Kind of a Drag
Senior Moments by
Charles P. Eberson
It was 1969 and as 19 year olds, my friends and I were enamored with muscle cars at the height of its era. The power of the motors and the throaty sound of the exhaust stirred something primal in us. On Friday nights, Atlantic Avenue in Ventnor and Margate became our drag strip. We would drive up and down the street hoping for some action at a red light.
I had a Dodge with a small V-8 and one friend had a very quick Plymouth Road Runner. Inevitably, one night we ended up in Paul’s mother’s Corvair. We were praying to get through the night without any red light duels but this was not to be. A beefed up Chevelle 396 rumbled up next to us and the rough looking characters shot us a glance. Not to be dissuaded, Paul looked at them and pointed straight ahead issuing the challenge. We hid out faces as they burst into laughter. The light turned green and Paul stood on the gas pedal. The Corvair sounded like a blow dryer against the Chevelle. They were good sports and let us get a half a length on them before we were left behind inhaling the stench of burnt rubber.
With our tail between our legs, we hit the Margate Sub Shop for a consoling meal. When an acquaintance we knew from hanging around a friend’s family gas station in Margate asked us if we wanted a ride in his 1969 Barracuda we jumped at the chance. He wanted to do a test run before racing the car at a drag strip and we knew this was a rare opportunity. We were told to meet on a desolate road in Pleasantville at a predetermined time the next Friday night.
The ‘Cuda was just off loaded from the flatbed as it was not actually “street legal” and idling on the shoulder of the road. It just sounded angry. We were told to climb in. This was going to be quick since he wanted to be done and gone before anyone else arrived. The only way into the car was to climb in the passenger side window. There was one seat for the driver, so we huddled in the back bracing ourselves against the bare metal. It was so loud inside we could not hear each other speak and our expressions revealed that this might not have been such a good idea.
We rumbled slowly down the road to what the headlights revealed were multiple skid marks. Apparently, we were not the first to use this spot. We came to a stop; the engine was deafening and the car seemed to get up on its haunches. Next thing I knew, my back was painfully pressed against the metal, I was pushed from side to side until the car accelerated in a straight line and in a few seconds it was over except for the ringing in my ears and the grin on my face.
He would be racing at the eighth mile drag strip, the Atlantic City Speedway off of what is now Washington Avenue in Pleasantville. This is where we began spending our weekend nights for an admission fee of $2.50. It was virtually a Who’s Who of muscle cars; Mustangs, Road Runners, ‘Vettes, GTO’s, Chevelle’s and any others you can think of. What was fun was you could also race whatever you were driving. If you wanted to bring your parent’s Lincoln and race it, there would be a race for you. It was good clean fun and if you ask if there was any racing on the way home, I will have to check on the statue of limitations before answering.
Charles Eberson has been in the newspaper business for over 25 years. He has worked as a writer, advertising executive, circulation manager and photographer. His photography can be viewed at charles-eberson.fineartamerica.com
