Competition Plus Team
Since our inception, we have been passionately dedicated to delivering the most accurate, timely, and compelling content in the world of drag racing. Our readers depend on us for the latest news, in-depth features, expert analysis, and exclusive interviews that connect you to the sport’s pulse.
BOBBY BENNETT – IT USED TO BE MY PLAYGROUND: A LOVE LETTER TO A LOST DRAG STRIP
To anyone who grew up at a drag strip that’s now gone, this one’s for you. To those who remember the smell of burnt rubber, the sound of open headers echoing through the pines, and the thrill of Saturday nights spent chasing dreams—your memories are sacred ground.
For me, that ground was the Spartanburg International Dragway on Canaan Road in Spartanburg County, South Carolina. Developers have since erased every physical trace of it, turning the land into subdivisions where homeowners have no idea their backyard once sat on a quarter-mile of history.
But for those of us who lived it, that drag strip wasn’t just a patch of asphalt. It was our church, our classroom, and our proving ground. It was where Spartanburg’s drag racers built not only engines but legacies—38 world championships by 18 different drivers, all tracing their roots back to a place that now exists only in memory.
When I drive through that area today, it’s hard to imagine the noise and chaos that once filled the air. Children play in yards where the burnout box once smoked, and joggers run past the faint traces of the return road. Yet if you listen closely enough, on a quiet evening, you can almost still hear the echo of a high-winding small block cutting through the Carolina night.
Built in 1963 by Paul Clayton Sr., Spartanburg Dragway wasn’t the kind of facility that would have impressed outsiders. The pits were dirt. The return road was cracked and broken. The lights were dim by modern standards. But to a kid growing up a mile away, it was a cathedral.
“I could hear the small-block Modified Production cars winding out through the gears on Saturday nights,” I told The Spartanburg Herald-Journal in an interview years later. “That sound pulled me in. I didn’t need a ticket; I just needed to be close enough to hear it.”
That sound wasn’t just mechanical—it was magical. It called to every kid within earshot who dreamed of going fast, of building something, of belonging to a brotherhood that only the drag strip could create.
Back then, drag racing had a heartbeat that pulsed through small-town America. Spartanburg was no different. The legends came—Butch Leal, Hubert Platt, Ronnie Sox, Roy Hill, and even Don Garlits versus Shirley “Cha Cha” Muldowney. For a kid with a notebook and a dream, it was better than any amusement park.
When those cars came to town, it felt like the center of the drag racing world had shifted to Canaan Road. You could feel the anticipation building as trailers arrived, the smell of high-octane fuel floating in the humid summer air. It wasn’t just another Saturday—it was a happening.
The dragway’s concession stand had its own kind of fame. The chili cheeseburgers, greasy and perfect, set the bar for what track food should be. I’ve been chasing that taste ever since.
And that smell—burning rubber, hot oil, and VHT traction compound—it was as comforting as cookies baking at my grandmother’s house. It meant racing was underway. It meant someone was about to chase glory.
Watching Bob Earnheart’s high-winding ’67 Corvette in Modified Production was, to my young eyes, a symphony. “That sound,” I said, “was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.”
When the lights came on and the control tower glowed against the Carolina night, I imagined I was watching from the grandstands of Orange County International Raceway. You just had to see that glass tower on a summer evening to believe it.
And while the facility may not have matched the famous West Coast strips, in my imagination, Spartanburg was every bit their equal. We didn’t see cracks in the pavement or faded paint; we saw opportunity.
Spartanburg Dragway was more than a track—it was a training ground. Future champions cut their teeth there before going on to rewrite the history books.
You had to see Gene Fulton blow the rear end out of a borrowed D/Modified Production car one Saturday night, then return a week later and win with another borrowed car. That kind of determination was the essence of the place.
You had to see Tommy Mauney, Charles Carpenter, Michael Martin, and Blake Wiggins—names that would later define Pro Modified—make their early passes there. They didn’t know it then, but they were laying the foundation for one of drag racing’s most explosive classes.
And you had to see a young Quain Stott driving Scott Duggins’ father’s Vega in Super Pro, long before either of them became world champions. That was Spartanburg’s magic—it made believers out of dreamers.
The track was a launch pad, not just for cars, but for people. It built confidence, humility, and perseverance—traits that carried Spartanburg racers to 38 world championships across multiple series.
For those of us who came from that little strip, the wins and losses weren’t measured in trophies. They were measured in friendships, lessons, and memories burned deep into our souls.
