in my mind, this pipe is like three or four feet wide and tall, so I could see that happening.
I looked over at this guy and said, “Can you believe this $&%^? I drop a cat two feet and they run a pig 3,000 miles through a pipeline and nobody bitches?”
I went back to reading my paper.
The plane lands and we go to get off and the guy looks at me and says, “You were kidding, right?”
I said, “No I’m not kidding. Right here in the newspaper.”
Yeah, well I found out later the pig was electronic, but they never said it in the article.
In my brain and I’m tired, and it is up there with the Eskimos – no one wants to crawl through 3,000 miles of pipe so they send in the pig. If the critter comes out the other end, nothing is plugging it up.
I wondered why that guy walked away looking at me real weird.
So, I get to my meeting with my boss at Castrol. I just happened to bring it up again.
“I can’t believe that pipeline deal and they get away with it,” I said.
He looked at me and said, “Force, that’s an electronic pig that takes pictures on the inside.”
Austin Coil was there and laughed so hard he almost puked.
“Tell me you’re joking,” he said.
“No I’m just not thinking, that’s all,” I told him.
But you know, you think about it and things were pretty primitive in the old days.
They could have run a pig in the old days. We run a roto rooter in the toilet. Why not a real pig in the pipeline?
When you eat a pig, it’s greasy anyway? What’s the difference?
#16 – Don “I’m Not Dizzy” Gillespie
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – Gave Bobby Bennett His First Legal Media Credential – Blame Him
I’LL DRINK TO THAT
It was 1973, a monumental time in my young life. After years of freelance picture taking at various southern California drag strips including local favorite Lions, Irwindale Raceway, plus annual jaunts to Bakersfield, I was hired by writing great Dave Wallace, and iconic manager, C.J. Hart, as track photographer at the famed Orange County International Raceway. You remember, “The Action Track”.
At just 18 years of age I was on top of the world. I mean, I had just landed an “official” gig at OCIR for chrissakes. And what better way to celebrate the grand occasion than to double-up on the road to manhood by also taking my first swig of an alcoholic beverage.
I lived in a quiet, blue-collar neighborhood: an Ozzie and Harriet “milk-‘n-cookies” kind of existence. Neither of my folks drank or smoked. But on the eve of the “big day”, upon returning home from a game of basketball at a nearby park, I noticed the stench of cigarettes, saw four empty cocktail glasses, and a huge glass decanter of Smirnoff vodka minus its cap. Aha, neighbors had been over for a drink, or two. And mom and dad were fast asleep. With cap in hand, I wondered. What does this stuff taste like? What exactly does it do?
My favorite glass, which usually held copious amounts of milk, now contained an honest to gosh two-and-a-half cups worth of liquid Russian death, plus a splash of orange juice. Under the cloak of darkness I scampered just outside a rear door to a small vacation trailer in the backyard, turned on a dome light, and planted my curious self on the bench seat in front of a closet mirror. Without hesitation, I hoisted the glass skyward, held my nose shut, and power-chugged it all - in one huge gulp.
Incredibly, minutes passed. Nothing happened. Guess I need to tip the jug just a tad bit more, I reasoned. Hell, I’d never done this before. I actually walked straight back into the house, poured a second, albeit much smaller batch, and returned to my perch. Got about two sips down the pipe. Now, had it been the television show “Twilight Zone”, this is where host Rod Serling would have first appeared.
Time and space stretched out. Alice in Wonderland ran past, I think. As mental faculty and bleary eyes returned to some semblance of focus, my trusty cat Wilbur was meowing in a swirl of yellow teeth, orange fur, and surround sound. I found myself staring at a window, which was trying to roar upward like the space shuttle. Bypassed the warm and fuzzy part, I guess. Went straight to seasick. On board the Titanic!
Fast forward into the house, errant body parts (including face) slapping both walls in the hallway. Finally collapsed against the heater louvers in a lump of human mung and grool. “Is this what you drank?” yelled my dad. He then dragged me to the shower like a loser in the Roman coliseum. Only the cold water knob was turned.
