February 20, 2015 Phoenix, AZ: Something Old, Something New named the weekly column of old facts and new opinions of my late father, Bob Eckert of Allentown, PA. Barry Shultz and later Galen Koller were the editors who printed pop in Keystone Auto News from 1977-84. Father was so flattered by Barry’s offer that he never left despite allure of Area Auto Racing News in Trenton, NJ. Then as now, AARN is The Race Paper around dad’s Delaware Valley backyard. That his column stayed in one spot speaks to his loyalty.
Prior to becoming Keystone columnist, Bob kept records mainly of modified stock car races at Reading, Flemington, Nazareth, Orange County, East Windsor and Bridgeport or “Big Six” as he liked to say. His stats soon settled arguments. He loved to tell drivers of approaching milestones. His main motive for writing was to inform the public of these records more than its platform or press pass.
Keystone was absorbed into Gater Racing News of Syracuse, NY in ‘86. Ironically, that paper carried my first columns (‘82-85) because to start in dad’s paper screamed of nepotism. Dad never wrote for Gater. His life was in shambles. Marriage long over, he lost mother, son to the army (I came back sooner than I should have) and job at cardboard factory when Container Corporation of America was eaten by Mobil Oil. Bob stayed long enough for CCA to cover hernia operation. He thought so highly of Reading promoter Lindy Vicari that he worked for nothing in false hope that all would bask in the glow of Vicari’s resurrected Nazareth mile, which reopened in ’82 and went bankrupt by ’84. Any hope of Lindy retaining the raceway ended with Roger Penske’s purchase in ’86.
After his mom died, pop wished to join her until Bob made Big Decision to follow his flock to Phoenix, AZ. Grandpa enjoyed five or six more healthy and fairly happy years. Other than one cross-country drive Bob and Jim took together, dad stayed in the desert the rest of his days.
In many ways, I am my father’s son. In other ways, not so much. I see now that I began compiling sprint car records to gain parental approval. And like him, writing became my way of sharing such info. As writers, we viewed our place as opinionated editorial spiced with numbers. It goes without stating that dad’s slant was delivered with more tact. I am blunt like mom. But even now I hear him say, “Don’t point out a problem without a solution.” Constructive criticism is so subjective. Bob had a flair for wrapping words or phrases in “quotation marks” for no apparent reason. Neither of us were trained beyond high school so I’ll cast no stones at punctuation. Perhaps he thought it softened critique. Then again, dad may have been speaking “in a general sense” because he took little time to ponder more precise words.
Bob seldom spent more than an hour writing his columns. Monday nights around 5pm, he would grab a press release, flip it to the blank side, feed that into his typewriter, light a More Menthol cigarette, collect his thoughts, stare without speaking and clack, clack, clack on those keys until page was full. When he had more to say, Bob would scissor off just enough scrap paper to say it. He might draw arrows to move a sentence or two but was otherwise done in one sitting.
Much of it was brilliant. Much was gibberish. Much like this column. Much like Bob Dylan. But it was Bob Eckert’s process that I still find amazing. In my 33 years as racing writer, the creative process has been more cumbersome. Most writers are really rewriters. We chop, channel, fold, spindle, mutilate and procrastinate to deadline then pester poor editors for one last alteration. Dad would giggle at such folly.
Thanks to Facebook magic and Tom Schmeh at the National Sprint Car Hall of Fame & Museum, the sons of Bob Eckert have been enjoying random works by our beloved father. Because he conveyed an unbroken conversational style, reading his words feels as if he is in the room.
Forever it seems, I have vowed to increase productivity by streamlining closer to father’s approach. Though fun to speculate how long his columns might have grown in this era of infinite space that is little justification for some of the enormous screeds I have thrust upon the internet. I just toss it everything into one stew and figure readers will eat some now and finish the rest later. I feel father’s scorn.
Warmer memories melted my cold reluctance to piss new words into the winter snow. And then I wondered, “Could a slave to stoned deliberation mimic his father’s process? Could he crank out one Op-Ed with no fiddling, adding, subtracting and stalling?” Hell if I know. But here goes my loose tribute to the award-winning Robert James Eckert, who was handed one plaque in Kutztown Fire Hall and another at Flemington VFW so you know they were legit.
