A Few Moments In HELL

[ttypewe4jim]

A Few Moments in HELL

"I Was Held Captive By A Fuel Altered"

So help me, this is the truth. When I was growing up in New York City, I had three dreams. The first was to drive a fuel car. The second was to become a hot shot automotive journalist and write for big car magazines. The third one, of course, was to see my ride in the pages of HOT ROD.

I've been messing with fuel cars most of my adult life. I've sucked clutch dust and tweaked, tuned and built enough stuff over the years that you could say I've got a well rounded background within the world of cars that go boom. The only thing I hadn't done was actually sit in the seat and steer one down the strip. Why? Because my empty pockets run pretty deep, and as you all know, in the world of professional drag racing, it's the billionaires who have the fun.

Like anyone else with as loose a grasp of reality as I exhibit so professionally, so often, I wasn't about to let a trivial detail like an utter lack of resources stand in my way. So I built me a fueler.

It's A Hot Rod


No kiddin', you don't even need to have a passing interest in pro drag cars to appreciate my ride. Why? Because it's not a race car, it's a hot rod!

To me, race cars are really nothing more than tools; devices to be used in the quest for making money and/or satisfying ego. Hot rods are also tools, but they are used within a much more spiritual realm. Hot rods exist only to please the soul. This is why I chose to package my hot rod in the form of a AA/Fuel Altered. Given my East Coast, growin' up street racin' in Brooklyn roots, a Fuel Altered is about as far removed from my native culture as you're ever gonna get. Anyway, had I gone with a more conventional machine like a Funny Car or digger, people might have gotten the impression that I was trying to be serious.

No sterile alloy replica was gonna do my hot rod justice, so I whipped up a cast-iron 426 Hemi. Stock bore, stock stroke, stock cylinder heads, 6.0:1 compression, and an 8-71 blower. So help me, if you topped the things with carbs, it'd be mild enough to drive to LA. On 90 percent and 60 degrees in the mag, it'll make an honest 2,000 hp, which on paper is just enough to cram my 1,600-lb. sled through the lights a pulsebeat under 6 seconds . . . on paper.

The neat thing about Fuel Altereds is that they have no contemporary science of their own. Dragster wings don't function very well on such a machine, and it has none of the aerodynamics and thus directional stability of a Funny Car. The Fuel Altered is an entity unto itself.

Preparing To Die


They say you never forget your first ride in a fuel car. Well, I'll attest to that. What influences me even more are the days, hours and minutes preceding my first attempt at riding the beast. Anyone who says they'd attempt a contraption as uncivilized and hyper-rude as a Fuel Altered and not be scared witless is someone you don't want to spend too much time around. The machine would be just as willing to snuff you out as it would to whiz you safely through the lights.

I managed to keep my fear well-covered until I went for the required "AA" physical a couple of days before the ride. I clearly remember the doctor wrapping my arm in order to take the blood pressure readings, and the thought popping into my head, "I wonder if they do this to the pig right before they stuff the apple in it's mouth?" Hey, I knew I was in trouble. Still, I kept it under wraps while I pondered the pyschological implications. About then, I experienced the grand realization of a drag racing lifetime --- you don't drive one of these things you want to . . . you do it because you have to! It is a disease.

Nailed To The Cross


I'm sure the feelings that twisted my gut as the shoulder harness was being cinched against my chest weren't all that different from those one might experience while awaiting the executioner's cold hand. We've all had "butterflies in the stomach," but I'll tell you, those suckers felt more like wombats on angel dust! My anxiety was checked by the knowledge that I could disband the firing squad by simply lifting my right foot. The adrenaline high was awesome, and we hadn't even towed from the staging lanes yet.

When we imagine ourselves thundering the ground and storming the big end, we tend to leave out the details that compromise the tangible experience. We'll leave out the discomfort and the claustrophobia. In the name of safety, the NHRA mandates a multitude of devices.

First, there's the itchy fireproof underwear. Then the thick fireproof pants, the bottoms of which are tucked into fire boots, which, in turn, are duct-taped to the pants so that they don't get snagged during a hasty exit. The jacket goes on next, and then your head is swallowed up by a fireproof sock. Since I don't have a firewall between my face and the engine, I wear an old-style breather mask and goggle setup, which in my estimation is a whole lot more insulation than a 1/16" inch thick sheet of Lexan. The helmet is the last thing to go on.

