02/03/07

I've talked many times about heroes and heroism. I've also said I had no heroes.

Recently, from out of the blue I recieved an email. The person who had sent it didn't know me, had never to the best of my knowledge met me, and, other than to read one of my stories, had never had contact with me in my life, other than to shake my hand in the pits of Langley Speedway once or twice.

I wrote about him in "Trophy Dash". (If you haven't read it, this entry might not make much sense)

Fortunately for me Doug Firth understands fiction, and also understands the memories of eight-year-old children. Much in that story was fiction. He is in fact, an articulate, intelligent, caring man, I never mentioned that in the story. He is a proud man, I never mentioned that either. He loved to race, and raced well, that I did say. I portrayed him as someone who never won. That was fiction. He won many a race. He took pride in his car, and he did proud each and every one of his sponsors.

I want to thank Doug for bringing me back some realizations and memories of that time.

I also want to thank Doug for helping me understand that I do have heroes. I never thought I did, but I do. I have always had heroes but never realized it. The heroes I had never knew that they were, and never tried to be. They were just good men.

That doesn't mean that they just became my heroes, oh no. That means that their heroism was so simple, honest and unassuming that I didn't notice it until just now.

Every Saturday night I would lay in bed, much later than I'd normally be allowed to. My ears would still ring from the howling of the engines. I'd still be smelling the tire smoke and hot oil, the streaks of colour from the racing cars would flash past my closed eyes and I'd fall asleep with the voice of the announcer echoing through my head.

Saturday night was race night in the summer. We'd all troop down to the local race track and watch the cars howl around that 3/8 mile oval. We'd eat french fries there on the grassy hill. We'd shout to one another and into the night as the barking of headers would blot out all sound.

We followed the racer's standings all summer and discussed their cars at school in the off season. We'd stand impatiently at the guardrail as the last cars idled into the pits after the last main event. We'd wait there until we were allowed to cross the track into the infield and see those men standing there laughing and joking. The track was always so much bigger from there than it was from the stands.

Those men were real, unlike the sports gods on TV today. I had to go no further than down to the corner for gas with my father to see my idols. In the bay at Brodoway Shell would sit Modified Stock # 4 "Good 'ol Charlie Brown" Blue with white nerf bars and pipes and a chevy straight 6 engine. The driver was Lloyd Bellamy the manager of the local Super Value store. Gordy Hemrich drove a super stock and could be seen any given day working in the mechanic's bay of Hemrich Brother's Shell station in Richmond. Every Saturday afternoon those guys drove past my house with their cars on trailers in a parade that was as entertaining as the races themselves. They were there, in the community around me every day. Their cars could be seen in driveways, carports and garages everywhere in town. They were approachable, they were genuine, and they were human.

Every Saturday night though, we'd press our grubby faces to the chain-link fence as they wheeled into the winner's circle and accepted their trophies. We'd cheer ourselves hoarse in the dusty night air as they circled that track, their helmets whipping back and forth as they diced for position. Every Saturday night I went home and dreamed of being one of them.

Doug Firth read my story and, among a number of other historic inaccuracies mentioned that he never knew anyone who raced at Langley Speedway by the name of Charlie Greenaway who drove a red '34 Ford sedan. Well, I'll tell you right now that Charlie was there. I was him, he was me.  I have no idea where the name Charlie Greenaway came from, It was just my name. Saturday night, late, after I came home and got into bed I'd become Charlie Greenaway. In my red '34 sedan I'd be out there battling under the lights with the likes of Bellamy, Firth and the rest. Sometimes I'd win and sometimes I'd lose, because that's what I saw them do. They didn't always win but they always fought it to the end or until something let go. They'd race from flag to flag unless they piled up or broke down. So would I. There in bed my eight year old arms would grip the steering wheel and my head would slice back and forth looking for an opening, I'd watch their wheels edging dangerously close to mine. I'd downshift hard as I entered the turns and hammer my throttle down to gain the edge as we shot out onto the straightaway. Sometimes I'd pass them, sometimes not. Sometimes my floater would catch that goddamned curb and I'd spin into the infield. That's where I'd go in my mind and heart until I fell alseep.

Charlie Greenaway has been with me ever since. He's always been with me when things got rough, reminding me to race hard  but race fair. To lose rather than pile up another guy and to steer into the skid. Charlie taught me to enjoy winning but to race for fun, not for trophies. Charlie taught me to lend a part to a competitor who needed it so that he could make it out for the next heat. I dunno about everyone else on that track. but Charlie believed in a clean race. He wasn't the best out there, but he was pretty good. His car's headers always crackled loud and a long shot of flame would snap out as the engine backfired when he went into the turns... God but he was cool.

Charlie was everything I saw those men do. Sure, I'm no fool, I'm know there were some cheaters and guys who raced to win and for nothing else, but I never saw them. I saw the guys who backed off the throttle rather than put a guy into the wall, I saw the guys who left their own cars in the pits and swarmed a competitor's broken down car to get it ready for the next race, even though he might win the next one, sometimes BECAUSE he might win the next one. I saw the losers cheer for the winners. I walked around the pits and shook their hands. I looked into their eyes and spoke to them, watched them, learned from them. Today, at 40 years old I still listen to Charlie. He still has lots to teach me. He still has to remind me sometimes to race hard but race clean and to be a good sport.

Those men were my heroes. Unbeknownst to them they touched the lives of hundreds of kids, no, thousands.They did what real heroes do. They set a good example. They were ordinary men who did the right thing because it was the right thing to do. They were men who could be seen and talked to, who would shake your hand and sign your program, they would take a minute and talk to a kid, let him sit behind the wheel of their car, smell the hot oil, and imagine he could reach the pedals. They were good sports, and for the most part, raced hard and fair.

I never knew I had heroes before, but I did. Those were the men I imitated, those were the men I tried to be. Those were the men that surrounded me at high speeds and made me earn the wins and accept the losses.

No, I've never actually raced like they did, I've never known those summer nights as anything but a wide-eyed kid. Langley Speedway went out of business 20 years ago. The track is still there though, overgrown with weeds, but still black, smooth and wide.

I never drove that '34 sedan, I drive a Firetruck but at least it's red.

One night 17 years ago we got a call to a choking child.

I'll never forget that evening, early summer with the sun just gone past the horizon. Our old pumper was, a '72 Chevrolet three-ton short wheelbase cabover. She had a 427 four-barrel 5-speed. She was pretty snappy when she needed to be.

I know I'm bragging, but that pumper had never moved like she did that night. The gears never ground like they often did. She took turns at speeds way past her design limits, but she held the pavement and stayed upright. Twice on the way there she four-wheel drifted through sweeping bends. The throttle stayed down, backed off just enough to slide where she should, the wheel turned just enough to steer her into the skid,  then back down hard again as the pavement straightened.

We got there, the crew cleared the kid's throat and had her breathing by the time the ambulance arrived.

I didn't touch the kid that night, I just stayed there in the driver's seat smelling tire smoke and hot oil. I heard the announcer and tasted the french fries.

Charlie wasn't the best out there, but by god, he was pretty good.
 
 

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