My
1994 Ford Explorer lumbers along Plank Road as a dirty blue sports
car suddenly careens from my rear-view mirror into
my side-view and zooms closer than it appears alongside me until
it veers in front, victorious. I must be going the right way.
A sign plainly labeled “Dragway” with an arrow confirms
this. I pass London United Methodist Church on my left. Its own
sign offers me this: “In the dark? Follow the Son.”
Instead I follow the impatient blue sports car, now a faint glimmer
of exhaust in the distance, as I’m certain we share final
destinations. A cemetery appears on my right, as if to say this
is your true final destination, but feel free to kid yourself in
the meantime. Too soon after seeing rows of graves lined up alongside
a long strip of asphalt, I arrive.
Milan Dragway holds hundreds of drag-racing events every year, playing
host to such classes as Jr. Dragster, Pro Stock, Pro Mod, Alcohol
Funny, and Top Fuel Dragster. The track is one-quarter mile of International
Harm Reduction Association-sanctioned drag strip. Typical race days
include Box, No-Box, and 10.5 Tire runs. I have no idea what any
of this means. I have little enthusiasm for cars going nowhere fast.
What does pique my interest, however, are man-made spectacles bordering
on the ludicrous, and once a year such an event takes place in this
little town mostly known as home of the correctional facility that
housed Dillinger’s girlfriend for two years in the early ‘30s.
Once a year, Milan witnesses the Jets of Fire.
The giant lawn was packed with cars three hours before the main
event. I follow the waving glow sticks of three young parking attendants
to a spot on the dying grass. Across the field, two sets of grandstands
watch over a long double strip of concrete. I hear crazed voices
coming from two loudspeakers, jutting out of what is labeled the
Timing Tower, pleading to the fans: “Make some noise! On your
feet! Get excited! Clap your hands!” From my admittedly poor
seat still in the parking lot, the crowd appears rather listless.
I exit the sanctity of my rundown SUV, enter through a gap in a
chain link fence, and make my way toward the smoke.
Even off the main track, wheels dominate the racing grounds. Kids
roll past on skateboards. A man scoots by on a white Spree. I approach
a line-up of muscle cars awaiting their turn on the strip—old,
burnt orange Dodge Chargers next to glossy, spruced up Ford Mustangs—
but my attention is stolen by a golf cart, the first of which I’ve
ever seen with purple flames emblazoned on its hood. A trio of men
look over a car behind this cart, priming for take off. One says,
“It’s colder; put a 68 on it.” I imagine sixty-eight
to be garage jargon for some steel object placed under the hood
to kick the horsepower up a notch in this unseasonable chilly August
weather. The other man complies, and paints the number ‘68’
in small, white lettering on the window.
It was now just past 8:00 p.m. Twelve hours earlier, time trials
began here. During the interim, this has been happening: two cars
of varying shape and size roll up to the starting line, spin their
wheels on the alcohol-soaked pavement below, send up wafting plumes
of thick smoke behind them, spurt ahead and stop abruptly, then
wait for the green light to burn. The drivers hit the gas and don’t
look back. A quarter mile and 6 to 10 seconds later, a screen flashes
each car’s top speed and running times. Repeat as necessary.
No wonder this crowd was looking a little drained. Sure, those first
couple of zooms and whooshes were impressive, and yeah, stunt motorcyclists
break up the monotony with some derring-do every few heats. But
twelve hours? Then again, perhaps the attendees were not responsive
to the announcers’ pleas for revelry because they simply couldn’t
hear them. Or anything, for that matter. After
20 minutes of tire squeals and roaring engines I had to leave the
immediate premises so as to allow the blood in my ears to coagulate.
Food sheds and novelty shops line the walkway behind the main grandstand,
with a steady flow of parents accompanied by small children approaching
for a look. One shop’s back wall, filled with tee shirts,
meets the adoring gaze of these young boys and girls with particularly
enlightening messages. “Hell’s full, so I’m back,”
touts an all black shirt. Another depicts a large, spiny cartoon
piranha, with the cleverly understated slogan “stupid dick.”
For those parents with finicky sons and daughters, “Hell Yeah
it’s Fast… Dumbass!” shirts come in four different
color schemes. My personal favorite of the bunch, “Gas comes
from a pump, Alcohol comes from a bottle… but Nitrous Rules!”
has a logic all its own. Thankfully for my own hope in America’s
tomorrow, most of the kids keep their eyes on the glass case underneath,
where plastic models and flimsy pennants sit harmlessly.
Past the hot dog vendors and soft pretzel stands, I encounter the
reason for my temporary stay in this place I know little about.
In front of me is a cylindrical jet engine, the same object usually
hanging off of an airplane’s wing, and what the bad guy gets
sucked into at the end of the overlong runway chase sequence. But
this time there is no plane and no bad guy. There is only Lou Sattelmaier
and his green and yellow Ford Probe chassis, which now holds a million
dollar J-60 Pratt Whitney engine capable of 6,000 pounds of thrust.
