The Horrifying Story of the Greensboro Gran Prix
A mad race that nearly ended in complete tragedy, and loss of life, comes to my hometown one time only.
Return to the daze of my youth.
My Daddy bought a mid 60s Pontiac Gran Prix 389 V8, 3 deuces, Herst His and Her’s shifter, and factory Positraction. I wasn’t yet old enough to drive legally, but on Saturday mornings he let me drive it around the empty parking lot at Greensboro Manufacturing while he was loading trucks. He even told me he would give the car to me when I finally got my driver’s license. Every Saturday I got braver and faster.
I imagined myself on the race track, a champion of NASCAR, Indy, SCCA, and Grand Prix, blasting around the track at such blazing speed no other cars would even be in the same photo except when I lapped them in a blur.
One Saturday morning I went around to the back of the building where there was only 1 tiny window high up on the wall. Certain no one would be looking out, I backed the mighty Indian all the way to the street as far as I could go without getting into the street as I didn’t want to break any laws. Well, not any laws I knew to exist. I then nailed the throttle to the floor giving it everything she had as both rear tires filled the air with black smoke, and burning rubber. My first burnout.
Who knew such a big car could get out of control so quickly? Not me. One wet spot in the parking lot and the rear end started coming around as I completely lost control of the beast. So like any idiot with no experience in skid control, I panicked and locked down the brakes causing the land yacht to start sliding ‘round in circles until it finally came to stop about 6 inches from the building.
I kid you not. I was so close I got out to see if the pointed nose of the stylish Pontiac had actually hit the wall or not.
Satisfied I had done no damage I checked my britches and went back to driving around the parking lot very slowly as if I had good sense, until Daddy came out and drove us home.
When we got home, without saying a word, Daddy drove off and when he came back he was driving a new 1966 Rambler station wagon with a straight six, 238 cubic inch engine. A dog if there ever was one.
It wasn’t until I was 28 years old that Daddy told me he just happened to be looking out the one tiny window.
Now let’s go find out What’s In the Box?