Race cars are usually quite comfortable when you try 'em out in street threads, but climb in looking like Captain Orbit and "tight fit" takes on a whole new meaning. Once you get scrunched into place, your crew begins the strapping-in process. A pair of 3-inch-wide belts run from the seatback over your shoulders to 3-inch lap belts; all four intersect at the middle of your gut and are then cinched tight. The final blow to freedom is the anti-submarine, or "crotch-strap," fitted to the buckle. In case you have a modicum of mobility left, three more devices ensure sensory deprivation: flameproof gloves, arm restraints, and --- my personal favourite --- the neck brace. Then you're ready to rumble.

Hey Dude (Don't Be Afraid)


You feel incredibly isolated, but the next few minutes of utter silence allow an exercise in automotive Zen: Become one with the machine. Feel the controls. Run through all the motions. Contemplating your fate is no longer an option.

Find a comfortable grip on the wheel with your left hand, which is so swollen out of proportion by the bulky glove you can only fit three fingers around the grip. Right hand on the brake, you tug back, then reach down to operate the reverser with your left. You feel for the clutch pedal, which is way forward in the cockpit. Since the car is equipped with a centrifugal clutch, the pedal is only used to help release tension going in and out of reverse. At all other times, you drive the car essentially the same way you would an automatic.

Finally, you practice the run itself. Left hand firmly on the wheel, you brace yourself against the seatback, pull hard against the brake, then peg the throttle. As soon as your right foot stops, you let go of the brake, reach down between your knees, and pull the shifter into High gear. There's only one strategy involved in shifting a two-speed fueler. Do it is as quickly as possible! The only motion required from this point on, aside from steering, is deployment of the chute. You acclimate with your right hand, running it over the chute lever, and letting it fall back to the brake handle.

Suddenly, your mind shatters like a plate-glass window as the tow rope jerks the car forward. Reality grabs you by the spleen --- the moment of truth has arrived! You do the best you can to keep your head together as the crew maneuvers the car into the fire-up zone. You watch, somewhat detached, as one of them puts the starter to the blower drive and rests the gasoline squirt bottle atop the injector.

You are no longer a human being. You are a component of the machine. This feeling is exacerbated by the fact that no one is paying attention to or even looking at you, because they're all focused on their individual roles. Somehow, this instills an odd feeling of confidence.

An official signals that it's showtime. You crack the throttle as your man gives the injector a healthly squirt of gasoline. Close the throttle. The starter spins the motor up to cranking speed. You point to another crew member who's poised with the magneto ground wire in his hand, and he rips it away as if trying to start a balky lawn mower. The sleeping elephant roars instantly, as if a red-hot poker has been shoved through it's guts.

Electricity vibrates through the framerails. You tug the brake handle tightly and watch as your crew hustles to get out of the way. Idle speed is high for the first couple of seconds as the engine swizzles it's gasoline primer shot, but once it's fully involved with the nitro, the beast hunkers down with a hammering lope. All vestiges of fear and apprehension are erased by a level of lust only nitromethane can inspire.

Aside from the deceivingly gentle rocking generated by the motor's 2500 rpm idle, you are quite unaware of the noise it's making and this is somehow unnerving. You watch the crew scurry, cupping their hands over their ears, flinching as nitro fumes corrode their sinuses. You are in the eye of the storm and it's eerily peaceful, and ultimately surreal. With the tow vehicle away, you ease off the brake and roll toward the water box.

You goose the throttle to give the tires a full spin in the wet stuff. The monster at your feet bellows as the slicks freewheel for an instant, playfully bobbing the back of the car skyward. Everything seems right. You glance down at the oil pressure gauge: 100 pounds of pressure. You keep rolling. A crew member motions you to a predetermined point. He gives the high sign and you dig deep into the throttle.

The motor comes on like a chainsaw, the back of the car rises up as the tires sling outward. Visual perception changes to one of looking down on the motor and front tires. From where you sit, there's no indication that you are actually smoking the tires. No clouds, no deafening noise, no indication of anything radical other than a slight skating and drifting sensation, as if driving through thick snow with the hammer down. You gently saw the steering wheel in response to the car's subtle movements.

As you watch the Tree pass from your peripheal sight, you ease off the throttle to keep the motor out of valve float. Everything feels so smooth and easy that you want to keep the skins lit for the whole quarter mile and call it a day, but the plan is to vulcanize 100 feet or so and then get it stopped.

