By George J. Kimble
Late fifties and early sixties
There were places oh so nifty
Little rings wound so tight
They ran the dirt on Saturday night
Remove
the fenders and blueprint the block
Weld up a roll cage and call it stock
Lots of iron front and back
Local heroes run these tracks
Groove their tires to get some bite
Brightest paints stand out at night
No big sponsors in their story
These guys run, just for glory
Quarter mile tracks in the dirt
Big men wearing jeans and T-shirts
Places where young men get their start
Lust of victory in their hearts
At locales like Dunkirk and Waterloo
These men had their battles to do
Earl Bodine and Jackie Soaper,
And Chubby Chandler at Chemung were super
Selins Grove, Towanda and Dundee
Just plain folks would come to see
The great racers of the U.S.A.C. circuit
Irish Jack Murphy, Noland Swift and Harry Pruitt
I was just a small boy then
But every day I longed for the weekend
Pop, big brothers and I would go
Then ol’ “39” behind the Buick we would tow
He picked the number like Jack Benny
Pop was past that age and plenty
Younger men drove his cars
A couple of them became big stars
One young man I recall
Who seemed a notch above them all
He won the championship in modified stock
That man was called Gordon Johncock
My fondest season was when Pop built the Eagles
These were cars with rear engines that were “legal”
Spoiler up front and wing in back
These were built for the Macadam tracks
Now I turn on the TV and watch my Heroes’ kids
Speed around the tracks and try not to skid
These are the great drivers of Nascar
Man this sport has gone so far!
My friends looked up to baseball stars
And couldn’t fathom what I saw in those cars
They probably thought I was a dud
All my Heroes played in the mud
As sure as God made men from clay
I remember those golden days
Dirt tracks are in my blood
And all my heroes were made from mud
By George J. Kimble
Like vultures around and around they circle that track
Nittering, nattering, a darting attack
So many growling howling competitors a pack
The Jackals the Jaguars the Cobra that spat
Pieces and parts disemboweling some
Blistering tiger paws and on they run
From high noon past the setting sun
The chase will grind on until one day is done
The Porsches scrambled and shrieked and spun by the side
The Ferraris like a prancing horse in fits just died
Lotus and Mercedes on turn one in flames collide
Through anguish and smoke and debris one Corvette did slide
Like a glistening gem on a sand laden coast
Daytona’s road straights and sinews demand the most
Endurance of twenty-four hours the banners menacingly boast
As the flags of checkered unfurl all but a few will be just ghost
On the altar in front of racing’s majestic court
On the podium arises the king of this sport
From lands and countries afar the enthusiast exhort
The winner, the champion, the blue and white Corvette Gransport
By George J. Kimble
In 1966 we took a little trip
Across the Canadian border to the province of Quebec
We took a little oil, and we took a little gas
And we took some Good Year tires, and we took a little cash
The “General” said, “We could take ‘em by surprise”
If those tires would stick, and we didn’t try to slide
Ol’ Mosport was a really slippery track
So we mounted up some rain slicks, and made another lap
‘bout this time, the rain was pourin’ down
We doubled up the wipers, and made another round
Bumps in the corners started shakin’ things all loose
Our left rear shock nearly brained a grazing moose
Through three more turns our Corvette had to limp
We were caught on TV, with pictures from the blimp
We didn’t know for sure how bad was the bust
On a loyal pit crew, we had to lay our trust
We
pitted real quickly, when it began to thumpin’
Everyone else got out kinda slow
We started passin’ Porsches like they weren’t a runnin’
We didn’t believe, that was as fast as they could go
We ran through the esses, and we ran through the corners,
And we ran through the nineties, where the Jags couldn’t go
We ran so fast that we began a lappin’
The fans all said, “We were puttin’ on a show
We pulled into second as a Lotus left the road
It flipped and it flopped and it looked just like a toad
And the team for them Porsches was all set to crow
When the white flag dropped with one more lap to go
On his rear bumper, we set the Gransport’s sights
And just kept pullin’ closer, through the left and rights
