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Speed, Spirits and Spunk

A ride on the wild side

by

Photo courtesy of the Richey Family

Photo courtesy of Georgia Automobile Racing Hall of Fame Association and the Mincey Family.

Photo courtesy of Georgia Automobile Racing Hall of Fame Association and the Mincey Family

Paul Doss Family photo

Randall Perry Motorsports Photography

Donated photo

Photo courtesy of the Ball family

By the age of ten, the boy had learned to drive and was delivering cars around Atlanta for his father’s paint and body shop. The tips he stuffed in his pocket—sometimes as much as a whole dollar—added up to good money in 1941, but he fancied more than tips and what little his father paid him for helping out. A few years later he had his own delivery business. But it wasn’t cars with fresh coats of paint and shiny new bumpers he was delivering. Fourteen-year-old Charlie Mincey was hauling moonshine.

Gutsy drivers like Charlie knew the hazards involved in getting moonshine to clandestine distribution points, usually urban centers with nip joints, shot houses or speakeasies, but their perceived invincibility—reinforced by youthful ambitions, devil-may-care attitudes, or even desperation—plus the lure of big money, were compelling incentives. In cars they’d modified for speed, handling and maximum cargo space, these drivers experienced more than the heady taste of distilled spirits; they got drunk on fear, on lightning-fast speeds and outrunning the law.

It was running ’shine, tripping, or hauling—transporting bootleg whiskey over twisty mountain roads and along dark stretches of blacktop, often while playing cat and mouse with revenuers—where mettle was tested, skills were honed, and the zeal to outrun federal agents led some drivers off the whiskey roads and onto dusty race tracks.

Seven nights a week, young Charlie drove from Atlanta to Dawson County, Ga.—a mecca for moonshine production—where he would load his hopped-up 1939 Ford with more than 100 gallons of moonshine then rush back to Atlanta, hopefully unnoticed. After tacking $1 per gallon to the price he’d paid just hours before, he sold his liquid cargo. The math was simple and the income mind-boggling for a teenager in the 1940s. It was lucrative, but risky. “I never got caught, but got jumped on a few times by the revenoors and was tangled up in some pretty good chases,” Charlie said. “It got scary when bullets started whizzing around.”  

The quick-witted, soft-spoken octogenarian now lives in Dallas, Ga. with Carolyn, his wife of 63 years. Charlie tripped moonshine, as he calls it, until his new bride finally put her foot down when he was 19. She didn’t mind his racing, which he did for more than three decades—breaking a few ribs and a lot more records—but disdained his illicit midnight runs. 

When a couple of Charlie’s friends built him a race car to get him off the road before he got caught or killed, he hit the dirt ovals and never looked back. He won his first two races in the jalopy class and immediately moved up to the sportsman class. Beating veteran racer Jack Smith in that first race proved just how much he’d learned on the whiskey roads. Charlie often would race in Chattanooga on Fridays, Cleveland on Saturdays then back across the Tennessee state line at Georgia’s Peach Bowl track on Sundays. He seemed unbeatable with as many as 22 wins out of 24 starts. Moonshine and dirt created a powerful combination for Charlie who retired in 1980. He was inducted into the Georgia Racing Hall of Fame in 2004, six decades after that first load of moonshine.

Reputedly, NASCAR great Junior Johnson of Wilkes County, N.C., was the most legendary moonshine runner. Like Charlie, Junior started hauling when he was 14. And also like Charlie, he never was caught behind the wheel. He was too fast, elusive and fearless. His pursuers, in their slower government-issue sedans—unless they happened to be driving a confiscated moonshine car—were hoodwinked by add-ons like under-dash toggle switches that shut off tail and brake lights, and maneuvers like the bootlegger’s turn—a sliding, high-speed, 180—that Junior could execute so skillfully he’d be heading in one direction, then thundering straight toward and past the Feds before they realized they’d left more skid marks in their BVDs than on the road.

When haulers like Charlie and Junior started congregating for impromptu races in corn fields and cow pastures across the south, wagering on who had the fastest machine and was the best driver, a lot of dust was stirred up. Before long, others in more respectable pursuits joined in. When word spread, spectators started showing up, promoters saw dollar signs and car racing accelerated into a national pastime.

Charlie insists stock car racing started in the dusty fields of Dawsonville, Ga., and many historians agree. Many also agree that illegal liquor gave rise to stock car racing, and NASCAR, which Bill France organized in Daytona Beach, Fla. in the late 1940s. Neal Thompson in “Driving with the Devil” said, “The sport’s distant, whiskey-fueled origins are usually wrapped into a neat, vague little clause—whose early racers were bootleggers.” 

Daniel Pierce, professor and chair, Department of History at the University of North Carolina-Asheville, grew up within earshot of the track in West Asheville, but was 40 years old before he attended his first car race. When he started researching his book, “Real NASCAR: White Lightning, Red Clay and Big Bill France,” he didn’t want preconceptions coloring things, but did admit, “I thought I’d prove the whole moonshine connection was overblown and exaggerated, but the deeper I looked, the more liquor I found. All the top racers hauled liquor. I was fascinated to learn it wasn’t just the drivers involved in the moonshining business, but also the mechanics, the promoters and track owners.”

