Fred’s Note: This is an excerpt from my soon to be released book, “This Zig-Zag Life.” This chapter tells what it was like being a street racer in Los Angeles in the 70s.
Growing up as a boy in Indianapolis, Indiana meant lots of corn fields, barns, farm animals, creeks, woods, and paper routes. It also meant that every May the front page of the Indianapolis Star blared the biggest Indianapolis 500 story of the day, then as now, the biggest motor race on the planet. In those days the Indy 500 took place during the entire month of May. News about practice, qualifying, “bump day,” and the race were front page news every day. And, as boy, I read those pages religiously. Jim Hurtubise, Mario Andretti, Jim Rathman and Graham Hill became my boyhood heroes. In 1963 a friend’s father who worked at Ford, took me to see the race and I watched as Jim Clark almost won the race in a rear-engine car for the first time. Clark was the fastest race driver of his time, and he soon became my childhood hero, and later still an adult hero of mine, and he would go on to become one of the greatest drivers of all time. I wanted to be like Jim Clark
Speed, and the need for more of it, was an accepted concept around Indianapolis when I was a kid, and it still is. There was a racing community built up around the Indy 500, much like the football community built up around USC or Notre Dame, so it wasn’t unusual that my dad bought me a used go-kart when I was twelve. I drove it all around the neighborhood streets as fast as I could go. At the local mini racetrack, I went around and around in search of the perfect lap. I played with speed like most kids play with a baseball or football. When we moved to California, my dad traded in the go-kart for a small 80cc Yamaha motorcycle as soon as I turned 15 ½. There began a lifelong love of the freedom that motorcycling offered (if you don’t own one, you won’t get this) and the ease with which it delivered the sensation of speed. At an early age my friends and I explored much of Southern California’s back streets, testing ourselves on its curves as well as its highways.
If Indianapolis had the Indy 500, then Los Angeles had the hot rod scene, great roads, Rock & Roll (Little Deuce Coupe, 409, California Dream’n) and 24/7 perfect weather to go riding. My 80cc Yamaha was followed by a Honda 160, a Yamaha 250 (twice), Honda 500, Kawasaki 500, 750, and 900, and Yamaha 750. As a teenager in Pasadena, the center of my life was riding, fixing, dreaming about, and racing those motorcycles. I even worked at a couple of motorcycle stores, riding my bike to and from there each day. During the day I sold motorcycle parts. At night my friends and I would go looking for other bikers to race or hang out with.
Cars were also a part of my need for speed, but they were much more expensive and slower. The Hillman Minx, Austin Healy Sprite, and Corvair were as much as our family could afford. I was evolving into a street racer, whether on two or four wheels. My best friend Bob Crossman and I were willing to go up against any other car/motorcycle, in any kind of weather, so long as it involved racing around curves. We didn’t have much money to bet on the outcomes, so most often the winner took home just street creds. Building a reputation was our real goal. We searched for rich kids with nice cars/bikes that could afford to bet real money or the most important of all – the pink slip (title), but they were few and far between.
Racing on the street inevitably meant clashing with the police. It was a cat and mouse game; where could we go fast and not get caught? Tickets and police chases were common. Street racing was dangerous in and of itself – two-way traffic, errand left-turners, never really knowing where the road ahead was going. Running from the police took the danger – and thus excitement -- to another level. Going as fast as one could, at night, with the lights turned off raised the stakes. We knew if we got caught, we’d go to jail and probably get our motorcycle/car impounded.
Police chases evolved into other illegal activities in the pursuit of going fast. We needed parts and money to go fast, so I began stealing parts, clothing, and even motorcycles. I wrote fake checks on one of my friends’ parents bank accounts which is how I was able to afford my first new motorcycle. I am of course not proud of this now. We tried everything we could to find the money to power our speed, even trying insurance fraud and minor league dope dealing.
We justified this activity like most criminals do; our mission was righteous: our victims either could afford it or they were too stupid to protect themselves. I knew it was wrong, but the pull of going fast was too strong and stealing was too easy. I don’t know why I didn’t continue down this path and “graduate” to more serious stuff: real drug dealing, burglaries, etc., but I didn’t. I think I was too scared of the consequences, and I was too busy going to school and working a couple of part-time jobs. I was also lucky to be a young white kid, and thus given a couple of breaks by Pasadena police that allowed me to escape without serious consequences. No, drugs weren’t my problem; my addiction was the need for speed, and I couldn’t get enough of it.
I admit it felt good being a small-time outlaw and street racer. I got a taste of going my own way, without regard to common moralities, or what other people thought, while gradually getting a reputation as the fastest kid in the neighborhood. Studying and working a couple of jobs were my daytime activities while motorcycles, street racing, and stealing took up the nights.
This all changed when I went to Berkeley. I had to leave my South Pasadena neighborhood and the street racing life behind. Looking back now, I wonder how the hell did I not get killed or jailed or…It certainly wasn’t because of smarts.
Wow, make a great novel, er.............biography. Anyway, fantastic experiences and you are lucky to be fully intact. Please, continue the story.
I don't know which shocks me the most, that you were a juvenile delinquent or that the Hillman Minx made it accross the Atlantic. My Dad had 2, a '58 and a '66 which I inherited, happy days, not sure! Strange how life's paths go, you could have had a very different one if that cop hadn't given you a break....