McBride’s Way Or The Highway
My name is Michael McBride and I’m from Horseshoe Bend, North Carolina, which, as the saying goes, is closer to the ground than anything else.
I started racing back in the early days when there was more fun than money in the sport.I have never driven a car into a swimming pool or put a mule on the second floor of a hotel. But I must confess that I once drove backwards into the scoring stand to register my disgust about officiating one night at the Tri-Counties half-mile, but only after spinning two 360’s to gain momentum and to avoid looking like I was doing it on purpose. You never know when a little demolition derby experience might come in handy — and a steel re-inforced rear bumper. It turned out some floorboards got knocked loose in the scoring tower that led people to follow some steps down to an underground still, a discovery for which I’m still famous, har-har. I’m here today because Jonathan, one of my old racing buddies, was not available to write his usual Monday Morning Crew Chief column. So I’m steppin’ in just like any real crew chief to show Jonathan how it’s done. We’d hang his lazy ass from the nearest oak in the meantime, but evidently his beer consumption is down (in favor of whiskey probably) and he’s so damned skinny he’d just flap around in the breeze.
The number one problem facing motor racing these days is a lack of understanding. Take NASCAR, for instance. Everybody has a solution for NASCAR’s problems with declining attendance and TV ratings. Maybe Brian France is trying to give NASCAR universal appeal in a way that’s draining the passion, which will cripple it faster than a holed radiator.
Take away points for fighting only if they use tools, I say. Give ‘em fines for expletives only if they use four syllables. Find some TV producers who understand side drafting — or rakin’ as my ol’ buddy Earnhardt used to call it — for what it is: brass knuckles in a velvet glove. Above all, track owners can help by bringing ticket prices back to where you don’t need to find a Wall Street investor to afford a weekend at the track.
Ron Dennis is another guy who appears to be finding the handle awful slippery. Back when I knew him from his Formula 3 days and later during those wacky nights at Watkins Glen, he was more inclined to be himself, which I got to admit was always a little weird. Even back then as an F1 team owner he seemed to think he occupied the planet Earth and everyone else was out around, say, Pluto.
Nowadays Ron seems to be the one in the odd axis, a lone ranger. Take it from your pal Michael and get a grip, old man, and borrow a page from Frank Williams. Take two lawyers to the track in the morning at Brazil and fire Fernando Alonso the second the checkered flag waves. You’ll feel a lot better no matter what the outcome of the race.
As for Max Mosley, back in my sports car racing days I met him while he was chairman of the manufacturer’s commission for Group C. I asked him for his viewpoint on a few of the pertinent issues of the day and he replied with candor, or so I thought. I read in Autosport magazine a couple of weeks later statements that were diametrically opposed, but more likely to pave the way to the FIA presidency. Hmmm. He carries enough hindquarters for an oak tree, which perhaps should be located before the signing of the next Concorde Agreement.
Welp, there’s no need to take exception in all directions. If IndyCar racing keeps concentrating on ovals, adds a few street courses to bring the heroes of Indy to the people and runs a couple circuits laid out like the roads back home in North Carolina, then the driving talent will keep coming along with the sponsors. Lord knows the hills and valleys, deserts and plains of America are chock full of series for those spindly little starter cars and there’s got to be some home-bred talent and interest in its draft, guys who can sell tickets. Tony George just may yet prove he can carry the ball if those grass roots ever get to growing.
Speaking of growing and grass roots, drag racing’s growing like somebody has figured out how to make it go without tobacco money. It seemed to have fallen into a manure pile after Winston got overly addicted to pushing nicotene and had to quit. But these days drag racing smells more like money than ever before without forgetting the fans pay the bills, roll on Wally Parks.
Sports car racing has been one of my favorite departments since I scored a demolition derby victory in a Porsche 944 with a tube frame chassis built by Richard Childress Racing. Those boys on the endurance racing side are fighting one another like Champ Car and IndyCar back in the 1990’s. The racing’s good in both places and probably will stay that way as long as Wall Street’s on the upswing since those sporty car team owners usually carry sponsorship in their wallets.
One side’s got Daytona in its holster and the other side’s got the Le Mans 24-hour. One side runs its races like demolition derbies — which are kindly unique and close to my heart — and the other one has cars so damned fast they could have run with my daddy’s old cherry Ford, the one stuffed with a Cadillac ambulance engine supercharged by Junior Johnson.
There are some new styles of competition out there, too, but I’m none too certain about them. It’s mostly car shows on wheels, if you get my drift. I’m not even certain my dog Sheba would chase those guys.
Michael McBride can be reached via jonathan@jingrambooks.com.
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