Good Drivers Know! |
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Hot Rod and Speedway Comics #3
December 1952
'Cab' Carson straightened, wiped the grease from his hands, and looked up at the towering crags of Bald Mountain in the afternoon haze some ten miles away. As the rays of the setting sun lit the mountain, Cab could see the thin ribbon of road that wound up in a spiral to the summit. Three miles of road that lay like a coiled snake around the mountain's bulk, three miles of terrifically steep grade full of twists and turns. Cab couldn't see the most dangerous spot on the road, Devil's Elbow, a place where the grade suddenly pitched downward in a sharp dip, at the bottom of which was a short angle turn where the road doubled back and then shot upward again in a sharp reverse curve. The curves in Devil's Elbow were killers but that dip was a champion. Cab's stomach tightened at the thought of it. Because the next day he was going to drive that road in the famous Bald Mountain Hill Climb, once one of the world's great sports car events, now being revived after a thirty-five year lapse. The modern drivers and fans knew little of the hill climb. It had long been out of popularity and was only now coming back. It was a grueling and supreme test of men and cars. A test where one slip as your car rocketed up the mountain at more than sixty-five meant disaster on the rocks. It was a test of engine power and pickup, traction and roadability, and above all a test of driving skill, where steering and split second shifting were all important. Names like Loop Jackson, Marsh Schmidtt, and Wally Carson came to Cab's mind. Great drivers in the hill climbs in the early decades of the century. Wally Carson. The thought of the name brought grim lines to Cab's face. For he was Wally Carson's son. Though he had never known his father, it was only natural that Cab became a racing driver. He had driven on most of the tracks of America and Europe in everything from midgets to the big jobs at Indianapolis. He had been rising to the top, getting a reputation, when a bad crack-up had set him back two years. Now he was on the comeback trail. His second and perhaps last chance for the big money and his name in the record books. Cab had chosen Bald Mountain as the beginning of his comeback for a special reason. For it was here that his father had ended his blazing career. When the hill climb had been last held in 1916 he had been killed when he skidded out of control just when it looked like he had the race in the bag. That was one more reason why Cab had to prove himself. He had to erase from his mind the gnawing fear that had tormented him ever since his crack-up, the fear he would end up like his father. The only way to do that was to beat the thing that had defeated his father, Bald Mountain. Cab had sunk his last dime into the sleek Cad-Allard he was tuning up now. A sweet, power-packed job of 6,000 cubic centimeter engine displacement, the Allard had everything to beat the hill. Cab knew that but could he measure up as well as his car? Just then Cab noticed an old Buggati '31 coming down the highway at a good clip. The powerful car ground to a stop before Cab's small garage and a big, white-haired man who moved with surprising agility got out and came toward him. Cab recognized the big man as Ralph Brady, one of the great drivers of all time, the man who had set the Bald Mountain record of three minutes nine seconds flat, the day Cab's father was killed. Now Ralph Brady extended his hand toward Cab.
"Hello, Carson! I see you're sticking in the pit until the last minute! Good! That's where races are often won!" Cab was glad his hands were greasy, excusing him from shaking with Brady.
"Yeah, what's on your mind, Brady?" Ralph Brady looked at Cab through eyes that had squinted through the dust and glare of a thousand racing grinds. "I know you're driving the hill climb tomorrow and I wanted to give you a little advice!" came back Brady.
Cab looked skeptical. "How come? I heard you were backing Lee Dillon!"
"You hear lots of things, Cab! You know, there's an extra thousand dollars to the man who beats my old record?"
Cab laughed. "That's a cinch! I'll knock twenty seconds off that ancient time!" Ralph Brady didn't like this, but he smiled.
"I wouldn't laugh at those old cars and records, son! There were great drivers in those days—men like your dad! That's why I'm here! I want to tip you on how to drive Devil's Elbow! Plenty of good men have piled up there! I tried to tell your dad but he wouldn't listen..." The mention of his father's name made Cab see red. "You don't make sense, Brady! You were Dad's biggest rival! Why would you help him?"
"Your dad was also my friend! It was no credit to beat him, because he cracked up!" Cab let out a dry little laugh.
"Brady, I don't like to be short—but the way I feel I'd suggest that you go and give Lee Dillon your advice! Ralph Brady turned and climbed into his Buggati. Cab watched him drive away with gears grinding. As he bent over the Allard once more Cab felt a surge of rage and shame mingling within himself. In the distance the crags of Bald Mountain were wrapped in black shadows.