WINCHESTER, N.H. — The temperature was 97 degrees on the bumpy gravel parking at Monadnock Speedway in Winchester this past Saturday.
“My car’s charging the smartphone,” I said to the parched parking lot attendant, handing him a bottle of Dasani. “Get in and use the AC.”
I walked between a sleek white Mercedes from Quebec and a dusty Honda with Vermont plates that said RACNGIRL, turned to look back and saw him still motioning cars into the grassy spaces above the old railroad bed.
Track announcer Dave Sutherland cautioned fans to stay hydrated and workers in sweat-drenched T-shirts spun empty beer kegs around the back side of the building where I signed in for my media pass.
Monadnock Speedway is 10 miles over the Massachusetts border from Northfield on Route 10, a grimy dustbowl where the locals come to see stock car drivers live out their dreams. Owner Larry Cirillo and general manager Michelle Cloutier let me roam the pit area, where drivers, mechanics and race officials are tuning up engines, tinkering, inspecting. …
It reminded me of an army base where everyone has the common goal of getting out and back in one piece. Victor Mari’s auto parts truck was parked next to the gas pumps where Sunoco Blue 112 octane cost $12 a gallon.
I wandered over to the the front stretch and counted 22 people in line waiting for food and soda at the concession stand. The guy next to me asked, “First time here?”
“Second time,” I told him. “I was here a few years ago.”
He wore what Johnny Cash called “my cleanest dirty shirt” and yelled over the din of the cars below, “Wait’ll you see the super mods, bro!”
All week, owners had been hauling vehicles up I-91, over the Route 10 bridge and through Northfield. A race car designed to handle Monadnock’s tight quarter-mile oval and steep-banked turns is modified; a car that does it in a hurry is supermodified.
Try going around the Greenfield rotary 75 times at 90 mph. That was Saturday’s 75-lap feature race, its first supermodified event in 40 years.
A supermodified is a strange sight to behold. Envision a kayak with wide tires and a three-sided box on top — a “wing” that prevents the front end of the aluminum vehicle from going airborne.
The driver has only a steering wheel, gas pedal and brake with no time to look at the tachometer and water gauge on the dash. “You better not have claustrophobia if you get into a supermod,” said Ed Warren. “It’s tight.”
Warren’s worked as the “lone mechanic” for Mike Muldoon’s racing team for 35 years. “It’s one of those sports you can’t get away from,” he said. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s a lot of fun.”
Muldoon hails from Baldwinsville, N.Y., close to where the International Supermodified Association (ISMA) is headquartered. On Labor Day, over 15,000 fans will travel to the shores of Lake Ontario and watch the 62nd Classic 200 at Oswego Speedway.
Considered the Daytona 500 of supermodified racing, Muldoon took the checkered flag in 1995. According to his longtime friend John Burke, Muldoon won over 25 races at Oswego. Burke pulled out his smartphone and showed me an autographed photo of Muldoon selling for $32 on eBay.
Last year, Mike Jr. finished eighth in the Classic. “We were leading, but the car went away the last lap,” said the 24-year-old Muldoon, who began racing “quarter midgets” when he was five and works as a nuclear engineer at a power plant in western New York.
“Go fast,” he replied when I asked what the secret was to racing supermods. “Without a good car, you don’t have a chance.”
We were sitting in the back of a trailer, and the hot weather was making the lanky Syracuse native’s sandy hair stand on end. “How much,” I asked him, “would it cost to get into the business?”
“You wanna get in this business? Okay, $50,000 for the motor; $50,000 for the chassis; $55,000 for the truck (a Silverado 3500 HD); $25,000 for the trailer; $10,000 for tools and another $10,000 for spare parts.”
“How much can you win?” I asked.
“A whole lot less than what you spend,” he answered.
Indeed, the winner of the ISMA 75 would receive $3,800, less taxes and travel expenses.
“Mike built two of my cars so I know how expensive they are,” said Burke, who races at Lee Speedway in southeast New Hampshire. His company, Coyote Construction, sponsors the Last Car Running, which rewards the last driver to cross the finish line. “The guy’s had a bad day, so we give him $100 to make him feel a little better,” shrugged Burke.
An official walked to Warren and told him the 35-lap race had just started. “You guys are next,” he said.
Muldoon’s driving suit was black with purple sleeves with Royal Purple Synthetic Oil across the chest. I stuffed my notebook in my back shorts’ pocket and helped Warren roll the white No. 15 car to an ATV driver. “There’s no transmission, no clutch,” explained Warren, “so it gets pushed onto the track, locks into gear and away it goes.”
Muldoon had won his qualifying heat and would be in the second row on the outside when the starter waved the green flag. His father said it was a good spot to be “as long as nobody does anything stupid.”
All three grandstands were full and the overflow crowd stood behind the ropes. “There is nothing, nothing like watching these cars,” said Burke. “Nothing.”
We knelt by the chain link fence near Turn 2 and watched the powerful 900 horsepower engines spin the cars around the track like angry gnats. The deafening noise reduced track announcer Dave Sutherland’s voice to mere snippets of unintelligible dialogue.
The supermods were doing quarter-mile laps in about 12 seconds. A clean race would be over in 15 minutes, but the delicate balance of speed and handling often went awry, and after a spinout on the 19th lap, Muldoon exited back to the pit. His father, Burke and Warren sprinted over to help, but by the time I arrived, the car was being pushed back to the track.
Muldoon had lost seconds in a race where wins are counted in hundredths, and I had no idea where he was in the the 16-car field.
“The only time it gets really crazy is if you have an accident,” said Burke.
Sure enough, midway through the race, the No. 78 car crumpled into the wall off of Turn 2. After the tow truck arrived, the driver emerged and walked over to the orange No. 27 car that was waiting to re-enter the race.”You a******!” he shouted, accusing the driver of cutting him off and forcing him into the wall.
Burke, Muldoon and Warren all looked at each other with raised eyebrows, happy it wasn’t them that had wrecked.
The winner was Mike Lichty, a veteran driver from Canada who had started the race in 15th position. Third-place finisher Jon McKennedy won $1,000 for setting a new track record — one lap in 11.138 seconds. Eric Lewis won $1,000 for leading at the halfway point, and Dave Duggan got the $100 for being the last car running.
Muldoon was 10th of 15 finishers. “The most important part of the race is right now,” said Burke, “figuring what to do right the next race.”
Muldoon was scolding his son for making the pit stop. “Second (place),” he said. “It’s a s*** surface. Everyone was just hanging on. The worst you could’ve done was finish third or fourth.”
“But it wasn’t handling!” his son protested. “I wanted to turn, and all it wanted to do was go straight.”
He casually leaned to flick a bug off his father’s shirt. “I shoulda stayed out, but I couldn’t even drive it.”
While Warren and Muldoon checked out the car, Burke offered me a bottle of water from the cooler in the back of his truck. We were talking about the Red Sox when Muldoon straightened up and yelled that they discovered the problem. “John! We left a spring in!”
Mystery solved. A simple mistake that caused the car to handle poorly — something about a cross wedge.
Knowing what happened seemed to improve everyone’s mood. There was always next week, and the car was still in one piece.
“All right,” said Muldoon. “Let’s break it down and go home.”