The Crittenden Automotive Library

Hot Rods to the Rescue

Hot Rods to the Rescue

Hot Rods and Racing Cars Issue #1
November 1951

When Jerry Donahue, president of the General Organization of the Ridgeway County High School wanted to be stubborn he could beat any mule at tha tgame. And just now he looked as mad as he could be as he arose from his seat in the council room of the school. His wavy carrot colored hair was bunched up on his head and his two large brown eyes seemed to gaze at his classmates in anger. "What's the matter with us?" he half shouted. "Are we just plain dumb oxen or did our brains dry up during the hot spell? We got to raise ten thousand dollars for that operation or Ray Conrad will be a cripple the rest of his life. Three specialists have examined Ray. They all say there is only one man who can do the job. And he is Dr. Hans Kromeister of Switzerland. What's the matter with you fellows? An idea to raise the cash, who has that idea?"

Chubby Burt Hines, representative of the sixth terms, got up. "I'm not going to suggest we rob a bank or try to run a varsity show for the money. Our principal, Dr. Robert Lodie, will back us in any plan. A raffle is out of the question because the State's Attorney notified the Board of Education it is illegal in this state regardless of the purpose. Well, last night I had a dream."

"Who want to hear your dream?" interrupted Morris Sharftman, seventh term representative. "Dreams are a dime a dozen. We need some brainstorm that will shower down cold cash for us. Got that brainstorm, Burt?"

"I got just what is needed to get the cash," shot back Burt in no uncertain tone of voice. "Yesterday the paper called us the Hot Rod Kings of Ridgeway County. They said the way we souped up our old cars was something that ought to make the auto manufacturers take notice. So there's our brainstorm to raise the cash. Why not a Hot Rod Cash Raising Contest? We could have a race at the old Wilton Track provided the bank would let us use the property?"

The fourth termers had elected Steven Silver as their representative on the school council and thin as he was, Steve was honor bound to always have his say. "All we have to do with that old Wilton Track is fill in the holes on the runway, repair the fences, fix up the stands, then get our billboards, throw away sheets, radio time, print tickets, sell them, get lots of cash to pay bills, and if anything is left, I guess it's left."

A pleasant smile began to creep over Jerry Donahue's determined lips. "After all, your father is a major stockholder in the bank, Burt, so you begin to work on your old man. Get the track for us and we'll do the rest."

Two weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, about fifty determined sixth termers, armed with rakes and shovels, were busy leveling the rough spots in the runway of the old race track. A middle aged rather stout man, whom you'd spot at once as an educator, sighed a bit as he watched his students working. Next to him was a tall man, Robert Lawlor, editor of "The Ridgeway County News." "I can't see for the life of me," admitted the editor, "how you ever coaxed an o. k. out of the Board of Education for this Hot Rod Classic of the year. Even the metropolitan papers are playing up the story big and the sales are good." People in Ridgeway County always spoke with respect about the principal of their high school. "A man with brains," was the compliment he always got. "It wasn't an easy job to get that o. k. from the Board of Education," he admitted. "But when the bank began working on the members of the Board they saw the light. Especially since the bank is hesitating about selling the Pine Street property for our athletic field. And that race will show that the old race track isn't a white elephant. The bank wants to sell it."

Jerry looked with pride at the old heap he had rescued from a junk yard. When it was new it never had hit the speed that he got out of the old motor he had rebuilt. Helen Darlington, sweet sixteen and leader of the cheering squad, looked with admiration at the young man who just now had eyes only for his entry in the race. "The track is a half-mile long," he explained, "and we agreed to have a two hundred lap race. That means a car has to make a hundred miles to stay in the running. We have twenty-seven entries and three silver loving cups as prizes. And the way I fixed up the carburetor on this car, she'll handle gas like a kitten taking milk." Jerry continued speaking for twenty minutes more about the race. Helen looked attentive, though the words went in one ear and out the other. At the proper intervals she would remark, "How wonderful!" or "Now isn't that exciting." or "I know you are going to win."