Oh sure, it’s sexy – attaining speeds of 271 m.p.h.
on a quarter-mile track makes it so – but it loses points
with the environmentally conscious: a naughty .005 miles to the
gallon, or 200 gallons of fuel for every mile.
The
driver of this impossible machine is sitting cross-legged, his old
bony knees wiggling slowly, in the open door to his trailer.
Three kids have him autograph their shirts while I stand nearby,
inspecting the tiny cockpit where this aging man allegedly sits
and encounters four g’s of force. The body of his car is littered
with stickers: “Rotary Automotive Lifts,” “Hawk
Brakes,” “Danger- Jet Blast.” Below the image
of a rippling American Flag lies the proclamation, “God is
my pilot.” Intrigued by this confluence of spirituality and
supersonic speed, I walk up to Lou to find out more.
Unfortunately, I could barely get a word in. Not to say that Lou
had a motor in his mouth to match his car – he is very soft-spoken,
and moves slowly when handing me a free 8 .5” x 11”
glossy of him and his Jet Funny Car. But after he invites me into
his trailer, (“To get away from all of the noise,” says
Lou. This, from a man who will drive inches away from a huge blasting
jet within the hour), a young boy comes up, asking for his signature.
Then another boy with the same request.
Then a grown
man approaches, and asks Lou if he gives speaking engagements in
the area. Clearly I must be missing something, as I don’t
see how an old man who drives 12,000 horsepower jet cars around
the country could fill a sixty-minute time slot at the Community
Center. Maybe it was oxygen I lacked, as the oily fumes of the trailer
air finally consumed me; I bid Lou a fond farewell. Using my razor-sharp
journalistic instinct as I walked away, I flipped the glossy photo
over to reveal a fuller picture of my popular new acquaintance.
For thirty years, “he has conducted thousands of school seminars,
encouraging a Godly, drug-free lifestyle” while racing across
North America alongside his son Bob. He is affiliated with both
D.A.R.E. and Racing For Christ organizations. I figure people must
listen pretty carefully to a man who speaks about God while regularly
surviving being propelled up to 300 m.p.h. in under 6 seconds.
Ten yards up the way, a sleek, skinny metal frame laboriously holds
another Jet. The engine resembles a gigantic bullet. Its driver,
Gary Dykema, has no ulterior motive of goodness when settling in
for a launch toward the horizon line. His reasoning is simple: “I
love going fast. I really like going fast.” He leans against
his now stationary dragster “Too Much” while explaining
to me the various switches and levers inside the cockpit and how
they dump the fuel, or light the chute, or pop the burner. His hair
is cropped close, and he can’t stand more than 5’5”
high. A helmet balances on one of the metal tubes, looking feeble.
The helmet’s paint job features a
fake cracked hole on the top, revealing pink, rippling brains underneath
.
“Ya know, I’m new at this,” Gary informs me. “This
is only the fourth time I’ve been in the car, so… it’s,
uh, it’s pretty exciting.” I glance at the brains. “I
mean, I’ve drag raced a lot and all, but I’ve never
went this fast before.” He has tried numerous times to get
his wife in the car with him, just to run it on a local track or
the public roadway equivalent of 8 Mile Road. Her response? “No
fuckin’ way.” Gary maintains that, “You gotta
feel what it’s like to go 200! ‘Cause I’ll go
200 on The Eight. Not without a problem, ya know.” I wish
Gary luck, and make a mental note about possible route changes next
time I drive downtown.
To some, the appeal of attaching jet engines to
cars whose motors have been scooped out like melon innards and then
racing said cars must seem obvious,
but I had no clue such manufacturing bravado still existed in today’s
world of Formica counter tops and spray-on butter. After seeing
these mechanical chimeras up close, and speaking with those who
gallantly tame them, risking so much for the delight of so few,
I started to view other cars as small, their drivers weak. When
I first arrived, I admit a part of me envied the self-assured cool
of these men and their powerful machines. But now, even the most
chiseled muscle cars seemed to lack a certain presence.
As if to push
my quickly forming bias over the edge, a flock of adult males race
gleefully by me on what appear to be grown-up Power Wheels. A
red ’78 Corvette exudes confidence and raw power; the same
car 1/10th the size has all the machismo of a bunless Gardenburger.