Morning found the sun piercing through the curtains like a scene from The Exorcist. Hours passed. Muscles creaked. Then progress. I gummed a piece of toast! No matter, I had to get up, and somehow go to OCIR. After all, this was the greatest day of my life.
In mind-numbing slow motion I somehow drove to MacDonald’s and ordered an intestinal-cooling vanilla shake. Then, a large miscue. While entering a curved freeway on ramp, my shake rolled off the transmission ‘hump’, and out of reach under the dashboard. In a panic over the escaping miracle liquid, I quickly pulled over. With car still in ‘drive’, yet foot on brake, I leaned over and attempted to wrestle the lid back on, then noticed something odd. Trees were moving. The car was, too! Still lying sideways, I stabbed the brake. BIG MISTAKE. My head slammed into the dashboard at full song, cracking my nose. I bled more than Jerry Quarry versus Ali.
What a sight for those driving past. My left eye swoll shut. Both nostrils had strands of bloodied Kleenex flapping in the wind. I looked like crap, felt even worse. And I was heading for a place that ran the absolute loudest objects on the face of the planet; nitro-burnin’ top fuel dragsters and funny cars!
I somehow made it to OCIR, parked under a tree in the pits, and spent the next hour or so with my face pressed firmly against the ’65 Ford Galaxie’s air conditioner ducts, with little effect (other than a waffle iron look). Only a sharp mortician would have noticed a slight change in skin tone.
Each pair of race cars went through their merciless ground-pounding burnouts and runs. My head felt like it was clamped to a paint-shaker at Home Depot. Once the bile level reached intolerable, I decided to swallow it – and whatever pride remained, and throw in the towel. Slowly made my way to the bottom of the control tower. Each step seemed an eternity (like this story). Eventually made it to the second floor, where I could see Hart with his familiar hat and cigar through the door’s porthole window.
After several knuckle raps on the metal door, his wife Peggy answered. “I need to speak to Mr. Hart”, I mumbled, hat pulled over my face in shame. She turned, and called out to C.J. that I wanted to see him. And then, it happened!
At that very moment, there was a flurry of activity at the starting line. Miraculously, a water pipe had decided to burst, gushing its contents upward like the Beverly Hillbillies’ ‘bubblin’ crude! Bracket cars were swiftly backed up and given the ‘cut’ sign. Manager Hart, grasping the situation, spun around, and in a swift penguin trot out the door paused and without ever looking at me yelled, “Don, we’re through for the weekend. I’m sorry, please accept my apology – and come back next Saturday!” Away he went.
I learned some powerful lessons that weekend. That there really is a God… yup, saw him create a river right there on the OCIR starting line. I believe! And friends, when the fruits of life tempt you, be absolutely sure that you use waaaaay more nectar than the clear stuff. Your body parts… and dammit I mean all of ‘em, will truly be thankful.
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WINNER - SHIRLEY MULDOWNEY DEF. JOE LEPONE JR., 57.85% TO 42.14%
#8 – Shirley “Cha-Cha” Muldowney
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – The Cat Fightin’ Champion of the World
THE DAY I BECAME 9-FEET TALL
If you ever had to walk in my shoes, you’d know that fighting was essential to my survival. I’ve thrown a punch or two in my life and honestly can’t remember ever having thrown a punch I regret. If I wasn’t throwing a punch, I was throwing whatever I could get my hands on. Case in point, I once cleared a tower with a barrage of ashtrays when a promoter cheated me out of rain money.
The good book says to turn the other cheek but I did very little cheek turning back in the day.
Don Garlits, and bless him because he’s been good to me, he and I had some times running up and down the road match racing all over the country.
I can remember one particular time we were down in La Place, Louisiana. If that place doesn’t have scrapping written all over it, I don’t know what does.
Back then, when Don and I match raced, it was personal. We wanted to win at all costs and we’d get down in the dirt and rassle if we had to for an advantage.
Winning a match race to us back in the day meant as much as winning a national event.