Exploring NASCAR’s roots led Pierce into a deeper study of moonshining. The result was “Corn from a Jar: Moonshining in the Great Smoky Mountains,” a book that separates fact from fiction as it delves into the history of moonshining in the Smokies. Moonshiners may have been considered merchants of iniquity, but making moonshine was so deeply rooted in family tradition many felt it a God-given right. Every aspect of the business has been glamorized and sensationalized, with the participants being unjustly stereotyped as ne’er-do-wells when most were simply trying to survive in a region where poverty’s grip was especially tenacious. Pierce’s book humanizes the people for whom moonshining was a way of life.

Years before moonshine was hauled over Appalachian back roads in hopped-up vehicles, as soon as there were two cars, two drivers and a trunk-load of ego, car owners must have enjoyed flaunting their ride and their driving prowess. Some sources indicate the sport goes back to pre-World War I, gained popularity in the ’20s and ’30s, and really took off after WWII when returning GIs were craving the adrenaline rush they’d experienced in battle. That popularity led automobile manufacturers—who soon realized horsepower and stock car races sold vehicles—to battle it out on showroom floors as they made cars with more powerful engines available to the public, including an ever-increasing number of race fans.  

One of those fans is Debbie Bethune who grew up around the tracks in Chattanooga and Cleveland, Tenn. While her parents focused on the races, Debbie napped in the stands, somehow lulled to sleep by the rumble of engines and din of fender-benders. “My mom and dad were at Boyd’s Speedway in Chattanooga on a Saturday night in May, 1957, and I was born a little after midnight on Monday,” Debbie said. “I was swaddled and ready to make my debut at the track the following weekend. Dad always said that’s why I love fast cars.” She recalls her dad winning the chance to enter the pits where a wheelbarrow containing pennies had been set up. There he was allowed to grab as many coins as he could, stuff them in a cloth bag, and rush them back to the announcer to claim his prize. 

Folks loved the heart-pounding, rough and tumble action, but contests like the penny grab, and the circus-like atmosphere track owners created as a way to keep the grandstands filled were fan magnets. Track owners often booked Joie Chitwood’s Thrill Show featuring daredevil stunt driving and paid for antics like purposely flipping a car, as Paul Doss, the Flying Hill Billy of Calhoun, Tenn., did in the 1950s for $50. The stunts and gimmicks paid off, but the wrecks, spinouts, fires, and fights—either staged or real—brought fans to their feet and kept them coming back to the tracks.

In the early days of dusty, red dirt tracks when fans like Debbie’s parents flocked to the races, it was hazardous for drivers and fans. There were few protective barriers for spectators so many track owners began posting warnings. “Stock car races are thrilling, dangerous and spectacular,” they might say but were quick to add that management assumed no liability for injuries to person or property. In the 1950s, drivers wore hard-shell helmets, but there were no fire suits, and in the 1960s some drivers resorted to dipping their clothes in baking soda hoping to make them fire retardant. Generally, early racers wore whatever was most comfortable. A 1955 photo of racing legend Fonty Flock shows him strapping on his helmet before a race wearing a short-sleeved shirt, Bermuda-length shorts, knee socks, and what appeared to be a perfectly-polished pair of black wingtips.

Dirt tracks are still part of the racing scene. Tracks may be flat or steeply banked and are usually short—one half mile or less. The dirt can be any soil, but the favorite is clay, which generally is watered down pre-race, and sometimes mid-race, to keep the surface tacky. “Good dirt plays a key role in providing the best racing surface, along with the know-how in grooming the clay to offer drivers multi-grooves to maneuver their high-powered machines around the high banks,” said Phyllis Loven, co-owner with her husband, Joe, of Volunteer Speedway in Bulls Gap, Tenn.

Some refer to The Gap, known as Volunteer Speedway, as the world’s fastest dirt track. The 4/10-mile oval is banked at 32 degrees, and according to Phyllis, brings the “cream of the crop dirt racing world to East Tennessee.” Local and regional talent share Volunteer’s track with some of the nation’s biggest names and touring divisions on dirt. In 2010, during time trials for “Kasey’s King of Bulls Gap” World of Outlaws Sprint Car Series, NASCAR superstar Kasey Kahne thrilled the crowd by shooting around the track in a little more than 10 seconds—a speed of 140.378 mph. The Gap’s season revs up every year in March with the Spring Thaw and ends in the fall with a real Scorcher. 

Racing on dirt is, well, a dirty business. Joe Loven has to dodge the mud balls when he’s out on his Cat road grader preparing the track. And over the many years he’s been involved in racing—as a spectator, race car owner and now track owner—he’s seen a lot of dirt. The racing bug bit him 65 years ago at the dusty, 3/4-mile track in Charlotte, N.C. where he, his father and brothers attended NASCAR’s first Strictly Stock car event with more than 20,000 other spectators.

