Stranger on Planet Drag

It's 10 pm as I watch a cherry '57 Chevy go through its technical inspection. I've been here for two hours, too intimidated to ask anybody for a race, and I'm starting to get antsy. If I don't do it now, I may never do it.

So I resolve: The next car that comes into tech is the one I race. I'll buttonhole the driver and suggest a matchup, and I don't care if it's John Force.

First the good news: The next car in is NOT John Force's 325-mph Mustang. It's an orange Jeep Cherokee. Other than a pair of neon tubes under the chassis, it looks bone-stock - right down to the all-season tires and the plausible amount of daily-life residue inside. As an opponent, it's no pushover - unlike its porky Grand Cherokee stablemate, the slab-sided original Cherokee is reasonably light, and the engines make earth-mover torque. But at least I can line up my Sonett next to it without feeling ludicrous.

Now the bad news: The Cherokee's occupants are a pair of young women, and they're stunningly beautiful. Dazzling. Heart-stopping. Although I'm twice their age, suddenly I feel like a pizza-faced teenager trying to work up the nerve to ask out the prettiest girl in school. To my own surprise, I manage to get the words out: "You two looking for a race?"

Waves of relief. These Planet Drag goddesses are approachable, charming, even friendly. Yes, they say, they want to race. They're sure I'll beat them, but they'd like to try it.

They extend hands to shake, and introduce themselves, politely, as Regan and Kate.

"We're new at this," they laugh. "We don't even have helmets!" I suspect that anybody who looks like Regan or Kate won't have much trouble borrowing a helmet from the young guys lining the pitlane - and I'm right. In minutes we're paired up in the long double row of cars inching toward the start line.

Street-style drag racing is simple. You sit in line side-by-side with your opponent until you reach the start line. A spotter signals you to stop so the cars are exactly even. In front of you, between the two lines of cars, stands a starter. He points one hand toward the inside car, looks the driver in the eye, and nods: ready. He repeats with the outside car: ready.

Then he sweeps both hands downward, and the race is on.

I can't help feeling keyed up as we approach the start line. Never mind what Regan says, I don't expect to win: with her big engine and automatic transmission, all she's got to do is keep her foot down, and she's bound to pull away from me. But I'm hoping that with the Sonett's light weight and low gearing, I can at least jump ahead off the line and make it look respectable. All those spectators sitting off to my left in the dark - I want them to see a race.

Over to my right, Regan and Kate don't seem to be feeling the pressure. Regan, behind the wheel, is social: young guys stroll by, stop dead in their tracks as they catch sight of her, exchange a few words. Kate, I suspect, is the duo's satiric commentator: After each visitor departs, the two women talk, then she throws back her head in laughter. I try not to think about what she might have said about me.

Two places back from the start line, Regan's cell phone rings - and she answers it! Her borrowed helmet is a full-face type, and it takes her a few moments to figure out how to fit the tiny phone inside the chin bar. Then: "I can't talk right now, I'm about to race... no, I'm racing, in my Jeep... oh, against a little orange Saab... look, call me back in 10 minutes, okay?" No pressure here, no pressure at all.

I wish I could say I made a race of it. In fact, my engine bogged as the starter dropped his hands... then, as it caught, the torque tightened up the driveline and I had to fight to catch second gear. By the time I had it, Regan was halfway down the strip.

Now there's nothing to do but trail the Cherokee ignominiously around the road course to the pit-lane exit. As I do, I realize I hadn't even gotten a picture of my opponents. Damn, failure as both a drag racer and a photographer!

Back in the pitlane, I discover that I'm only the first of Regan and Kate's many conquests, on-track and off.

<BACK | HOME | NEXT >


It's 10 pm as I watch a cherry '57 Chevy go through its technical inspection. I've been here for two hours, too intimidated to ask anybody for a race, and I'm starting to get antsy. If I don't do it now, I may never do it. So I resolve: The next car that comes into tech is the one I race. I'll buttonhole the driver and suggest a matchup, and I don't care if it's John Force. First the good news: The next car in is NOT John Force's 325-mph Mustang. It's an orange Jeep Cherokee. Other than a pair of neon tubes under the chassis, it looks bone-stock - right down to the all-season tires and the plausible amount of daily-life residue inside. As an opponent, it's no pushover - unlike its porky Grand Cherokee stablemate, the slab-sided original Cherokee is reasonably light, and the engines make earth-mover torque. But at least I can line up my Sonett next to it without feeling ludicrous.

Now the bad news: The Cherokee's occupants are a pair of young women, and they're stunningly beautiful. Dazzling. Heart-stopping. Although I'm twice their age, suddenly I feel like a pizza-faced teenager trying to work up the nerve to ask out the prettiest girl in school. To my own surprise, I manage to get the words out: "You two looking for a race?"	Waves of relief. These Planet Drag goddesses are approachable, charming, even friendly. Yes, they say, they want to race. They're sure I'll beat them, but they'd like to try it. They extend hands to shake, and introduce themselves, politely, as Regan and Kate.	"We're new at this," they laugh. "We don't even have helmets!" I suspect that anybody who looks like Regan or Kate won't have much trouble borrowing a helmet from the young guys lining the pitlane - and I'm right. In minutes we're paired up in the long double row of cars inching toward the start line.

	Street-style drag racing is simple. You sit in line side-by-side with your opponent until you reach the start line. A spotter signals you to stop so the cars are exactly even. In front of you, between the two lines of cars, stands a starter. He points one hand toward the inside car, looks the driver in the eye, and nods: ready. He repeats with the outside car: ready. Then he sweeps both hands downward, and the race is on.

I can't help feeling keyed up as we approach the start line. Never mind what Regan says, I don't expect to win: with her big engine and automatic transmission, all she's got to do is keep her foot down, and she's bound to pull away from me. But I'm hoping that with the Sonett's light weight and low gearing, I can at least jump ahead off the line and make it look respectable. All those spectators sitting off to my left in the dark - I want them to see a race.	Over to my right, Regan and Kate don't seem to be feeling the pressure. Regan, behind the wheel, is social: young guys stroll by, stop dead in their tracks as they catch sight of her, exchange a few words. Kate, I suspect, is the duo's satiric commentator: After each visitor departs, the two women talk, then she throws back her head in laughter. I try not to think about what she might have said about me.	Two places back from the start line, Regan's cell phone rings - and she answers it! Her borrowed helmet is a full-face type, and it takes her a few moments to figure out how to fit the tiny phone inside the chin bar. Then: "I can't talk right now, I'm about to race... no, I'm racing, in my Jeep... oh, against a little orange Saab... look, call me back in 10 minutes, okay?" No pressure here, no pressure at all.

I wish I could say I made a race of it. In fact, my engine bogged as the starter dropped his hands... then, as it caught, the torque tightened up the driveline and I had to fight to catch second gear. By the time I had it, Regan was halfway down the strip. Now there's nothing to do but trail the Cherokee ignominiously around the road course to the pit-lane exit. As I do, I realize I hadn't even gotten a picture of my opponents. Damn, failure as both a drag racer and a photographer! Back in the pitlane, I discover that I'm only the first of Regan and Kate's many conquests, on-track and off.