Photos by Chris Simmons, JTMotorsports

You know your standards are high when a 5.11-second, 262-mph run in a doorslammer feels like a letdown, a performance so staggering it resets the limits of what’s possible — yet somehow still leaves the team unsatisfied. But that’s exactly where driver Jimmy Taylor and crew chief Carl Stevens found themselves after clocking the quickest doorslammer pass in drag racing history — and shutting off early.

 

The record, set at Maryland International Raceway, was more than .03 quicker than any other doorslammer in the world. Yet Taylor came back from the top end bummed out, believing a four-second run was within reach if not for the rain that halted further attempts.

 

Taylor didn’t celebrate with champagne or TV cameras. Instead, he spent the next several days in silence — 12-hour shifts perched in a deer stand.

 

“I love deer huntin’,” Taylor said. “I like it when them big ones walk out there.” The contrast couldn’t have been sharper — one weekend strapped inside a reported 7,000-horsepower missile, the next sitting motionless in nature, chasing calm instead of speed.

 

He admits that despite the thrill of the record, the moment left him unsettled. “Man, it was pretty wild, but I ain’t gonna lie, I was a little bit bummed out,” Taylor said. “I wanted to run fours.”

 

The near-miss, however, might have been a blessing in disguise. Taylor mistakenly shut off at the 1,000-foot mark, believing it was the finish line. Had he gone another 320 feet, the outcome could’ve been far worse.

 

“The tire was rubbing the hood, and the air pressure had the hood pushed so far down it was dragging the ground,” Taylor said. “We were in the lanes for two and a half hours, it got dark, and I’m blind as a bat at night. I saw the cone and thought it was the mile-per-hour cone — but it was the damn thousand-foot cone.”

 

When the timing slip read 5.11, even Taylor didn’t believe it. “I said, ‘What the hell? There’s no way.’ Then we looked at the data, and sure enough, I’d shut it off early.”

 

For Stevens, the run was equal parts triumph and relief. He’d been pushing the limits carefully, determined to avoid turning history into disaster.

 

“It was good in the moment,” Stevens said. “But shortly thereafter, I was a little disappointed. We were sticking to the plan, being smart. Everyone kept saying, ‘Just send it all the way down,’ but there’s a lot that can go wrong when you’re pushing that much air and power.”

 

Stevens shared the same conflict — pride mixed with restraint. “I didn’t want to force the issue,” he said. “Every time before he got in the car, I told him, ‘If it doesn’t feel right, if it’s not going straight, if you’re not comfortable, we can come back and race another day.’”

 

That “come back another day” mindset saved their operation. The front end was destroyed, the nose scraped raw from the pressure. The smoke fans saw wasn’t fire — it was the tires rubbing against the carbon-fiber body.

 

“It was good that we saw that,” Stevens said. “Now we can make the chassis adjustments so next time the tires aren’t rubbing and the nose isn’t touching the track.”

 

For all their ambition, neither Taylor nor Stevens is reckless. Both acknowledge the inherent danger of being the first to push a doorslammer into four-second, 300-mph territory.

 

Even so, the temptation remains. The duo knows they’re sitting on a car that can make the impossible real. “On that run, if it had just carried the momentum all the way, it would’ve been right there,” Taylor said. Stevens agrees — and then some.

 

“I think that run probably would’ve been a 5.02 or 5.03,” Stevens said. “I don’t think it would’ve hit the fours on that particular pass, but for sure, with a little more tune-up, it’ll run fours, no question.”


Their calculations aren’t based on guesswork. The 5.11 run was nearly eight-hundredths slower to the eighth mile than prior passes. “So we know what’s there,” Stevens said. “If we put that earlier acceleration back in, it’ll do it.”


Both men also know that chasing a milestone like the first four-second doorslammer comes with a price. “At what point does the risk versus reward not match up?” Taylor was asked.


“I don’t know, man,” he replied. “I’ve always been a risk-taker. I just hope it’s in one piece when I get done.”


Stevens echoes the sentiment with a crew chief’s pragmatism. “I talked Jimmy out of trying again next week,” he said. “We don’t have a spare front end yet. We’ve got one on order. I don’t want to go down there and hurt it when we’ve got a race to make.”

For now, the record-setting car will rest — on display at the Precision Turbo booth during PRI — while its creators regroup. They’ll chase that four-second barrier after the new year, once new body panels arrive and data from the Maryland run has been fully dissected.

 

“I think after that, we’ll go get that four-second slip,” Stevens said. “Then we can feel content putting it to bed.”

 

Until then, Taylor will keep splitting time between two extremes — the chaos of nitro-fed acceleration and the quiet stillness of the woods. Both require patience, precision, and trust in instinct.

 

When asked if doorslammers are meant to go that fast, Taylor laughed. “No, probably not,” he said. “But we’re going to do it anyway.”