January 2015 had more auto racing than any January in my 51 years. New Year’s Eve hangovers still pounded fresh (I stay “home” on road block holidays) when Winter Heat Sprint Car Showdown went off at spot where Arizona and California meet Mexico. It was no unqualified success but success nonetheless. Weather was cold and crowd was poor through three races. As soon as Cocopah tribe agreed to January 2016 series, desert heat packed Cocopah Speedway for last two races. Thirty teams came to Yuma, AZ; close to ideal but some forecast 50. Race director Greg Burgess was his accommodating self and lessons learned from Fred Brownfield helped make Cocopah one cool place to race. Sprint cars were sole attraction. Drivers routinely chose one of two fast lanes though track did narrow as week wore on.
And did I mention the casino? No one confused Cocopah Casino with Caesar’s Palace but it did provide communal spirit because most folks worked, slept, ate, drank and gambled in one spot for ten days. Almost everyone anchored there except Kyle Larson, Roger Crockett (no one fights him for that far pit), Ryan Smith and Bobby Allen, who camped at track and shuttled Logan Schuchart and Jacob Allen across Highway 95 to casino. Before their third race, Shark Racing had the bowling alley’s best looking girl in their camp. Fins to the left. Fins to the right.
What is racing if not motorized gambling? Place your money on a pit stall, pull the lever and hope your driver and machine return intact. And what is racing if not high stakes bowling? Roll your balls down the lane and try to stay out of the gutters.
Cocopah races ranged from exceptional to uneventful. Paul McMahan’s opening night victory was all but forgotten after second night’s epic dice between Danny Lasoski, Stevie Smith and winning wonder child Larson. They spent last six laps sliding each other through traffic to final bend. Last two features were about track position. Prep guy took sick. Burgess hired Tommie Estes to oversee superstars like Steve Kinser and Kasey Kahne. Tommie wanted to till but Greg had no such thing. Dale Blaney had Night III tucked into Pockets Silva A.R.T until Lasoski got under on last lap. Then the unheralded Aaron Reutzel showed that he could pedal with the best of ‘em even with nose wing askew. Right Soul next came one lap from All Star win at Ocala then took ASCS opener at East Bay.
Flat Out Magazine just received my column about Cocopah’s winter heat. So at the risk of repeating myself in advance (exclusivity should be least of Justin Zoch’s worries) I shift to Chili Bowl Midget Nationals.
No column is more daunting to begin than the one about Chili Bowl, which nudged new record to 326 cars. Through my prism, each car has a story whether it be about driver, owner, crew chief, crew, chassis, engine, sponsor or specific component. Some teams have all eight. By that arithmetic, there were 2600 potential stories under that Tulsa roof. Writers take so much time because we fear leaving something out. To knead endless facts into some half-baked dialogue can be paralyzing.
There were only two days and 1300 miles between Yuma and Tulsa. Thoughts of Cocopah column from Tucumcari were foolish to anybody but Bob Eckert. Besides, I was on the clock to deliver caramel corn and swag unsold by Janet Larson. Janet and Mike might have to produce papers to prove that their son is not the result of bionic science. I thought my January was pretty good. Listen to Larson’s month: out drove The Dude and Black Bandit; got last slide on The King to likely win again until flat tire; left Yuma for Daytona to practice on par with Target teammates Scott Dixon, Tony Kanaan and Jamie McMurray; then swept C-B-A in one Tulsa night. To prove himself human, Larson did wreck Reece Goetz (who attracted Christopher Bell with resounding force) at Yuma and twice spun in Tulsa final. Returning to Daytona, he helped Chip Ganassi get sixth 24-hour win in 12 tries.
Larson was one of seven who bridged Yuma to Tulsa along with Keith Kunz teammates Bell and Rico Abreu, Joey Saldana, David Gravel, Seth Bergman and Sam Hafertepe Jr. All flew except Hafertepe, who hauled across 600 miles of Texas, swapped sprint for midget and dragged 250 more miles for opening night. Sam had some good moments in midget, winning heat and Saturday C-main before heading up the ramp.
