I've gotten some PM's on my last story about when my Dad "arranged" a race for me. Thanks for the feedback. In retrospect, it hit me that it's not the racing, but the darn car that prompts all the memories and stories. Allow me to go a bit off track with this subject: I'd purchased my beloved 61 Lancer wagon in San Francisco. I was stationed there 1970-73. The purchase broke up an engagement to the girl back home, who it turned out had a few other guys going at the same time anyway...somewhere there's a 650 Triumph money I'd sent home to her bought for another lucky guy.

I got in a fair amount of trouble with the car street racing in the Bay area. Lots of fun running at Champion. When discharge time came, Dad (and Mom) volunteered to come help me drive my collection of junk home. I put street gears/tires in/on the Lancer, put a trailer hitch on it and used it to flat tow my 33 Chevy coupe. Dad drove my 66 Valiant pulling my freshly made 2 wheel trailer containing spare engines, 4 speeds, dirt bike, etc. When it came time to leave, 2 of us couldn't lift the tongue of the trailer to hook it up to the Valiant, so I spent a few anxious minutes moving heavy stuff to the back to balance it out.

The trip home to Minnesota was a story in itself; Lancer broke down in Nevada, twice in Nebraska (nothing like dropping a cast iron 4 speed by hand on the side of the interstate) again in Iowa. At that point I parked the Lancer at a gas station, unhooked the 33 Chevy and drove that the rest of the way. Fortunately the Valiant and trailer made it through ok, other than nearly running out of brakes going through the mountains because the trailer was so heavy.

Dad was increasingly unhappy as the trip progressed, finally losing his composure completely at the second break down in Nebraska. By Iowa I wasn't sure we'd be on speaking terms once home. The final tests to his patience, needing to borrow his car to go back to Iowa and retrieve the Lancer and then taking over his space in the garage to effect repairs. By then he was really unhappy with me. Dad was the kind of guy who changed his oil every 30 days, religiously, so you can imagine how he liked his care sitting outside overnight.

A week or so later the Lancer is all repaired and I drive it out front to wash the dirt and grime off it from the long trip. I go down the basement to put the wash supplies away and hear the Lancer start up. I run up the stairs and out the side door to see Dad driving away in the car that had tormented him all the way back from CA. I was sure he was going to drop it at the local scrap yard.

Fully half an hour went by and finally I heard the sound of those old, leaky fenderwell headers coming down the street. Dad parks the car, gets out and walks up to me. "Where...why... what did you do?" I stammered. Dad just smiled, and walked in the house. He never did tell me what he did.