My 70 Nova’s first trip down the track.

--- 🏁 “Black Thunder” — A Story of Firsts, Fury, and Freedom The sun was beginning to dip behind the grandstands at Haubstadt Raceway, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt and illuminating the haze of rubber smoke that hung in the air like a ghost of speed. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, engines snarled in the distance, and the scent of race fuel mingled with popcorn and burnt clutch. It was Friday night, and for 16-year-old Jake Mercer, it was more than just race night—it was the night he became a legend. Jake had spent the last two years wrenching in his uncle’s garage, trading weekends for wisdom, grease for grit. He’d mowed lawns, flipped burgers, sold old BMX parts online—anything to scrape together enough cash to chase the dream. And now, that dream idled beside him, rumbling like a caged beast. A 1970 Chevy Nova SS 396. Black as midnight. Four-speed Muncie. Keystone Classic wheels wrapped in fresh BF Goodrich Radial T/As. The kind of car that didn’t whisper “cool”—it screamed rebellion through dual Flowmasters. Jake climbed in, his heart thudding like a cammed-up big block. The interior smelled of vinyl and victory. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the Hurst shifter, the chrome ball cool against his palm. He glanced at the tach—needle bouncing just under 1,000 RPM. The Nova was alive, and so was he. He rolled forward slowly, tires crunching over loose gravel as he approached the burnout box. The track official gave him a nod, and Jake returned it with a grin that said, “I was born for this.” He stabbed the clutch, dropped the shifter into first, and revved the 396. The roar was thunderous, echoing off the bleachers. He dumped the clutch and mashed the throttle. The rear tires lit up instantly, smoke billowing as the Nova screamed in place. The crowd erupted. It wasn’t just a burnout—it was a declaration. Jake feathered the throttle, letting the tires spin just long enough to warm them, then backed off and rolled forward to stage. The Nova crept into the beams, its lopey idle pulsing like a heartbeat. He was lined up against a late-model Mustang GT, all tech and traction control. But Jake didn’t care. His car had soul. His car had scars. His car had him. The pre-stage light flickered. Jake took a deep breath, his foot hovering over the throttle, his left leg tense on the clutch. The Mustang bumped in. Stage lights locked. The tree began its descent—amber, amber, amber— Green. Jake launched. The Nova squatted hard, rear tires biting into the track like a rabid dog. The front end lifted just enough to make the crowd gasp. He slammed second—chirp. Third—another chirp. The tach needle danced, the exhaust note climbed, and the Nova surged forward like a freight train fueled by teenage dreams. At the stripe, Jake let off, coasting through the traps with a grin so wide it could’ve split his helmet. He didn’t care about the time slip. Didn’t care if he won. He’d just run his first 1/8 mile in the car of his dreams, and it felt like flying. He pulled into the return lane, heart still racing, the Nova burbling beside him like it was proud. As he rolled back toward the pits, people pointed, clapped, and nodded. One old-timer leaned over the fence and said, “That kid’s got it.” Jake parked under the lights, climbed out, and looked back at the Nova. The black paint shimmered under the sodium glow, the Keystone wheels still warm, the BF Goodrichs dusted with victory. He ran a hand along the fender, then whispered, “We did it, girl.” And somewhere in the distance, a Springsteen song played on a crackling PA system, as if the universe itself approved. ---

Memories of my teenage drag strip days

--- “Two Lane Blacktop” The old man stood at the edge of the soybean field, boots sinking into the soft October earth. The wind carried the scent of harvest and distant exhaust, but it was memory that made his eyes squint—not the sun. There used to be a drag strip here. Not just any strip. Two Lane Blacktop. A name that sounded like rebellion and rhythm, like a Springsteen lyric scrawled in tire smoke. It wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t safe. But it was sacred. Back in ’72, it was nothing but a stretch of county road with a few cones, a chalk line, and a crowd of grease-stained dreamers. Muscle cars lined up like gladiators—GTOs, Road Runners, Novas with headers that rattled the bones. The old man, then just Jimmy “Redline” McCall, ran a ’69 Chevelle SS with a 396 and a hood scoop that looked like it could inhale the moon. He remembered the ritual: the burnout, the rev, the silence before the green. And then—boom—the world narrowed to a quarter mile of fury. No sponsors. No trophies. Just pride and pink slips. Two Lane Blacktop was more than pavement. It was a proving ground. A place where heartbreak and horsepower collided. Where rivalries were settled with rubber and rumble. Where the local preacher once ran a ’68 Charger and baptized the crowd in nitro fumes. But time, like rust, crept in. By ’85, the county paved over the strip, planted soybeans, and posted signs: No Trespassing. The racers scattered. Jimmy parked the Chevelle in a barn and traded torque for timecards. The roar faded. Until today. He knelt and brushed away a patch of dirt. Beneath it, a ghost of the old chalk line shimmered faintly in the sun. He smiled. Not because he missed it—but because it had lived. And in his head, the engines fired again. The crowd cheered. The light turned green. Jimmy “Redline” McCall stood, wiped his hands, and whispered to the wind: “Two Lane Blacktop lives, if you remember how to drive.” ---