Delmar Clark . . . A Racing Legend!

I love automobile racing . . . always have.

 

    The smell of heated rubber, the screeching of the tires, the occasional banging of fenders, the slingshot moves of experienced drivers, the waving of the flag, the cheers and jeers of the fans . . . it's all a sliver of paradise to this boy.

 

     For me, it began before I had even attended school. My dad started my passion by taking me every Sunday evening to Midvale Speedway to watch the races. We had our set seats, our predetermined arrival time, and our matching enthusiasm. Getting out of that car and walking toward the track, I still remember getting excited just hearing the roars of the cars as they made their hot laps in anticipation of the time trials. As we sat and watched, I was thrilled to see the two different kinds of cars: the super modifieds and the late model stock cars, all being steered by drivers whose names and faces I can still see in my mind. As the modifieds circled the track, they produced a different sound than the late models, a buzzing sound that clearly said "speed." Joe Martincic, Baldy Baker, Dean Mast, Norm Saul . . . the list goes on--all heroes in my book. However, as happy as I was to watch them and try to pick the winners with my dad, nothing made me happier than when the legendary blue Harry Humphries' Ford  with the red and white number 69 came onto the track--Delmar Clark was in the house, ready to kick ass and take a few names.

 

     My admiration for Delmar was easy to trace--he was from my hometown of Gnadenhutten, and his wife played in my mom's card club. Occasionally, he would have his stock car parked outside his apartment, which enabled a crazed fan like me to get to see it up close as it sat on the hauling trailer. For me, the thrill of getting to actually see Delmar and say "hi" was a major moment. In fact, on one occasion, my dad arranged for both of us to visit Delmar and his wife's apartment so I could see his trophies. I was awestruck as we entered that second floor Main Street apartment, and I saw his trophy case . . . blew me away. When a kid meets his idol for the first time, it is a moment never forgotten. Fifty-plus years later, I still remember it so vividly.

 

     Obviously, Delmar was my man; when that car emerged from the pits on the opposite side of the stands, I always told my dad, "Here he comes!" and my dad would say, "I don't think ol' Delmar has got it today," thus sparking our competition. More days than not, ol' Delmar would pick up that checkered flag and take it around the track, and we would smile, clap, and yell . . . great days, my friends. The classic battles with Bud Middaugh, Doc Kinsey, Virgil Tinlin, Tony Diano, Bill Bitticker . . . remain strong reminders of what it felt like to be a kid with innocent and simple joys. I lived for Sunday nights, and as I rode my bike repeatedly in the yard around the house and often made our driveway and garage a race track, I had one vision: race like Delmar.

 

     As life moved along, my dad didn't enjoy the racing as much as I did, so he stopped attending. In need of a ride, I would often go to the track with Delmar's mom and dad, who had as much passion as I did for the sport. At times, of course, I even got to go with Delmar and his wife because they had moved up the road not too far from our house. His living closer added a different bonus; every now and then, he would bring his car to Gnaden instead of leaving it wherever it normally was parked during the week and he would work on it and then go streaking down County Road 39 right in front of my house, making that baby scream . . . I loved it.

 

     Delmar's career was pretty special for a small-town boy because he made it all happen within viewing distance of a whole bunch of local fans. His racing success at Midvale, Barberton, Columbus, and Sandusky ultimately led to his driving the number 21 in a Daytona ARCA Series race; unfortunately, he rolled his car several times at that superspeedway, and, in truth, his racing success soon came to a halt. In time, he even became a friend, a guy I would stop in and see every now and then at his body shop. Ultimately, though, Delmar passed away, and when he did, I got out all my pictures and every newspaper article I had of his big wins, and I looked back over them--he truly was a special man to me.

 

     Every now and then, I will see Mark Malcuit, another legendary area driver who came after Delmar, and I tell him, "There's the second best driver to ever come out of Tuscarawas County--Delmar was the man." He doesn't even know who I am, but he always laughs, and says, "Yeah, he was a good one"--guess I still am a bit crazed!

 

     Here's hoping a few of my readers can put a smile on their faces and remember those magic days of racing. As for this boy, I confess to looking at the speedway every time we head down Route 250, just hoping I can see cars practicing (sometimes even rolling down my window so I can hear the roar!). I still periodically attend Midvale Speedway and enjoy the shows, but, for me, the downright thrill will never be the same. That vested enthusiasm for a single driver fueled my passion . . . I hope that there are kids out there who are like me when I was a kid . . .watching those cars go in circles, keeping their eyes on their favorite drivers, and cheering like crazy for them . . . here's hoping they enjoy the ride as much as I did!

 

Goodbye . . . and Thanks

I lost a friend yesterday.

     Saying Ray was my best friend would be an overstatement. Saying he was a good friend would be much more appropriate. Regardless of the adjective used, the loss humbles me for many reasons. He was a buddy, and, as life unfolds, I realize that in my future I will be forced to face this same scenario more times than I wish to think.

 

     Unfortunately, the end of life is out there . . . we know that, even though we do everything in our power to avoid thinking of it. Two months ago, my buddy Ray Stein was living a carefree, happy life as a husband, dad, and grandpa, enjoying all the freedom that retirement could offer. Two months later, he is gone. Two months later, I feel an emptiness, almost a feeling of disbelief.

 

     Ray was a good man, a helper to many, a military veteran, a dedicated police officer, and a true comic relief. As my brief eulogy, I honor him as a man who not only wore many hats, but as a man who wore them well--he was well liked and well respected, and I thoroughly enjoyed him. I suppose I could continue with praise, but that is not my objective with this writing. What I once again was reminded of yesterday is that living is a treasure.

