As my octogenarianism grows into its fifth year, my mind continues to wonder as I wander.
Ford cars were part of my life in high school. The ’41, the pickup I crashed, several Model As, and the 1932 Ford two-door which two friends and I pooled part-time income to buy for racing. One George’s father was an aircraft mechanic and built the rollover cage for us. He also supplied the aviation four-point aviation safety harness.
One of the Sundays, I was holding my own against older much more experienced drivers. I was riding rather high into the first corner and trying to turn closer to the inside of the dirt oval. An experienced driver maneuvered me off the track. I went end over end. Those who were watching said I flipped once in the air and two more times contacting the ground.
I raced only one more time – mostly to prove I could, but I also left for National Guard camp the next week and the car was inoperative when I got back.