The first licks of ferocity begin when you back off the throttle at the end of the burnout. For an instant, the tires leech the pavement while the motor is still generating, and it shoots you forward at a rate oddly out of synch with the seeming tameness of the burnout itself. It's an enormous rush! You grab the brake, pull the car to a stop, and begin fumbling it into reverse.

A moment or two later, a crew member begins relaying hand signals to bring you back to the burnout tracks. You gently twist the steering wheel as you reverse into the freshly generated fog bank, occasionaly glancing at the oil pressure gauge, then the headers, just to make sure everything's still lit. Fifteen or 20 feet behind the starting line, you go for the clutch pedal and pull the reverser handle back. In the same motion, you put the transmission into low gear by pushing the shift lever forward.

It occurs to you that the only thing that's more fun than a sliding high-C burnout is hammering the throttle and grabbing at the brake for a quick blast of dry-hop g-force. Whap! The machine lurches like it's been rear-ended by an 18-wheeler. The shock compresses you in the seat, and you feel your internal organs wrapping around your spine. Dude, you're livin' large now!

The chirpie puts you right in the beams. You inch ahead and the top light flickers on. You linger with the pre-stage bulb for a moment as you gather up and prepare for battle. The irony is that your competition isn't in the other lane, it's the Nazi doktor's bed you're strapped to, ready to scare you half to death if not complete the job outright. Sure, you're the one at the controls, but the beast-thing howling in your face is the boss. You ease off the brake and the stage beam lights up. Tug the brake, take a deep breath, and get ready to do it for real.

Everything turns to gel and kicks into slow motion. You look toward the Tree. Yellow flashes. You slam the throttle, and for the slightest part of an instant, nothing . . . then boom! The docile idle becomes a fury. The clutch comes in and you feel the frame distort around you in an unnerving reaction to the awesome torque.

Acceleration is sudden and violent, yet smooth and efficient in it's application, and you rocket forward, aiming the front of the car at any large object on the horizon. You're shoved ahead by the tires, but the sensation is more like being sucked through a tunnel by an immense magnet . . . but everything is still happening in slow-mo.

Your brain has gone into severe trauma mode. As far as it's concerned, you're in the middle of a horrible accident. The first 100 feet or so of strip seem to take an eternity to cover, and during this time your analytical mind has gone into some sort of hyperdrive, a thousand inputs being absorbed and processed simulatenously while you weed out the critical decisions necessary for control.

You grab for the shifter and yank it back, aware of the extra load placed against the motor because you can feel it's pitch change deep in your bones. At the same time, you're aware that the car is drifting to the right, and you counter it with the steering wheel.

It was too little a move, too late into the drift, and now the finish line markers in sight an instant ago have become a yellow stripe and a white blur. You've just received an invitation to dance with Mr. Guardrail. No thanks, man. Bring the hot rod home intact. You reel in your right foot, and like a slot car, the toy falls right into line and motors down the strip with the deliberation of a cat drawn to a bowl of tuna.

@!#**&@!


Well, see, we'd love to take you along for the rest of the ride, but truth is, we haven't been there yet. We've put about five runs on the "Bomb Squad" so far, and the most she's gone is to the eighth-mile . . . and that was a struggle. Severe tire shake put an end to one run, and landed yours truly in the hospital for one lap of the CAT scan. That's a story in itself: I made it to the hospital before I made it to the finish line! With a best of 11.08 at 42 mph --- try that in your street car --- we've got a long way to go, but we're having fun every inch of the way. And we're doin' it on nitro!



written by Tony DeFeo
from HOT ROD Magazine
page 42-48 - June, 1997
© HOT ROD Magazine 1997

[ULYCYC]

Tony DeFeo used to keep is 29 Ford Hemi powered altered at the Fortway Garage in Bay Ridge. Back in the day he kind of played promoter and his face was all over the place. I figured he would grown up and be a politician.
That was a good story. He also did one back in the mid 80's when he worked for Car Craft. I remember these days like it was yesterday

Car Craft story 1985 I think:

