ALWAYS CRASHING IN THE SAME CAR
Pomona Ain't No Joke & Michel Legrand's Le Mans Theme
Pomona, CA. The eighties.
Something was in the air as I put on my gloves that morning at the Quarter Midget Race Track. It was blistering hot as the asphalt reflected the heat on me, and the sun kept finding its way into my eyes. Gas and exhaust fumes were prevalent as racecars were pulled off trailers towed by station wagons and mini trucks. I’d been thinking about the long drive out there that morning, along with visions of the ‘60s Psychedelic cartoon Tom Slick, as I got in, belted up, and checked the brakes before the car was pushed onto the track and inched up against that white line. I was the driver, which meant I was behind the wheel of my quarter midget racecar. “Quarter Midget” means it’s a 4th the size of a Midget class car. If I handled this correctly, it was a fourth of the way to Indy glory. Midget Racing is generally considered the gateway for many of the greats. It is a breeding ground for some, and they start you early, like most competitive sports. However, this is far more interesting than a Prince Jr. tennis racket, electric Chessboard from The Sharper Image, or Orel Hirshiser-branded pitcher’s glove.
The car was purchased recently; it’s secondhand from a kid moving on to the next class. The son of my coach, to be exact. He got too big for it. And my chequered Vans barely touched the pedals. I planned to ditch the yellow paint and spray it blue. A round number on each side of the rear panel. Maybe the Gulf Gasoline logo on the front clip. Sterling Moss-era Formula One from the old days is big in my house, and it’s all I had to go on aside from that zany Tom Slick, a set of Hotwheels…well, and that dubbed copy of The Road Warrior, which sat on top of our Betamax in the living room.
The kids are all standoffish with each other, most from working-class backgrounds. They all look crossed between the Stroker Ace pit crew and the Poltergiest chocolate brown subdivision child extras. But make no mistake about it: there are no friends out here on the track—only threats to the dream.
I kept my distance.
After weeks of lessons, I was there to show them what I had.
The Plan - Do some qualifying laps and get myself into the action of competing. I watched the races last Saturday, and it’s where to be.
The Problem - I was recently four years old. Two years younger than the next guy out here, but my parents pulled some strings, so there I was. I’d been practicing for weeks, learning the oval and getting used to the steering and the acceleration. My coach was always with a stopwatch in hand. It turned out I showed some promise even with the age gap.
Coach put the helmet on and tightened the chin strap, reminding me where the kill switch was just to the left of the steering wheel. It was there in case things went awry, and I needed to cut off the Briggs Animal engine and coast this mini-banana yellow beast to safety if the brakes gave out on me.
The flag waved; I hit the accelerator and did my thing. I kept low to the inside on the curves to get those times as short as possible with an eye on the prize.
Now I hear Michel Legrand’s score to Le Mans when recounting the day.
My coach checked the watch as I flew past the first few two times in the yellow beast with understated flames. Things felt calm behind the wheel and quiet under the helmet, and I was attuned to this world set to a singular focus - Winning.
As I went into turn number one on my third and final lap, I noticed my mother waving to me from the bleachers. “Something wrong?” I thought as I looked at her. And before I knew it, I went right into the wall.
And that was the end of my racing career.
“With driving a motorcar, the danger is a very necessary ingredient.” - Sterling Moss
Referenced Music - David Bowie’s Always Crashing in the Same Car, Michel Legrand’s Theme from Le Mans.
Photos of Me at the Pomona Quarter Midget Raceway.