We stretched out our necks, to see the pit board sign
As the two battlin' heroes came across the line
We roared o’er the hills and down through the hollow
We gave it all we had ‘cause we didn’t want to follow
The margin of victory surely was real thin
As our Corvette passed him just in time to win
If you can’t remember this little bit of history
The legends of Gransports might be just mystery
We asked for no mercy and gave out no pity
Maybe you’ll remember the Gransports, from this little ditty
So we fired our engines and we kept on a racin’
And there wasn’t any tracks where we wouldn’t go
We ran at Lemans and we ran down at Sebring
And we even ran a race down in ol’ Mexico
And we ran so fast that nothin’ could catch us
And the fans all came out, to see the Corvettes go
By George J. Kimble
From an ideal a team was fashioned
Dedicated to racing with a passion
Four hardy soles, four men of action
To challenge the world would be their satisfaction
They knew that there wasn’t much time
They had to hurry to complete their design
Respect for American cars was in decline
They’d race in Europe from England to the German Rhine
At events like Karlskoga, Lemans and Nurburgring
The winners were Mercedes, Lotus and Citron things
So onto the Continent a Corvette they would bring
Confident the Corvette could deliver a sting
They worked many nights, their fingers to the bone
They painted the Corvette blue and white two-tone
With no factory help they were on their own
The first big race was to be Silverstone
With no time for testing they would tempt their fate
To face Moss, and Villenuve and the legendary greats
Onto a boat the Corvette was packed in a crate
Then because of customs the car arrived late
Depressed, they left England and headed to France
On the Continent no one gave them a glance
All the big boys didn’t even give them a chance
They weren’t waltzing Matilda. This was the big dance
On they pressed to improve the car
They tuned the suspension with a larger sway bar
Bigger brakes were mounted so they could stop hard
Then vents were ducted behind the tires
Bolted on koni shocks to make it more stable
And a 37-gallon tank was mounted with aircraft cable
Now at Lemans they were ready and able
As they filled out the papers at the registrars table
A sleek machine of exceptional grace
Radically modified to win the race
In the time trials it set the pace
The Corvette was driven by an Ace
During the race their confidence was growing
Twelve hours down and the Corvette was still going
After dark one headlight stopped glowing
They finished the race without anything blowing
American pride swelled up in their chests
With a great honor they had been blessed
All the Europeans humbly confessed
That mighty Corvette had them impressed
Now it was long ago in 1960
That Corvette team performed with such dignity
American daring against European Society
I tip my hat and salute the Corvette team Camoradi
By George J. Kimble
It all got started when he was very young
He was a competitor marching to a different drum
He
was something, a phenomenon on wheels
He was blessed with a touch, a natural feel
He started out winning, driving a go-cart
He was ruthless, a predator at heart
At age 16 he drove his first sprint
He won everything, everywhere he went
No sponsor would back him or give him a deal
He was an intimidator; he had no public appeal
Traveling the country, he beat the local heroes on their own track
He ignored their jeers and even painted his car black
He was a nightmare; the fans loved to hate
He came to your track intending to dominate
He would spin a few hot laps at a torrid pace
Then at the end, he would sling mud in your face
He won in the Northeast and he won out West
His reputation was growing; they called him the best
Romance was not part of his tortured dreams
He dreamed of winning in his racing machine
Like a bounty hunter the circuits he would roam
All the time he prowled, solitary, alone
No helpers, no soul mate, no place to call home
Never a smile or kind word at any speed drome
Then it happened, His life was forever changed
He noticed a girl smiling and felt very strange
He never saw anyone do that before
She came to the pits and knocked on his trailer door
Where ever he went on his racing mission
She would suddenly appear like an apparition
Although he kept driving and winning often