As a kid, I used to write about those drivers in a handwritten magazine I’d sell to racers in the pits. I didn’t know it then, but I was already chasing my future—telling the stories of people I admired. They believed in me because we all believed in Spartanburg Dragway.
That strip gave me my direction in life. It shaped my career and my understanding of what makes drag racing special.
It also taught me that greatness isn’t defined by facility size or corporate backing—it’s defined by passion. And there was no shortage of that in Spartanburg County.
Even now, decades later, I see that same drive in racers from the region. It’s like the old strip left behind a kind of DNA—something that keeps pushing us all forward, even when the track itself is gone.
When I last visited what was left of the dragway, I ignored the “No Trespassing” signs and walked through what used to be the pits. The fences were still there, overgrown and rusted, like old guardians standing watch over the ghosts of our youth.
There wasn’t a section of ground that didn’t stir a memory. Every footstep felt like flipping through the pages of an old photo album—one filled with noise, laughter, and a kind of hope that only existed under the track lights.
Standing in the middle of what used to be the starting line, surrounded by brush and silence, I realized how much the place had meant. It wasn’t much by modern standards, but to us it was everything.
If you’ve ever lost a local track, you know the feeling. That sense of loss cuts deep, but it’s balanced by gratitude for having been there in the first place.
The past may be overgrown and paved over, but the memories still roar louder than any bulldozer. They remind us that while developers can build houses, they can’t build what that place gave us—identity.
Today, houses line Canaan Road where the burnout box once smoked. Driveways sit where legends launched. The people who live there may never know that a world of horsepower and history once roared beneath their feet.
But that’s okay. Because those of us who were there remember. We remember the smell, the sound, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than ourselves. We remember the nights when the lights flickered on and the drag strip became our world.
Spartanburg Dragway is gone, but its spirit lives on in every racer from the Upstate who ever dreamed of going faster. It lives in the 38 world championships born from that patch of Carolina clay. And it lives in all of us who still close our eyes and see that glowing tower, that packed staging lane, that endless stretch of blacktop where dreams once took flight.
My years in drag racing tell me it wasn’t much of a track. But my heart says it was the greatest drag strip ever built.
It used to be my playground. And even now, when I close my eyes, I can still go back there.
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Competition Plus Team
Since our inception, we have been passionately dedicated to delivering the most accurate, timely, and compelling content in the world of drag racing. Our readers depend on us for the latest news, in-depth features, expert analysis, and exclusive interviews that connect you to the sport’s pulse.
Sign up for our newsletters and email list.
BOBBY BENNETT – IT USED TO BE MY PLAYGROUND: A LOVE LETTER TO A LOST DRAG STRIP
To anyone who grew up at a drag strip that’s now gone, this one’s for you. To those who remember the smell of burnt rubber, the sound of open headers echoing through the pines, and the thrill of Saturday nights spent chasing dreams—your memories are sacred ground.
For me, that ground was the Spartanburg International Dragway on Canaan Road in Spartanburg County, South Carolina. Developers have since erased every physical trace of it, turning the land into subdivisions where homeowners have no idea their backyard once sat on a quarter-mile of history.
But for those of us who lived it, that drag strip wasn’t just a patch of asphalt. It was our church, our classroom, and our proving ground. It was where Spartanburg’s drag racers built not only engines but legacies—38 world championships by 18 different drivers, all tracing their roots back to a place that now exists only in memory.
When I drive through that area today, it’s hard to imagine the noise and chaos that once filled the air. Children play in yards where the burnout box once smoked, and joggers run past the faint traces of the return road. Yet if you listen closely enough, on a quiet evening, you can almost still hear the echo of a high-winding small block cutting through the Carolina night.
Built in 1963 by Paul Clayton Sr., Spartanburg Dragway wasn’t the kind of facility that would have impressed outsiders. The pits were dirt. The return road was cracked and broken. The lights were dim by modern standards. But to a kid growing up a mile away, it was a cathedral.
“I could hear the small-block Modified Production cars winding out through the gears on Saturday nights,” I told The Spartanburg Herald-Journal in an interview years later. “That sound pulled me in. I didn’t need a ticket; I just needed to be close enough to hear it.”
That sound wasn’t just mechanical—it was magical. It called to every kid within earshot who dreamed of going fast, of building something, of belonging to a brotherhood that only the drag strip could create.
Back then, drag racing had a heartbeat that pulsed through small-town America. Spartanburg was no different. The legends came—Butch Leal, Hubert Platt, Ronnie Sox, Roy Hill, and even Don Garlits versus Shirley “Cha Cha” Muldowney. For a kid with a notebook and a dream, it was better than any amusement park.