 

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TAYLOR AND STEVENS’ RECORD RUN LEAVES THEM WANTING MORE — AND THANKFUL IT STOPPED WHEN IT DID

Photos by Chris Simmons, JTMotorsports

You know your standards are high when a 5.11-second, 262-mph run in a doorslammer feels like a letdown, a performance so staggering it resets the limits of what’s possible — yet somehow still leaves the team unsatisfied. But that’s exactly where driver Jimmy Taylor and crew chief Carl Stevens found themselves after clocking the quickest doorslammer pass in drag racing history — and shutting off early.

 

The record, set at Maryland International Raceway, was more than .03 quicker than any other doorslammer in the world. Yet Taylor came back from the top end bummed out, believing a four-second run was within reach if not for the rain that halted further attempts.

 

Taylor didn’t celebrate with champagne or TV cameras. Instead, he spent the next several days in silence — 12-hour shifts perched in a deer stand.

 

“I love deer huntin’,” Taylor said. “I like it when them big ones walk out there.” The contrast couldn’t have been sharper — one weekend strapped inside a reported 7,000-horsepower missile, the next sitting motionless in nature, chasing calm instead of speed.

 

He admits that despite the thrill of the record, the moment left him unsettled. “Man, it was pretty wild, but I ain’t gonna lie, I was a little bit bummed out,” Taylor said. “I wanted to run fours.”

 

The near-miss, however, might have been a blessing in disguise. Taylor mistakenly shut off at the 1,000-foot mark, believing it was the finish line. Had he gone another 320 feet, the outcome could’ve been far worse.

 

“The tire was rubbing the hood, and the air pressure had the hood pushed so far down it was dragging the ground,” Taylor said. “We were in the lanes for two and a half hours, it got dark, and I’m blind as a bat at night. I saw the cone and thought it was the mile-per-hour cone — but it was the damn thousand-foot cone.”

 

When the timing slip read 5.11, even Taylor didn’t believe it. “I said, ‘What the hell? There’s no way.’ Then we looked at the data, and sure enough, I’d shut it off early.”

 

For Stevens, the run was equal parts triumph and relief. He’d been pushing the limits carefully, determined to avoid turning history into disaster.

 

“It was good in the moment,” Stevens said. “But shortly thereafter, I was a little disappointed. We were sticking to the plan, being smart. Everyone kept saying, ‘Just send it all the way down,’ but there’s a lot that can go wrong when you’re pushing that much air and power.”

 

Stevens shared the same conflict — pride mixed with restraint. “I didn’t want to force the issue,” he said. “Every time before he got in the car, I told him, ‘If it doesn’t feel right, if it’s not going straight, if you’re not comfortable, we can come back and race another day.’”

 

That “come back another day” mindset saved their operation. The front end was destroyed, the nose scraped raw from the pressure. The smoke fans saw wasn’t fire — it was the tires rubbing against the carbon-fiber body.

 

“It was good that we saw that,” Stevens said. “Now we can make the chassis adjustments so next time the tires aren’t rubbing and the nose isn’t touching the track.”

 

For all their ambition, neither Taylor nor Stevens is reckless. Both acknowledge the inherent danger of being the first to push a doorslammer into four-second, 300-mph territory.

 

Even so, the temptation remains. The duo knows they’re sitting on a car that can make the impossible real. “On that run, if it had just carried the momentum all the way, it would’ve been right there,” Taylor said. Stevens agrees — and then some.

 

“I think that run probably would’ve been a 5.02 or 5.03,” Stevens said. “I don’t think it would’ve hit the fours on that particular pass, but for sure, with a little more tune-up, it’ll run fours, no question.”


Their calculations aren’t based on guesswork. The 5.11 run was nearly eight-hundredths slower to the eighth mile than prior passes. “So we know what’s there,” Stevens said. “If we put that earlier acceleration back in, it’ll do it.”


Both men also know that chasing a milestone like the first four-second doorslammer comes with a price. “At what point does the risk versus reward not match up?” Taylor was asked.


“I don’t know, man,” he replied. “I’ve always been a risk-taker. I just hope it’s in one piece when I get done.”


Stevens echoes the sentiment with a crew chief’s pragmatism. “I talked Jimmy out of trying again next week,” he said. “We don’t have a spare front end yet. We’ve got one on order. I don’t want to go down there and hurt it when we’ve got a race to make.”

For now, the record-setting car will rest — on display at the Precision Turbo booth during PRI — while its creators regroup. They’ll chase that four-second barrier after the new year, once new body panels arrive and data from the Maryland run has been fully dissected.

 

“I think after that, we’ll go get that four-second slip,” Stevens said. “Then we can feel content putting it to bed.”

 

Until then, Taylor will keep splitting time between two extremes — the chaos of nitro-fed acceleration and the quiet stillness of the woods. Both require patience, precision, and trust in instinct.

 

When asked if doorslammers are meant to go that fast, Taylor laughed. “No, probably not,” he said. “But we’re going to do it anyway.”

 

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