I walk by an ATV with heavy, off-road tires, two thick exhaust pipes,
and a Spongebob Squarepants pillow attached to the seat. All this
time I’d pictured gruff, burly men clinking wrenches together
in a toast to greasy, testosterone-filled, fast-lane livin’,
when really they’re more likely to clutch at their shiny toys
and cozy blankies. They’re really babies who cower behind
their axles and chrome. I must leave, lest I retain the feeble constitution
of those surrounding me—BOOM! A white Thunderbird revs its
engine as it roars past me, sending a whip-cracking backfire into
the night sky. A high-pitched whining noise lingers in the air,
which confuses me, until I realize it is my own girl-like yelp of
surprise and shock. I hurry to the VIP Tower, where I take in the
final heats before the main event.
From the darkened room I peer out the windows as the dual tracks
are being prepared for the ensuing launch. Squat, boxy vehicles
drive over the concrete lanes slowly, cleaning and dusting clear
the surface. The room is full of racetrack employees, or friends
of the drivers, or other people wearing special yellow bracelets.
I have no such wrist adornment, but nobody questions my status as
Very Important. I grab a free bottle of Pepsi, and take a seat at
the counter. The incessant calls of the broadcasters are muted behind
the glass, but crazed all the same. “Are you ready!? On your
feet, people! On your feet!” I hear one man in the room tell
two attentive youngsters, “It’s like a controlled explosion.”
Outside, a truck pulls Lou Sattelmaier’s Sonic Thunder II
up to the starting line. His son is already positioned in the other
lane. I notice the majority of those sitting in this thick-walled
booth raise their hands to the sides of their head. As final preparations
are made, I do the only logical thing: I go outside.
People expectantly shuffle about on the grandstand, some sitting,
some standing. Still others casually eat their popcorn, while the
anxious lean in closer, awaiting the first Jet to go. I quickly
make my way into the throng as the engines begin to whir. Smoke
pours out from behind the juiced-up funny cars. A high-pitched sound,
like blades spinning, slowly builds. As the decibel level rises,
the cars eagerly jump forward in fits and starts, each jump corresponding
with a plume of flame blasting out behind them. The racket is loud,
but not deafening; my hands hold my camera, pointed and at the ready.
Taking one last glance behind me at the crowd, seeing each pair
of ears covered, I second think my own hand placement just as the
Jets ignite. Pain rushes through my head
as the cars streak past, their presence quickly replaced by vapor
and the instant memory of their screeching fly-by. Before
the applause dies down, Gary’s dragster rolls into view. I
stuff my camera in my pocket, clutch my pulsating ears, and await
the fireworks.
“Six nineteen at two hundred and fifty-five, ladies and gentlemen!”
The announcers call out the Jet Dragster’s time and speed
to the stunned audience. Their crazed commentary remains muted,
although I now stand behind no glass window. I am now standing right
alongside a 3-foot wall, and that meager barrier is the only thing
separating me from the path of the Jet Semi-Truck that is being
rolled up towards me and three others who must have agreed with
me when they decided the sign reading “Due to Insurance Regulations:
NO Spectators Beyond This Point” must be some sort of hypothetical
gag. I do not wear the fancy laminated picture ID’s the others
display boastfully, but at the moment this is immaterial.
As the semi advances, gradually, everything begins to break down,
including tense agreement and point of view. Two streaks of flame
raised majestically out of chrome pipes atop the face of the semi.
I hear myself say, “Oh… God.” I feel the heat
plowing through the air, hitting my chest, and a siren summoned
from the double Jet Engines rips at my clothes. The truck blasts
forward shortly, then stops. I think I’m screaming and sweating,
but it is so hard to tell. A man in blue pulls me back, away from
the edge, ten seconds before the Apollonian chariot explodes, showering
sparks onto the posthumous asphalt while the crowd erupts in cries
of satiated amazement. One quarter mile down the track, a single
point of light travels upward and bursts into a flower of sparkling
color. The Grande Finale.
We drift down the bleachers as mosquitoes hover away from a dying
flame. The crowd around me is oddly silent, although I see their
mouths excitedly moving. Slowly, the volume fades in. “…wonder
what kind of people drive those things,” a voice to my right
exclaims. “From now on, this is the place to be,” another
adds. I do not feel compelled to speak, thus adding to the noise;
instead, inquisitive thoughts fill my throbbing head. Have I permanently
injured my hearing? Will this be in the Sports Page tomorrow? Did
Lou have hot sauce on his eggs this morning? Will my nearsighted
eyes become hawk-like and keen if, indeed, my ears are forever rendered
useless? Even with the shaking hands and imperceptible, perpetual
cotton stuffed in my ears, I feel good, and wonder why nobody had
ever told me about this before.
I stumble through the dusty field toward
my car, swathed in a cloud of hazy sound and sunspots. In
the quietude of the Explorer, a constant, high-pitched hum scores
the taking of these notes, like the murmur of a cooking microwave,
or the faint din that accompanies a television, burning in a dark
empty room. Cars anxiously line up in front of me as they await
the open road. I sit there, stationary and silent, and watch the
pairs of glowing red eyes float away into the distance.
A2P
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