The track in La Place was really bad that weekend and clearly a one lane race track. The rules were simple. We’d start in one lane and flip-flop the other for the second in the best two out of three. In the third and final run we’d flip a coin for lane choice.
Garlits and Herb Parks decided to change the rules in the middle of the game and decided quicker elapsed time in the second run determined the lane choice.
Parks, who was the crew chief with Garlits, decided he was going to take the lane he wanted – flip or no flip.
My son John told them we’d give them our lane and still kick his ass, which we did.
That didn’t go over too well, and the situation just went downhill from there. It was bad enough that we had beaten them but John mouthing off at Parks didn’t go over well.
At the other end of the track, John said something to Parks, but it didn’t take long before Parks lit out after him and began pursuit. They went around the car a few times and out in a field.
Parks was a big fella, one you didn’t really want to mess with.
It was a good thing John could run because Parks was after him and kept telling him, “If I get my hands on you.”
I’m a protective mother and there was just no way I was going to let something happen to my son especially in front of me.
John took off running in the field, Parks running after him and I wasn’t too far behind.
I finally got within earshot of Park and I yelled loud enough so that he could hear me yelling.
“I’m going back to my trailer, and when I come out, I will be nine feet taller. Don’t you lay a hand on my son!
“Don’t you touch him you sonofabitch.”
He stopped in his tracks when I let him know I was going to shoot him. I meant it too and I think he knew that right in that field in front of those liquored up Cajuns along the fence, I would have shot him. He was just too big to fight.
The funny thing is that we became the best of friends from that point on.
But it wasn’t over for Herb. Garlits to told him to get in the dragster and pushed him all the way down the return road and they must have been running 50 mph.
They pushed the car right in the trailer without stopping.
John and I just stood up at the finish line watching it all unfold and laughing our butts off.
These women out here cannot even fathom what I went through back in the day. I was tough as nails and I’d dive right in the fight.
I loved a good fight.
I still do.
#9 – Joe “Can Drive the Wheels Off” Lepone Jr.
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – Used to drive for Da Grump
WORKING THE QUALIFYING LADDER
I can remember a race where we were having clutch and engine problems and this was during the time that I drove for Bill Jenkins. We ended up on the bubble headed into the final session and Bob Glidden was No. 1. If we didn’t improve we were going to have to run Bob and I left on him most of the time.
As it turned out, we ran really well. So well in fact, that our run was the 5th quickest.
That’s when Jenkins sent Stevie Johns hauling tail to the finish line with a direct order to bypass the scales. We wanted to run Glidden.
I did just that. I bypassed the scales.
That didn’t set well with Bob and Etta, especially her, because she confronted me about it.
Of course I told her that we had changed the rear end and the car was light.
Later I was told they complained to Steve Gibbs.
About 45 minutes later, Gibbs comes over to us and tells us that we are No. 5. As much as I pleaded and told him that I bypassed the scales – I was forced to keep that No. 5.
I won the first round and Bob beat me in the second.
The next race in Sanair, and Grump wouldn’t go to Sanair, before we went to the race he decided to take the front struts apart. We went to Canada and the car just wouldn’t go straight. We were unqualified headed into the fourth and final session.
I went to the tower and called Roger Lamb at home. He walked me through putting the shocks back together.
I still had this thing for Bob and headed into the final session, we had to qualify 15th if we wanted to race him, since he was #2.
I knew we needed to run between a 7.74 and a 7.76 for that to happen.
I went through the gears and shy of the finish line I let out of the gas and coasted through. Bear in mind, we weren’t qualified and I lifted. I figured that we were right where we should be.
Stevie came down and was excited. I had run a 7.768 and that was good enough to put me in the 15th spot.
Bob came over and congratulated me and I told him I wasn’t happy because I got in the field, I was happy because we got to race in the first round.
I still remember the exchange.
"Hey Bob, why don’t you go and tell Steve Gibbs I lifted and only ran 148 – and if I stayed in it he should make me No. 2 qualifier.”
He shook his head and walked away.
I beat him first round.
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