Abreu became Chili Bowl’s feel good winner. It was just five years ago when the charge of “a midget racing a midget” was first cast his way. Rico is really a dwarf of relatively normal proportion other than short bowed legs. He stands 4’4” in fireproof socks. And stand he does whether connected to 410 or 360ci, wings, four cylinders or 500cc. If he was 6’4” Rico would still make a great story. But being the first star of his length make Abreu Vineyards ripe for NASCAR diversity. Done winning Chili Bowl, Rico reported to same New Smyrna training camp that started stock car career of long-time friend Larson. Rico was not happy with results in New Zealand, Cocopah Speedway or Cocopah Casino. On his way out, he dropped some poker chips in this poor man’s hand. I like to think those 45 dollars “paid forward” fed karma that brought Golden Driller to Napa Valley. Some smart ass pointed out how winner was eye-level with statue. Rico really is class act. Not only because he paid me but because he took time in Tulsa to visit an elementary school and speak about tolerance and bullying.
On the opposite end of the human spectrum, we had Swindells ramming and swerving at anyone who dared brush them. Demon seed reached second but Abreu’s ability through traffic gave Kevin no chance. Bryan Clauson, Larson and Daryn Pittman were all faster than Tennessee Tantrums. Kevin should have been happy with second. But there was just an annual complaint about “somebody else's mistake” digging a hole on lap 1 of 50. Dad topped Kyle by going D-C-B-A in prelim, jacked with Tanner Thorson after final B, hammered Thorson under A-main caution laps (never did pass him) then was wheeled by Larson in return.
After the race, Sammy charged the podium. He had no congratulations for his son because Swindells never celebrate second-place even when 325 cars do worse. No, he confronted Kyle for punting him off a teammate. Larson was too happy for Rico to regard Sammy with little more than sad laugh until later when he tweeted about it. Some who were critical may not have known how Swindell went off last year. He screamed at Kaitlyn Sweet (mother of Kyle’s new son) until she cried.
Swindell’s sense of entitlement runs deep. Sammy and estranged wife Amy are insanely jealous of accolades leveled at Larson in the sad belief that only cruel fate or false propaganda has kept Kevin from such prosperity. Truth is that despite the boy’s obvious talent, Amy allowed Kevin to grow into a dickhead just like the one she married. Most teams want none of those Swindells hanging around. Likely end to his 35-year relationship put Slammin’ Sam in state of rage long before Chili Bowl. Last summer, he feigned retirement. In reality, Todd Quiring shit-canned him. So retire already. Go polish some 600 trophies. Anyone with such contempt for their fellow racers should not wish to remain one.
Some say Swindells are just the villains needed to bring Chili Bowl to a boil. I call bullshit. Chili Bowl sells out long before anyone knows who will race. Within seconds, rational race fans would replace sheep in Swindell clothing. Chili Bowl is bigger than the stars who race in it. Wheel-to-wheel intensity is so high that it will never be without fans. But these two assholes are spoiling the year’s best party.
Put yourself in Tanner Thorson’s shoes. First off, you share trailer with three of the great talents in ten years. Abreu, Larson and Bell are almost expected to win. You are not. You were first in heat and fourth in prelim feature but had to win B, so another tough 20 laps stood between Big Show. But you make it. You transfer. Then some angry old man won’t let you up the ramp. You take an extra lap slowing for people crossing track. In the final 50, you slog up into Top Five. Caution comes out. Time to compose yourself for Big Restart. But what’s this? There’s that cranky bastard trying to flatten your tire! Why does the oldest, most accomplished racer in the building annually act like an infant?
Chili Bowl had a few plot twists. Defending winner Clauson led initially and his prelim domination gave no reason to look elsewhere for winner. Larson made his move under Jerry Coons for second but spun on lap 15. Abreu applied clean slides to Coons on lap 20 and Clauson on lap 26. Pittman no sooner raised hope for a local win then a caution fell that he failed to see soon enough to avoid colliding with Clauson.
Like last January, there were five days and 1100 miles between Tulsa and Canyon Speedway’s three nights of wingless sprint cars. Difference in this year’s non-point USAC series was to split five races between two tracks. More than a means to trumpet “Chris Kearns Presents” to Tucson was economic reality of Super Bowl, which priced Peoria motels beyond racers rate. Some did practice in Tucson before rain drowned both races. I had looked forward to first visit since 2010 Western World.
