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!