He stood on the other side of the counter. To his left was an Accel catalog rack. To his right, an empty Diet Pepsi that had been downed with one massive gulp. An unbelievable feat performed by an unbelievable man who was about to tell an unbelievable story. Bobby was a well known, sometimes liked, never understood speed shop merchant. He had occupied the same spot behind the same counter for as long as any of us could remember.The fact that he moved on and left his lifelong vocation for a position in some construction company left a void in the local hotrod social circle. It took him just a little farther away from the thing that had made him a cult hero for so many years. You see, Bobby used to be a street racer. We shared many afternoons together straddling each side of that counter, bullshitting, bench racing and learning. The learning was a one sided thing-he did the talking, I did the absorbing. We would go on for hours, talking about things ranging from our imagined ultimate performance combinations to the discipline needed to be a winner. Invariably, the conversation would always wind down to what he saw as being wrong with the street scene today. These kids today are assholes, he would say slowly and deliberately. He had a way of talking, you know-like a first grade teacher discussing a subject that was going to go over the heads of his pupils. Bobby always talked that way. He would say, I mean, like they have no concept of how to do it. Street racing is a lost art to these kids. They sit around in a parking lot with their hoods up. Not only do they show each other what's under their hoods, but they tell each other what's in their damned motors! Give me a freaking break. It's a generation of assholes. Bobby used the term ******* a lot. In fact, he called me ******* so many times I almost started answering to the name. It was his way of making a point, and more often than not, he was right. "Back in my day," he would say, "you built a car to race, not sit in some damned parking lot. And nobody, but nobody knew what you was runnin' under the hood! Nobody, not your brother, not your best friend, not a damn soul." When Bobby was right, Bobby was right. "Street racin' was a way of life .

back in my time, he said. You did it because it was the thing that made you better than everyone else. And you worked with what you had. You worked the pieces you already owned, and when you needed somethin' and nobody had it, you made it. ****, you didn't run out and buy a cam. First you messed with the valvetrain and screwed with the geometry 'til you got the motor to breathe the way you wanted. These kids today are schmucks. All they know is gimme this and gimme that. It's monkey see, monkey do, and no one knows what the hell is goin'on inside there. Bobby had always made it clear that in his day, he was truly hot ****. 1, not knowing him on any other level than as a great dude to bench race with, took most everything he said about the old days with a grain of salt. Bobby went out of his way to remain vague about the past. It was always we and they. That is, until this afternoon. 'Tony, he said, let me tell you a little story. I'm gonna tell you about the biggest street race in the history of the sport. You wanna know where I'm comin' from? You wanna know where I been, listen up 'cause this is where it's at, man. It was 1968, he began, you ever hear of the Mudd Brothers? (1 hadn't, and felt stupid like, after all, how can you call yourself part of the street scene and not know a group of dudes known as the Mudd Brothers.)They was the king of the street. (To my ears, they sounded a lot like a we, or even I). You see, back in the late'60s he continued, there was kind of a war going on. It was the guys from Jersey and us dudes from Brooklyn. These people have all the names that you've heard before. We're talkin' about the classics, dudes like Levi Holmes, Jesse, Brooklyn Heavy and a guy that went by the name of Doug Headers. Headers, man, he made the front page of the Daily News for blockin' the Gowanus during rush hour to get a run off. These guys had style. There was a bunch of guys, all of Them heavy hitters. The good ones, the real good ones, went on to run Pro Stockers and **** like that. These are the dudes that made drag racing what it is today. They all came from the street. See, back then, the innovation came from the street and went to the track. These days, it's the opposite 'cause the same people that made the news on the street are on the track now, sendin' it back. It's an inner circle. We was right in the hot of it. (There goes that we deal again, sounding more like an I every time). Bobby leaned closer on the counter and confided, there was a war goin'on at the time. Those guys from Jersey were good, real good. They'd come over and kick our asses, they'd take our money and make us look bad on our own land. Yeah, they were pickin' us off left and right. The Mudd Brothers were good, though. They were tough, ya know? And it didn't take long before we started makin' the Jersey boys look bad. Yeah, it was the Mudd Brothers and Super John. John was a Chevy man, and we was always into the Mopars, the Hemis you know. John was runnin' this Camaro with a big old Rat under the hood. That baby was stormin'. We was runnin' this big old Mopar with the Hemi in it. We'll skip the bullshit and get right to the heart. Between the Mudd Brothers and Super John, we pretty much turned the Jersey dudes away. We took a lot of bread off them. So here it comes, after a few years of jerkin' around with these guys, it comes down to the Mudd Brothers and Super John. There had to he a king and it came down to one run between the two cars. The stakes were high. Now remember, we're talkin' 1968 bucks here. It was $125,000 a side, a quarter million buck purse. We weren't ****in' around man. Super John had Dickie Harrel set up his Chevy. Dickie was a big funny car dude back then, runnin' the Rat motors and doin' real good 'til he died a couple a years later. Super John's ride was a legal SS/AA stocker. It was a high class pro effort and he had the deck stacked with Harrel. It wasn't gonna he easy to beat ,em. What we did was buy the S&K Speed Hemi Dart. It was still a brand new car at the time. Stick machine, it was set up for SS/B. In fact, the night the run went off, we had just painted the car black and the paint was still tacky. There was all kinds of hand prints all over the back of that sucker. John had Harrel and we wasn't gonna be outdone by that ****, so we got our hands on Jake King. Kings the guy that' put Sox and Martin on the map. That guy really knew those Hemi motors. Anyway, he set up the Dart. The race was a one-shot winner take all. It was a weeknight. We were gonna run down at Kennedy Airport, 150th and South Conduit. Bumpy as **** today, but back then it was prime real estate. This run was big news. I didn't count, but somewhere around 5000 people showed up. We had an official police escort to the strip. When something's that big, with that many people and that kind of cash involved and the whole thing's gonna take but a few seconds, what could they do but make it as smooth as possible. Yeah, so we had one cop in front and one cop out back. We cleared out the road and set the two cars up under the overpass. Both machines sounded strong, you know, that cackle that a super healthy motor makes. The smell of racing gas was heavy in the air. Both machines pulled behind the line and did a couple of massive burnouts. Man, they were soundin' strong. On the dry hops, the Chevy looked like it was makin' all the right moves. He'd plant the gas and that sucker would just lean back and dig in. The Hemi would get up there hard,'cause it was a stick, but the Chevy looked like it was gonna take it. Both cars pulled to the line and the starter stepped between 'em. They was both bringin' up the revs, clearin' the mills out and you could just hear the sound carryin' and bouncin' off the landscape. The ground was shakin', the overpass was shakin' and all along the street people was finalizing all the side bets. God only knows how much money changed hands that night.