I had been in too much of a rush to reach Chili Bowl to stray from I-40. I got creative on the way back by tying 75 to 56 to 48 past Woody Guthrie homestead in Okemah, OK to 70 across bottom of Sooner State to motel in Vernon, TX. Tony Stewart overpaid for vintage artifacts. Donna Hahn cashed Flat Out check, and Hose Advantage assisted on fuel so I was flush with motel money. Good thing too because it was too cold to sleep in car. Roy Orbison’s birthplace of Vernon pointed me to Highway Six and 380 to 82 into New Mexico at Roswell and Ruidoso rest. Below snowy peaks, it felt prudent to check Weather Channel, something I do only in winter when ice is deadly. TV told me to cease climbing north and drop down to Las Cruces. I knew Border Patrol was on I-10 near Deming and 185 south of Hatch just as they were in Yuma. If runaway girls from Seattle taught me anything (and they taught me plenty) it was the value of tight Tupperware seals.
Hatch is World Chile Pepper Capital. Off the beaten western trail is where one realizes how every fruit, nut or vegetable has a town or county so completely dependent on it that each crop is celebrated. I mean parade, carnival rides, vendor food, beauty pageant, live music. Garlic Festival in Gilroy, CA comes to mind. This is a wonderful aspect of back road travel. Where can one find better pistachio nuts than the Pistachio Capital of the World in Avenal, CA?
Most fun behind the wheel was twisting Highway 27 to Hillsboro and 152 through Mimbres Mountains to Silver City, NM. I had a hunch that Griffin’s Propane might underwrite my trip. I first encountered Gas Man in 1987 at Erie, CO but got to know Richard Griffin during days with Tom Klein when my uncle George worked on Tom’s sprint and AIS Indy Car. At least 25 years later, we had a few beers in bar where everyone knew his name. We talked of late George Eckert and his late father Doc. In the morning, snow was falling. Richard’s wife Charlotte joined us for lunch before snow altered my escape by closing 90. I had to bend north yet stay south of Winter Storm Iola. I felt like Curtis Turner flying an airplane. Sadly in 1970, Daytona’s best beach racer slammed a mountain near Punxsutawney, PA. I exited NM on 78 to Guthrie and Globe, AZ and Superstition Freeway to Phoenix.
Winter Challenge at Canyon was more of a modified show than sprint car race. But that happens when one class out-numbers another 3-to-1. Promoters cannot survive on 13 sprints, so Canyon’s Kevin Montgomery padded numbers with four more classes. It was more than I wished to see, especially after single-division high of Chili Bowl. I timed each Canyon arrival to observe only an A-main, rolling up beside Berry Pack transporter to learn how many minutes remained. People with phones can do this with precision. I have to allow for late start, crashes, slow tow trucks, intermission, etc. Last year, I cut one too close and actually missed an A-main. That was shameful. I decided it better to have beer with Billy Sheppard than miss another feature. First night, Ryan Bernal lost another battle with cushion. Berry Pack (Brady Bacon) won that 2k. Bolting on tail from Abreu 24, Bernal swept second 2k and final Four Grand. The former feature snatched victory from Dave Darland (Mike Martin 16) in final inches. Ryan closed in a romp.
Another major reason why my writing has waned is because the Arizona Open Wheel Racing Museum has surrounded me with 1947 National Speed Sport News, 1953 Illustrated Speedway News, 1963 USAC newsletters, 1975 Tri-State Auto News, 1988 Manzy Mags, 1995 Open Wheel and 2006 Flat Out magazines. To see such dusty periodicals as buried treasure means that I am absolutely my father’s son. Knowing such research will pause for ten weeks in California makes me want to maximize data entry. At first, I did it for dad’s smile. Now I do it because it makes me smile.
I never plan to fall so deep into nostalgia that I ignore the history being written in 2015. ASCS Southwest sprint cars opened Saturday at the Central Arizona Speedway eleven miles from Casa Grande. Eleven Mile Corner actually named the dirt track on Pinal County Fairgrounds. Ascot’s brawlin’ biker Don Hawley beat Kansas City’s Dick Sutcliffe there after 1973 Western World. Hawley had a dispute with flagman that Sutcliffe settled with big right hand. Jimmy Sills beat Ron Shuman there in disputed 1984 event promoted by Shuman and Duke Cook. It has more bank than any Arizona oval but also the most desert-like soil. Top groove generally disappears during sprint heats. A-main chargers disappear over the hill. But those savvy enough to pedal and skate like desert fox Rick Ziehl found Casa Grande very racy. He pinned fellow New Mexico veteran Lorne Wofford in traffic to take $1500.
Another similarity shared by Bob Eckert & Son was our inability to bow out gracefully. When the paper popped out of the carriage, it was done.
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