When those cars came to town, it felt like the center of the drag racing world had shifted to Canaan Road. You could feel the anticipation building as trailers arrived, the smell of high-octane fuel floating in the humid summer air. It wasn’t just another Saturday—it was a happening.
The dragway’s concession stand had its own kind of fame. The chili cheeseburgers, greasy and perfect, set the bar for what track food should be. I’ve been chasing that taste ever since.
And that smell—burning rubber, hot oil, and VHT traction compound—it was as comforting as cookies baking at my grandmother’s house. It meant racing was underway. It meant someone was about to chase glory.
Watching Bob Earnheart’s high-winding ’67 Corvette in Modified Production was, to my young eyes, a symphony. “That sound,” I said, “was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.”
When the lights came on and the control tower glowed against the Carolina night, I imagined I was watching from the grandstands of Orange County International Raceway. You just had to see that glass tower on a summer evening to believe it.
And while the facility may not have matched the famous West Coast strips, in my imagination, Spartanburg was every bit their equal. We didn’t see cracks in the pavement or faded paint; we saw opportunity.
Spartanburg Dragway was more than a track—it was a training ground. Future champions cut their teeth there before going on to rewrite the history books.
You had to see Gene Fulton blow the rear end out of a borrowed D/Modified Production car one Saturday night, then return a week later and win with another borrowed car. That kind of determination was the essence of the place.
You had to see Tommy Mauney, Charles Carpenter, Michael Martin, and Blake Wiggins—names that would later define Pro Modified—make their early passes there. They didn’t know it then, but they were laying the foundation for one of drag racing’s most explosive classes.
And you had to see a young Quain Stott driving Scott Duggins’ father’s Vega in Super Pro, long before either of them became world champions. That was Spartanburg’s magic—it made believers out of dreamers.
The track was a launch pad, not just for cars, but for people. It built confidence, humility, and perseverance—traits that carried Spartanburg racers to 38 world championships across multiple series.
For those of us who came from that little strip, the wins and losses weren’t measured in trophies. They were measured in friendships, lessons, and memories burned deep into our souls.
As a kid, I used to write about those drivers in a handwritten magazine I’d sell to racers in the pits. I didn’t know it then, but I was already chasing my future—telling the stories of people I admired. They believed in me because we all believed in Spartanburg Dragway.
That strip gave me my direction in life. It shaped my career and my understanding of what makes drag racing special.
It also taught me that greatness isn’t defined by facility size or corporate backing—it’s defined by passion. And there was no shortage of that in Spartanburg County.
Even now, decades later, I see that same drive in racers from the region. It’s like the old strip left behind a kind of DNA—something that keeps pushing us all forward, even when the track itself is gone.
When I last visited what was left of the dragway, I ignored the “No Trespassing” signs and walked through what used to be the pits. The fences were still there, overgrown and rusted, like old guardians standing watch over the ghosts of our youth.
There wasn’t a section of ground that didn’t stir a memory. Every footstep felt like flipping through the pages of an old photo album—one filled with noise, laughter, and a kind of hope that only existed under the track lights.
Standing in the middle of what used to be the starting line, surrounded by brush and silence, I realized how much the place had meant. It wasn’t much by modern standards, but to us it was everything.
If you’ve ever lost a local track, you know the feeling. That sense of loss cuts deep, but it’s balanced by gratitude for having been there in the first place.
The past may be overgrown and paved over, but the memories still roar louder than any bulldozer. They remind us that while developers can build houses, they can’t build what that place gave us—identity.
Today, houses line Canaan Road where the burnout box once smoked. Driveways sit where legends launched. The people who live there may never know that a world of horsepower and history once roared beneath their feet.
But that’s okay. Because those of us who were there remember. We remember the smell, the sound, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than ourselves. We remember the nights when the lights flickered on and the drag strip became our world.
Spartanburg Dragway is gone, but its spirit lives on in every racer from the Upstate who ever dreamed of going faster. It lives in the 38 world championships born from that patch of Carolina clay. And it lives in all of us who still close our eyes and see that glowing tower, that packed staging lane, that endless stretch of blacktop where dreams once took flight.
My years in drag racing tell me it wasn’t much of a track. But my heart says it was the greatest drag strip ever built.
It used to be my playground. And even now, when I close my eyes, I can still go back there.
John Doe
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BOBBY BENNETT – IT USED TO BE MY PLAYGROUND: A LOVE LETTER TO A LOST DRAG STRIP
To anyone who grew up at a drag strip that’s now gone, this one’s for you. To those who remember the smell of burnt rubber,