The Saturday of the race, the weatherman cooperated and the few threatening clouds in the sky vanished somewhere to the East. Bill Parson, formerly a midget auto racer driver and now radio announcer over the local station had agreed to start the race as well as draw up something that looked like a set of rules. He insisted that each car have four new tires. "With old treads you might skid right into trouble," he advised. "And in the racing game you have enough troubles looking for you so one less helps out." The old repair pits were a mess. "Each car will have two spare tires. We'll have spotters around the track. If they think your tires, or anything else, need attention they'll flag you in. Carry an extra fellow to help you with repairs. And he'll be able to watch out if the cars on your right get too close. No gangin' up on cars. No nudging. You should be able to carry enough gas without refueling."

Jerry drew number nine and Chubby Burt Hines was his helper. Both wore football helmets as crash headgear. The cars were lined up in fours an started on the drop of the flag. Helen Darlington had the cheer squad working at high pitch. They were saying something about someone who was told to "Come on and Win."

Jerry was doing his best to edge in for an inside position on the track. Once he hit a soft spot and the car bounced up and then returned to the ground. "Thought we were heading for heaven," said Chubby Burt Hines. "You do that again and my digestive system is going to get mixed up. Be careful, there's Lou Ostrow coming mighty close. O. K. He's ahead of us now."

The souped up sport model that Lou Ostrow, of the Ostrow family which owned the motorboat agency on the river, was the one car that Jerry felt would be his most serious competitor. It was an eight cylinder job that really had pep even when it started to go over seventy. But Jerry managed to keep right on its tail. Then Burt shouted, "Our number is up. Guess it's the right rear tire. Let's stop at the pit." The stewards had been on the job. The outside rear tire always takes a beating and Jerry's had begin to throw a tread. They made a fast change and were back in the race again.

With his foot down on the accelerator, Jerry was getting every inch of speed out of his car. "If the figures aren't wrong, then we must clear over seventy on the straightaway," remarked Burt. And then it happened! Lou's car started to go crazy, went out of control, smashed through the inside fence into the empty field, turned over twice and flames shot out of the car. Without any hesitation, Jerry headed for the weak fence, crashed right through it, and brought his car alongside the burning car.

"Get that fire extinguisher," he yelled to Chubbuy as he jumped out of his car and ran for the door of the burning car. His heart was in his mouth. If the door were jammed? He turne dthe handle and the door opened. He dragged the half conscious but unharmed body of Lou Ostrow out of the burning car while Chubby played the extinguisher on it. The county ambulance was soon there. Chubby made the suggestion. "Let's finish the race even if we come in last."

The first prize went to Steven Silver who had averaged fifty-two miles an hour with a job that he had bought from the junk yard for twenty-five dollars and completely rebuilt himself. Jack Farley, a seventh-termer, got second prize with a speed of forty-eight miles an hour and Kindell Hester, a big fourth termer got the last cup with an average speed of forty-five miles an hour. But Jerry received a special prize from Helen Darlington who planted a big kiss right on his two lips with the observation, "My hero! And don't say it wasn't something, the way you pulled Lou from that burning car. If you hadn't run off the track, he might have died in an exploding car."

There was a glum look on the members of the General Organization of the Ridgeway County High School, as Mr. Michael DeSario, head of the accounting department, made his report. "In round figures, you took in $12,000 and expenses weer about $3,500, so that leaves you with only $8,500 towards your necessary goal for that operation." Not a student had anything to say. The principal nodded to a stranger who arose and said something that left them all speechless.

"My name is Ernest Hemington and I am head of Amalgamated News Features. Our photographers took shots of the entire race to show as a news item in movie houses. It was the purpose of this Hot Rod Race as well as the heroic rescue performed by Jerry Donahue that gave me an idea. I'm going to issue a short fim called, "The Hot Rods Do A Good Deed." Our check for ten thousand dollars will be mailed to you tomorrow. Your classmate Ray Conrad will have his operation. And the extra cash can be used to get that old race track in shape for the kind of racing the public wants to see."

Jerry looked at Chubby and Steven Silver looked at Morris Sharftman. There was nothing they could say. For complete happiness sometimes produces something in the throat that makes words impossible.

THE END