The starter raised his hands and motioned the guys to get ready, and, except for the cars, there was total silence. He counted to three, quick, and both machines dug in and left hard. Tha Camaro pulled half a car on the wheelstanding Dodge. A little way down, the Camaro pulled the lead, by almost a full car on the Hemi. We thought we was beat. But you know those Hemis, man. They ain't worth **** on the bottom end. But man, when they start breathin', look out ,cause nothin' can stop' em. The Camaro was in High as the Dart hooked into Fourth gear. The Dodge had eaten up about half a car by this time, but there was a half to go and the quarter was commin' up but fast. Tony, he said, let me tell you, my balls were in my mouth. But then it happened. I heard the noise and man, it was beautiful. Once that big mutha of an Elephant got comfortable there in Fourth gear, the noise just changed. That Camaro was makin' the same pulling, working growl the whole quarter, but when that Hemi hit High, the deep roar turned into his floating pulsating, reverberating hum. You could literally hear, from a quarter mile away, the power that bitch was makin'. It was beautiful. The Hemi stormed by the Camaro with about a hundred feet to go. We won the whole mutha****in mess and we were kings' SO Tony, man, when you hear me talk about the scene out there today and the kids out there and I talk to you and try to get your head straight, you know where the hell I'm comin' from. I was pretty blown away by the whole deal. The story, if it happened the way it was told to me, was fantastic. 1 was inclined to believe the man simply because I had always known him as a straight shooter. But one small thing stuck out in my mind, one thing bothered me about the story. If it was that big, with that many people involved for that kind of money, and it involved the people that he named, how come I had never heard of this before? I mulled it over as I bid Bobby a good day and went on with life. 1 never told the story to anyone, that is until I was at a Mopar meet in New Jersey. I was talking to a fella named John McBride, a well known super likeable guy who specializes in rare and hard to find Mopar stuff. To make a long story short, we were on the subject of Hemi Darts and he began to relate this story to me about this super big buck street race between a bunch of guys known as the Mudd Brothers and their Hemi Dart and some guy known as Super something or other. McBride had heard about the run back during his racing days and made a trip up to New York to cheek out the action. (1 also called) Ronnic Sox and he confirmed the connection as he remembered doing some subcontract work for the Mudd Brothers for that race. So there you have it. A factual account of the events that took place that night some 18 years ago when the biggest street race of all time went down to he forever etched into the annals of the sport.