His technique was changing; his style had softened
While towing his racer in a driving rain
A careless driver crossed into his lane
He tried to avoid it, but the tires slipped
The trailer he was towing turned and flipped
There was no witness, and no one to blame
The trooper at the scene, said it was the rain
It was reported, in the newspaper, near the back
An unknown driver was killed leaving the racetrack
The girl's sister found her reading and crying
She said she loved him, and she wasn’t lying
I don’t know, but I’m fairly sure
His style had changed because he loved her
When I’m at the track and the race is called due to rain
I choke back tears and try to clear my brain
His drive to win had an awful cost
But most of all I mourn her loss
He won everything except his fate
He never kissed her; they never did date
Now she cries whenever it rains
Because she is the only one that remembers his name
By George J. Kimble
No tell, Motel
Slick Chick,
Puttin’ on lipstick,
Back step, gotta prep
Pullin’ on a dip stick
Nightmares, who cares
Outta the groove, busta move
Too tight, too loose
Pit crew, that's you
Speed kills, gives her thrills
No sweat, you bet, no regret
Motor drones, girl moans, you’re alone, call home
Pack it up. Pack it in
Take your best
shot. Try to win
Tires turn, rubber burns, you learn
You cry, mystified, she likes another guy
Road show, gotta go, no time for the ho
Saturday night, wound tight, Bullring another fight
Banked steep, dive in deep, you beat the other creep
Checkered flag, what a drag, you’re still dancin’ stag
Heart’s broke, life’s a joke, recalculate bore and stroke
No glory, simple story
Just a wrench, on the bench
Loose lug, no hug, let her go with a shrug
Off course, no remorse
Hit the wall, awful force
No tell, Motel
Her racing thing has gone to hell
By
George J. Kimble
Way up in New York’s evergreen woods
A trailer up on blocks precariously stood
Out in the yard lay several cars
A couple looked like they fell from Mars
Rusting and battered hulks from the past
Everyone out there with busted glass
Little of creature comfort around this place
This is not about trailer trash, but about a man born to race
He could drive anything with wheels
Around here, he’s what they call, “the real deal”
“That boy would race anything from the time he was small”
“Bicycles, tractors, dirt bikes, go carts, he raced them all”
He was sixteen when he went to work in a lumber yard
He didn’t like the work, it was too damned hard
The boss saw him racing a forklift and he got fired
He told his daddy, that he had just retired
He had nothing, not a penny to his name
Somehow, he figured racing would be his claim to fame
Pastures, fields, dirt tracks, short tracks, high banks, paved
Every where he went the folks just raved
Along about then some folks with big time money
Decided they would recruit “Little Brownie”
They hired the best mechanics and built up a team
They constructed for him, a Super Stock Racing Machine
It had a sponsor’s name on the side
Little Brownie had a big time ride
He was a competitor so lion hearted,
He was always in the money, no matter where he started
Drive hard, deep into the turn
Never give a thought of crash and burn
He was amazing, cunning, and daring
To him the lead, wasn’t at all, about sharing
He ran World of Outlaws then Silver Crown
Open wheeled machines, world renowned
He lapped the country on hundreds of tacks
He was a success and would never look back
But time and age are the same for every man
They respect nobody’s plan
The edge gets dull and harder to find
Those wrecks and injuries start to haunt the mind
As he aged, his skills became more corroded
His sponsor’s love for him slowly eroded
On the circuit, he was distinguished
His fire is low, but not extinguished
His eyes sparkle; his head is gray and his body frail
And to any passerby he will tell his tales
He will tell you, as around the yard he limps
He saw fame, but just a glimpse
He told me this and I’m sure he knows
“A racing life is a hard row to hoe”
“Some end up healthy”
“Some even end up wealthy”
“Some just slowly fade away”
“Some even leave a family to grieve and pray”
As he speaks, it all becomes abundantly clear
He followed his dream for many, many years
He pulls up a rocker to lighten his load
Love for Brownie was an Oval Road
Seated on his porch next to a broken down AMC Pacer,
Is what remains of “The Super Stock Racer”