Shortly after the green flag fluttered in the hot Carolina wind, wheels snapped off, radiators became clogged with dust and engines stalled. The chaos included one driver running off the track to face the sting of defeat—he’d driven into a swarm of bees—and Lee Petty (Richard’s father) rolling a borrowed 1946 Buick four times. Glenn Dunnaway was declared the winner but was disqualified when it was discovered he’d raced a moonshine-hauling car. Second place driver, Jim Roper, moved into victory lane taking home the $2,000 purse.

Joe remembers that 1949 June race like it was yesterday. It had been particularly hot and dry in Charlotte, and the dust was so bad during qualifying that town officials threatened to shut the race down if promoters didn’t do something about it. “Everyone came out to see what stock car racing was all about,” Joe said. “And let me tell you, boy it sure was a dusty deal. The dust was so thick the flagman would periodically throw the caution flag to give the dust time to settle so both drivers and fans could see what was going on.”  

Dusty race tracks always have been part of Dale Ball’s life. “My first race was when I was 13 in a class called Six Cylinder 40 years ago. I didn’t have enough sense to be scared back then. These days, the only thing that scares me is fire. I’ve had a car to burn and it’s terrifying. I’ll admit I get a major case of butterflies on race day. I can’t eat. Don’t want anyone to talk to me. But, I’ve won around 150 races and once I’m out there, I’ve got nerves of steel. The kicker is it’s hard to get me on a stepladder over four feet high.” 

In his office at Twin D Auto Sales in Johnson City, Tenn., Dale and his sister, Linda, reminisced about their family’s racing history. They talked about their father, Walter, who started racing in the mid-50s, enjoyed a distinguished career and is remembered with the annual Walter Ball Memorial race at Volunteer Speedway. “Dad won over 400 races and captured championships at several local and regional tracks, including Volunteer where one year he had 19 wins out of 21 starts,” Dale said. “But after Mother died in 1978, he didn’t want to take the chance that his children could be without both parents so he hung up his helmet for good. But he loved racing and always stayed involved.” Linda recalled sleeping on an automotive creeper in the garage, working on engines alongside her dad and coming up short when trying her luck in a powder puff derby. 

“Dad drove number seven and recently I started driving a seven, but number 18 has special significance to me,” Dale said. “Dad was born on March 18. On his 70th birthday, I was at the track racing and he was in the infield pits rooting me on. I’d messed up and qualified 18th. On lap 18, they red-flagged the race, and it wasn’t long before I knew why. Dad had suffered a heart attack and died there at the track. We miss him but know it’s the way he would have wanted to go.” 

Dale’s countenance changed as quickly as one of Junior Johnson’s U-eys though as he recalled racing while his wife was in labor with their twin girls. “They still love the sport,” Dale said about his daughters, now 28. “Can’t keep ’em away from the track.”  

But there’s something missing for Dale in dirt track racing these days. “It’s the show! In the old days, it was almost like a carnival with the publicity stunts, fan involvement, but especially the fights. Those clashes between drivers seemed to break out at every race and sure did keep the grandstands filled.”

There was a time when $250 and a trip to the junkyard was about all it took to race. Today, racers dig deep in their pockets to come up with the thousands of dollars it costs to field a car. For a racer with few or no sponsors, it hits the pocketbook even harder. “The economy affects everything, and if fan base falls off because only a few cars are racing, the track eventually will be forced to shut down,” Dale said. 

In Cleveland, Tenn., Debbie and Ron Moore had grown accustomed to hearing the rumble and roar of engines at Cleveland Speedway from their home. The track, which legendary NASCAR driver Joe Lee Johnson once owned, shut down in 2013 after 59 years. “The silence was deafening,” Debbie said. 

Their love of history and desire to preserve it, along with the love of the sport, prompted Ron and Debbie to write and produce “It’s a Dirt Track Life: Memories of Dirt Track Racing from Dawsonville to Gatlinburg.” The 80-minute documentary is jam-packed with vintage photographs, old home movies from tracks in Tennessee and Georgia, interviews with moonshine runners turned dirt track racers and conversations with several racing pioneers. 

Appalachian State University also is preserving racing history with a comprehensive collection of stock car racing materials. “Everything we have in the Stock Car Racing Collection evokes memories, but one of my favorites is the G. Wayne Miller Collection of audio tapes. Miller’s book, ‘Men and Speed: A Wild Ride through NASCAR’s Breakout Season,’ follows the fortunes of Roush Racing. The collection consists of the many taped interviews he did with Jack Roush, his four drivers, and others in the industry. It is so revealing to hear these folks talk about their lives and work,” said Suzanne Wise, collection curator. 

In the “Men and Speed” documentary, Norm Benning, NASCAR Camping World Truck Series driver says, “…on dirt, horsepower means nothing, ergonomics means nothing; it’s all about what’s between the seat and the steering wheel.” But perhaps the most illustrative description of the sport is often screen-printed on fans’ T-shirts: asphalt’s for gettin’ there, dirt’s for racin’. 

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