 

     At yesterday's funeral, I saw friends I have not seen in a long while, ones who took the time to pay respect to Ray. I must admit that mixed with my sadness was a euphoric feeling of being with old friends, ones I spent my college years with and ones who could spin tales that need not be repeated in this blog. However, that is my point: I was with my friends.

 

     At the risk of sounding melancholy, I stood in that funeral home and watched the faces of people I have known for many years. Easy to say that we are past our youth, well into our middle age, and leaning against the door of old age. Each of us, of course, was alone with our thoughts, but I have to believe we were all thinking the same at one point or another: when is it going to happen to me? No, I am not paranoid about the eventual, but funerals have a tendency to rattle us to our core because we know the next one could be us, a friend, or a family member. In my case, it shook me especially seeing the reaction of another longtime friend who truly was saddened, who realized that he had lost a true pal.

 

     I write this blog because I love to write; as I have stated, I have opinions and logic, but sometimes I bear my soul. For what reason, I am not positive, but, if I am feeling something, I have to think that others are as well. Obviously, I am not enjoying writing this today, but I feel almost moved to do so. In my life, I have been gifted to have many friends; I consider myself a fortunate man--with a loving family and loyal friends, how can a guy complain? When I am with my buddies, I feel so comfortable--the thought of not having them a phone call away scares me, to be blunt. Again, the key word is "comfortable"--I suppose we keep each other feeling fresh with our constant banter, but more than that is the bond that unites us. Difficult to pinpoint, but we all know it's there.

 

     From my seat, my writing today is about appreciating what I have; the proverbial "stop and smell the roses" is what I am talking about because that is exactly what I felt when I said good-bye to my friend. On a larger scale, life is not too short--it's what we put into it and get out of it that matters. Needless to say, I am thoroughly enjoying my life and those who are part of it . . . let's keep this game going. While we're doing that, let's take a moment every now and then to remember our good buddies like Ray, and let's not be too macho to look at our buddies and appreciate what we have right now . . . I don't want to wait and say, "I wish I had  . . . ."

Golf: A Humbling Experience

What is it about golfing that drops grown men to their knees and makes them curse the beloved gods that guide that little white/orange/blue/green ball?

     I would like to say that I am a golfer, but, in doing so, I would be making an exaggeration. I enjoy golfing, but to say that I am a "golfer" would be comparable to saying I dig Harleys without having ever ridden one--I haven't earned the right. Of all the sports I have ever tried, without a doubt, golf has been the most challenging. As most non-golfers attest, hitting a stationary ball with a club looks easy; for those who think that, I would recommend keeping those thoughts to themselves because their ignorance will shine with bright clarity. If only it were easy, I would not be sitting here writing about the game, lamenting its difficulty and its mental toughness requirement.

 

     Envy is a powerful divider, but it can also be a wonderful motivator. For years, I have watched friends who are excellent in the game's many aspects. Embarrassingly, I have watched them drive with distance and accuracy and demonstrate solid control of their wedges and putters while I meandered along hitting the occasional memorable shot but most frequently plodding along feeling sorry for myself. For many reasons (including lack of passion for improvement and suffering self confidence in my golfing ability), I had basically done nothing to improve my game. However, this year, I hit a breaking point: I had run out of excuses. As a result, I made up my mind to concentrate on improving, a relative term for certain, yet one that I was determined to achieve. What I have found is that I thoroughly enjoy the game--don't quite love it just yet--but I find it to be challenging, rewarding, and strangely addicting!

 

     A person who can occasionally be stubborn and stuck in his beliefs--that's me I am talking about--frequently ignores what is most obvious. What I have learned is that my unwillingness to sometimes listen to others' advice can ultimately lead to my own frustration. I was told by many several years ago to take lessons before the bad habits settled in, but, of course, I basically refused. I took a lesson here and there, but when the mind was not really listening, those lessons basically were a waste of money. With credit to the instructors, my inability to improve had nothing to do with them: It was all me and my reluctance to concede that I might just know a "thing or two about this game"; actually, the problem was self confidence and embarrassment . . . I didn't want anyone to know that I truly did not understand golf lingo and the details that accompany it. With that in mind, I have swallowed my pride and committed myself to improving my game. I am realistic, of course; my hope is to improve by four strokes, allowing me to shoot consistently in the bogey range.

 

     Having said all the above, I must confess that mastering the swings required is definitely challenging, but the most difficult part is the mental toughness required to compete--that is where the self confidence enters the picture. Hitting that first ball with others' eyes watching, putting with a par on the line, bouncing back from a bad hole and trying to forget it when teeing off on the next hole, and following a successful play by a partner and trying to emulate it are all examples of how mental toughness controls one's success or lack thereof. For me, that has been my biggest obstacle, but with more experience in those situations, I am seeing improvement. As a coach, I always expounded about being mentally tough, grinding it out, outworking our opponents. Additionally, as a coach, as an athlete, and as an adult runner, I thought I understood that. It was not until I actively pursued golf that I realized that this game required a whole new focus. Performing under pressure has been my biggest challenge.

 

     With a series of lessons under my belt, with playing many rounds by myself as well as with others, with practicing at the driving range, with actively listening to others' far better than I, and with asking questions and actually processing the responses instead of simply absorbing material, I am learning this game. I am feeling my confidence increasing, and I am finding my mental toughness is getting closer to where I am comfortable. Of course, I accept that I will not be as talented as many, but for that is not what I strive. I want to improve, and in doing so, I am finding my mind is facing a daily challenge. Yep, those coaches' lessons from way back are still influencing me: accept my reality; work to improve; recognize my strengths and identify my weaknesses; be open to advice and constructive criticism; and, most of all, develop the mental toughness through experience and competition.

 

Funny how those lessons from when I was a teenager continue to surface . . .